Chapter 163: The Mystery of the Faceless Men
Rhaegar picked up the House Rookston seal and examined it carefully.
The seal was made of bronze and black iron, unadorned with gold or jewels, representing the tenacity of the First Men's bloodline. House Rookston was established through intermarriage between Andal nobles and descendants of the First Men. Rhaegar had heard that the crown once owned by House Stark was similar, cast from bronze and engraved with runes of the First Men, with nine longsword-shaped black iron spikes standing upright. The core of the seal was a crisscrossing golden chain, with a blurred rune in the center of the chain, representing House Rookston. There was also an ancient inscription: "Wisdom like a ring."
However, the audacious Jon Rookston, that scoundrel—though he had distinguished himself during the Dance of the Dragons—was ultimately cut into several pieces. This man had no wisdom, merely the courage of a fool, a reckless charging general.
"My Fat Friend, you are truly thoughtful!" Rhaegar said in thanks. The iron seal of House Rookston might be worthless in the hands of others, but in Rhaegar's hands, it was as heavy as a mountain and incredibly precious. Magical traces could not be compared to gold and jewels. Rhaegar could sense it—faint fluctuations of magic. It seemed that traces of ancient runes still lingered within the Rookston family's seal.
House Rookston had long since been swallowed by the river of history, like dust. They were merely minor lords, long forgotten. If their bloodline had not declined so drastically, their ancestral sword, Orphan-Maker, would never have fallen into the hands of House Peake without anyone left to contest it. He had not expected to encounter a relic of House Rookston here in distant Pentos.
"My young friend, I am glad you like it. Power in this world is not only authority; the power of gold is equally important. Although Pentos lies across the sea, it still possesses many items from the Seven Kingdoms, such as your fine wines and works of art. That is because Pentoshi people not only love gold, but also culture. We enjoy songs and art—like the Lyseni and the Braavosi, we cherish singers and reward them generously. You know, some collectors in Pentos are especially fond of ancient relics. Statues of the Seven Gods can fetch excellent prices here," said Magister Illyrio Mopatis, clearly proud. This was the art of gift-giving. Crude men like the Dothraki khals only cared for gold, jewels, and women—but Prince Rhaegar, a dragonrider from a refined civilization, naturally had more discerning tastes.
"Let's have a drink," Rhaegar said, putting away the seal. The Unsullied eunuchs immediately went to give orders to the cellar and kitchen.
The two drank together in the luxurious reception hall. Due to Illyrio Mopatis's corpulent figure, he preferred large, cushioned sofas. Even the chair legs had been specially reinforced.
"Forgive me, my young friend. When I was young, I was a sea captain—swift, handsome, and daring. But after climbing the ladder of power in this city, I have become bloated and heavy, like a well-fed pig. Every midnight, when I awaken from dreams, I feel like weeping," Illyrio said.
"Fat or thin does not affect your power, Magister Illyrio. Power does not change with one's body. Power is power—it can make even a small man shine like a giant."
"My young friend, I truly enjoy hearing such words from you, though I know they are only comfort. I can only serve as a magister in a Free City like Pentos. I cannot venture into Westeros or the Dothraki Sea. You Westerosi, like the Dothraki, value martial prowess above all—knights, famous swords, the clash of steel. You admire handsome warriors and despise weakness or ugliness. Your world harbors deep prejudice against the fat, the ugly, merchants, and the disabled."
Illyrio's insight remained sharp. Indeed, Westeros and the Dothraki Sea were among the regions most obsessed with strength and appearance, far more than other lands.
Servants soon arrived with an extravagant feast.
Crab and flat-shark soup, honey-roasted capon, grilled steak, roasted crab, fried sea fish, red wine foie gras, buttered radishes, and roasted squab filled the table. Alongside it, Illyrio presented a famous vintage—Arbor gold, from the cellars of House Redwyne.
"This wine is exceptional—an old vintage from Lord Redwyne's family," Illyrio said, pouring a full cup.
Wine intoxicates not the body, but the heart. Power, too, is forged over cups of wine and shared interests.
For instance, both Rhaegar and Illyrio harbored hostility toward the Dothraki and the Braavosi.
