The days passed with the hypnotic cadence of water against the hull, as the vessels descended through the currents of the Qhoyne. Ethel spent hours at the bow, watching how the landscape gradually transformed before his eyes: the dense forests of black pines surrounding Qohor gave way to rolling plains dotted with small riverside settlements, where fishermen raised their nets at dawn and lit bonfires at dusk.
The sky, vast and unfathomable, seemed to contain every possible shade of blue during the day, only to transform into a tapestry of stars so crisp and numerous that they made the nights Ethel remembered from his previous world seem pale. Here, far from the light pollution of an industrial civilization, the Milky Way stretched like a celestial river, accompanying the earthly one they navigated below.
At dawn, when mist still covered the river like a gray shroud, Ethel practiced sword movements on the narrow deck. His feet, now steady on the wet wood, executed combinations that weeks ago would have been impossible for him. Daario watched from a distance, his gaze both critical and pleased, evaluating each gesture like a master seeing the birth of a promising apprentice.
On the evening of the eighth day, they reached the confluence of the Qhoyne with the majestic Rhoyne, the river that the ancient Rhoynar called "Mother of Rivers." The current widened considerably, allowing both vessels to sail side by side. The landscape changed again: the shores now more distant, but also more populated, with villages and small commercial cities that had prospered for centuries thanks to river trade.
In one of these riverside cities—Ny Sar, according to the ship's captain—they made a brief stop to stock up on fresh provisions. Ethel took the opportunity to disembark on solid ground, eager to stretch his legs after so many days confined to the ship's deck.
Ny Sar was little more than a shadow of the glorious city it had been during the height of Rhoynar civilization, before Valyrian dragons reduced it to ashes centuries ago. Even so, it retained a melancholic charm in its green marble ruins partially submerged in the river and in the canals that crossed the settlement like arteries of a dying but persistent organism.
While touring the small local market, Ethel noticed curious glances following him. His northern appearance—dark hair, blue eyes, and skin paler than most local inhabitants—clearly marked him as a foreigner. However, no one bothered him; the presence of Daario's mercenaries, recognizable by their bleeding crow emblems, guaranteed a certain fearful respect even among the most quarrelsome.
It was in Ny Sar where Ethel first witnessed a ritual dedicated to Mother Rhoyne. At dusk, dozens of small paper boats, each containing a lit candle, were released into the current by elderly women who sang in an almost forgotten ancient dialect. The tiny lights drifted downstream like inverse shooting stars, ascending from earth toward the sky reflected in the waters.
"Offerings to the ancient goddess," explained Nymerio, who had silently joined Ethel while observing the ceremony. "Prayers for a safe journey. Though many have adopted the Seven, or R'hllor, or the Black Goat of Qohor, the old gods never die completely. They only submerge beneath the surface, like the ruins of ancient cities, waiting for someone to remember their names."
There was something in the merchant's voice, an almost hypnotic cadence, that always made Ethel pay special attention to his words. Nymerio spoke little, but when he did, his observations usually contained layers of meaning that only revealed themselves through later reflection.
"Do you believe it works?" asked Ethel, watching as the last lights disappeared in the distance. "That the gods, whoever they are, really listen?"
Nymerio looked at him with those unfathomable eyes that seemed to contain universes.
"Faith requires no proof, only trust," he replied with a slight smile. "But I'll tell you this: in my many years traveling through known and unknown lands, I have witnessed things that defy any rational explanation. The world is vaster and more mysterious than our limited understanding can encompass."
The merchant paused, studying Ethel intently before continuing:
"You yourself are proof of that, are you not? A man who walks unharmed among flames, who learns in weeks what takes others years, who appeared from nowhere with fragmented memories and inexplicable abilities."
Ethel felt his blood freeze in his veins. Did Nymerio know more about his true nature than he had revealed?
"What are you implying?" he asked cautiously.
The merchant merely smiled enigmatically.
"Only that we all have our secrets. And that some mysteries are better left unresolved, at least for now." Nymerio gestured toward the ship. "We depart at dawn. Tonight, enjoy Ny Sar's hospitality. Their sweet wines are surprisingly good for such a humble settlement."
With those words, the merchant walked away, leaving Ethel immersed in disturbing thoughts.
The rest of the river journey passed without major incidents, though on two occasions they spotted Dothraki riders observing them from distant hills. The nomadic warriors, recognizable by their long braids and their small but swift mounts, seemed to evaluate the expedition's strength, but never approached close enough to constitute a real threat.
"Scouts from some small khalasar," Daario explained casually. "Not enough to attempt an attack against armed vessels. The Dothraki may be fierce, but they're not stupid."
