Faceless Men

Braavos was wrapped in thick gray mist before dawn, and the sound of water in the canals seemed muffled.

Their destination was the Hall of Black and White, a building steeped in taboos and legends even in Braavos.

It did not have the grandeur one expected of a temple. It looked more like a vast, ancient, forgotten tomb. The squat, sturdy building was made of dull, dark stone that seemed to absorb all the light and sound around it. There were no ornate carvings, no stained-glass windows, only deep marks left by the ravages of time and a layer of slick dampness that seemed eternal.

It looked less like a place where one prayed for divine favor and more like a silent proclamation of a cold fact: all things ended here.

A massive door, made of ebony and weirwood fitted together, stood open. Beyond it lay an even deeper darkness, carrying a scent of old dust, a particular kind of incense, and... the faintest trace of a sickly-sweet odor of decay.

It was not the smell of a corpse, but it stirred an even deeper revulsion in the heart of the living.

Euron strode inside without hesitation, with Lysa and Daggmo close behind.

Inside, the light was unnaturally dim, coming only from a few small oil lamps set in niches in the walls. Their flames stood perfectly still, like tears frozen in place.

The air turned abruptly cold and still, as if time itself had slowed its pace here. Massive stone pillars supported a towering ceiling that vanished into darkness, and the space was unimaginably vast.

The first thing they noticed was the silence. A heavy silence that swallowed everything, making even the sound of their own hearts beating and their breathing seem jarringly loud. It was as if countless eyes watched from the darkness, yet not a sound betrayed their presence.

Next came the layout. This was less a place of prayer than a gallery.

Along the walls, deep in the shadows, stood countless statues—not of the Many-Faced God himself, but of death gods from every corner of the world, worshipped by different faiths. There were unfamiliar gods in hooded robes, wielding scythes; a kindly-faced Crone cradling a skull; snarling, bestial figures... They represented different visions of death, yet coexisted here in eerie harmony, all proclaiming the same fate: all mortals had one death.

The floor was smooth as a mirror, laid with black and white stone in an intricate spiral pattern that stretched all the way to a deep, bottomless pool in the distance. A denser shadow hung over the pool, where the faint outline of a massive stone idol could be seen. Perhaps it was the Many-Faced God himself, but his exact form was unclear, as if it were constantly changing.

Euron felt the dark energy saturating the air, almost tangible, moving sluggishly like a living thing as it gathered toward the depths of the temple.

Daggmo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was no obvious threat here, yet every corner radiated an aura of death sharper than any blade, drying even the old pirate's throat.

Euron stood quietly, his mismatched eyes slowly sweeping across the uncanny temple. He felt no fear. Instead, a cold excitement coursed through his veins. Here were no false prayers or empty comforts, only the starkest, most honest worship and use of death.

Death was not an end, but a power that could be traded for and put to use.

A figure separated itself from the darkness in the deepest part of the temple and appeared before Euron without a sound. The figure's features were utterly ordinary, and it wore a plain gray robe. It had the sort of face that vanished from notice the moment it blended into a crowd. Only its eyes stood out—ancient and calm, like two bottomless wells. They reflected no emotion, only pure indifference to the ultimate fate of all things.

"All mortals must serve," the newcomer said in a flat, androgynous voice without a hint of inflection, as if stating a truth as ordinary as sunrise and sunset. The words were spoken in High Valyrian.

"All Men Must Die," Euron replied with a smile in High Valyrian.

The figure asked mildly, "What do you seek?"

Euron's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. The way the stranger had appeared had nearly triggered his Two-Sword Style instinct, but he suppressed it.

Faced with the Faceless One's question, Euron got straight to the point. His voice rang unusually clear in the deathly silence. "If I wanted someone to never see the sun rise again, and wished your house to... provide this service, how would I go about it?"

"The Many-Faced God accepts sacrifices, but he also accepts an equal exchange," the Faceless One replied. Its gaze passed over Euron's fine clothes, yet seemed not to see them. "The price is not always gold. It may be a difficult mission, a rare memory, a part of your body, or the thing you cherish most. The price must be... commensurate with the target. The life of a beggar and the life of a king naturally have different values. Name your target, and we will tell you the price."

"An interesting way of doing business." A cold curve touched Euron's lips. "Then what about the reverse? What if someone offered you my name along with gold?"

"If the Many-Faced God accepts the sacrifice, then the contract is made," the Faceless One answered without hesitation, its words cold enough to inspire despair. "Whether you are in a castle on the Iron Islands or beneath the shadows of Asshai, no matter how many guards you have or how much magic you command. All mortals have one death. We merely... deliver the gift. Of course," it added, its tone still flat, "you may pay a greater price to buy back that contract. But the price will far exceed the sum your enemy paid."

Euron fell silent for a moment, feeling the faint presence of the Stand-in Scarecrow against his chest. It gave him a measure of confidence even in the face of this absolute pronouncement of death. He asked the last question, and the one he most wanted answered. "What about me? Can I learn this art of... delivering gifts?"

For the first time, the Faceless One showed the faintest reaction. It was not a change of expression; rather, the shadows around it seemed to ripple. Those well-like eyes studied Euron closely for the first time, as if trying to discern every crease in his soul.

"Many people come here, seeking to become one of us," the Faceless One said, its voice seeming to carry a barely perceptible note of something like pity.

"But first, you must give things up. Your name, your identity, your desires, all your loves and hatreds, everything that makes you 'Euron Greyjoy.' You must truly become a Nameless One, a completely blank vessel in the hands of the Many-Faced God, waiting only to be filled. Can you do it?" Its gaze seemed to pierce Euron's eyes, looking straight at the ambition, greed, and desperate hunger for power burning within him. "You do not seek oblivion. You seek to control the world by another means. That is the opposite of our path."

Those words were like ice water, dousing any hope of finding a shortcut.

The Faceless Men were not an organization one could simply join. They were a form of total devotion and self-destruction.

Euron understood. They were not mercenaries, but zealots; death was not a business, but a faith. Their power came from absolute "nothingness," not from the ultimate "everything" he sought.