The sun began to descend behind the mountains as the merchant caravan advanced with weary rhythm along the road that bordered the dense forests near Qohor.
Twelve carts heavily laden with silks from Lys, spices from distant Yi Ti, and other goods comprised the convoy. Flanking the procession marched twenty-five mercenaries, men weathered by countless battles who had been hired at gold's price to protect the valuable merchandise.
Nymerio Tolos, a shrewd Braavosi merchant with reddish hair gathered in a complex weave of braids adorned with small silver bells, suddenly raised a jeweled hand.
"Halt," he ordered with a firm voice, narrowing his jade-green eyes as he scanned the horizon. "Do you see it?"
Daario, the mercenary captain, rode forward until he positioned himself beside the merchant. He was a man from Tyrosh with hair and beard dyed blue, following his birth city's extravagant custom. His right hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his arakh.
"Smoke," Daario confirmed, pointing toward a grayish column rising among the trees, a few hundred paces from the road. "Too thick to be a simple campfire."
The rest of the company halted behind them, the draft animals snorting gratefully for the unexpected rest. A tense silence gripped the group as they observed that disturbing signal.
"It could be a trap," Nymerio suggested, while his fingers unconsciously played with the medallion of the god of many faces hanging from his neck. "It's not uncommon to encounter bandits or deserters in these forests."
Daario let out a harsh laugh.
"Since when do bandits announce their presence with smoke columns? No, my dear patron, something else is happening in there."
With a brusque gesture, the mercenary gathered five of his men, all veterans with scars that told stories of survival where others had perished.
"Nymos, Daerys, Lazho, Qorro, Jerran. You'll come with me," he ordered. "The rest, remain with the caravan. If we don't return before nightfall, continue toward Qohor without looking back."
The selected men dismounted and prepared their weapons with the mechanical efficiency of those who had lived this ritual a thousand times. Daario turned toward the merchant.
"Keep your eyes open, my lord. In these lands, shadows have teeth."
Nymerio nodded seriously and discreetly slid a thin steel dagger from his sleeve to his palm.
"It wouldn't be the first time shadows have tried to bite me," he responded with a half-smile that revealed more of his past than his words suggested.
With determined steps, the small group entered the forest thicket, moving like shadows among the ancient trees. The smell of burning intensified with each step, mixing with another more disturbing aroma: charred flesh.
"By the seven hells," murmured Nymos, the youngest of the group, bringing a hand to his nose. "What demons are burning up ahead?"
Daario didn't respond, but his expression hardened as he pushed aside a low branch with the tip of his steel. After advancing another hundred paces, the dense foliage gave way to a clearing where the answer to Nymos's question unfolded in all its macabre reality.
An improvised funeral pyre burned furiously in the center of the clearing, fed by dozens of human bodies piled without ceremony. Around the fire, other figures lay scattered, some with missing limbs, others with their bellies split open as if some beast had disemboweled them. The ground was blackened and soaked with blood that hadn't yet had time to dry.
"Merciful gods," whispered Jerran, a renegade Dothraki warrior who had seen more massacres than sunrises in his life. "This is no bandit's work. Not even the most bloodthirsty would pile their victims like this."
Daario raised a hand, ordering silence. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, had detected movement through the smoke. A staggering figure emerged from behind the pyre, crawling with painful slowness.
"Weapons ready," he ordered in a low voice, while cautiously advancing toward the figure.
As the distance shortened, they could distinguish a young man of no more than twenty years. His hair, black as coal, contrasted violently with the marble pallor of his skin. He wore charred remains of what once might have been light leather armor, now converted to smoking tatters. A deep wound crossed his left side, soaking what remained of his garments with blood.
But most striking were his eyes. Even through the smoke and distance, they gleamed with a blue so intense they seemed like sapphires embedded in his face. Eyes that had seen too much, that contained a pain deeper than the physical wound threatening to end his life.
The young man stared at them fixedly, his expression fluctuating between terror and strange relief. His cracked lips moved, trying to form words, but he only managed to emit a hoarse sound before his legs gave way under his weight.
Daario rushed toward him, arriving just in time to prevent his head from striking the bloodied ground.
"Where... am I..." murmured the young man with a broken voice, while his blue eyes fixed on the mercenary with desperate intensity. "How is it possible... the fire... and death..."
His voice faded to a whisper, and his body relaxed in the mercenary's arms. Daario checked his pulse, finding it weak but present.
"He's alive," he announced to his companions. "But not for much longer if he doesn't receive attention."
Lazho, a man from the Summer Islands with medical knowledge, approached to examine the wounded youth.
"The wound is deep, but clean," he diagnosed after a quick examination. "It hasn't damaged vital organs, from what I can see. He's lost much blood, but can still be saved. He doesn't seem to have any burns either, which is truly surprising."
"Who do you think he is?" asked Qorro, observing the young man's appearance with suspicion. "He doesn't look like a simple traveler."
Daario studied the unconscious face. There was something in his features, an innate nobility that didn't go unnoticed even under the layer of soot and blood covering him.
"I don't know," he finally responded. "But he has stories to tell, and by the gods I want to hear them."