As they approached their destination, river traffic intensified. Merchant barges, slender galleys from the Free Cities, even occasional warships with their prows carved in threatening shapes, shared the Rhoyne's waters. The river itself widened until it seemed more like an inland sea than a simple waterway, its shores so distant they were sometimes invisible.
The climate also changed, becoming warmer and more humid. Nights brought sudden storms that lashed the vessels with torrential rains and capricious winds, testing the captains' skill and the crews' endurance.
When they finally spotted Volantis's walls, the city left him breathless. The oldest and proudest of the Nine Free Cities rose imposingly.
The first impression of Volantis was overwhelming in its sensory intensity. As they disembarked at the eastern docks, located outside the Black Wall, Ethel found himself assaulted by a cacophony of sounds, smells, and colors that rivaled the busiest markets of Qohor, but multiplied exponentially.
Sailors from dozens of different nations shouted orders in languages as diverse as High Valyrian, Yunkai'i, Old Ghiscari, and even the harsh Common Tongue of Westeros. Merchants haggled fiercely, their discussions occasionally rising above the general noise. Slaves with tattooed faces—foreheads marked with hammers for smiths, tears for whores, flies for dung collectors—moved with practiced efficiency, loading goods or transporting nobles in elaborately decorated palanquins.
The smell of fish mixed with exotic spices, perfumed oils, human sweat, and the river's own effluvia, creating a blend that was simultaneously repulsive and strangely invigorating. Exotic animals in cages—monkeys from the Summer Isles, songbirds with impossible plumage from Sothoryos jungles, even a tiger cub from Qohor's thickets—added their own sounds and aromas to the sensory chaos.
"This is just the periphery," commented Nymerio while supervising the unloading of his goods. "The real Volantis is behind the walls."
The black wall rose like a stone beast, its stones so dark they seemed to absorb daylight. The great bridge, an architectural work that defied comprehension, stretched over the waters like a skeleton of stone and metal, connecting both shores of the river with a grace that spoke of centuries of human ingenuity and ambition.
"How...?" he began to ask, but Nymerio seemed to anticipate his question.
"Valyrian magic," he replied with an enigmatic smile. "Or at least that's what the legends say. Volantis's founders were pure-blooded nobles from the Freehold, and they brought with them secrets that were lost in the Doom. They say the stones were fused with dragonfire, not simply stacked and cemented."
Nymerio, now dressed in more sober but equally elegant robes, directed the unloading operation with precision bordering on mastery.
While accompanying the merchant, Ethel couldn't stop marveling at Volantis. The city was a hotbed of contrasts: slaves with half-tattooed faces walked alongside jeweled merchants, imperial soldiers guarded streets where commerce flowed like blood through a giant's veins.
They passed through one of the enormous gates of the Black Wall, guarded by guards in black and gold armor bearing the city's emblem: a yellow circular wall on an orange field. Nymerio showed a sealed document to the officers, who examined it carefully before allowing the convoy to pass.
"Commercial permit signed by Triarch Malaquo," explained Nymerio as they resumed their march. "Without it, we would have to pay an exorbitant tax simply to enter the old city."
The contrast between the outer districts and the interior of the Black Wall was astonishing. If the port had been chaotic and bustling, Volantis's interior was orderly and solemn. Wide and well-laid streets, paved with the same black material as the wall, extended in perfect geometric patterns. The buildings, constructed mainly with light stone that contrasted with the streets' black, showed elegant architecture clearly influenced by Valyrian style: slender columns, pointed arches, triangular pediments adorned with reliefs narrating ancient stories.
At nightfall, after installing Nymerio at the Merchant's House, a luxury inn that reflected the merchant's wealth, Daario proposed to Ethel that they tour the city.
"In Volantis," continued Daario, "you must be attentive to three things: the facial tattoos that identify slaves and their function, the Triarchs' seals that guarantee safe passage through certain areas of the city, and the temples of R'hllor, which are more numerous and powerful than in any other Free City."
The mercenary paused, observing Ethel with unusual intensity.
"And speaking of R'hllor... I haven't forgotten your encounter with the red priestess in Qohor. Be careful in Volantis. The Lord of Light's Main Temple is located here, and his followers are much more... enthusiastic than in other cities."
Ethel nodded gravely, his expression changing. Daario, seeing the concern on the young man's face, continued explaining while pulling what looked like a small pie from a leather pouch.
"Volantis is a feast for the senses," declared the mercenary, biting into a spiced meat pastry that dripped with spices and grease. "Here you'll find flavors from all the known world."
They traversed crowded markets, where the air saturated with aromas of spices, fresh fish, and newly baked bread. Ethel tried honey sweets from Qarth, meat pastries with spices from the Free Cities, and drank a local liquor that burned like liquid fire in his throat.
But it was R'hllor's Temple that truly captured his attention.
