Essos

Use people you trust, don't use people you don't.

Oberyn Martell was now the leader of the sellsword company he'd hired. He himself had said not to mind his identity in Westeros or Dorne, just treat him as the leader of the Red Viper Mercenary Group. Since that was the case, Yulon was no longer polite. His status immediately shifted to that of patron and sellsword, boss and employee.

In a secluded room in Braavos, where the whispers of the canals could be heard, the air was stagnant and heavy.

Yulon Greyjoy stood with his back to Oberyn Martell, his gaze seeming to pierce through the thick stone walls and reach towards the distant East. The enormous map of Essos on the wall was like a chaotic territory waiting to be conquered.

He didn't turn around, but his voice clearly and coldly cut through the silence, each word like an iron nail driven into wood.

"Commander Martell, in Braavos, we have one month." Yulon finally turned around, his mismatched eyes shimmering with an inhuman luster in the dim light. "Thirty sunrises and sunsets. By then, I want to see a complete plan that can be laid out on this table—every route, every supply point, strategies for dealing with every type of enemy, and... a detailed list of the talents you require."

His finger jabbed sharply at the map, like a general deploying troops on a sand table, sliding from the intricate complexity of the Free Cities, into the scorching shackles of Slaver's Bay, sweeping across the endless grasslands of the Dothraki Sea, skimming over the desolation of the Red Waste, briefly pausing in the deathly shadow of the Valyrian peninsula, and finally pointing towards the spice mists of Qarth and the ultimate darkness of Asshai.

"A month from now, you and your men will accompany me. We will personally measure every inch of this continent's secrets." His tone was steady, yet carried an undeniable decisiveness. "Linguists, guides, assassins, beast tamers, scholars who can decipher stone inscriptions, even sorcerers who can sense magic... whatever rare and strange talents you need, go recruit them. All funds will naturally be my responsibility."

He stepped forward, closing in on Oberyn. Though perhaps not as tall, his imposing presence pressed down like a tsunami. "This journey will last two and a half years. Not a day more, and absolutely no cutting corners." His voice suddenly dropped lower, filled with warning. "When the winter in Westeros is completely over, and the first spring breeze blows across the Neck, I must return to the Iron Islands, without any delay. This concerns your commission!"

These words were no longer a discussion, but a decree. They set the timeframe, granted unlimited resources, and imposed an absolute temporal constraint. This would be a grand expedition racing against time—a journey of wanting both.

Oberyn Martell let out a low, husky chuckle. He tilted his head, his famous dark eyes flashing with amusement and probing light, like a viper sizing up its prey. "Son of the Drowned God..." he drew out the words, as if savoring the weight of the title, "What grand ambition! What, have you suddenly decided to trust me, this 'Red Viper' known throughout the Seven Kingdoms? Aren't you afraid that one night while camping, your own guards will send you to the afterlife?"

Yulon's expression remained unchanged, only the luster deep within his mismatched eyes subtly shifted. "Trust?" he scoffed, as if hearing the most tedious word. "You've been mixing in 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, understand how to use the rules to survive better than most. Secondly, my father and your brother have always been close, and the Iron Islands and Dorne have no enmity; on the contrary, there are many collaborations. Besides, would the noble Red Viper poison a seven-year-old child?"

"Precisely because I understand, I want to advise you. If you want to live a little longer, please remember, nothing is impossible. Be wary of everyone around you."

"I will keep your advice in mind!"

Oberyn's smile lessened slightly, and a rare seriousness entered his tone. "Not all places are like Braavos, where you can get by with gold and information. Further east... there are things that cannot be explained by swords. Ancient magic, whispering cities, creatures of shadow. That is not a realm that the Iron Fleet's longships can conquer."

"I know." Yulon's reply was simple and direct, even carrying a hint of almost fanatical anticipation. "I came precisely to witness that magic and mystery with my own eyes. Otherwise, do you think I sailed across the ocean from the frozen Pike Island to enjoy a warm winter here?"

"Witness?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "The price might be your life. Danger is everywhere. We might not die there, but it's more likely that one, or several of us, will disappear forever in a way no one can predict."

"So," Yulon leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, yet becoming more oppressive, "I had Mafeo spare no expense to find what is said to be the best sellsword company. If you, or your 'Red Vipers,' don't have the confidence..." He paused deliberately, observing Oberyn's expression, before slowly continuing, "It's fine. My gold can also knock on the doors of the Golden Company or the Second Sons. I hear that although their prices are high, their contractual spirit is at least somewhat reliable."

This remark, like a precisely thrown needle, struck at the core of Oberyn's pride. The mockery on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a wild, provoked glint.

"Afraid of death?" he scoffed back almost immediately, as if greatly insulted. "If you Greyjoys aren't afraid of losing your lives at the ends of the earth, then we will naturally accompany you to the very end!" He paused, the inextinguishable fire of adventure rekindling in his eyes, and admitted frankly, "Honestly, a journey like this, leading into the unknown... it's exactly what I want."

"Very good." Yulon leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, as if he had just completed an ordinary transaction. "Then, we depart in a month. During this time, I will handle some guild affairs, and also," a smile of unknown meaning curved his lips, "have some fun in Braavos."

"If your plan doesn't suit my taste, I might replace your Red Viper Mercenary Group..."

"Hmph, just you wait!"

In Braavos, a city woven from canals and secrets, Yulon Greyjoy's list of desires was long, but one name, like a dark lighthouse, remained firmly at the top, unshakeable—the Hall of Black and White.

It was not the grandest building in Braavos; its unassuming, low-key entrance was even easily overlooked, like an inconspicuous shadow in the city's fabric. Yet, for Yulon, it exuded a more heart-stopping allure than the Iron Bank. This was because it housed the legendary Faceless Men—the world's most terrifying assassins who had elevated death into a sacred art.

Legends about them circulated in every damp street corner and dimly lit tavern: they were faceless specters, emissaries of the Many-Faced God, capable of changing their identities at will, mimicking anyone's voice and mannerisms. They harvested lives not out of hatred or greed, but in fulfillment of a cold, absolute, transcendent contract. Their assassinations were silent, traceless, often arriving at the moment their targets least expected, in the most unexpected ways.

Kings would die suddenly in heavily guarded chambers, governors might drown in a cup of clean water, powerful knights might pass away peacefully in their sleep, as if death were merely a willing sacrifice.

This absolute control over life, this terrifying power that transcended worldly rules, deeply fascinated Yulon.

He yearned to stand before that simple gate, to feel the soul-chilling cold emanating from within; he yearned to glimpse a sliver of their methods, to understand the ultimate logic of cost and transaction hidden beneath their religious rituals. This was not merely to seek their services, but out of an almost instinctive curiosity and exploration of a stronger power by a strong individual.

To come to Braavos and not attempt to approach the Hall of Black and White would be like returning empty-handed from a treasure mountain.