Game of Thrones Pirate King Chapter 42: Faceless Men

Braavos before dawn was wrapped in heavy grey mist, muting even the sound of the canals.

Their destination was a building filled with taboo and legend even in Braavos—The House of Black and White.

It did not have the grandeur expected of a temple; it looked more like a massive, ancient, forgotten mausoleum. The structure was low and stout, built of a lusterless dark stone that seed to absorb all surrounding light and sound. No ornate carvings, no colored glass, only deep traces of erosion by ti and a layer of slick, seemingly eternal dampness.

It didn't seem to be praying for divine grace, but silently proclaiming a cold fact: The end of all things returns here.

A massive double door, made of inlaid ebony and weirwood, stood open. Inside was deeper darkness, emitting a scent mixing old dust, peculiar incense, and... a faint, sickly sweet sll of decay that was unsettling.

This sll wasn't like rotting corpses, but it evoked a deeper rejection from life itself.

Euron stepped in without hesitation, Lysa and Dagr following closely.

The light inside was exceptionally dim, illuminated only by a few scattered oil lamps in wall niches. The flas were motionless, like frozen tears.

The air suddenly beca cold and stagnant, as if ti slowed its pace here. Massive stone pillars supported a towering do hidden in darkness; the space was unimaginably vast.

The first thing felt was silence. An all-consuming, heavy silence where even one's heartbeat and breath seed jarringly loud. It felt as if countless eyes were staring from the dark, yet no sound of observers could be heard.

Next was the layout. It looked less like a place of prayer and more like a gallery.

Along the walls, deep in the shadows, stood countless statues—not of the Many-Faced God Itself, but icons of death gods from every corner of the world and different faiths. There was a strange god in a hood holding a scythe, an old woman with a kind face holding a skull, fierce beast forms roaring... They represented different concepts of death, yet coexisted here in eerie harmony, collectively telling the sa ending: All n must die.

The floor was smooth as a mirror, a complex spiral pattern of black and white stone extending to a bottomless pool in the distance. The pool was shrouded in deeper shadow, vaguely revealing the silhouette of a massive stone idol—perhaps the body of the Many-Faced God, but its form was ambiguous, seeming to change at any mont.

Euron felt dark energy flows in the air, almost condensed into substance, writhing slowly like living things, converging toward the depths of the temple.

Dagr felt the hairs on his neck stand up. There was no obvious threat, yet every corner radiated a death aura sharper than swords, making even this old pirate's throat dry.

Euron stood quietly, his mismatched pupils slowly sweeping this grotesque hall. He felt no fear; instead, a cold excitent flowed in his veins. Here, there were no hypocritical prayers, no hollow comforts, only the nakedest, most honest worship and utilization of death.

Death was not the end, but a power that could be traded and used.

A figure separated from the deepest darkness, appearing soundlessly before Euron. His (or her) appearance was extrely ordinary, wearing a plain grey robe—the kind of face that vanished instantly once rged into a crowd. Only those eyes—ancient, calm, like two bottomless old wells—reflected no emotion, only pure indifference to the end of all things.

"Valar Dohaeris (All n must serve)." The newcor spoke in High Valyrian. The voice was neutral, flat, without inflection, stating a truth as common as sunrise and sunset.

"Valar Morghulis (All n must die)." Euron responded with a smile in High Valyrian.

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

Euron's mismatched pupils contracted slightly. The way the other appeared almost triggered his [Nitoryu] instinct, but he suppressed it.

Facing the Faceless Man's question, Euron cut straight to the point, his voice exceptionally clear in the dead silence: "If I want soone not to see tomorrow's sun, and hope your House... provides this service. How is it done?"

"The Many-Faced God accepts sacrifice, but accepts equivalent exchange even more," the Faceless Man answered, gaze sweeping over Euron's expensive clothes but seeming to look right through them. "The price is not always gold coins. It could be an impossible mission, a precious mory, a part of your body, or what you cherish most. The price must be... comnsurate with the target. A beggar's life and a king's life naturally have different values. Na your target, and we will tell you the price."

"An interesting way to trade." Euron's lips curled into a cold arc. "Then, conversely? If soone offers my na and gold to you?"

"If the Many-Faced God accepts the sacrifice, the contract is established." The Faceless Man's answer held no hesitation, cold enough to bring despair. "Whether you are in a castle in the Iron Islands or under the shadow of Asshai, no matter how many guards you have or how much magic you wield. All n must die; we rely... deliver the gift. Of course," he added, tone still flat, "you can pay a higher price to buy back the contract. But that price will far exceed what your enemy paid."

Euron was silent for a mont, feeling the faint presence of the [Scapegoat Straw Doll] in his tunic. This gave him a shred of confidence facing this declaration of absolute death. He asked the last question, the one he wanted to know most: "Then, what about myself? Can I learn this... art of delivering gifts?"

For the first ti, the Faceless Man showed an extrely subtle reaction. It wasn't a change in expression, but the surrounding shadows seed to ripple. Those old-well eyes truly and carefully scrutinized Euron for the first ti, as if seeing every fold of his soul clearly.

"Many co here seeking to beco one of us." There seed to be an imperceptible trace of sothing near pity in the Faceless Man's voice.

"But first, you must discard. Discard your na, your identity, your desires, all your loves and hates, everything that makes you 'Euron Greyjoy.' You must truly 'beco no one,' beco an absolutely blank vessel in the hands of the Many-Faced God, waiting to be filled. Can you... do that?" His gaze seed to pierce Euron's eyes, looking straight at the burning ambition, greed, and extre thirst for power within. "You do not seek oblivion; you seek to control the world in another way. This runs counter to our path."

These words were like ice water, extinguishing any possibility of a shortcut.

The Faceless n were not an organization one could simply join; it was total devotion and self-destruction.

Euron understood. They were not rcenaries; they were fanatics. Death was not a business; it was a faith. Their power stemd from absolute "Nothingness," not the ultimate "Possession" he pursued.

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