The construction rose like a colossus of red stone against Volantis's night sky, its contours outlined by the countless torches that burned perpetually on its facades. From a distance it seemed as if a fragment of the sun had fallen upon the city, incandescent and pulsating in the darkness. The exterior walls, carved with reliefs of flames that seemed to dance under the trembling light, told stories of eternal battles between light and darkness, between purifying fire and the cold void of death.
Daario stopped at the entrance, his eyes evaluating with distrust the enormous bronze doors that showed scenes of voluntary immolation, worshippers kneeling before funeral pyres of forgotten kings.
"Sacred places are not for mercenaries like me," he said, winking while casually adjusting his arakh's hilt. "Go yourself, but keep your eyes open. The Red God's followers have the unpleasant habit of seeing signs and omens where there are only coincidences."
Ethel nodded, understanding the implicit warning. The attention Melisandre had shown him in Qohor was not something to be taken lightly.
"I won't be long," he promised.
Upon crossing the doors, heat enveloped him like a tangible cloak. The temple was notably warmer than the exterior, despite Volantis's mild night. The entrance vestibule was a circular space dominated by a colossal statue: a red stone heart wrapped in golden flames, the physical representation of R'hllor's symbol. On both sides, iron braziers forged in twisted shapes contained fires that burned with unnatural intensity, projecting shadows that seemed to move with their own will.
Priests in scarlet robes and acolytes in simpler garments in orange and amber tones glided through the temple like living embers. Their faces, partially illuminated by the omnipresent glow, showed the unbreakable serenity of those convinced they know transcendental truths. Some sang hymns in High Valyrian, their voices mixing with the constant crackling of flames in a hypnotic symphony.
Guards with polished bronze cuirasses and ruby-colored capes discretely watched the entrances to various interior chambers. Their eyes, attentive and evaluating, followed the few nocturnal visitors with the cautious vigilance of shepherds before possible wolves. On their shields, the flaming heart symbol gleamed like freshly spilled blood.
Ethel advanced through the temple, marveling at the interior architecture that seemed designed to channel heat and light toward the building's center. Arches and columns rose toward a central dome strategically perforated so that, during the day, sun rays would traverse the space and concentrate at specific points. Now, at night, hundreds of candles suspended in intricate iron chandeliers created an artificial sky of reddish and amber stars.
The interior walls were covered with mosaics representing R'hllor's dual aspects: protective light and purifying fire. In a particularly impressive panel, a warrior wielding a flaming sword faced ice creatures with sapphire eyes.
As he ventured deeper into the temple, he noticed the guards observing him with particular attention. Their gazes contained no hostility, but a kind of contained expectation, as if they had been warned of his arrival. When Ethel headed toward an ornate door that seemed to lead to the temple's very heart, he expected to encounter resistance. However, the two guards posted on either side simply inclined their heads slightly and opened the heavy red wooden doors.
The interior was a vast circular chamber dominated by a central pit where a fire burned that seemed to require no visible fuel. The flames rose to a man's height, dancing with patterns that suggested recognizable forms for moments: faces, animals, distant castles. The air vibrated with heat, though strangely it wasn't suffocating.
Around the pit, arranged in a perfect circle, were nine obsidian pillars that reflected the fire, multiplying it like dark mirrors. The vaulted ceiling was decorated with a mural representing the night sky of some distant place and time, with unknown constellations formed by ruby fragments and fire opals embedded in the stone.
There were no benches or seats; this was a place to stand before the god's presence, not for mortal comfort.
Two figures remained beside the ceremonial fire, motionless as living statues. A slender woman of disturbing beauty, with dark hair gathered in elaborate braids interwoven with red-gold threads, wore a scarlet robe more elaborate than that of common priests. Around her neck, a collar with a ruby the size of a dove's egg pulsed with its own light, as if it contained a miniaturized heart.
Beside her, a man of robust build whose face was partially disfigured by burn scars extending from his left cheek to disappear under his robe's neck. His hands, equally marked by fire, held a staff crowned by a miniature replica of the flaming heart.
Ethel recognized the woman. Kinvara, the High Priestess who had presented herself to Daenerys. The man, however, he didn't know, but supposed he was a very important person.
"The fire spoke to us of your arrival, Ethel," said Kinvara with a melodious voice that seemed to vibrate with multiple simultaneous tones.
"The flames do not lie," added Benerro. His voice was hoarse, as if the scars extended to his throat as well. "Though sometimes we struggle to interpret what they show. But with you... with you they have been unusually clear."
Ethel advanced toward them with a mixture of caution and fascination.
"Were you expecting me?" he asked, stopping a few steps from the burning pit. The heat caressed his skin like invisible fingers, but wasn't unpleasant.
