GoT and House of The Dragon: The Last Valyrian Dragonlord.

Quengor Bot is a Faceless Man.

That alone is enough. From the moment he entered the House of Black and White, his past ceased to matter.

He had just ended the life of a Water Dancer. These flamboyant swordsmen held a certain prestige in Braavos, yet there were always those who wished them dead.

So Quengor Bot killed him with his own blade.

To the world, it appeared as if the Water Dancer had drunkenly stumbled into a canal and impaled himself on his own sword. But in truth, Quengor had offered him to the Many-Faced God.

That night, in his sleep, Quengor heard the call.

He returned to the House of Black and White, seeking wisdom from his mentor—the servant of the Many-Faced God known only as the Coldhearted One.

"A man shall speak freely," said the Coldhearted One.

His decayed face lowered into the shadow of his hood.

"The Faceless Men were born from the slaves of Valyria, just as the ancestors of this city were."

When the Coldhearted One raised his head again, his face had shifted—now he bore the features of a plain-looking Rhoynar.

"The Dragonlords used sorcery to force their slaves to toil beneath the volcanoes for eternity, hollowing out the very heart of the Fourteen Flames. But fire is not a thing to be tamed, and the flames grew wrathful. The Dragonlords used fire magic to resurrect those who perished in the flames, binding them to endless suffering. The slaves yearned for true death. And so, the first Faceless Man was born. The Many-Faced God granted the slaves the gift of release, and our faith and our art flourished beyond the Dragonlords' gaze."

The Coldhearted One rose and began circling Quengor, his voice void of emotion. "That is one version of our history. But history has another side."

He continued, this time in High Valyrian. "Among the Dragonlords were the wise, the mighty pyromancers and blood sorcerers who saw the doom concealed within the Fourteen Flames. And so, they chose to betray their kin."

He turned toward Quengor, and his face changed once more.

Silver hair cascaded over violet eyes.

"A few Dragonlords secretly freed a group of slaves and taught them how to break the chains of fire magic. With the help of these Dragonlords, the freed slaves began granting others the gift of true death."

Now, his face was nothing. A void.

"The Many-Faced God was pleased," the Coldhearted One said, pacing around Quengor in reverence. "So He blessed their secret cause. But the Dragonlords eventually uncovered the truth. With the aid of the betrayers among them, many slaves managed to escape Valyria. They found sanctuary in the swamps and shores beneath our feet."

"Braavos was born from them. And those who wielded the god's gift—alongside the magic taught by the Dragonlords—became the first of the Faceless Men."

Seeing Quengor's confusion, the Coldhearted One stepped before him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"The Dragonlords who aided the Faceless Men have paid their price. Now it is time for the Faceless Men to return the favor."

The void of a face stared into Quengor's eyes.

"The song of earth and river has ended. The song of ice and fire begins. The gods pluck the strings, and men are but notes in their melody. Fate is meant to be set… but a new hand has entered the game, and the music may yet change. Blood and fire. Bronze and silver. Smoke and salt. Even the Faceless Men cannot stand apart."

"A man must go east," Quengor murmured. "But a man cannot promise he will find his mark."

"Fear not." The Coldhearted One plucked a coin from the poisoned pool. "Seek out Orys Serrasmyr, a counselor to the Sealord. He sails for Lys on the morrow."

The Coldhearted One placed the coin in Quengor's palm.

"A man will reach his mark, as the gods will it."

Valarez's fleet had swept across the Summer Sea with brutal efficiency. They had annihilated no fewer than ten pirate fleets.

The pirate king of Lys, Sharakk Lohar, had found his fleet intercepted by Valarez's forces. Twenty-two of his warships were sunk, ten more captured. The once-feared pirate king fled the battlefield in disgrace, crammed into a dinghy like a common deserter.

After their victory over Sharakk's fleet, Valarez's forces turned north and crushed the privateers of the Triarchic League, forcing their commander to hoist the white flag and release the Volantene merchant vessels they had taken captive.

With their mission complete, the fleet suddenly veered east—toward Slaver's Bay. The rumor was that they pursued a Lysene slave convoy, its escort ships already sent to the depths.

Meanwhile, three ships—the Silent Lord, the Weeping Boy, and the Sailfish—broke from the fleet, heading northward.

Their destination was clear.

The Smoking Sea.

The ruins of Valyria.

The Doom had all but erased it from existence. What was once the Valyrian Peninsula had been shattered by cataclysm, smothered in an eternal black fog that blotted out the sun. The Smoking Sea was said to be cursed. Its waters boiled, choked with toxins. The air itself was venom. And the sailors who dared its depths whispered of horrors lurking beneath the waves.

All warnings told them to stay away.

"The legends may be right," said Rhaenzor, holding up an old map drawn by his father. Even from this distance, the air reeked of sulfur, thick with an intoxicating pulse of magic.

His blood had never sung so fiercely.

"Just approaching these waters, I can feel the omen," muttered Zesar the Shadow-Weaver, limping as he gazed at the distant black clouds. Even the sea had turned foul.

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

"This place is drowning in sorcery, my lord," said the red priest Malahar, his eyes alight with zeal. His throat had yet to fully heal, and so he gestured as he spoke. "I can feel the fire's hunger. This must be where the Lord of Light was born."

His hands danced as he raved.

"Listen well," Rhaenzor commanded. "The curse upon these waters is as real as we feared." He pointed to the mapped route. "We lack the magical means to protect the large ships. They will hold at the sea's edge. We take smaller boats for the final approach."

He gestured to Hoffa, who placed a chest on the table. With his golden eyes gleaming, Hoffa unlatched the lid.

Inside, thirty glass vials lay in neat rows, each filled with crimson liquid laced with silver threads.

"My blood, inscribed with my father's runes, will shield us from the curse." Rhaenzor pushed the vials toward his men.

"I need fifteen souls." He looked them in the eye. "Fifteen brothers willing to follow me to the end."