Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Before dawn, Braavos was shrouded in a thick gray fog, and even the sound of the canal water seemed dull.

Their destination was the House of Black and White, a building that was shrouded in taboo and legend even in Braavos.

It doesn't resemble the grandeur expected of a temple; rather, it's more like a massive, ancient, forgotten tomb. The building is low and sturdy, constructed of a dull, dark stone that seems to absorb all the light and sound around it. There are no ornate carvings, no stained glass, only the deep marks left by the erosion of time and a slippery, seemingly eternally present layer of moisture.

It's not so much a plea for divine favor, but rather a silent declaration of a cold, hard fact: all things end here.

A huge door, made of sandalwood and weirwood, was wide open, leading into a deeper darkness that exuded a mixture of old dust, a peculiar incense, and... a faint, unsettlingly sweet, stale smell of decay.

This smell is not like the stench of a corpse, but it evokes the deepest resistance of life.

Euron stepped inside without hesitation, followed closely by Lisa and Dagmore.

The interior was unusually dimly lit, illuminated only by a few small oil lamps scattered in the wall recesses. The flames remained motionless, like frozen tears.

The air suddenly turned cold and stagnant, as if time itself had slowed down. Huge stone pillars supported a towering dome hidden in the darkness, the space vaster than imagined.

The first thing I felt was silence. A heavy, all-consuming silence, where even my own heartbeat and breathing sounded jarring. It was as if countless eyes were staring into the darkness, yet I could hear no sound of any of these onlookers.

Next, the layout. This place doesn't resemble a place of prayer; it's more like an exhibition hall.

Along the walls, deep in the shadows, lay countless statues—not of the Thousand-Faced God himself, but icons of death gods from all corners of the world and of different faiths. There were strange deities wearing hoods and wielding scythes, benevolent old women embracing skulls, and ferocious, roaring beasts… They represented different concepts of death, yet here they coexisted in an eerie harmony, all telling the same story: all mortals must die.

The ground was as smooth as a mirror, its surface composed of intricate spiral patterns made of black and white stone, stretching into the distance to a bottomless pool. Above the pool, a deeper shadow loomed, revealing the vague outline of a colossal stone statue—perhaps the true form of the Thousand-Faced God, though its exact shape remained ambiguous, as if constantly shifting.

Euron sensed the dark energy flow permeating the air, almost solidified, slowly wriggling like a living thing, converging towards the depths of the temple.

Dagmore felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was no obvious threat here, but every corner exuded a deathly aura sharper than swords, making even this old pirate's throat go dry.

Euron stood silently, his heterochromatic eyes slowly sweeping across the bizarre hall. He felt no fear, but rather a chilling excitement coursing through his veins. Here, there were no hypocritical prayers, no empty comforts, only the nakedest, most honest worship and exploitation of death.

Death is not the end, but a power that can be traded and exploited.

A figure emerged from the deepest darkness, appearing silently before Euron. His (or her) appearance was utterly ordinary, clad in a simple grey robe—the kind of face that would vanish instantly into a crowd. Only his (or her) eyes, ancient and serene, like two bottomless wells, reflected no emotion, only a pure indifference to the inevitable end of all things.

"All mortals need to be served." The newcomer spoke, his voice neutral, his tone flat and without inflection, as if stating a truth as ordinary as sunrise and sunset, in Higher Valyrian.

"All men must die," Euron replied with a smile in Higher Valyrian.

The figure asked calmly, "What are you seeking?"

Euron's heterochromatic pupils contracted slightly. The way the other party appeared almost triggered his dual-wielding instincts, but he suppressed them.

Faced with the Faceless Ones' question, Euron cut straight to the point, his voice remarkably clear in the deathly silence: "If I wanted someone to never see tomorrow's sun, and I wished your institution... to provide that service, how would I do it?"

"The Thousand-Faced God accepts sacrifices, but he accepts an equal exchange even more," the Faceless One replied, his gaze sweeping over Euron's opulent attire, yet seemingly ignoring it. "The price isn't always gold. It could be an impossible mission, a rare memory, a part of your body, or something you cherish most. The price must be commensurate with the goal… The life of a beggar is naturally different from the life of a king. State your goal, and we will tell you the price."

"An interesting way to trade." Euron's lips curled into a cold smile. "And what about the reverse? What if someone offered you my name along with gold coins?"

"If the Thousand-Faced God accepts the sacrifice, then the contract is established." The Faceless One's answer was without hesitation, chillingly despairing. "Whether you are in the Iron Islands' castle or in Assassin's shadow, no matter how many guards you have, or how much magic you possess, all mortals must die. We are merely... delivering that gift. Of course," he added, his tone still calm, "you can also pay a higher price to buy back that contract. But that price will far exceed what your enemies paid."

Euron was silent for a moment, feeling the faint presence of the [scapegoat] in his arms, which gave him a sliver of confidence even in the face of absolute death. He asked the last question, the one he most wanted to know: "So, what about myself? Can I learn this... art of delivering gifts?"

For the first time, the Faceless One showed an extremely subtle reaction—not a change in expression, but a slight ripple in the surrounding shadows. For the first time, those deep, well-like eyes truly and carefully examined Euron, as if trying to see through every wrinkle of his soul.

"Many come here seeking to become one of us." There seemed to be a hint of pity in the Faceless One's voice.

"But first, you must relinquish. Relinquish your name, your identity, your desires, all your loves and hates, everything that makes you 'Euron Greyjoy.' You must truly 'become the Nameless,' a completely blank vessel in the hands of the Many-Faced God, waiting to be filled. Can you...do it?" His gaze seemed to pierce through Euron's eyes, staring directly into the burning ambition, greed, and extreme thirst for power within them. "You are not seeking annihilation; you are seeking to control the world in another way. This runs counter to our path."

These words were like ice water, extinguishing any possibility of taking shortcuts.

The Faceless Ones are not an organization to join; they represent a complete act of devotion and self-destruction.

Euron understood: they were not mercenaries, they were fanatics; death was not a business, it was a faith. Their power stemmed from absolute "nothingness," not from the ultimate "being" he sought.