King's Landing
The news arrived with a Volantine merchant, one of those traders who transported exotic silks and even more exotic rumors across the Narrow Sea. Lord Varys, the Spider, Master of Whisperers to King Robert Baratheon, received his informant in a discreet chamber within the Red Keep, away from prying eyes and ears.
"Repeat it," ordered Varys, his voice soft as velvet, while sliding a coin between his pudgy fingers. "Every detail matters."
The informant, a man of thin build and nervous eyes, took a sip of wine to clear his throat.
"I saw it with my own eyes, my lord. A foreigner of western features, but with powers that no maegi or red priest has ever shown. He died stabbed in the market of Volantis, in front of dozens of witnesses. And three days later he emerged from the temple, alive and whole."
"Rumors of resurrections abound in port taverns," commented Varys with skeptical tone, though his eyes revealed genuine interest.
"These are not rumors, my lord," insisted the informant. "I witnessed it myself. The foreigner, Ethel they call him, summoned fire with his bare hands. Not like the pyromancers' tricks with wildfire... this was different. The fire obeyed him as if it were an extension of his will."
Varys remained motionless, processing the information with meticulous attention.
"And you say he presented himself before a crowd?"
"Thousands, my lord. The plaza in front of the Red Temple was so packed that not even a coin would have found space to fall to the ground. Volantine nobles kneeling before him... something never seen before."
"What exactly did he say?" inquired Varys, leaning slightly forward.
"He spoke of being a 'seeker of truth.' He denied being a god, but neither did he deny having divine powers," the informant leaned in, lowering his voice. "The High Priestess Kinvara presented him as 'The Reborn,' 'The Heart of Fire'... titles that sound like fulfilled prophecies."
When the informant finally departed, taking with him a small pouch of gold coins and leaving behind a tale that defied all logic, Varys remained seated in silence. His "little birds" in Essos had already transmitted fragments of this story to him, but hearing direct testimony confirmed his worst fears.
The last time the faith of the Lord of Light had gained such sudden fervor, entire dynasties had fallen.
Grand Maester Pycelle adjusted his heavy chains while observing the Small Council gather in the Council Chamber of the Red Keep. Robert Baratheon was conspicuously absent, as was usual in matters he considered tedious. In his place, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, presided over the meeting with a grave expression.
"Maester Pycelle, what does the Citadel tell us about these rumors from Volantis?" asked Lord Arryn, his tired eyes scanning the table.
Pycelle cleared his throat with deliberate slowness.
"The Citadel has received reports, my Lord Hand, but the archmaesters consider them greatly exaggerated," he explained, stroking his beard with theatrical gesture. "The exotic cults of the east often fabricate miracles to impress ignorant masses. The Order considers it simply another manifestation of collective religious hysteria."
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, sketched a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"However, collective religious hysteria can have very tangible effects on trade," he intervened with measured voice. "Three important merchants from Pentos have canceled their routes to Volantis to redirect them toward the Holy City, as they now call it. The price of red dyes has tripled in the Free Cities. Even in our own docks, sailors from Essos speak of this... Reborn... as if he were the Lord of Light himself walking among mortals."
Lord Stannis Baratheon, exceptionally present as Master of Ships, clenched his teeth with audible force.
"Blasphemies," he muttered. "The Seven are the only true gods."
Lord Renly, the younger brother, couldn't contain a brief laugh.
"I didn't know you had become so devout, brother," he commented lightly. "But we must consider the political implications. If this cult gains enough strength, it could alter the balance of power in Essos... which would inevitably affect us."
Varys, who had remained silent until then, interlaced his hands over his belly.
"My little birds sing that there are already devotees of the Lord of Light gathering in the poor quarters of King's Landing," he informed. "Sailors, mainly, but also some artisans and minor merchants. They speak of visions in the flames and of a reborn champion."
Jon Arryn frowned, the deep wrinkles of his face accentuating.
"Do you consider this a threat to the peace of the realm, Lord Varys?"
The Spider inclined his head slightly.
"All fervent faith is both a threat and an opportunity, Lord Hand. For the moment, it is a tiny seed. But in the right soil, with the correct water..."
He left the sentence unfinished, allowing silence to complete his thought.
"We must inform the king," decided Jon Arryn, rising heavily. "And increase surveillance over these... devotees. We will not allow foreign cults to disturb the peace of the realm."
As the Council dispersed, Lord Baelish approached Varys discreetly, his steps silent as a cat's.
"A man who returns from death," he murmured. "Don't you find it fascinating, Lord Varys? What value would such an ability have for someone in a position of power?"
Varys sketched an enigmatic smile.
"It depends entirely, Lord Baelish, on whether one believes that death can be truly defeated... or simply postponed."
Winterfell
Eddard Stark was not a man given to paying attention to southern rumors. The concerns of the North were more tangible: the harvests before the imminent winter, wildling raids beyond the Wall, the justice and honor he owed to the houses under his protection.
However, the letter he held in his hands, sent by Jon Arryn from King's Landing, could not be so easily ignored.
"Bad news, my lord?" asked Catelyn Stark, observing her husband's somber expression as they shared breakfast in their private chambers.
Ned folded the letter slowly before responding.
"Strange news, rather," he said with measured voice. "Jon writes about a fire cult gaining power in Essos. A man who apparently returned from death and controls flames with thoughts."
Catelyn frowned, concern drawing itself across her face.
"Why would the Hand of the King consider it important to inform you about foreign superstitions?"
"Because Jon was never a superstitious man," responded Ned, looking toward the window where early snowflakes began to fall. "If he considers this serious enough to write to me, then it deserves attention."
Catelyn observed her husband, recognizing the worry behind his stoic facade.
"What does Maester Luwin say about this?"
