Volantis burned.
Not with the devastating flames of a conflagration, but with the incandescent fervor of thousands of souls who had become living embers of devotion. The oldest city of the Nine Free Cities—the firstborn of ancient Valyria—pulsed with an energy it had not known for centuries.
The cobblestone streets, normally traversed by tattooed slaves and circumspect merchants, now teemed with frenzied activity. Pilgrims arrived from the most remote regions of Essos, mingling with curious locals and foreign emissaries, all converging toward a single point: the colossal Red Temple that dominated the eastern horizon of the city.
From the docks where galleys from every corner of the known world moored to the exclusive walled districts where the ancient nobility resided, a single name resonated in every conversation: Ethel, the Reborn.
In the depths of the Red Temple, the council of high priests debated heatedly in the Chamber of the Eternal Flame. The circular chamber, illuminated by a pillar of perpetual fire that ascended from a central pit to an opening in the ceiling, cast dancing shadows over the polished red stone walls.
"Five ambassadors from Pentos in a single day!" exclaimed Benerro, his face scarred by burns contorted in a grimace of exasperation. "Three representatives from merchant families of Braavos. A discreet envoy from the Citadel of Oldtown who pretended not to be one. And now, this delegation from Meereen requests immediate audience."
Kinvara, imperturbable as always, contemplated the central flames before responding, the ruby at her throat pulsing softly to the rhythm of an invisible heart.
"Each request must be evaluated according to its potential for our cause," she responded with that ethereal voice that seemed to float in the air. "The Meereenese can wait. The Braavosi bring valuable information from the bankers. As for the disguised maester... it will be interesting to discover what he truly seeks."
A priest of lesser rank, recently elevated to the council, cleared his throat nervously.
"High Priestess, there is another equally urgent matter. The ranks of the temple guard have increased exponentially. Hundreds of mercenaries offer their swords in service to the Reborn. Tiger warriors, ex-officers of the Second Sons, even some renegade Dothraki..."
"Accept them all," Kinvara's voice brooked no argument. "But subject them to the trials by fire. Only the truly faithful may approach him."
Benerro exchanged a meaningful glance with Melisandre, who had remained silent throughout the entire meeting, observing the developments with her unfathomable red eyes.
"And what of Ethel himself?" the burned priest finally asked. "We have spent days making decisions that directly affect his position without his presence or consent."
An enigmatic smile formed on Kinvara's lips.
"The Reborn must remain elevated above these mundane matters," she responded. "His mere existence is already an act of power. The administration of that power falls to us, his interpreters before the world."
Melisandre then rose, her slender figure silhouetted against the dancing flames, casting an impossibly elongated shadow over the black marble floor.
"With your permission," she spoke with the melodious pronunciation characteristic of Asshai, "I shall withdraw to consult with him about the results of our... recent investigations."
Kinvara nodded slightly, and Melisandre left the chamber with silent steps, leaving behind a barely perceptible trail of cinnamon and ash.
Ethel contemplated the city from the upper terrace of his new quarters, a complex of six rooms located in the eastern tower of the temple that, until a week ago, had exclusively housed visiting High Priests during great religious convocations.
The view was impressive: Volantis spread beneath him like a living tapestry, with the mighty Rhoyne serpentining through its center, dividing the old city from the new. The Great Bridge, a marvel of Valyrian engineering built with fused black stone, connected both shores, crowded at all hours with an endless procession of people, carriages, and merchandise.
In the distance, beyond the black walls of the old city, improvised camps dotted the surrounding plain—temporary shelters for the thousands of pilgrims who found no lodging within the walls. At night, their bonfires formed a terrestrial constellation that rivaled the starry firmament.
"A city within a city," thought Ethel, resting his hands on the red stone balustrade. "And all for my cause."
The thought still struck him as both uncomfortable and fascinating. Three weeks had passed since his "revelation" in the temple square. Three weeks during which his life had undergone such a radical transformation that sometimes he doubted his own sanity.
He was no longer simply Ethel, the strange foreigner with unusual abilities. He had become "the Reborn," "Heart of Fire," "Herald of R'hllor," and a dozen additional titles that circulated among the devotees with increasing elaboration. Stories about his supposed miracles spread like forest fires, mutating and growing with each retelling.
According to the most extravagant rumors that had reached his ears, he had resurrected a dozen dead, transformed water into fire, and prophesied with infallible precision the outcome of conflicts in distant lands.
Ethel sighed, observing the incessant movement in the streets beneath his tower. Even at this height, he could distinguish the scarlet figures of the Fiery Hand members—the temple's elite guard, now dedicated exclusively to his personal protection—posted at every entrance and strategic corner of the sacred precinct.
Sixteen warriors remained constantly vigilant in the corridor leading to his quarters, relieving each other in four-hour shifts. Another thirty patrolled the immediately lower levels. And at least fifty more were strategically distributed throughout the rest of the temple complex, alert to any potential threat to his person.
