Doubt not whom you use; use not whom you doubt.
Oberyn Martell was now the mercenary commander he had hired. Oberyn himself had said to disregard his status in Westeros or Dorne and treat him only as the leader of the Red Viper Mercenary Company. Since that was the case, Euron dispensed with politeness, immediately adjusting their relationship to that of patron and mercenary, boss and employee.
In a secluded secret room in Braavos where the whispers of the canal could be heard, the air was stagnant and heavy.
Euron Greyjoy stood with his back to Oberyn Martell, his gaze seemingly piercing the thick stone wall toward the distant East. The massive map of Essos on the wall looked like a chaotic territory waiting to be conquered.
He didn't turn around, but his voice cut through the silence clearly and coldly; every word was like an iron nail driven into wood.
"Commander Martell, we have one month in Braavos." Euron finally turned, his mismatched pupils flickering with inhuman luster in the dim light. "Thirty sunrises and sunsets. By then, I want to see a perfect plan laid out on this table—every route step, every supply point, strategies for every type of enemy, and... a detailed list of the talent you require."
His finger stabbed at the map like a general deploying troops on a sandbox, sliding from the complexities of the Free Cities to the scorching shackles of Slaver's Bay, sweeping across the endless grass sea of the Dothraki, passing over the dead silence of the Red Waste, pausing briefly on the death shadow of the Valyrian Peninsula, and finally pointing to the spice mists of Qarth and the dark legends of Asshai.
"One month later, you and your men will accompany me. We will personally measure every inch of secrecy on this continent." His speech was steady but carried unquestionable decisiveness. "Linguists, guides, assassins, beast tamers, maesters who can read stone inscriptions, even wizards who can smell magic... Recruit whatever strange talent you need. All funds, naturally, are my responsibility."
He took a step forward, closing in on Oberyn. Though lacking in height, his imposing aura pressed down like a tsunami. "This journey will last two and a half years. Not a day more, and absolutely no perfunctory rushing." His voice suddenly dropped lower, filled with warning. "When the winter in Westeros thoroughly ends and the first spring breeze blows past the Neck, I must be back in the Iron Islands without a shred of delay. This concerns your commission!"
This speech was no longer a discussion, but a decree. It set the time, granted unlimited resources, and also placed an absolute temporal shackle. It would be a grand expedition racing against time—a journey demanding everything.
Oberyn Martell let out a low, husky chuckle. He tilted his head, his famous black eyes flashing with amusement and probing light, like a viper scrutinizing prey before it. "'Son of the Drowned God'..." He dragged out the tone, as if savoring the weight of the title. "What great boldness! So, you suddenly decided to trust me, a 'viper' famous across the Seven Kingdoms? Aren't you afraid that one night at camp, you'll be sent to the afterlife by your own guard?"
Euron's expression showed no fluctuation; only the light deep in his mismatched eyes shifted slightly. "Trust?" He sneered, as if hearing the most boring word. "You've been messing around on this continent for two years, Oberyn. You should know the rules here better than I do—interests last far longer than loyalty. And you undoubtedly know how to use rules to survive better than most. Secondly, my father and your brother have always been close; there's no enmity between the Iron Islands and Dorne, only much cooperation. Besides, would the dignified Red Viper lay a vicious hand on a seven-year-old child?"
"Precisely because I know, I want to advise you. If you want to live a little longer, please remember: nothing is impossible. Maintain vigilance against everyone around you."
"I will etch your advice in my heart!"
Oberyn's smile restrained a little, a rare seriousness entering his tone. "Not all places are like Braavos, where gold coins and intelligence open all paths. Further east... there exist things that cannot be explained by swords. Ancient magic, whispering cities, creatures in the shadows. That is not a domain the Iron Fleet's longships can conquer."
"I know." Euron's answer was simple and crisp, carrying a hint of near-fanatical anticipation. "I came precisely to witness that magic and mystery with my own eyes. Otherwise, did you think I crossed the ocean from frozen Pyke to enjoy a warm winter here?"
"Witness?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "The cost might be your life. Danger is everywhere. We won't necessarily die there, but it's more likely that one or several of us will disappear forever in ways no one expects."
"That is why," Euron leaned forward, voice lower but more oppressive, "I had Malyo spare no cost to hire what is supposedly the best mercenary company. If you, or your 'Red Vipers,' lack this confidence..." He paused deliberately, observing the other's expression, before continuing leisurely, "No matter. My gold can just as easily open the doors of the Golden Company or the Second Sons. I hear that although their prices are high, at least their spirit of contract is reliable."
These words were like a precisely thrown needle, piercing the core of Oberyn's pride. The playfulness on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a wild, provoked light.
"Afraid of death?" He scoffed back almost immediately, as if greatly insulted. "If you Greyjoy aren't afraid of losing your life at the end of the world, we will certainly accompany you to the end!" He paused, the unquenchable fire of adventure reigniting in his eyes, admitting frankly, "Honestly, such a journey into the unknown... is exactly what I want too."
"Very good." Euron leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, as if he had just completed an ordinary transaction. "Then, we depart in a month. In the meantime, I will handle some Chamber of Commerce affairs, and by the way," the corner of his mouth curled into an ambiguous smile, "have some fun in Braavos."
"If your plan isn't to my liking, I will replace your Red Viper Mercenary Company..."
"Hmph, just wait and see!"
In Braavos, a city woven of canals and secrets, Euron Greyjoy's wish list was long, but one name stood at the top like a dark lighthouse, unshakable—The House of Black and White.
It wasn't Braavos' most magnificent building; its unassuming, low-key lintel was even easily overlooked, like an inconspicuous shadow in the city's texture. However, for Euron, it radiated an attraction more heart-palpitating than the Iron Bank. Simply because it housed the legendary Faceless Men—the world's most terrifying assassins who elevated death to a sacred art.
Legends about them circulated on every damp street corner and in dimly lit taverns: they were ghosts without faces, messengers of the Many-Faced God, able to change identities at will, mimicking anyone's voice and mannerisms. They harvested lives not out of hatred or greed, but to fulfill a cold, absolute, transcendent contract. Their assassinations were silent and traceless, often descending at the target's most unexpected moment, in the most unexpected way.
Kings might die suddenly in heavily guarded chambers; magisters might drown in a glass of pure water; mighty knights might pass away peacefully in their sleep, as if death were a willing sacrifice.
This absolute control over life, this terrifying power beyond secular rules, fascinated Euron deeply.
He longed to stand before those plain doors, feeling the soul-freezing chill seeping from within; he longed to glimpse a trace of their operation, to understand the ultimate logic of cost and trade hidden under religious rituals. This was not just to seek their services, but out of a near-instinctive curiosity and inquiry of the strong toward a stronger power.
To go to Braavos without attempting to approach the House of Black and White would be, for him, like entering a treasure mountain and returning empty-handed.