Chapter 12:
Dawn stretched its golden fingers across the eastern horizon of Volantis, bathing the domes and towers of the Red Temple with ethereal light that made the colossal edifice appear as if it were consumed in silent flames. An appropriate vision, Ethel thought, as he contemplated the city for the last time from the terrace of his chambers.
A month of fevered preparation had transformed his bold declaration to Melisandre into a meticulously organized expedition. Every detail had been considered, every contingency evaluated, every resource secured with the surgical precision that characterized plans conceived in the temple's depths.
The Dancing Flame, a slender three-decked galley acquired specifically for this purpose, awaited at the temple's private docks. Her captain, a former Lysene smuggler converted to devotion of the Lord of Light after miraculously surviving a storm that had destroyed his previous vessel, knew every treacherous current and trade route between Essos and Westeros. His crew, personally selected by Benerro, consisted exclusively of sailors who had passed the rigorous loyalty tests imposed by the scarred-faced priest.
Ethel surveyed the belongings he had selected for the journey, meticulously arranged on the bed he would not occupy again for a long time. An austere but exceptionally quality wardrobe: wool tunics dyed in muted tones—browns, dark blues, somber grays—that would allow him to blend among the northern population without attracting unnecessary attention. Reinforced leather boots cured for the rigors of the approaching winter. A wolf-fur lined cloak, a personal gift from Kinvara, who had insisted on the symbolic importance of the material.
A set of seven ceremonial knives with handles carved from petrified dragon bone, each inscribed with runes whose meaning was known only to the most senior red priests. And finally, a small arcane wood box, within which rested twelve crystal vials containing various ungents, powders, and elixirs developed in the temple's underground laboratories.
A discrete knock on the door interrupted his reflections. Without waiting for response, Melisandre entered, her presence as imposing as always. Unlike the elaborate scarlet robes she usually wore within the temple, she now dressed in a more practical traveling ensemble, though still unmistakably red. A fitted leather coat dyed with long sleeves that culminated in incorporated gloves, tight pants tucked into high boots, and a hooded cloak that could be deployed to protect her from the elements or folded discretely when the situation required it. The ruby at her throat pulsed with its own light, contrasting with the practical severity of the rest of her attire.
"The guards await at the lower dock," she announced, her melodious voice imbued with contained anticipation. "Benerro has completed the protection rituals over the vessel. It is time."
Ethel nodded, collecting the Valyrian steel sword that rested against the wall. The weapon, forged centuries before his arrival in this world, had been a gift from the priests after his resurrection. The hilt, originally adorned with rubies and ornate decorations, had been replaced with a more sober design at his request: black leather treated with special oils that ensured a firm grip even in the most adverse conditions, and a simple forged iron pommel that concealed a minuscule compartment where he kept a dragonglass shard—a constant reminder of the true threat that lurked beyond the Wall.
"Have you completed your personal preparations?" he asked while adjusting the belt where the sword would hang once they abandoned the temple's confines.
"Days ago," Melisandre responded with an enigmatic smile. "My luggage has always been... light."
Both knew she referred to more than simple material possessions. Of all the temple's priests, Melisandre was perhaps the least attached to physical comfort or emotional connections. Her devotion transcended the mundane, focusing with intensity on her personal interpretation of R'hllor's will—an interpretation that, since the revelation of Ethel's special nature, had evolved to place him at the center of her prophecies.
The vast ceremonial chamber, with its vaulted ceiling rising thirty meters above the polished black marble floor, gleamed with light from a hundred braziers arranged in concentric circles around the central pit, where a column of green fire—a special fire lit only on the most solemn occasions—ascended roaring to a circular opening high in the dome.
Kinvara awaited beside the fire, flanked by the twelve high priests of Volantis's Red Temple. Their faces, normally impassive, showed diverse emotions at the Reborn's imminent departure: concern in some, strategic calculation in others, and in a few, a barely disguised flash of relief.
During the last month, Ethel's presence had transformed the temple's internal dynamics in ways that not even Kinvara had completely anticipated. His growing influence among the younger acolytes, the fervent devotion he inspired among the guards, the way even some veteran priests began seeking his approval before the High Priestess's... all these changes had generated subtle tensions that his departure would temporarily alleviate.
"The moment has arrived," Kinvara declared when Ethel and Melisandre stopped before the circle of priests. "The Lord of Light extends his gaze toward Westeros, and you shall be his eyes, his ears... and when necessary, his purifying flame."
Her voice resonated in the chamber with an almost hypnotic quality, amplified by the perfect acoustics of the hall designed so that sacred words would reach every corner with equal clarity.
Ethel inclined his head slightly, a calculated gesture of respect—enough to honor Kinvara's position, but not so much as to suggest complete subordination. In the intricate dance of power that characterized their interactions, every movement, every voice inflection contained additional meanings.