With a decisive gesture, he ordered them to prepare an improvised stretcher with branches and cloaks.
"Let's take him with us. Our patron has a healer from the Peaceful Isles in his retinue who can tend to him better."
As they returned toward the caravan carrying the strange survivor, Daario couldn't shake from his mind those blue eyes and the cryptic whispered words. "Fire and death." What was the boy referring to? And what had happened in that clearing to cause such massacre?
The forest seemed darker now, and the wind threading through the trees brought an inexplicable cold, as if winter had decided to come early just for them. A shiver ran down the experienced mercenary's spine, a man who rarely felt fear.
For the first time in many years, Daario was certain that something different was approaching. Not knowing whether it would be good or bad.
The improvised stretcher swayed with each step of the mercenaries as they advanced back toward the caravan. The young man with black hair and blue eyes remained unconscious, his breathing weak but steady. The blood stains on the rudimentary bandages that Lazho had applied over his wound began to spread, forming disturbing patterns on the cloth.
Nymerio Tolos stood beside his horse when he spotted the group emerging from the forest thicket. His hand instinctively tensed on the hilt of his hidden dagger, relaxing only when he recognized Daario's blue hair at the head of the party.
"By the God of Many Faces," murmured the Braavosi merchant upon seeing the unconscious figure they transported. "What have you found?"
Daario moved forward while his men carefully placed the wounded man on one of the carts, where they had cleared space among the valuable merchandise.
"Sole survivor of a massacre," the mercenary responded with a grave voice. "And you, who have seen more of the world than most, wouldn't believe what we witnessed in there."
While the remaining mercenaries formed a defensive perimeter around the caravan, Daario related in detail the clearing scene: the charred bodies, the improvised pyre, the still-fresh blood, and above all, that young man with intensely blue eyes who had emerged from among the dead.
Nymerio listened in silence, his jade eyes narrowed with concentration. When Daario finished his account, the merchant approached the cart to observe the unconscious youth more closely.
"It's strange," he commented, studying the survivor's pale face. "He doesn't have Qohorik features, nor Lysene, not even from Pentos or Braavos." His fingers delicately touched the charred material of what remained of the young man's clothing. "And this... is no style I've seen in my travels."
"What do we do with him?" asked Daario. "Night approaches and staying here, so close to that... butchery, doesn't seem prudent to me."
Nymerio nodded, his expression becoming decisive.
"We'll take him with us to Qohor. My healer will tend to him, and when he awakens, perhaps we'll get answers."
With a quick order, the caravan set in motion again, now at a more hurried pace. The sun began to sink behind the horizon, tinting the sky with bloody hues that seemed like a bad omen.
The road to Qohor passed in relative silence during the first hour. The mercenaries remained alert, their eyes constantly scanning the surrounding forests. The incident had put everyone on edge, aware that something inexplicable had occurred at short distance from their route.
When the first stars began to appear in the firmament, Nymerio spurred his horse to position himself beside Daario's, who rode at the head of the company.
"I've never seen anything like it," the merchant confessed in a low voice. "And I've seen many forms of death in my days."
Daario nodded, his gaze fixed on the road.
"The Dothraki burn their fallen khals. R'hllor's followers sacrifice their enemies in flames. Even the northern savages use fire for their death rituals," the mercenary enumerated. "But this... this was different. There was no ceremony at all, just... destruction."
"Do you think it could have been the night walkers?" asked Nymerio, referring to the legendary sect of Qohorik assassins who supposedly performed human sacrifices in honor of the Black Goat.
Daario shook his head.
"Night walkers seek blood, not ashes. Besides, they would have taken their victims' hearts as offering."
An uncomfortable silence settled between both men as they contemplated other possibilities, each more disturbing than the last.
"Perhaps we shouldn't seek answers," Nymerio finally suggested. "Some truths are like poison: once you taste them, there's no turning back."
Daario let out a bitter laugh.
"If there's anything I've learned in my years as a mercenary, it's that ignored threats rarely disappear. They only grow in darkness until it's too late to face them."
The rest of the journey passed without incident, though tension never completely left the group. When Qohor's impressive black walls appeared on the horizon at the following dawn, a collective sigh of relief ran through the caravan.
Qohor, the City of Smiths, bustled with activity when the caravan crossed its gates. The constant tinkling of hammers on metal formed the city's rhythmic heartbeat, while the smell of coal, steel, and exotic spices permeated the air.
Nymerio guided the group toward a wide complex in the merchant district, where his local associates waited to unload the merchandise. With the efficiency proper to a man accustomed to business, the Braavosi merchant supervised the unloading while simultaneously negotiating new contracts and organizing lodging for his retinue.
When the sun reached its zenith, Nymerio gathered the mercenaries in the courtyard of the inn where they would stay. Jingling bags of coins changed hands as the merchant fulfilled his part of the deal.
"Your service has been exceptional," declared Nymerio, addressing Daario and his men. "Especially considering the... unexpected complications."
Daario slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment while storing his pay.
"We fulfill our contracts, regardless of what stands in the way."
Nymerio smiled, a calculated gesture that never quite reached his eyes.
