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Something was flying above the sea.
Not birds. Not bats. Bigger. Much bigger. Limpick squinted into the blackness, trying to make out shapes. The sky was too dark, the clouds too low, but he caught the silhouettes—huge things with wings slicing through the storm from east to west. Not one. Dozens. They moved fast, tearing open gaps in the clouds as their wings beat. Blue light flashed through those rips, cold and bright, then vanished as the clouds slammed shut again. The shapes disappeared.
He stood frozen, mouth open, staring upward. Those weren't birds. He knew that outline. He had seen it carved into every wall of Dragonstone Castle, printed in the margins of Dragon and Fire, sketched in the old scrolls Melisandre kept locked away. He had seen it in stone, on paper, and in his own dreams.
Dragons. Wild ones. Dozens of them. They had come from the east, from the direction of the storm, from the edge of the continent, from the end of the world. The storm had carried them here, and now the storm was carrying them away again.
He started running. Not toward the castle—toward the sea. He reached the cliff edge and looked north, across Blackwater Bay. A faint golden spark flickered on the water, struggling between the waves. He stared at it until his eyes burned and the wind tore tears down his face. The spark went out.
He turned and ran north along the cliffs, past the bay, past the rocks, all the way to the island's northern side. No docks here, no steps, just sheer cliffs and jagged reefs and waves smashing against stone. He stopped at the edge and looked down.
Something white was rolling in the sea—huge, pale, tumbling like a giant fish, only bigger and whiter than anything that belonged in the water. Plume. She was out there. She should have been with Ember, swimming deep together, waiting for him in the trenches. Now she was alone, thrashing, fighting something he couldn't see. Her wings broke the surface, white membranes glowing faintly in the dark. She tried to open them, to lift off, but the wind snapped them shut like an umbrella turned inside out. She screamed.
He heard it over the roar of the storm—deeper than her old silver-bell call, thicker, cracked, like a bronze bell smashed in half. The sound tore through the wind and reached him.
Limpick dropped to his knees at the cliff's edge, gripping the rock, and shouted her name. The wind swallowed every word. He screamed anyway—Plume, Plume, over and over—until his throat was raw and he tasted blood. She never heard him. A wave rolled her farther out, then another, dragging her north. The white glow on the waves flashed once, twice, growing smaller, fainter, until it was just a tiny white star on the horizon. Then it blinked out.
He stayed on his knees, fingers dug into the stone, knuckles white. He stared north until the sea looked the same as everywhere else—black water, white foam, empty. He reached into his robe and closed his hand around the dragon bone. It was still beating, but slower now, weaker, like something exhausted that had finally given up. Each pulse came longer apart, fainter, until it was barely a tremble—like a string about to snap.
He closed his eyes and reached for Ember. Nothing. The heavy, warm presence that had always been there, like a burning stone in his mind, was gone. He tried again. Still nothing. One more time. Empty.
He pulled the dragon bone out and held it in front of his face. The dark-red glow inside it was dying, flickering slow and weak like the heartbeat of something that had already stopped fighting. It looked smaller in his hand. Not actually smaller—just ordinary now. A gray-white piece of bone with a couple of hairline cracks, edges worn smooth from being carried for months. No more fire. No more pulse.
He stared at it a long time, waiting for one last flash. It never came.
He closed his fist around it, squeezed until his palm hurt, then shoved it back inside his robe. He stood up and started walking back toward the castle. The wind had dropped from a roar to a moan. The clouds had thinned enough to let a few cold stars through. The sea had settled back into its usual deep blue, waves rolling in calm and ordinary, as if nothing had happened.
He walked a few steps, stopped, and looked north one more time. Nothing. He looked east. Nothing. He stood on the cliff edge, robe snapping in the dying wind, sand stinging his face, and stayed there. He didn't know how long. Minutes. Maybe hours. The only thought in his head was simple: those wild dragons that had flown out of the east, the huge shadows that tore through the clouds—they had come from somewhere. The storm had carried them here, then carried them away again. The same storm had taken his dragons too—Yuan, Plume, Ember. Three dragons. Dozens of eggs. All of them ripped out of the sea and sky and scattered across the world.
By the time he reached the castle the sky was turning gray. The brazier in the great hall had almost died; only a few red coals glowed. Melisandre wasn't there. The Book of R'hllor lay open on the altar beside an ordinary piece of dragonglass—dull, black, nothing special. He looked at it and felt nothing. The golden system panel was still there when he called it up—progress bars, stages, abilities—but the numbers didn't move. They wouldn't move again. Ember was at 100%. Plume was at 100%. Yuan was at 100%. The eggs that hadn't hatched yet would come out already complete. They didn't need more dragon glass. They didn't need to evolve anymore. They were finished.
He closed the book, set the dragonglass down, and walked out. The corridor was dark, torches unlit, only a faint gray light leaking from the window at the far end. He walked slowly, one hand brushing the cool stone wall, footsteps echoing—thud… thud… thud—through the empty passage.
He reached his room, pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. He took off his robe, folded it neatly, and laid it on the chair. He took off his shoes and set them by the bed. He pulled everything out of his robe—the seven pieces of dragonglass and the single dragon bone—and laid them on the blanket. The stones were black and lifeless now, no different from ordinary rocks. The bone was gray-white and dull. He stared at them for a long time. Then he gathered everything, wrapped it in a cloth, and tucked the bundle into the wooden chest under his bed.
He lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling. The carved dragons up there had faded into the stone with the first light of dawn. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his chest. The spot where the dragon bone used to rest felt empty and cold. No more second heartbeat. No Ember breathing steady in the distance. No Plume's quick pulse. No Yuan and the dozens of tiny hearts deep underwater. Just his own, slow and alone in the dark.
He rolled over, facing the wall. The stone was cool and thick enough to block the sea wind, but it couldn't block the storm. The storm had already passed. The wind had died. The clouds had broken. The sea was calm again. But his dragons had been swept away, scattered somewhere across the world, and he didn't know where or how they were.
He buried his face in the pillow. It was dry and cold.
He fell asleep.