"I appreciate the council's confidence," he responded, his voice modulated to project serene authority. "What we do today alters destiny's course. What we find in Westeros will determine the future not only of that continent, but of the entire world."
A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but necessary to maintain the temple's institutional support during his absence. Ethel had quickly learned that religious politics required as much theater as substance.
Benerro, his face marked by ancient scars, stepped forward.
"The fires have been consulted exhaustively," he announced, addressing both Ethel and the rest of the council. "The visions are fragmentary, as always, but all converge on one point: the North. The Reborn's destiny is intertwined with the ancient powers awakening beyond the Wall."
Ethel exchanged a significant glance with Melisandre. They had not revealed to the council all the details of their knowledge about future events—especially the magnitude of the White Walker threat or Daenerys Targaryen's eventual arrival with her dragons. Such information, distributed prematurely, could unleash unpredictable actions that would complicate their plans.
"The selected guardians have been prepared according to ancient rites," continued another priest, a tall and ascetic man with eyes so clear they seemed almost transparent. "They have drunk from the fire and their spirits have been tempered. They will give their lives without hesitation if the situation requires it."
Ethel nodded gravely. The five guards who would accompany them were not simple soldiers, but warrior-priests who had undergone intensive rituals for weeks, strengthening both their devotion and their physical capabilities. Men and women of diverse backgrounds unified by absolute faith in the Lord of Light and, by extension, in him as a living manifestation of divine power.
The ceremony continued with ritualized exchanges of blessings and oaths. Kinvara personally placed a miniature ruby pendant in Ethel's left ear—a focus that, she explained, would amplify his visions and serve as a communication channel in moments of extreme need. Melisandre received a silver bracelet with Valyrian inscriptions that would intensify her connection with flames even in the cold lands of the North, where R'hllor's power traditionally weakened.
Finally, after an hour of elaborate rituals, Kinvara stepped back and extended both arms toward the central fire. The flames responded immediately, growing until they grazed the vaulted ceiling and emitting a roar that reverberated off the stone walls.
"Go with the blessing of the One True God!" she exclaimed, her voice rising above the flames' thunder. "May your path be illuminated by His wisdom and your enemies consumed by His wrath!"
The flames descended as abruptly as they had grown, returning to their normal height but changing color—from supernatural green to a deep and hypnotic red. All present, including Ethel, felt a wave of heat course through their bodies, not unpleasant but invigorating, as if their blood had been momentarily replaced by liquid fire.
With this final ceremonial gesture, the official farewell concluded. The priests dispersed silently, leaving only Kinvara, who approached Ethel and Melisandre for a final, more personal exchange.
"There is more at stake than mere politics of mortal realms," she murmured, her voice barely audible even at such short distance. "The signs we have interpreted suggest that forces beyond our comprehension observe your movements. Be careful whom you trust, even among those who believe they serve you faithfully."
Her eyes rested briefly on Melisandre before returning to Ethel, a gesture so subtle it would have passed unnoticed by anyone less observant.
"All prophecy is like a traitor," she continued. "It appears to be one thing while meaning another. Remember this when visions assault you in foreign land."
Ethel held her gaze, appreciating the warning for what it was: a mixture of genuine concern and astute preservation of her own influence. Kinvara was, above all, a political survivor who had navigated the treacherous waters of religious power longer than anyone could remember.
"I will return when the time is right," he responded simply.
It was not a promise, but a declaration of intent. Both knew that the events that would unfold in Westeros could irrevocably alter their plans, their relationships, even their own natures.
The High Priestess nodded one last time before turning on her heels in a swirl of scarlet silk, leaving them alone in the vast ceremonial hall.
"An adequately dramatic farewell," Melisandre commented with a touch of irony when Kinvara's footsteps faded in the distance. "Though I must admit her warning about prophecies is not without merit."
"Do you say that from personal experience?" Ethel asked as they began walking toward the side exit that would lead them directly to the private docks.
An enigmatic smile curved the priestess's lips.
"Let's say I have learned to distinguish between seeing the future and understanding what I see," she responded. "A lesson that, I suspect, you have already mastered innately."
Ethel neither confirmed nor denied her speculation. His relationship with Melisandre had developed on a delicate balance of partial truths and strategic omissions. She believed his detailed knowledge of future events came from exceptionally clear prophetic visions—a much more acceptable explanation than the impossible truth.
The sun reached its zenith when the Dancing Flame sailed from Volantis's port, her three triangular red silk sails unfurling majestically to capture the sea breeze. From the prow, Ethel watched as the colossal bronze statue of the Lord of Light that guarded the port's entrance seemed to follow them with its impassive gaze, its flaming sword extended toward the sky in eternal vigilance.