"Protection or prison," he reflected with bitter irony. Although technically he could leave his quarters whenever he wished, the practical reality was much more complex. Each of his movements triggered an elaborate choreography of guards, priests, and acolytes. Each public appearance required days of meticulous preparation.
The anonymous freedom of his first months in this strange world—being able to wander through markets and taverns without being recognized, observing the daily life of people whose customs and beliefs differed radically from those of his original world—had completely vanished.
"A small price compared to the benefits," he reminded himself, attempting to counter his incipient melancholy. And certainly, the benefits were considerable.
His new position had granted him unprecedented access to the temple's most esoteric knowledge: ancient texts transported from the ruins of Valyria, manuscripts from the depths of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, and even fragments of pre-human wisdom that the priests attributed to the First Men.
Each morning, scholars and sages personally selected by Kinvara came to his quarters to instruct him in advanced Valyrian linguistics, esoteric history, and the philosophical foundations of Essos's various magical practices.
Each afternoon, under the supervision of Melisandre or Benerro, he experimented with the limits of his pyromantic abilities, discovering new applications and refinements for his innate control over fire.
And the nights... the nights belonged to a completely different category of exploration. Since his special nature had been publicly revealed, there was no shortage of men and women—from fervent acolytes to powerful nobles—who sought to share his bed, motivated by a mixture of religious devotion, political ambition, and simple curiosity.
Ethel had rejected most of these advances, but not all. Life was too strange, too intense in this world of magic and violence to cling to the moral restrictions of his previous existence.
The metallic sound of the heavy bronze doors of his quarters opening interrupted his reflections. Without turning, he immediately knew who had entered. Only three people in the entire temple could access his chambers without announcing themselves first: Kinvara, Benerro, and...
"I hope I'm not interrupting a moment of deep contemplation," Melisandre's velvety voice floated to the terrace.
Ethel turned to find her standing in the threshold that separated his main bedroom from the outer terrace. The twilight bathed her slender figure, drawing copper glints from her red hair and accentuating the supernatural whiteness of her skin.
"Just observing the city," he responded, gesturing for her to join him. "It has transformed into something unrecognizable in these few weeks."
Melisandre advanced with that feline grace that characterized all her movements, the whisper of her scarlet robe against the marble floor like a murmur of shared secrets.
"It is not the city that has changed," she commented, positioning herself beside him at the balustrade, "but your perception of it. Volantis has always been a crucible of ambitions and faith. Now you simply see its internal mechanisms more clearly."
Ethel studied her profile, attempting to decipher, as always without success, the priestess's true age. In certain moments, under certain light, she seemed barely older than him—a young woman of extraordinary beauty in the flower of her youth. In other instants, her eyes reflected centuries of knowledge, millennia of patient observation.
"Do you bring news?" he asked, recognizing in her expression the subtle signs of urgency he had learned to identify during their intense experimentation sessions.
The priestess nodded slightly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon where the sun slowly descended, tinting the Rhoyne with liquid gold.
"A raven arrived an hour ago from King's Landing," she responded with calculated neutrality. "Jon Arryn, Hand of King Robert Baratheon, has died."
The information struck Ethel with the force of a cosmic revelation. It wasn't simply political news; it was the beginning of everything. The catalyst that would set in motion the gears of a history he knew all too well.
"The Hand of the King..." he murmured, more to himself than to Melisandre. "So it begins..."
A shiver ran down his spine as the implications unfolded in his mind like a map of possibilities. If Jon Arryn had died, then Robert Baratheon would soon travel North, to Winterfell, to offer Eddard Stark the position of Hand of the King. And with that decision, the first domino would fall, unleashing an unstoppable cascade of betrayals, wars, and death.
The War of the Five Kings. The Red Wedding. The fall of House Stark. The rise and fall of House Bolton. The return of Daenerys Targaryen with her dragons. And beyond that, the threat lurking beyond the Wall: the White Walkers and their Night King.
"What do you see when you look west, Ethel?" asked Melisandre, interrupting the whirlwind of his thoughts.
Ethel breathed deeply, attempting to order the chaos of his mind.
"I see... the future unfolding," he responded cautiously. "I see events that will shake the foundations of this world."
An enigmatic smile curved the priestess's lips.
"And we here, in Volantis, with a power the world barely begins to understand," she commented, the ruby at her throat pulsing with greater intensity. "Is it not... convenient?"
Ethel stared at her fixedly, perceiving the hidden currents beneath her apparently casual words.
"Are you suggesting I should involve myself in the affairs of Westeros?"
Melisandre turned to face him directly, her red eyes shining with hypnotic intensity in the twilight.