"My young friend, friendship must be equal—we help one another," Illyrio began.
"My Fat Friend, I appreciate your honesty. I need anything related to magic or ancient history—books, crowns, talismans, famous swords, or sigils. Wealthy, cultured Pentos must hide many such secrets. And also anything related to dragons—dragon eggs, Blackfyre, and even the Blackfyre bloodline," Rhaegar said calmly.
"Magic and runes are exceedingly rare. Even when they exist, they are usually fragments—mysterious and difficult to understand. Many are fraudulent works. You must be cautious. As for dragons… now that dragons have returned, any remaining eggs will become priceless. No one will reveal them easily. Information about House Blackfyre is the same—too valuable, too dangerous. No one wishes to offend a Targaryen dragonrider. Such knowledge is buried deep, like dust in the earth. But I will do my best to help you," Illyrio said, biting into a piece of squab.
"Very well. Then what can I do for you?" Rhaegar asked.
"A friendship. When the Sealord of Braavos or a Dothraki khal grows mad, we will need the support of the Dragon King," Illyrio replied seriously.
"You worry too much. The Sealord is elected—they prefer extortion, not war. As for the Dothraki… they are unpredictable barbarians," Rhaegar said dismissively.
"Better safe than sorry. We already face two threats—the Sealord of Braavos and the Dothraki khals. Compared to them, the support of House Targaryen is far more reliable."
"No need for treaties. I will help when it matters. You have my friendship," Rhaegar said after a moment's thought.
"To our friendship!" Illyrio raised his goblet.
"To House Targaryen—and to our alliance," Rhaegar replied.
After a pause, Rhaegar spoke again.
"Perhaps this is presumptuous, but I wish to ask about a death."
"Whose?"
"Lysandro Rogare, First Magister for Life of Lys."
Illyrio's expression stiffened.
"My young friend… do you truly need to ask?"
"The great Lysandro drowned while returning from the Perfumed Garden aboard a pleasure barge. His brother—who had married into the royal family of Dorne—choked to death while eating bacon. These were all… accidents."
"But I have heard otherwise. People say the Faceless Men were responsible. Surely Pentos knows more than Westeros about them?" Rhaegar's gaze sharpened.
Illyrio hesitated.
"My young friend… even hearing that name brings fear. The Faceless Men are indeed terrifying. Lysandro's death was likely connected to them—but we cannot be certain. He had too many enemies. Was it the Iron Bank of Braavos? Other Lysene magisters? Or even the Sealord himself?"
He continued, voice low:
"Lysandro's power spanned two continents. He was First Magister for Life, a tyrant in Lys. His brother married into Dorne. His daughter wed a prince of the Iron Throne. He was unimaginably wealthy. But when a man shines too brightly, hatred follows. The Lyseni despised him. The Iron Bank feared his influence. Even Westeros distrusted the Lyseni. In truth, he had too many enemies. A sudden death… may have been inevitable."
"How much do you know about the Faceless Men?" Rhaegar asked.
"More than you think. Common folk treat them as myth—but merchants deal in truth and profit. We Pentoshi have fought the Braavosi many times and suffered defeat. We had no choice but to study them, including the Faceless Men. Though Braavos never deployed them against us, the fear they inspired left behind a wealth of information."
"The greatest limitation of the Faceless Men is cost," Illyrio said firmly. "To assassinate a common merchant, their price could hire an entire army of sellswords. To kill a king or magister? The cost would be unimaginable. They must be a small, elite order. Their high prices reduce risk and prevent losses. And they are based in Braavos—protected by something… perhaps a hidden sanctuary."
Rhaegar nodded. The number of Faceless Men likely did not exceed a dozen. Training such assassins would be extraordinarily costly, explaining their exorbitant fees. They did not kill the poor—only the wealthy. Their blades harvested kings and magnates.
More importantly, Rhaegar suspected they possessed some form of rune or magic most effective within Braavos, weakening outside it.
"So," Rhaegar asked calmly, "how much would it cost to have the Faceless Men assassinate me?"
Magister Illyrio Mopatis froze in silence.
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