Beside him, Melisandre remained in contemplative silence, her scarlet hair flowing freely in the salt wind—a rare moment of unconcern in a woman normally so controlled. The five elite guards maintained respectful distance, distributed strategically across the deck in positions that would allow them to respond instantly to any threat.
The crew, forty men and women of diverse backgrounds unified under the temple's banner, worked with the silent precision that characterized those who had been selected as much for their competence as for their discretion. They had sworn special vows for this mission, committing their lives and souls to the Reborn's service.
As the city shrank in the distance, Ethel experienced a strange mixture of liberation and apprehension. For the first time in months, he was moving away from the constant scrutiny that had defined his existence in the Red Temple. He would no longer be constantly surrounded by devotees who analyzed every gesture, every word seeking divine meanings.
However, this freedom came accompanied by a much heavier purpose: the responsibility of consciously altering the course of catastrophic events he knew in detail, of saving specific lives while inevitably condemning others with his interference.
"You seem worried," Melisandre observed, breaking her silence when Essos's coast began to blur on the horizon. "Do you doubt our mission?"
Ethel carefully considered his response, conscious that even in the prow's relative privacy, his words might be interpreted by nearby ears as prophetic pronouncements.
"I don't doubt the purpose," he finally responded. "But the act of altering destiny is... complex. Every life saved can unleash unforeseen deaths. Every conflict avoided can generate others more devastating."
The priestess nodded gravely, the ruby at her throat pulsing to the rhythm of thoughts she didn't completely share.
"Destiny's fabric is resistant but not immutable," she commented, her eyes fixed on the western horizon. "Like a forest fire, it can be redirected, contained, even extinguished in specific areas... but its fundamental nature remains. Fire always seeks to consume."
It was an appropriate analogy, Ethel thought. His interventions might alter the specific route of coming destruction, but the primordial force behind it—the elemental struggle between life and death, heat and cold, light and darkness—would persist inexorably.
"Three weeks to White Harbor, according to the captain," he said, deliberately changing the conversation's tone toward more practical aspects. "We should use this time to refine our approach strategy to House Stark."
Melisandre arched a perfectly outlined eyebrow.
"Had we not already agreed to present ourselves as commercial emissaries from Volantis, interested in establishing direct routes for exchanging northern woods for Essosi spices and food?"
"That is our initial cover, yes," Ethel conceded. "But we need to plan beyond. Once in Winterfell, we must carefully evaluate the balance of power and personalities before gradually revealing our true intentions."
He leaned against the prow's railing, instinctively lowering his voice though no one was close enough to hear.
"I need to know the Starks personally," he continued. "Determine how much we can reveal without being considered a threat or, worse yet, insane."
An enigmatic smile curved Melisandre's lips.
"I have discovered that an adequate demonstration of power usually opens many doors," she commented, the ruby at her throat glowing momentarily with greater intensity. "Northerners can be superstitious beneath their superficial pragmatism. Old magics still resonate in their blood, though many have forgotten to listen."
Ethel nodded slowly, appreciating the observation. The Starks, with their ancestral connection to the First Men and their ancient traditions, might be more receptive to certain supernatural aspects than the southern lords, educated in the pragmatic skepticism of the Faith of the Seven.
"We must be cautious, however," he warned. "It is precisely those ancient connections that might make them instinctively distrust followers of the Red God. To them, we are representatives of a foreign and unknown deity."
It was a delicate balance: reveal enough to gain their trust without awakening their deepest suspicions. If they approached incorrectly, all doors might close before they even began their mission.
During the following hours, while the Dancing Flame sailed the Narrow Sea's waters with favorable wind, Ethel and Melisandre refined their strategy, considering multiple scenarios and contingencies. The five guards were instructed in detail about their roles: they would not be presented as warrior-priests but as standard commercial escort, trained but not extraordinary. Their real capabilities—including the very limited fire control all possessed after their initiation rituals—would be kept in reserve until the situation required a demonstration of power.
That night, when stars emerged in a clear sky and most of the crew had retired to rest, Ethel remained alone at the prow, contemplating the Dawn Sword—the constellation that Westerosi sailors used to navigate north.
The ship's rhythmic swaying, the constant whisper of waves against the hull, the vastness of the starry sky above him... everything conspired to induce a meditative state he had rarely experienced. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to reflect not only on his strategic plans, but on his own transformed nature.
The systematic experiments Melisandre had conducted during the weeks following his resurrection had established certain indisputable facts: his body healed wounds with supernatural speed; he could manipulate fire with millimetric precision through simple will; his blood, when poured over conventional flames, produced strangely specific visions of the future; and, crucially, he had survived injuries that should have been undoubtedly fatal.
But the complete scope of his capabilities—and their limitations—remained unknown. Could he survive decapitation? Being completely consumed by flames? And what about the absolute cold the White Walkers would bring with them? As a being apparently linked to the fire element, would he be particularly vulnerable to its elemental opposite?
