Kungur Porter was a Faceless Man.
That was all that mattered.
The moment he entered the House of Black and White for training, his past identity ceased to exist.
He had just ended the life of a water dancer.
Those elegant fencers held respectable status in Braavos.
But someone always wanted them dead.
So Kungur Porter killed the water dancer with the man’s own sword.
He offered the death to the Many-Faced God.
To the outside world, the man had simply drunk too much, stumbled into a canal, and fallen on his own blade.
That night, the Faceless Man heard the summons in his sleep.
He returned to the House of Black and White and sought answers from his teacher, the acolyte of the Many-Faced God known only as the Cold Man.
“One shall answer all you ask.”
The Cold Man lowered his head, hiding his decayed face beneath the hood.
“The Faceless Men were born among the slaves of the Valyrian Freehold, just as the ancestors of the city beneath our feet.”
When the Cold Man raised his head again, the face under the hood was an unremarkable Rhoynish face.
“The dragonlords used magic to drive slaves to labor beneath the volcanoes for all eternity.
They nearly hollowed out the Fourteen Flames.
This enraged the fire, for beneath the peaks lay the source of all flame.
The dragonlords used fire magic to resurrect slaves who died in the flames, again and again.
The pain was unbearable.
The slaves begged for the gift of death.
And so the first Faceless Man was born.
The Many-Faced God brought true death to the suffering slaves.
Our faith and our craft took root beyond the dragonlords’ sight.”
The Cold Man rose and circled Kungur slowly.
His voice held no emotion.
“That is our history.
But that history has another angle.” He switched to High Valyrian.
“Among the dragonlords, there were wise ones.
Powerful pyromancers and bloodmages sensed the danger hidden within the Fourteen Flames.
They chose to betray their own kind.”
The hooded man turned to face Kungur.
This time, he wore the face of a Valyrian.
Silver hair fell across violet eyes.
“Several dragonlords secretly freed a group of slaves and taught them how to break the fire magic.
Those slaves began delivering true death to others, working in concert with the dragonlords.”
The face beneath the hood became nothing.
A void. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“The Many-Faced God was pleased.” The Cold Man walked reverent circles around Kungur.
“He granted his own gifts.
He helped those slaves advance their secret purpose.
But the dragonlords would eventually discover the deception.
So with the aid of those few dragonlords, many slaves escaped Valyria.
They came at last to the marshes and mudflats beneath our feet.”
“Braavos was founded.
And those who possessed the god’s gifts and the magic taught by the dragonlords established the order of the Faceless Men.”
Kungur’s face showed confusion.
The Cold Man stepped before him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“The dragonlords who once aided the Faceless Men paid their price.
Now the Faceless Men must return the gift.” The Cold Man fixed his void of a face on Kungur’s eyes.
“The song of earth and river has ended.
The song of ice and fire is about to begin.
The gods pluck the strings, and mortals are the notes.
All was meant to be fixed.
But a new musician has entered the score.
Blood and fire, copper and silver, smoke and salt.
Even the Faceless Men cannot stand apart.”
“One shall travel east,” Kungur murmured.
“But one cannot promise to find the target.”
“Do not worry.” The Cold Man lifted a coin from a pool of lethal poison.
“Seek Oris Silasmir, advisor to the Sealord.
He sails for Lys tomorrow.”
The Cold Man spoke.
“One shall reach the target, as the god wills.”
The Valezeth fleet was winning its war.
They had destroyed no fewer than ten pirate fleets across the Summer Sea.
They intercepted the fleet of the Lysene Pirate King, Commander Shalakh Loha.
Twenty-two of Shalakh’s warships were sunk.
Ten were captured.
The Pirate King himself fled the battle in a single skiff, humiliated.
After shattering Shalakh’s fleet, the Valezeth fleet sailed north and crushed a privateer squadron from the Triarchy.
They forced the enemy commander to raise the white flag and release every Volantene merchant ship he had seized.
Then the Valezeth fleet turned sharply east, toward Slaver’s Bay.
That was when the Silent Lord, the Weeping Boy, and the Marlin broke away from the main force and sailed north.
Their destination was simple.
The Smoking Sea.
The ruins of Valyria.
The Doom had destroyed nearly everything.
The Valyrian peninsula had been blasted to fragments.
Smoke thick enough to blot out the sun rose endlessly from the sea.
Sailors said the waters of the Smoking Sea were poison, boiling and fuming with toxic vapor.
Any ship that entered never returned.
In the depths, the old stories said, terrible sea monsters lurked.
Every warning told sailors to stay far from this cursed water.
“The legends have truth in them.” Lancel held up his father’s map, his face grim.
Even this far from the Smoking Sea, he could smell the sulfur in the air and the thick, intoxicating scent of magic.
His blood had never felt so alive.
“Just approaching these waters, I can taste the ill omen.” Zethar Shadowweaver limped toward the distant black smoke.
The sea itself was turning a foul, murky color.
They had gathered aboard the Silent Lord to plan the next stage.
“This place is saturated with magic, my lord.” The red priest Malach was nearly trembling with excitement.
His throat had not fully healed.
He had to use his hands to make himself clear.
“I can feel the fire’s joy.
This may be where the Lord of Light was born.”
The red priest’s hands danced as he spoke.
“Everyone listen.” Lancel signaled for quiet.
“This sea is cursed, just as we expected.” He pointed to the route drawn on the map.
“We don’t have enough magical materials to protect the large ships.
They can only approach the edge of the Smoking Sea.
From there, we take small boats to our destination.”
Lancel gestured to Hoffer.
The golden-eyed boy brought a chest forward and set it on the table with precise care.
Inside, thirty glass tubes lay in neat rows.
Each was filled with a red liquid threaded with silver.
“My blood, combined with my father’s runes, can resist the curse’s corruption.” Lancel pushed the tubes toward the gathered men.
“I need fifteen people,” Lancel said.
“Fifteen brothers who will ride through life and death with me.”