Chapter 1: Awakening, 270 AC

Chapter 1: Awakening, 270 AC

The transition from the sterile oblivion of non-existence to the chilling dampness of a Braavosi dawn was as jarring as it was unwelcome. One moment, there was nothing—a silent, dreamless void. The next, a cacophony of sensations assaulted him: the rough-hewn stone cold against his bare back, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoing across still waters, the briny scent of the sea mingling with the cloying sweetness of the black pool that dominated the sanctum.

He was lying on the floor. No, not he. Elias Stone was a ghost, a phantom of a world that was now nothing more than a collection of fading memories. The body he inhabited was that of a boy, no older than fourteen, slender but with the coiled strength of a viper, a physique honed by years of relentless, brutal training. This boy had a name once, but it had been stripped from him, flayed away layer by layer until only the hollow mantra of "no one" remained.

How amusing, a voice that was and was not his own echoed in the chambers of his mind. It was Elias's consciousness, a predator in a new, perfectly crafted skin. All that effort to become a blank slate, only for me to move in and redecorate. I should thank them for the impeccable vessel.

He sat up, the motion fluid, a testament to the boy's ingrained muscle memory. His eyes, a slate grey that mirrored the Braavosi sky, took in his surroundings. He was in the heart of the House of Black and White, the holiest of holies for the Faceless Men. The air was thick with the scent of a thousand different prayers, of desperation and release. Towering above him were the visages of countless gods of death, gathered from every corner of the known world. At the center of it all, the poisoned pool lay placid, its dark waters promising an end to suffering.

For a moment, Elias allowed the boy's memories to surface, a torrent of pain, discipline, and the stripping away of self. He saw a life of hardship, of being a nameless orphan on the unforgiving streets of Braavos, of being taken in by the "kindly man," a figure whose gentleness was but a mask for the unyielding steel beneath. He felt the sting of the waif's cane, the gnawing hunger of forced fasts, the psychological torment of the game of faces. This boy had endured it all, had been forged in a crucible of agony to become the ultimate weapon.

And now, all that this boy was, all that he had learned, belonged to Elias.

A slow smile, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, touched his lips. In his past life, Elias Stone had been a man of appetites, a creature of refined tastes and monstrous desires. He had been a connoisseur of power, a student of history, and a psychopath. He had devoured books on military strategy, political intrigue, and human psychology with the same fervor a gourmand would a feast. And his favorite delicacy, the one he savored above all others, was the intricate, bloody tapestry of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire.

He had been obsessed with it, not for the heroism or the tragedy, but for the raw, unadulterated display of power. He had seen himself in the likes of Tywin Lannister and Littlefinger, but he had always considered them…limited. Tywin, for all his brilliance, was bound by his legacy. Littlefinger, for all his cunning, was a slave to his unrequited love.

Elias had no such constraints.

And now, he was here, in a world he knew as intimately as the back of his hand, armed with knowledge that could topple dynasties. The year was 270 AC. Aerys II Targaryen, not yet the Mad King, sat the Iron Throne, his reign still in its promising infancy. The great game was afoot, the pieces moving across the board in a dance he had memorized. Robert's Rebellion was a spark waiting to be ignited, the Starks were still a happy, complete family in the North, and Daenerys Targaryen was not even a thought.

He was a Faceless Man. He could be anyone, go anywhere. He could whisper in the ears of kings, guide the hands of assassins, and watch empires burn from the shadows. The possibilities were intoxicating.

But there was more.

He felt a…hum. A low thrum of energy deep within him, a power that had not been there in the boy's memories. It was a foreign sensation, yet it felt as natural to him as breathing. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, and it was then that he understood. It was a gift, a boon from whatever cosmic entity had seen fit to grant him this second, more interesting, life.

With each life he took, he would absorb it all. Not just their face, their voice, their mannerisms – the mundane tricks of the Faceless Men. No, this was something far more profound. He would take their vitality, their remaining lifespan stacking onto his own. He would take their skills, their memories, their very essence. Their strength, their speed, their stamina, their reflexes…even their magic, should they possess any. A cumulative, unending growth.