"I'm pleased to hear it, because I'd like to extend our association. I plan to depart for Norvos in a moon, with an even more valuable cargo."
The mercenaries exchanged approving glances. Contracts with rich and constant merchants were coveted in their profession, where uncertainty was usually the only certainty.
"And regarding our mysterious guest..." continued Nymerio, lowering his voice. "I'd like you to watch him personally, Daario."
The mercenary arched an eyebrow.
"Do you fear he's a threat?"
"I fear what he might know," the merchant corrected. "If he survived what killed everyone else in that clearing, his information could be worth as much as gold... or cost lives."
Nymerio extracted an additional bag, notably heavier than the previous ones, and tossed it to Daario, who caught it in the air with a fluid movement.
"Consider it an incentive for your discretion and personal attention."
Daario weighed the bag in his hand, the jingling of coins was convincing.
"I'll be with him when he awakens."
Three days passed slowly in the Qohorik inn. The room where the blue-eyed youth rested remained shrouded in penumbra, with only the light necessary for the healer from the Peaceful Isles to work on his wounds. The woman, silent as her vows dictated, changed bandages and applied pungent-smelling ointments on the wound, which began to heal with surprising speed.
Daario took turns with Nymos watching the patient, both intrigued by the mystery he represented. Who was he? How had he survived? And most importantly: what had really happened in that forest clearing?
It was during the dawn of the fourth day when the youth finally stirred. Daario, half-asleep in a chair by the window, became immediately alert upon noticing the change in the sleeper's breathing.
The blue eyes opened suddenly, wide with panic. With unexpected strength for someone who had been at death's door, the young man sat up abruptly, tearing off the bandages in the process.
"Where am I?!" he shouted with a voice hoarse from disuse, looking frantically around. "What is this place?"
Daario moved with the speed of an experienced predator, gripping the youth by the shoulders and pushing him back to the bed before he could hurt himself further.
"Calm down, boy," he said with a firm but non-threatening voice. "You're safe. You're in Qohor, in an inn. We found you wounded in the forest, remember?"
The panic in the young man's eyes intensified, his breathing accelerating dangerously.
"Qohor? What the hell is Qohor?" His hands clutched Daario's arms with desperation. "This doesn't make sense. I was... I was..."
"Where were you?" Daario pressed gently, maintaining his grip firm but without causing harm.
The youth seemed to freeze for an instant, as if terrible images paraded before his eyes.
"The building... was in flames," he murmured, his voice now barely audible. "The smoke... I couldn't breathe... The roof collapsed on me..."
His eyes suddenly focused, looking directly at Daario with disturbing clarity.
He stopped abruptly, as if he had just realized he was revealing too much. His eyes scanned the room cautiously, stopping at each detail: the thick wax candles, the unpolished stone walls, the rustic furniture. A flash of understanding and alarm crossed his face, but he quickly concealed it.
His hands explored his torso, feeling the bandaged wound on his side with an expression of confusion.
"I don't remember anything else," he finally said, his voice controlled despite the evident tension in his jaw. "Everything is... blurry."
Slowly, resistance left his body. Daario, sensing the change, gradually loosened his grip but remained alert.
"What's your name?" the mercenary asked, studying each reaction of the youth.
"Ethel," he responded after a brief hesitation. "My name is Ethel."
Daario nodded, as if the name confirmed something he already suspected.
"Well, Ethel. I'm Daario, captain of a mercenary company. We found you in a forest clearing, surrounded by charred corpses. Do you remember anything about that?"
Ethel frowned, concentrating. Or pretending to concentrate, Daario thought, noticing the slight tremor in the young man's hands.
"No," he answered finally, perhaps too quickly. "I only remember the fire. After... nothing until waking up here."
A heavy silence settled between them. Daario could sense the youth was hiding something, but decided not to press. Secrets, like wounds, needed time to heal before being exposed.
"What is this place?" Ethel asked, deliberately changing the subject. "You said... Qohor?"
Daario observed the youth with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. There was something strange in his way of speaking, in how he pronounced words, as if the common tongue were both familiar and foreign.
"I think you need more rest, boy," he finally said, opting for caution. "Blood loss can cause confusion."
Ethel nodded slowly, his blue eyes studying the mercenary with disturbing intensity.
"Confusion... yes. I suppose that's it." His gaze scanned the room again, registering each detail with attention improper for someone disoriented. "This place is... different from what I'm accustomed to."
Daario stood up, intrigued by the young man's behavior.
"Rest. I'll return with food and introduce you to whoever paid for your recovery. After... after you can tell me more about yourself, if you wish."
As he headed toward the door, Ethel's voice stopped him.
"Daario... thank you. For saving me. I don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't found me."
The mercenary nodded once, without turning, and left the room. In the hallway, he allowed himself a moment to process what had occurred. In his years as a soldier of fortune he had learned to detect when someone was hiding something, and this youth definitely kept secrets.
Most disturbing, he thought while descending the stairs to find Nymerio, wasn't what the young man had said... but what he had chosen to keep silent. His eyes reflected the horror of one who has seen something that defies all understanding, something he didn't even dare put into words.