The sun rose lazily over the pointed rooftops of Qohor, its first rays tinting the famous black goat statues that adorned the city with a deceptive copper gleam, as if the dark metal had been transmuted during the night by some mad alchemist. The morning air carried a mixture of aromas: the sharp smell of red-hot steel from the smithies that had already lit their forges, the cloying sweetness of incenses that burned perpetually in the minor temples of the Black Goat, and the earthier scent of freshly baked bread and ground spices from the market stalls beginning to set up.
In the back courtyard of the House of the Bleeding Crow—an inn serving as provisional quarters for Daario's mercenary company—Ethel spun fluidly, dodging the downward stroke of a Tyroshi longsword and responding with a quick thrust that stopped a finger's width from his opponent's throat.
"Dead," he declared with a half-smile, while sweat ran freely down his forehead despite the morning chill. "For the third time."
Lazko, the enormous mercenary from the Summer Islands who served as his training partner, let out a guttural curse in his native tongue as he lowered his weapon. Despite surpassing Ethel in size and strength by a considerable margin, the islander had been unable to overcome the surprising speed and precision that the northman had developed in barely a month of intensive training.
"I've never seen anyone learn so fast," Lazko grunted, running a hand over his black, gleaming scalp adorned with ritual scars. "It's as if you were born with a sword in your hand."
Ethel simply nodded, breathing deeply to catch his breath. His body might be novice, but his mind knew the principles, and desperation for survival had proven to be a relentless but effective teacher.
"Good move, but your left guard is still weak," interrupted a voice from the shaded porch that bordered the courtyard.
During the past month, the mercenary captain had observed Ethel's progress with growing interest, occasionally intervening to correct a stance or suggest a tactic.
"If it were a real fight, Lazko could have disarmed you after that move," Daario continued, taking a pear from a nearby bowl and biting into it with evident pleasure. "You rely too much on speed and precision. A well-placed blow against your left shoulder and you'd be finished."
Ethel nodded, accepting the criticism. In recent weeks he had learned that Daario, despite his extravagant appearance and theatrical manners, was a deadly effective fighter and a surprisingly patient teacher. Under his tutelage, Ethel had progressed more than he would have believed possible, going from barely being able to hold a sword correctly to being capable of facing experienced mercenaries in practice combat.
"Have breakfast and get ready," Daario ordered, tossing a pear to Ethel, who caught it with a fluid movement. "At midday we depart for the port. There's a Volantine ship arriving with cargo we must escort through the city."
Ethel felt a tingle of anticipation. After a month of constant training and small tasks within the city, Daario finally considered him ready to participate in a real mission, even if it was something as basic as a commercial escort.
The mission proved less exciting than Ethel had anticipated, but no less instructive. The Volantine merchants, with their half-tattooed faces denoting their status as freed slaves, had brought a cargo of fine silks and exotic spices that required protection during transport from the port to the warehouses of the commercial district. The eight men Daario had designated for the task—Ethel among them—had efficiently fulfilled their duty, arranged in formation around the carts as they crossed Qohor's crowded streets.
No thief had been foolish enough to attempt assaulting a convoy escorted by mercenaries of such fearsome reputation, but Ethel had kept his guard up at all times, just as he had been taught. His hand never strayed from his sword's hilt, his eyes constantly scanning side alleys and low rooftops for possible threats.
As evening fell, with the work concluded and the merchandise secure at its destination, the caravan captain had paid Daario what was agreed, who in turn had distributed a portion among the men who had participated in the mission. Ethel had received two Qohorik bronze coins, each bearing a goat's profile engraved on one side and the smiths' brotherhood symbol on the other.
It wasn't much, but added to what he had been earning in previous weeks for minor tasks and services provided to local merchants, it constituted the modest beginning of a peculiar treasure. A treasure he guarded jealously in a small leather pouch, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his room.