"I haven't consulted him yet. The letter arrived this morning."
Ned rose, approaching the window. For an instant, he remembered the ancient stories that Old Nan used to tell: tales of the Long Night, of the Others, of magic and fire and ice. Stories that the northmen had never entirely forgotten, unlike their southern compatriots.
"The Starks have watched over the North for eight thousand years," he said finally. "We have survived winters that lasted a generation, invasions, rebellions. If this threat is real, we will be prepared as we always have been."
Catelyn approached her husband, placing a hand on his arm.
"The old gods protect us," she murmured. "And the new ones too."
Ned covered his wife's hand with his own.
"I will pray in the godswood this afternoon," he decided. "Meanwhile, I will write to Benjen at the Wall. The brothers of the Night's Watch trade with the free cities. Perhaps they have heard something."
The mention of his brother brought thoughts of Jon Snow, and with them the familiar weight of the promise he had kept all these years. A secret much closer and more dangerous than any fire cult in distant lands.
"If they knew," thought Ned, "if Robert knew..."
The snow fell harder now, and in the distance, a wolf howled alone. Winter was coming, as his family had always warned. And with it, Ned Stark sensed, would come storms that none of them could foresee.
Pentos
The mansion of Illyrio Mopatis gleamed under the setting sun, its perfumed gardens offering a refuge of serenity in the midst of an increasingly agitated city. But that serenity had not penetrated the private chamber where the magister maintained a heated discussion with his distinguished guest.
"Exile for half a life, and now this!" roared Viserys Targaryen, pacing like a caged beast. "An impostor who calls himself 'Reborn' attracting attention that rightfully belongs to the last dragon!"
Illyrio observed the young exiled prince with patience cultivated over decades of intrigue. Beneath the surface of his affable face and courteous manners, his mind quickly calculated how these new developments might affect long-gestated plans.
"Perhaps we should consider this an opportunity, my prince," he suggested with honeyed voice. "Religious fervor is a powerful tool when properly channeled."
Viserys stopped, his lilac eyes shining with barely contained fury.
"An opportunity? While that charlatan receives worship and I live off your charity? I should be gathering armies to reclaim the Iron Throne!"
Illyrio poured spiced wine into two crystal cups, offering one to the prince with a conciliatory gesture.
"And you will gather them, Your Grace. But consider: the followers of the Lord of Light are numerous and fervent. If you could gain their support..."
"Are you suggesting I kneel before a charlatan?" spat Viserys, though he accepted the cup of wine. "That a dragon should bow its head before a false prophet?"
"I suggest diplomacy," corrected Illyrio gently. "Religious power and political power have been natural allies since civilization exists. Besides, let us not forget that your own house has affinity with fire."
A gleam of interest appeared in the Targaryen's eyes.
"'Fire and Blood,'" he recited, his house's motto savored like an exquisite delicacy. "The Targaryens are the blood of the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon."
Illyrio smiled, detecting the direction the prince's thoughts were taking.
"Precisely, my lord. And this Ethel, according to reports, controls fire. An ability that resonates with your house's legacy."
Viserys drank a long draught, ambition reconfiguring his expression.
"If this impostor can control fire..." he murmured. "Then it's obvious he has stolen some ancestral secret of my family. The Targaryens are the only ones with true affinity for fire."
The magister nodded with measured enthusiasm, feeding the new narrative.
"A fascinating perspective, my prince. And one that could be leveraged to your benefit. Imagine if you reclaimed not only your rightful throne, but also the truth about this supposed miracle."
Viserys's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Yes... it could work," he murmured, more to himself than to Illyrio. "The last dragon revealing an impostor who has usurped the secrets of House Targaryen..." He looked up, suddenly decided. "We must send emissaries to Volantis. I need to know everything about this Ethel. His abilities, his origins, his weaknesses."
Illyrio inclined his head in agreement, while his mind carefully weighed how these new plans might affect the marriage pact between Daenerys and Khal Drogo. A delicate balance, certainly, but the magister had not reached his current position without knowing how to adapt to changing circumstances.
"It shall be done as you wish, my prince," he responded. "Meanwhile, your sister should be informed of these developments."
Viserys made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Dany doesn't need to worry about these matters. Her only duty is to secure me a Dothraki army." A new idea seemed to illuminate his face. "Although perhaps... if this false messiah can impress so many in the Free Cities, maybe his fame has reached even the savage Dothraki. It could be useful to use his name for our purposes."
Illyrio observed how the exiled prince's mind transformed the perceived threat into an opportunity for his ambition. "So predictable," he thought, maintaining his affable expression. "And so malleable."
In another part of the mansion, oblivious to the conversation but not to the agitation shaking the city, Daenerys Targaryen watched the sunset from her balcony. She had heard the servants speak in whispers about a man of fire in Volantis, a resurrected one they called "Heart of Fire."
Her fingers absently caressed the petrified dragon egg that Illyrio had given her, feeling an inexplicable warmth emanating from its surface that others assured was cold as stone.
"Fire and Blood," she thought, remembering her brother's constant recitations about their legacy. For the first time in a long while, the words seemed to resonate with something deep within her, something that had remained dormant until now.
Beyond the Narrow Sea
In the Free City of Braavos, in a discreet corner of the temple known as the House of Black and White, a faceless man received instructions from one of the principal priests.
"This name has been whispered in the ear of the God of Many Faces," said the priest, his voice as neutral as his expression. "The man known as Ethel, who calls himself the Reborn."
The assassin showed no reaction whatsoever.
"Who pays the price?"
"The price has been paid in full," responded the priest. "By someone who fears this man will disturb ancient balances."
No more words were exchanged. In the House of Black and White, death was a sacrament, not a subject for discussion.