Essos

Trust those you hire; don't hire those you doubt.

Oberyn Martell was now the captain of the mercenary company he had hired. He had also said there was no need to care about his standing in Westeros or Dorne—just treat him as the captain of the Red Viper Mercenary Group. Since that was the case, Yulon stopped being polite and immediately shifted their relationship to employer and mercenary, boss and employee.

In that secluded chamber in Braavos, where the canal's whispers could be heard, the air was heavy and still.

Euron Greyjoy stood with his back to Oberyn Martell, his gaze seeming to pierce the thick stone walls and reach toward the distant East. The enormous map of Essos on the wall looked like a chaotic land awaiting conquest.

He did not turn around, but his voice cut through the silence, clear and cold, each word like an iron nail hammered into wood.

"Captain Martell, we have one month here in Braavos." Euron finally turned, his mismatched eyes gleaming with an inhuman light in the dimness. "Thirty sunrises and sunsets. By then, I want a complete plan I can spread across this table—every route, every supply point, a strategy for dealing with every kind of enemy, and... a detailed list of the personnel you'll need."

His finger jabbed at the map, like a general deploying troops across a war table. It moved from the tangled Free Cities to the scorching shackles of Slaver's Bay, swept across the endless grasslands of the Dothraki Sea, passed over the desolation of the Red Waste, lingered briefly over the shadow of death on the Valyrian Peninsula, then finally pointed toward Qarth's haze of spices and Asshai's darkest legends.

"One month from now, you and your men will come with me. We'll go and measure every inch of this continent's secrets for ourselves." His voice was steady, but his decision left no room for argument. "Linguists, guides, assassins, beast tamers, maesters who can decipher stone inscriptions, even warlocks who can smell magic... Whatever strange specialists you need, recruit them. I'll cover all the expenses, of course."

He took a step forward, closing in on Oberyn. He might not have been as tall, but his imposing presence came crashing down like a tidal wave. "This journey will last two and a half years. Not a day longer, and we can't rush through it carelessly, either." His voice dropped abruptly, heavy with warning. "When winter in Westeros is well and truly over, and the first spring breeze blows across the Neck, I must be back in the Iron Islands. Not a moment's delay. Your commission depends on it!"

These words were no longer a negotiation, but an order. They set a deadline, granted unlimited resources, and imposed an absolute time limit. It would be a grand expedition racing against the clock—a journey where he wanted everything.

Oberyn Martell let out a low chuckle and tilted his head. Amusement and curiosity glimmered in his famous black eyes, like a viper sizing up its prey. "Son of the Drowned God..." He drew out the title, as if savoring its weight. "Quite the grand ambition! What's this—suddenly decided to trust me, the 'Viper' famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms? Aren't you afraid your own guards might send you to the afterlife one night while you're in camp?"

Euron's expression didn't change. Only the light deep within his mismatched eyes shifted slightly. "Trust?" He scoffed, as if he'd heard the most tedious word in the world. "You've been making your way through this continent for two years, Oberyn. You should know its rules better than I do—self-interest lasts far longer than loyalty. And there's no doubt you understand better than most how to use those rules to survive. Besides, my father and your brother have always been close. The Iron Islands and Dorne have no enmity; in fact, we've worked together a great deal. And besides, would the great Red Viper really poison a seven-year-old boy?"

"Because I know that, I want to warn you. If you want to live a little longer, remember this: nothing is impossible. Stay wary of everyone around you."

"I'll keep your advice in mind!"

Oberyn's smile faded a little, and a rare seriousness entered his voice. "Not every place is like Braavos, where gold and information can get you through every door. Farther east... there are things that can't be explained with swords. Ancient magic, whispering cities, creatures lurking in the shadows. Those aren't lands the longships of the Iron Fleet can conquer."

"I know." Yulon's reply was short and decisive, tinged with almost feverish anticipation. "I came here to witness that magic and mystery with my own eyes. Did you think I'd crossed the sea from frozen Pike Island just to enjoy a warm winter?"

"Witness it?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "It might cost you 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 could have predicted."

"That's why I had Mareio find what they say is the best mercenary company, no matter the cost." Yulon leaned forward, his voice dropping lower but growing more oppressive. "If you—or your 'Red Vipers'—don't have the nerve..." He deliberately paused to watch Oberyn's expression, then continued unhurriedly. "No matter. My gold can open the doors of the Golden Company or the Second Sons just as well. I hear their prices are steep, but at least they're fairly reliable about honoring contracts."

The words were like a needle thrown with precision, piercing the heart of Oberyn's pride. The teasing vanished from his face, replaced by a wild, defiant gleam.

"Afraid to die?" he scoffed almost at once, as though he'd suffered a grave insult. "If you Greyjoy aren't afraid to lose your life at the end of the world, then we'll gladly go all the way!" He paused, a flame of adventure that never went out rekindling in his eyes, and spoke frankly. "Honestly, a journey into the unknown like this... it's exactly what I want, too."

"Excellent." Yulon leaned back in his chair, satisfied, as though he'd just completed an ordinary business deal. "Then we leave in a month. In the meantime, I'll take care of some business for the trading company and, while I'm at it..." A smile of ambiguous meaning curled his lips. "Have a little fun in Braavos."

"If your plan doesn't suit us, I'll replace the Red Viper Mercenary Group..."

"Hmph. We'll see about that!"

In Braavos, a city woven from canals and secrets, Euron Greyjoy had a long list of desires. But one name, like a beacon in the dark, remained fixed at the very top—unyielding: the Hall of Black and White.

It was not the grandest building in Braavos. Its unassuming, modest entrance was easy to overlook, like an inconspicuous shadow in the city's fabric. Yet to Euron, it held an appeal more unsettling than the Iron Bank. It was simply because the legendary Faceless Men dwelled there—assassins who had raised death to the level of a sacred art, the most fearsome killers in the world.

Stories about them circulated on every damp street corner and in every tavern dimly lit by lanterns. They were faceless ghosts, servants of the Many-Faced God, able to change their identities at will and imitate anyone's voice and mannerisms. They took lives not out of hatred or greed, but to fulfill a contract that was cold, absolute, and beyond worldly concerns. Their assassinations were silent and traceless, often striking their targets at the most unexpected moment and in the most unexpected way.

A king might die suddenly in a bedchamber guarded on all sides. A governor might drown in a cup of clean water. A mighty knight might pass peacefully in his sleep, as though death were merely a sacrifice he had willingly offered.

This absolute control over life, this terrifying power beyond the rules of the world, fascinated Euron deeply.

He longed to stand before that plain door and feel the soul-freezing chill seeping from within. He longed to glimpse how the Faceless Men operated, to understand the ultimate logic of cost and exchange hidden beneath their religious rites. It was not only a matter of seeking their services; it came from an instinctive curiosity, a powerful man's desire to study a power greater than his own.

To visit Braavos without trying to approach the Hall of Black and White would be, to him, like entering a treasure mountain and leaving empty-handed.