"R'hllor awaits all who have a purpose in his grand design," responded Kinvara with an enigmatic smile. "Some arrive conscious of their role, others must discover it. You, Ethel, are unique. You have the freedom to take your own path."
A shiver ran down Ethel's spine. The certainty in the priestess's voice left no room for doubt: somehow, she knew exactly what he was.
"A month ago," continued Benerro, his single eye unmarked by scars fixed on Ethel with fierce intensity, "the flames showed your arrival. A man appeared from nowhere, wrapped in fire but not consumed by it. Melisandre of Asshai sent us a message confirming what the visions had shown us."
"What do you want from me?" he asked directly, deciding that frankness was the best strategy before people who seemed to know his deepest secrets.
Kinvara exchanged a glance with Benerro before responding:
"It's not about what we want, but what the Lord of Light has ordained. You are an anomaly, Ethel. A being that shouldn't exist on this plane and yet, here you are, defying the fundamental rules that govern our world."
"What my sister in faith is trying to explain," intervened Benerro, his voice more pragmatic, "is that your presence here alters reality's very fabric. Magic flows around you differently. We have felt it since you entered the temple."
Kinvara extended a hand toward the central fire, and the flames responded like a living creature, rising and twisting in patterns that seemed almost choreographed.
"Fire does not lie, but it must be interpreted," she said softly. "And to completely understand what you are, we need to see how you respond to its touch."
Ethel then understood he was facing a test. Part of him—the rational part that remembered his previous life—screamed for him to back away, that any contact with fire would result in painful burns. But another more instinctive part, the part that had been noticing changes in his body since his arrival in this world, felt a strange confidence.
"What must I do?" he asked, finding his voice surprisingly firm.
"R'hllor recognizes his own through fire," explained Benerro, extending his own hands marked by ancient burns. "Some, like me, bear his marks as constant reminders of our mortality and service. Others, the truly blessed, find in flames not pain, but revelation."
"Extend your hand toward the fire," indicated Kinvara. "One finger first. Let the flames know you."
The burning pit crackled invitingly, the flames dancing as if awaiting his touch. Ethel briefly remembered the strange healing abilities he had noticed in his body, the speed with which wounds healed, the unusual resistance he had developed. Was it possible that this immunity extended to fire as well?
With a deliberate movement, he extended his right hand and, after brief hesitation, introduced his index finger into the dancing flames.
There was no pain. Not even excessive heat.
Where he should have felt agony, he only experienced a gentle caress, like dipping his finger in warm water. The flames swirled around his finger as if examining it, momentarily changing color: from the usual red-orange to a pale, almost translucent blue.
The astonishment must have reflected on his face, because Kinvara smiled with satisfaction, as if confirming a long-held theory.
"Now the complete hand," ordered Benerro, his voice now charged with an emotion Ethel hadn't perceived before. "Let the Lord of Light recognize you fully."
Without hesitation this time, Ethel plunged his entire hand into the fire. The flames danced between his fingers, coiled around his wrist like luminous serpents, but without causing the slightest harm. It was a strange sensation, almost pleasant, as if the fire transmitted energy to him instead of consuming his flesh.
When he finally withdrew his hand, there were no marks, no redness. His skin remained intact.
"Impressive," murmured Kinvara, her gaze more intense than ever. "Not even the Targaryens, with all their dragon blood, possess such complete immunity."
Benerro suddenly knelt before Ethel, a gesture that took him completely by surprise.
"A Fire Chosen," declared the priest with reverent voice. "Born from another world to fulfill some crucial purpose in ours."
Kinvara, however, maintained an evaluating distance. Her expression revealed fascination, but also careful calculation, like one who has discovered a valuable tool and contemplates how best to use it.
"Your arrival is not accidental, Ethel," she said, her eyes reflecting the pit's flames. "The Lord of Light does not waste miracles. If he has brought you here, intact and endowed with abilities that defy natural laws, it's because you have a role in the great war that approaches."
"War?" asked Ethel, though inside he already knew the answer.
"The only war that matters," responded Kinvara. "The war between light and darkness, between life and death. The Long Night approaches, and the Night King awakens from his millennial sleep beyond the Wall."
The words resonated in the sacred precinct with prophetic weight. Ethel felt a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, as the atmosphere remained warmly suffocating.
"Why me?" he asked, though the question sounded hollow even to his own ears. "What can I do against... that?"
Benerro, still kneeling, lifted his gaze toward him.
"Sometimes, a small change in the pattern alters the entire tapestry," he responded with enigmatic voice. "A presence that shouldn't exist can disrupt millennial prophecies, create new paths where before there was only fixed destiny."
Kinvara approached, studying Ethel as if trying to memorize every detail of his face.
"The fire has accepted you," she finally declared. "But that is only the first of many tests."