Braavos, House of Black and White.
Dawn had not yet fully pierced the sea mist. The salty, damp air carried a bone-deep chill, seeping into the ancient temple that stood at the meeting of the canals. Inside, by the pool of poisoned water, a circle of figures stood in silent prayer.
They were servants of the Many-Faced God, performing their morning devotions. When the prayers ended, the servants moved to a carved wooden table where breakfast awaited. Chef Umma had already set the food neatly in place.
At the breakfast gathering sat two priests: the Kindly Man and the Waif, along with several acolytes and more than a dozen Faceless Men. They took their seats without greeting or eye contact. Only the clinking of cutlery and the quiet sound of chewing filled the hall. The air around the table was solemn and still.
Then a voice broke the silence.
"The girl granted the Gift of Death without permission. She has received her due punishment."
The speaker was the Kindly Man. He sat at the head of the table, his face hidden in the hood's shadow. He spoke as he chewed his bread, his movements unbroken.
The Faceless Man called "Stern Face" dabbed his mouth with a napkin before replying, "As it should be. We have no right to decide life or death. We merely deliver the Gift with mercy, as the Many-Faced God wills."
Another Faceless Man, "the Handsome Man," set down his wooden spoon.
"I heard she killed someone from Westeros, across the Narrow Sea?"
The answer came from the priestess known as "the Waif." She looked no older than ten, but she was thirty-six. Her skin was pale from years without sunlight, her cheeks hollow, making her jet-black eyes seem impossibly large, like bottomless bowls. Her robe, half black and half white, hung loose over her small frame, leaving only her thin, fragile face visible.
"A man of the Night's Watch," she said. "Several brothers have recently landed in Braavos. Some linger by the docks, searching for ships bound for Oldtown."
The Faceless Man called "Fat Fellow" chewed as he spoke indistinctly.
"That little girl's iron coin came from him. And just three days ago, someone of high rank in Westeros received a gift from the Many-Faced God…"
At his words, every servant in the stone hall paused. Their eyes flicked toward the Fat Fellow, then quickly away. They all understood who he meant—and what that "gift" implied.
The Kindly Man's tone remained steady.
"He will follow the will of the Many-Faced God and travel to the Citadel in Oldtown to find what the God requires."
After a moment's silence, the Kindly Man spoke again.
"Yesterday, another Magister from Pentos brought the same offering."
The Handsome Man smiled faintly.
"The Many-Faced God will surely favor such generosity. Tell me, to whom does this Magister wish the Gift bestowed?"
The Kindly Man was quiet for a moment.
"A conqueror from the East."
His calm voice broke the silence. In that instant, all movement at the table froze. Knives and forks hung midair, bread halted at lips, a cup of tea remained suspended.
The Handsome Man's smile vanished, his gaze sharp beneath the hood. Even Stern Face seemed to stiffen.
"If it's that man from the East," the Handsome Man said quietly, "one won't be enough."
The Kindly Man turned toward him.
"The Magister gave us two."
Stern Face spoke.
"Truly generous. The Many-Faced God will praise such devotion."
Three. They now held three of those coins.
The Waif's voice rose again.
"But that man will not be easy to reach. The Gift must be placed in the chosen hands. Such is the will of the God, and we must obey."
Her dark eyes drifted slowly around the table, her meaning clear. The price had been paid, the command given. Someone had to carry out the task.
A heavy silence fell once more. Time stretched within it, each second dragging on like an eternity.
"I'll go."
A voice shattered the suffocating silence.
It came from the Faceless Man known as Starved Man. He had already devoured everything on the table, even carefully licking the crumbs from his lips. His voice was hoarse, but his tone carried firm resolve.
He raised his head. "I will devoutly deliver this gift."
The Kindly Man nodded slowly. "There's no need to rush, but make sure nothing goes wrong."
Starved Man nodded solemnly. "I understand."
The meeting ended. Servants rose from their seats and left the stone table to tend to their duties.
Starved Man and the Handsome Man moved together through the countless tunnels and secret paths beneath the temple.
"I've heard that the Easterner is guarded by an immortal legion," the Handsome Man said, his deep voice echoing in the tunnel. "They need no rest, know no fear, and he has dragons. The sky itself belongs to him. If you're going to act, you'd better be careful."
Starved Man's steps never faltered. "I'll scout their defenses first. There's only one chance. The gods' gift must be delivered."
A fork appeared in the tunnel ahead. The Handsome Man stopped and studied Starved Man's profile. His face was calm—too calm. Yet in his companion's eyes, he caught a fleeting shadow of darkness.
A thought crossed the Handsome Man's mind. The reward that the Magister of Pentos had paid the temple might fall far short of the true cost of this offering.
...
Pentos, the mansion of Magister Illyrio.
Sunlight blazed across the gardens of the Magister's estate overlooking the Narrow Sea. A warm sea breeze swept through the air, carrying the scent of salt and flowers. The azure water sparkled in the light, and seagulls cried as they skimmed over the waves.
Yet Magister Illyrio and the blue-haired man walking beside him along the marble colonnade seemed out of place amid the brilliance. Their faces were clouded with gloom.
Illyrio still wore his splendid yellow silk robe, but the shrewd smile that usually played on his lips was gone, replaced by deep worry and restless indecision.
The blue-haired man beside him was tense and dissatisfied. He was Jon Connington—the man who had once served as Hand of the King to Aerys II.
During the War of the Usurper, after Robert Baratheon was defeated by Randyll Tarly at the Battle of Ashford, he fled to Stoney Sept in the Riverlands. Jon Connington led the royal host to surround the town, locking down every road and searching house by house to capture Robert.
But Stoney Sept was a nest of rebels. The townsfolk hid Robert, moving him swiftly from place to place, making fools of the royal soldiers.
The hunt was still ongoing when Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully arrived with the rebel army. The bells of every sept in town began to ring.
The rebels broke through the defenses, and fierce street fighting erupted. In the end, Jon Connington was utterly defeated. King Aerys II stripped him of all titles and exiled him from the realm.
Believing the Targaryen line destroyed, Jon sank into despair, expecting to waste the rest of his life in foreign lands drowned in drink and regret.
Then Illyrio and "the Spider" Varys found him. They brought with them a secret that reignited the last spark of his soul.
Prince Rhaegar's son, Aegon Targaryen—the infant thought to have been smashed against the walls of the Red Keep by the Mountain, Gregor Clegane—was still alive.
...
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