Questions without clear answers, but which might soon become painfully relevant.
With a sigh containing concerns from two different worlds, Ethel finally retired to his cabin, where he found Melisandre waiting, seated before a small portable brazier she had installed against all sensible maritime regulations. The flames danced with hypnotic patterns that were clearly unnatural.
"I have been consulting the fire about our journey," she explained without preamble. "The visions are... unusually clear."
Something in her tone alerted Ethel. During his time in the temple, he had learned to distinguish nuances in the priestess's normally controlled voice. This particular tone—a mixture of amazement and caution—only emerged when something challenged her most fundamental expectations.
"What have you seen?" he asked, carefully closing the door behind him.
Melisandre studied the flames a moment more before responding.
"Wolves beneath the snow. A three-eyed crow. A wall of ice that weeps." Her eyes rose to meet Ethel's. "And you, wielding a sword of living fire before a creature of ice with eyes like blue stars."
Ethel felt a chill run down his spine. Melisandre's visions, though cryptic, fit perfectly with events he knew would occur: the Stark direwolves, Bran and his destiny as the Three-Eyed Raven, the Wall and its eventual fall... and finally, his own confrontation with the White Walkers, an encounter that now seemed inevitable.
"Anything else?" he asked, maintaining his voice deliberately neutral.
The priestess inclined her head slightly, her red eyes reflecting the dancing flames.
"A female figure with three winged creatures. A throne forged with melted swords. And..." she hesitated imperceptibly, "an army of the dead marching under a starless sky."
Daenerys and her dragons. The Iron Throne. And the army of the dead advancing south. The main pieces of the board were moving exactly as Ethel remembered from the original narrative, but his mere presence was already subtly altering this reality's fabric.
"Destiny is like water," he murmured, repeating a phrase he had heard from Kinvara. "It finds its way despite obstacles that try to contain it."
Melisandre nodded, extinguishing the flames with a gesture of her hand.
"However, even water can be redirected if adequate channels are built," she responded. "That is our task: not to stop the inevitable, but to guide it toward a less destructive course."
The following three weeks passed in a tranquil but productive routine. Each morning, Ethel practiced sword combat against the elite guards on the main deck—not to improve his already considerable skills, but to familiarize himself with northern fighting styles the warrior-priests had studied specifically for this mission. Afternoons were dedicated to study: detailed maps of Westeros, genealogies of the great houses, subtleties of northern politics that might prove crucial.
Dawns and sunsets belonged to intensive sessions with Melisandre, perfecting his control over fire and exploring more subtle applications of his abilities. Under her tutelage, Ethel learned to heat metal objects without touching them, to perceive living presences through their body heat even through walls, and to manipulate flames to create fleeting but convincing illusions—skills that might prove invaluable in the power games and subterfuge awaiting them.
The weather remained surprisingly favorable throughout the crossing, with constant southeast winds that propelled the Dancing Flame across the Narrow Sea faster than anticipated. The crew, initially cautious in the Reborn's presence, gradually developed a comfortable routine, treating him with deep respect but not with the reverential fear that had characterized their interactions in the temple.
It was a welcome change for Ethel, who found some relief in being treated simply as an important passenger, not as a divine manifestation that must be worshipped at every moment.
The journey was not without minor incidents: a brief encounter with Lysene pirates who quickly desisted upon recognizing the characteristic red sails of the Temple; a moderate storm that delayed their progress for two days; tense negotiations with Braavosi naval patrols that controlled certain trade routes. But nothing that required an open demonstration of Ethel or Melisandre's extraordinary powers.
Finally, at dawn on the twentieth day of navigation, the lookout announced the first sight of Westeros's northern coast: gray and steep cliffs battered by foaming waves, crowned by forests of dark pines extending as far as the eye could see. Hours later, White Harbor's diffuse contours emerged on the horizon—white towers and gleaming walls built with the characteristic chalk stone that gave the settlement its name.
As they approached the port, Ethel and Melisandre completed their transformation. He had abandoned the temple robes in favor of Volantine commercial attire of quality but calculated discretion: a black wool doublet over a linen shirt, resistant riding pants, high cured leather boots, and a fur-lined cloak that would protect him from the northern climate without calling excessive attention. His Valyrian steel sword remained sheathed in a deliberately worn scabbard that concealed its true value.
Melisandre, for her part, had opted to maintain her identity partially visible: a dark red dress, almost maroon, of sober but indisputably foreign cut, with the ruby at her throat exposed but less prominent thanks to an elaborately worked silver necklace that incorporated it as one piece among many. Her intense red hair, normally loose as a declaration of power, was now partially gathered in a style that suggested commercial sophistication rather than mysticism.