The Many-Faced God

After the Faceless Man had pronounced that Euron's nature was fundamentally at odds with their path, the silence in the hall seemed to gain weight, pressing down until it was hard to breathe. Yet the strange fire in Euron Greyjoy's eyes did not die out. It burned all the more fiercely, deep and dark.

Euron Greyjoy did not retreat after being seen through. Instead, he took half a step forward, his voice low, carrying an almost challenging curiosity.

"Since neither buying your services nor embracing your faith is an easy road," he said slowly, his gaze fixed intently on the messenger of death before him, "is there another possibility? Could one earn the friendship of the Many-Faced God or his servants? Or could a mortal somehow ensure that he would never appear on your 'delivery list'? Is there really no third path beyond cold transactions and the total annihilation of the self?"

His question went beyond simple fear or hiring an assassin. It touched on the possibility of forming some kind of special bond with this absolute force of death. He was not begging for mercy, but making a far more audacious attempt to probe for a vague and dangerous third position, beyond the two opposing roles of "employer" and "target."

The Faceless Man who had spoken earlier remained silent. His eyes were as still as an ancient well, without the slightest ripple, as if the question itself were meaningless.

Just then, the shadows on the other side silently slid apart like curtains.

Another Faceless Man stepped out. He wore a hooded robe, black on the right half and white on the left, and seemed shrouded in a more ancient and more unsettling silence. When he came to stand before the three of them, Lysa and Daggmo stared wide-eyed. Beneath the hood, his face was a yellow skull draped in skin, with a white maggot crawling out of one eye socket.

Euron remained calm. The Grey King's bloodline had granted him the ability to see through illusions with his black left eye. He could see the priest's true appearance.

The man did not look at Euron. He walked straight to the deep pool and used a bone-white bowl to scoop up a little of its black water. Then he turned to Euron and held out the bowl, his movements slow and ritualistic. "Drink." His voice was dry, like tombstones grinding together. He spoke in the Common Tongue of Westeros.

The Kind Man was a priest who served the Many-Faced God at the Hall of Black and White, and the only person there who spoke the Common Tongue of Westeros. The signs all pointed to him being in charge of the Hall of Black and White—or, at least, its highest-ranking member.

Euron's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. He hesitated for only a moment before taking the bowl and drinking down the water, cold enough to freeze him to the bone, with its indescribable bitterness and faint metallic tang. As it went down his throat, it felt like a line of ice dropping straight into his stomach. Then a strange clarity swept over him.

Euron slowly closed his eyes and drained the murky liquid, its unknown aura clinging to it. Its icy touch slid down his throat, but instantly kindled a strange heat within him. The world around him rapidly faded and collapsed, and his consciousness was yanked into an endless, suffocating dark ocean.

Once more, he felt the bone-deep cold. Seawater pressed against his chest like an icy giant's hand, his lungs burning with pain—the despair of drowning in the waters of Huang Zhengdao. Then that cold sensation was replaced by a strange "resurrection," as if an unseen force had dragged him back from eternal stillness. Briny seawater burst from his mouth and nose, while the Ironborn's muffled cheers for the Drowned God's rite echoed in his ears.

It was upon that blurred boundary between life and death that an ancient, tempting whisper sounded directly in the depths of his soul, as if it came from the abyss itself:

"Death... is the gentlest of gifts..."

"Death... is the only end to all the suffering in this world..."

"Death... is the eternal door through which mortals may find release..."

The voice was ethereal and otherworldly, yet it had the power to pierce his heart. "Are you... afraid of death? Are you afraid... of embracing this eternal peace at last?"

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into the lure of eternal sleep, a pride and defiance born from the oldest part of his bloodline erupted in the depths of his subconscious! It was not a thought, but the most instinctive, most furious roar against fate!

"All men must die!" His will was a rock of unyielding strength, smashing through the beguiling whisper. "But my time to die is not today! This world would keep turning along its course without me—but because I exist, it will become more... extraordinary than ever before!"

"BOOM—"

As if in answer to his defiant declaration, the Grey King's bloodline, dormant deep within him, erupted into a boil! His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat pumping out a torrent of scorching blood infused with ancient power. Tiny but distinct crackles burst through the air around him. Thin arcs of lightning, like little blue snakes, appeared from nowhere and coiled around him, leaping and flashing. A sea breeze rose from nowhere, whipping his hair and robes, carrying the scent of ozone and the roar of the ocean.

Euron's eyes snapped open.

His right eye remained cold, but his left had become a pure, bottomless black, as if it opened onto the abyss of an endless night. It no longer reflected any light. Instead, it seemed poised to swallow everything around him, light and sound included.

Then the Faceless Man, the Kind Man, slowly raised his hand.

A rough, ancient, heavy Iron Coin had appeared in his palm. It had no fine engravings: one side bore a vague impression of a human skull, while the other showed something like an ape's skull. It radiated an overwhelmingly ancient, pure stillness of death.

The Faceless Man placed the Iron Coin in Euron's hand. It felt icy to the touch, yet seemed to burn his skin. "This is not a promise, nor is it protection. It is a... mark."

For the first time, he raised his eyes and looked directly at Euron. In the depths of those utterly empty eyes, Euron seemed to see countless twisted faces flash by before vanishing into oblivion.

"All men must die. You are no exception."

The Faceless Man's voice remained steady, but now carried an unprecedented, almost prophetic weight. "But your death... its form, its timing, its meaning, has long been watched by eyes above our own. You are not a piece on fate's board. You are the restless heart at the center of the storm. Countless threads of fate twist, snap, and are rewoven because of you. Take it, and remember the taste of this water. When the true 'price' arrives, when there is no other way... perhaps you will find a way to come here again."

Having said what he had come to say, the Faceless Man left without expression, as if he had never appeared. His words were cryptic and profound. He had not promised friendship, but he had clearly indicated that Euron was under the notice of some higher power—"a god."

Someone watched over by the Many-Faced God would not be targeted for assassination by a Faceless Man serving the Many-Faced God.

Euron carefully put away the Iron Coin. It meant that he would not appear on the Faceless Men's assassination list—an unexpected gain. No one wanted to be watched day in and day out by master assassins, and the Faceless Men were the finest assassins on the two continents.