In this strange world of magic and brutality, money meant survival. Independence. And though Nymerio covered lodging and food expenses for the company's members—a gesture of generosity uncommon among mercenary financiers—Ethel knew he would need his own resources if he wanted to maintain some degree of freedom in his future decisions.
The dawn of the following day found Ethel sitting on the edge of his pallet, contemplating the hardened leather armor that rested on a wooden chest beside the sword they had given him the night before. Both armor and sword were gifts from Daario's company—or more precisely, from Nymerio, whose purse seemed bottomless when it came to equipping his men.
The armor, though simple compared to the elaborate protections worn by some mercenary captains, was expertly crafted. The leather had been boiled to harden it and then molded to fit his body's shape, with reinforcing plates strategically placed to protect vital points without compromising mobility. The Qohorik smiths had discreetly engraved the company's emblem on the breastplate: a crow holding a drop of blood in its beak.
The sword was of Braavosi make, lighter than those used by most of Daario's mercenaries but perfectly balanced for his quick and precise fighting style. Its hilt, without excessive ornamentation, was covered in braided leather to ensure a firm grip even with sweaty hands. The blade, of steel-gray metal that flashed with bluish tints under certain angles of light, had been sharpened to the point of being able to cut a hair in the air.
Ethel ran his fingers along the edge, appreciating its lethal perfection.
"It's curious," he thought, "how in barely a month, an object I would have previously considered only as a prop in a television series has become an extension of my arm, an indispensable tool for my survival."
A sharp knock on the door interrupted his reflections.
"The captain wants to see us in the main hall," announced Lazko's rough voice from the hallway. "Bring your complete equipment. We depart for Norvos at midday."
Ethel's heart gave a leap. Norvos. Finally they would leave Qohor.
He dressed quickly, putting on first the linen shirt and sturdy wool trousers, then the knee-high leather boots he had acquired from a local cobbler, and finally the armor, securing each strap and buckle with meticulous precision. The familiar weight of the equipment was strangely comforting, like a constant reminder of the new identity he had forged in this world.
When he went down to the communal hall, he found Daario surrounded by a dozen of his most trusted men. Among them was Nymerio, the enigmatic Myrish merchant whose face always seemed to hide more than it revealed. Unlike previous occasions when Ethel had seen him, today Nymerio wore practical traveling clothes, though the fabric's quality and discrete gold thread embroidery betrayed his wealth.
"Ah, the northman has decided to honor us with his presence," Daario commented with his characteristic sarcasm, though the smile that accompanied his words lacked malice. "Take a seat. We have much to discuss before we set sail."
Ethel occupied one of the empty benches, feeling the evaluating gazes of the veterans upon him. Despite the month that had passed, for many of them he remained a novice, a stranger whose past was a mystery and whose value in real combat was yet to be proven.
"As you already know," Daario began without preamble, "we have been hired to escort one of Nymerio's merchant convoys from here to Norvos. Two ships loaded with Qohorik steel, dark wood carvings, and spices from Qarth. A valuable cargo that will undoubtedly attract unwanted attention."
The captain unrolled a map on the table, pointing with a jeweled finger to the route they would follow.
"We'll sail downriver along the Qhoyne to its confluence with the Rhoyne, and from there descend to Volantis." His finger traced the course over the parchment, stopping at the great port city. "In Volantis we'll change vessels and continue by sea to Norvos, hugging the coast to avoid the deep waters where Lysene pirates and Basilisk Isle corsairs usually lurk."
Ethel studied the map attentively, engraving every detail of the journey in his memory. He knew these cities from the books and series, of course, but seeing them represented on a real map, knowing he would soon visit these legendary places, provoked a strange mixture of fascination and vertigo in him.
"The complete journey will take approximately three weeks, if the winds are favorable," Daario continued. "Most of the river voyage will be peaceful, but we must stay alert in stretches near the Disputed Lands. The Dothraki have been unusually active this year, and though they rarely venture to attack armed vessels, a desperate khalasar might attempt it."