The smile on his face widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The world was not just his oyster; it was his smorgasbord.

His internal musings were interrupted by the soft shuffling of feet. A figure emerged from the shadows, robed in the black and white of a priest of the Many-Faced God. It was the kindly man, his face a bland mask of gentle concern.

"You are awake," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "The gift has been given. The final test is passed."

Elias rose to his feet, his movements a perfect imitation of the boy's respectful deference. He bowed his head. "I am no one."

The kindly man's eyes, which seemed to hold an ancient wisdom, studied him for a long moment. "No one has a task. A gift to give."

So soon? Elias thought, a flicker of amusement dancing in his mind. Excellent. A chance to test this new…acquisition system.

"A merchant of Pentos has forgotten a debt," the kindly man continued, his tone unwavering. "He has grown fat on the coin of others and believes himself beyond the reach of the gods. You will remind him of his mortality. His name is Vorro Tagaros."

Elias listened, the boy's training kicking in, his mind already dissecting the information, formulating a plan. Vorro Tagaros. He didn't recognize the name from his vast repository of lore, which meant he was a minor player, a nobody. Perfect for a first course.

"He is well-guarded," the kindly man added. "He travels with a dozen sellswords. But he has a weakness. A fondness for the sweet wines of the Arbor."

Predictable, Elias scoffed internally. Men of his station always have such…pedestrian vices.

"I will serve," Elias said, his voice a hollow echo of the boy's.

The kindly man nodded, a flicker of something that might have been approval in his eyes. "Go. The face you will need is prepared. And remember the first lesson: Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris," Elias replied, the High Valyrian words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

He turned and walked towards the chamber of faces, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and cruel intentions. The boy's training had been about erasing the self, about becoming a vessel for the will of the Many-Faced God. But for Elias, it was the ultimate tool for self-gratification. He would serve, yes, but he would serve his own ambitions.

The chamber of faces was as unsettling as he had imagined it. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cured human faces hung from the walls like macabre tapestries. Each one was a life, a story, now reduced to a disguise. A priest handed him a small, clay vial containing a bitter-smelling liquid and a face—that of a nondescript Pentoshi serving boy, with a mop of unruly black hair and a scattering of freckles.

Elias drank the potion, the taste acrid on his tongue. He felt a strange tingling sensation spread across his skin. Then, as per the ritual he had seen in the boy's memories, he took a small, sharp blade and made a shallow cut across his cheek. The blood welled up, and he pressed the new face to his own.

The sensation was…indescribable. It was not like putting on a mask. It was a melding, a fusion. He felt the boy's features reshape themselves, his bone structure subtly shifting. He looked at his reflection in a polished shield and saw a stranger staring back at him. It was a perfect disguise, but he knew that beneath it, his own predatory consciousness was coiled, waiting.

He was given a set of simple clothes and a small purse of Pentoshi coin. Within the hour, he was on a cog bound for the Free City of Pentos, the salty spray of the sea a refreshing change from the stale air of the House of Black and White.

As the shores of Braavos receded, Elias leaned against the railing, his new face a mask of youthful innocence. But behind the facade, his mind was alight with a cold, calculating fire.

Vorro Tagaros, he thought, a cruel smile playing on his lips. You have the honor of being the first. The first stone in the foundation of my empire. And I will savor every moment of your…contribution.

He thought of the power he would soon possess, the lives he would consume, the legends he would become. He was a god in the making, a creature of boundless potential in a world ripe for the conquering. The Game of Thrones was about to get a new player, one who didn't just want to sit on the Iron Throne.

He wanted to own the world. And he had all the time in the world to take it. After all, with every life he took, his own clock was reset, his own mortality pushed further and further into the mists of eternity. He was, in every sense of the word, immortal. And with that immortality came a terrifying, beautiful freedom.

The ship cut through the waves, carrying him towards his destiny, a destiny he would write in blood and shadow. The world of Ice and Fire had a new monster, and his name was Elias Stone. And he was very, very hungry.