The Kindly Man

Kungul Porter was a Faceless Man.

That information was enough. The moment he entered the House of Black and White for training, his former identity no longer mattered.

He had just ended the life of a water dancer. These flamboyant swordsmen enjoyed respectable status in Braavos, but there would always be someone who wanted them dead.

So Kungul Porter had killed the water dancer with his own sword.

After offering the water dancer—who, to outsiders, had merely drunk too much, fallen into a ditch, and been impaled by his own blade—to the Many-Faced God.

The Faceless Man heard a summons in his dreams.

So he returned to the House of Black and White and sought answers from his mentor, the acolyte of the Many-Faced God known as the Kindly Man.

"Someone shall tell all that he knows."

The Kindly Man lowered his head, hiding his decayed face beneath his hood.

"The Faceless Men originated among the slaves of the Valyrian Freehold, just as the ancestors of the city beneath someone's feet did."

When the Kindly Man raised his head again, the face beneath the hood was that of an utterly ordinary Rhoynar man.

"The Dragonlords used magic to drive slaves to labor beneath the volcanoes for eternity. They nearly hollowed out the Fourteen Fires, and this enraged the flames, for beneath those fiery peaks lay the source of fire. The Dragonlords used fire magic to repeatedly resurrect slaves who died in the flames. Their suffering was unbearable, so they longed for the gift of death. Thus, the first Faceless Man was born. The many-faced god of death brought true death to suffering slaves. Someone's faith and someone's craft emerged beyond the Dragonlords' sight."

The Kindly Man rose and slowly circled Kungul, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is our history, but there is another perspective to it." He continued slowly in High Valyrian. "There were wise men among the Dragonlords as well. Powerful pyromancers and blood mages discovered the danger hidden within the Fourteen Fires, and so they chose to betray their own kind."

The hooded man turned toward Kungul. This time, he wore the face of a Valyrian.

Silver hair hung before violet eyes.

"Several Dragonlords secretly freed a group of slaves and taught them how to break fire magic. With the Dragonlords' cooperation, these slaves began bringing true death to others."

This time, beneath the hood was nothingness.

"The Many-Faced God was pleased to see this." The Kindly Man devoutly circled Kungul again and again. "So He bestowed His gift as well, helping these slaves advance their secret plan. But the Dragonlords would eventually discover their schemes. With the aid of those Dragonlords, many slaves successfully escaped Valyria. In the end, they reached the marshes and lands beneath someone's feet."

"Braavos was thus founded, and those who possessed the gods' gifts and the magic taught by the Dragonlords established the organization of the Faceless Men."

Seeing Kungul's baffled expression, the Kindly Man stepped before him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"The Dragonlords who once helped the Faceless Men have paid their price. Now it is time for the Faceless Men to return the gift." The Kindly Man stared into Kungul's eyes with a face of nothingness.

"The song of earth and rivers has ended. The song of ice and fire is about to begin. The gods pluck at the strings, using mortals as notes. Everything should have been settled, but the musician who changes the melody has entered the game. Blood and fire, bronze and silver, smoke and salt—even the Faceless Men cannot remain untouched."

"Someone will go east," Kungul murmured. "But someone cannot guarantee he will find the target."

"Do not worry." The Kindly Man fished a coin from the pool of poison. "Find Orys Selaesmir, an adviser to the Sealord. He will sail for Lys tomorrow."

The Kindly Man spoke.

"Someone shall eventually reach the target, as the gods will."

Valaerys's fleet had been doing very well in battle. They had destroyed no fewer than ten pirate fleets in the Summer Sea. The pirate fleet commanded by Sharako Lohar, the pirate king of Lys, was intercepted by Valaerys's fleet. Twenty-two of Sharako's warships were sunk, ten were captured, and the bedraggled pirate king fled the battlefield in a small boat.

After defeating Sharako's fleet, Valaerys's fleet sailed north and once again defeated the privateer fleet of the Three-City Alliance, forcing its commander to raise the white flag and release the Valantis merchant ships they had captured.

After accomplishing all this, Valaerys's fleet suddenly turned east, sailing toward Slaver's Bay. It seemed to be pursuing a Lysene slave convoy whose escorting warships had just been sunk.

It was also at this time that the Silent Lord, the Crying Boy, and the Swordfish broke away from the main fleet and sailed north.

Their destination was simple.

The Smoking Sea.

The ruins of Valyria.

The Doom had nearly destroyed everything. The once-great Valyrian Peninsula had been blasted into fragments by the catastrophe, and thick smoke that could blot out the sun rose from it day after day. They said the waters of the Smoking Sea were poisonous, its boiling waves giving off toxic fumes that ensured any ship entering would never return. In sailors' tales, terrible sea monsters dwelled in the depths of the Smoking Sea.

Everything warned sailors not to approach this cursed sea.

"Legends have their reasons." Lonzell solemnly held up the map drawn by his father. Though they were still some distance from the Smoking Sea, he could already smell the sulfur in the air, along with an intoxicatingly rich scent of magic.

Never had he felt his blood as lively as it was today.

"Merely approaching these waters, I can smell misfortune." Zesal the Shadow Weaver limped as he looked toward the black smoke rising in the distance. The sea itself had faintly turned a murky color.

They gathered aboard the Silent Lord to discuss their next move.

"This place is saturated with magic, my lord," the red priest Malach said excitedly. His throat had not fully recovered, and he could only rely on hand gestures to make himself understood. "I can feel the flames' excitement. This is probably where the Lord of Light was born."

The red priest gesticulated wildly.

"Listen, everyone." Lonzell signaled for silence. "These waters are filled with curses, just as we expected." He pointed to the route marked on the map. "We do not have enough magical materials to protect the larger ships. They can approach only the edge of the Smoking Sea. Then we will take small boats to our destination."

Lonzell signaled for Hofa to bring over a box. Golden-eyed Hofa meticulously placed it on the table.

Thirty glass tubes were neatly arranged inside, each filled with red liquid threaded with silver.

"My blood, combined with my father's runes, can effectively resist the erosion of curses." Lonzell pushed the tubes of blood toward the others.

"I need fifteen men," Lonzell said. "Fifteen brothers willing to live and die with me."