Several veterans nodded gravely. Stories about the Dothraki riders and their savagery were well known even west of the Narrow Sea.
"Once at sea, our problems could multiply," Nymerio intervened with a soft but authoritative voice. "Between Volantis and Norvos, piracy has flourished in recent years. The Lysenes have new ambitious captains who don't respect old alliances, and some of them count on fast, well-armed ships."
"That's what we're here for," Daario responded with a fierce smile, instinctively bringing his hand to the hilt of his arakh, the Dothraki saber he preferred over western swords. "My men have finished with Lysene pirates before, and they'll do it again if necessary."
The meeting continued for another hour, discussing details of men distribution between the two vessels, guard shifts, agreed signals for communication in case of separation, and protocols to follow in various emergency scenarios. Ethel absorbed all the information eagerly, conscious that his survival could depend on these apparently mundane details.
Midday found Ethel at Qohor's docks, contemplating the two vessels that would carry them downriver. They were typical Rhoyne merchant ships: flat-bottomed for navigating shallow waters, with a single square sail and a dozen rowers for when wind wasn't sufficient. Their hulls were painted in bright colors—one blue and one green—and their prows had been carved in the shape of giant turtles, a tribute to the ancient Mother Rhoyne goddess still venerated by many navigators of the great river.
Activity at the docks was frantic. Muscular stevedores loaded the last bundles and boxes aboard, following the impatient directions of a weathered-faced bosun with a colorful vocabulary. Daario's mercenaries divided between the two vessels, some already installed on deck cleaning their weapons or securing their baggage, others helping with final preparations. Daario himself personally supervised the loading of provisions for the journey, his yellow silk cloak fluttering in the river breeze.
Ethel climbed the gangplank of the blue ship, designated as the small convoy's main vessel. The deck was crammed with boxes and barrels, leaving barely space for the crew to maneuver. He found a relatively clear corner near the bow and deposited his leather backpack there, which contained all his worldly possessions: a change of clothes, a water skin, dried rations for emergencies, flint for starting fires, and the small pouch with his savings carefully hidden among the folds of an extra shirt.
His fingers unconsciously brushed the R'hllor medallion that Melisandre had given him and which, against all common sense, he had decided to keep hidden in an inner pocket of his doublet. The metal always seemed warm to the touch, as if it retained a fraction of the eternal fire worshipped by the Lord of Light's followers. A constant reminder of the red priestess's dangerous interest.
He observed the bustle of final preparations with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Each day that passed in this world, Ethel discovered something new about himself and about his body's strange resilience. Wounds healed with surprising speed, fatigue barely affected him after exhausting days, and on one occasion, after accidentally cutting himself with a knife during dinner, he had noticed how the wound closed almost before his eyes, leaving only a pink line that disappeared completely the next day.
At first he had attributed these anomalies to the shock of his arrival, to the constant adrenaline of knowing himself in a strange and hostile world. But now, a month later, he couldn't continue denying the obvious: something fundamental had changed in him during the transit between worlds. Something that had transformed him, granting him qualities that seemed to go beyond the merely human.
"What the hell am I now?" he wondered, not for the first time, while contemplating the murky waters of the Qhoyne that would soon carry them far from the City of Smiths.
A horn sounded from the dock, signaling imminent departure. Sailors began releasing the moorings while rowers took position. On the wharf, a small group of spectators had congregated to witness the departure: local merchants who had invested in the expedition, family members of some crew members, and curious onlookers attracted by the novelty.
Among them, Ethel distinguished a motionless figure dressed entirely in red. Even at that distance, he could feel the intensity of those ruby eyes fixed on him. A chill ran down his spine when, just before the ship began to move, Melisandre raised a hand in what could be interpreted as a farewell... or a promise.
The vessels glided smoothly along the Qhoyne's waters, leaving behind the docks and walls of Qohor.