"I am suggesting that your presence in this world, precisely at this critical moment in its history, can hardly be considered coincidence," she responded. "The Lord of Light has brought you here, granted you powers beyond the natural, and now opens before you the path to the west."
Ethel considered her words, feeling the weight of the responsibility they implied. His knowledge of the future—of the horrors awaiting the Seven Kingdoms—was both a blessing and a curse. He could observe passively, allowing events to unfold as he remembered them, or he could intervene actively, altering the very fabric of history.
"With great power comes great responsibility," the echo of a phrase from his previous world resonated in his mind with pointed irony.
"What do you know exactly about Jon Arryn's death?" he finally asked.
"Little beyond the fact itself," Melisandre admitted. "Apparently, a sudden fever consumed him in a matter of days. The maesters were unable to save him."
"Poison," thought Ethel immediately, remembering the later revelations in the narrative he knew. "Tears of Lys, administered by his wife Lysa at the instigation of Petyr Baelish."
"And what does the council think about these developments?"
"They have not been informed yet," the priestess responded. "I intercepted the message before it reached Kinvara. I thought you would want to... consider the implications privately first."
The revelation surprised Ethel. It was the first time Melisandre had acted independently of Kinvara and the council in a matter of such magnitude, prioritizing her relationship with him above the established hierarchy of the temple.
"I thank you for that," he said sincerely. "This information requires careful reflection."
The sun had completely disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving behind a sky tinted purple and crimson. The first stars began to twinkle timidly while the city lights lit one by one, creating a terrestrial version of the nocturnal firmament.
"The events that are coming," continued Ethel, carefully choosing his words, "will alter the balance of power throughout the known world. Wars, betrayals, the awakening of ancient forces... Westeros will bleed before it's all over."
Melisandre observed him with predatory attention, absorbing each word as if it were a direct prophecy from the Lord of Light.
"You speak with the certainty of one who has seen these events in the flames," she commented with barely disguised admiration. "Your gift of clairvoyance surpasses even mine."
Ethel did not correct her. It was simpler, safer, to allow her to attribute his knowledge to prophetic visions than to attempt to explain the impossible truth: that he came from a world where all this history was fictional, narrated in books and represented in a television series he had followed with passion in another life.
"What we must now decide," he continued, returning to the thread of conversation, "is whether we will observe from a distance or intervene directly."
A slow, almost sensual smile spread across Melisandre's face.
"Is not that decision obvious?" she asked rhetorically. "If you possess the knowledge to alter the course of catastrophic events, is it not your divine duty to do so?"
Ethel closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of unwritten history on his shoulders. Intervening would mean altering the fabric of destiny, with potentially more disastrous consequences than the events he would attempt to prevent. Not intervening would mean consciously allowing deaths, betrayals, and suffering he could avoid.
"The time traveler's dilemma," he thought with bitter irony. "Except I'm not a time traveler, but a traveler between realities."
When he opened his eyes again, his decision was made. He could feel the latent power within him, that supernatural fire that had allowed him to return from death and now burned with renewed purpose.
"We will prepare an expedition to Westeros," he declared with firm resolution. "A small but effective contingent. Men and women of absolute trust."
Melisandre's eyes shone with approval and something more—ambition, perhaps, or simple satisfaction at the confirmation of her own prophecies.
"What will be our initial destination?" she asked. "King's Landing, where the struggle for power is already beginning to take shape?"
Ethel shook his head.
"Winterfell," he responded without hesitation. "The real power, the real threat, comes from the North. It always has."
Beyond the political intrigues of the capital, beyond the dynastic ambitions of the great houses, lurked the primordial enemy. The Others. The White Walkers. An army of the dead advancing inexorably toward the Wall.
That was the conflict that truly mattered, the existential war that would define the world's destiny. And now, with Jon Arryn's death, the clock had begun its countdown.
Ethel turned toward the room, turning his back on the emerging night and the city that burned with a thousand lights beneath them.
"Tell Kinvara I request an audience with the full council tomorrow at dawn," he instructed. "We have much to plan."
As Melisandre withdrew with a whisper of scarlet silk, Ethel remained motionless in the center of the room, feeling how the currents of destiny swirled around him, invisible but palpable.
"So it begins," he thought again, but this time with iron determination instead of passive amazement. "This time, the song will have a different melody."
Outside, beyond the windows of his quarters, the night sky of Volantis briefly illuminated with the fleeting glow of a shooting star that traced a brilliant arc from east to west, as if marking the path to Westeros.
Or perhaps, reflected Ethel with sudden intuition, as an omen of his own trajectory through this world of ice and fire, where the gods—old and new—played with the destinies of mortals and kingdoms alike.
The flame of the candles in his room suddenly grew, responding to his emotional state, projecting distorted shadows against the red stone walls.
The Reborn, the Heart of Fire, was about to enter the most dangerous game of all.
And Ethel, the man from another world, was determined to change the rules of the game.