Chapter 3: Assets and Idols, 270 AC

Chapter 3: Assets and Idols, 270 AC

The return journey to Braavos was a study in profound, internal alchemy. On the outside, Elias maintained the unassuming facade of Naelo, a quiet boy returning from a brief, unremarkable stint of service. He performed his meager duties aboard the swaying trade galley, a ghost in plain sight, his face a placid mask that betrayed nothing of the maelstrom within. But behind the canvas of those slate-grey eyes, a new universe was taking shape, forged from the consumed lives of a warrior and a merchant.

His mind had become a palace of stolen memories, and he spent every waking hour exploring its newly constructed wings. In one moment, he could walk the dusty streets of Lys through the brutish, cynical eyes of Silas Marr, feeling the phantom weight of a sword on his hip and the ingrained, visceral understanding of a hundred different ways to kill a man. His body, the boy's lithe frame, hummed with a new, deeper strength. Late at night, in the cramped, shadowed confines of the ship's hold, he would move through the katas and training forms of a sellsword, not as a student learning, but as a master remembering. The motions were fluid, perfect, imbued with a brutal efficiency that the boy's Faceless Man training, for all its lethal grace, lacked. It was the difference between an assassin's scalpel and a soldier's axe; he was now master of both.

In the next moment, his consciousness would shift, and he would be seated in a plush chair in Pentos, the scent of spiced wine in his nostrils, his mind a labyrinth of numbers and trade routes. He ran complex calculations in his head, balancing ledgers for fleets he had never seen, speculating on the rise and fall of commodity prices, and mapping the intricate dance of debt and credit that formed the true bedrock of the Free Cities. Vorro Tagaros's mind was a treasure trove, a masterclass in the art of wealth accumulation. The magister, for all his physical sloth, possessed a sharp, rapacious intellect for commerce, and Elias now wielded it with a cold precision Vorro himself had never managed, unburdened as he was by the man's paranoia and distracting vices.

It's not just an addition, Elias mused, staring out at the endless grey expanse of the sea. His internal monologue was no longer just a voice; it was a senate, with his own consciousness presiding as absolute dictator. It is a synthesis. Marr's predatory instincts sharpen Vorro's business acumen. Vorro's knowledge of logistics could supply an army that Marr's tactical skills could lead. It's a geometric progression of power. I am not just the sum of my parts; I am the product.

This realization was a heady, intoxicating draught. The psychopathic detachment that had defined him in his past life was now evolving into something grander, more profound. He felt a chilling disconnect from the mundane world around him. The sailors bickering over a game of dice, the merchants worrying over their cargo—they seemed like…abstractions. Not people, but collections of assets, walking repositories of skills and experiences, waiting to be liquidated.

His burgeoning god complex was no longer a simple narcissistic fantasy; it was a logical conclusion drawn from empirical evidence. The Faceless Men worshipped the Many-Faced God, a deity of death, an entity that offered the "gift" of oblivion as a merciful release from suffering. Elias scoffed at the concept.

They are priests of the abattoir, offering a clean death to weary cattle, he thought, a cold smile touching his lips. They see death as an end, a final service. A gift. What a poverty of imagination. They are custodians of the ashes, while I am the phoenix, rising from the pyre of every life I consume. Their god gives the gift of nothingness. I am a god who bestows the gift of myself, by taking everything from you. It is a much more personal, much more intimate form of worship.

When the granite cliffs of Braavos finally pierced the horizon, Elias had fully integrated his new acquisitions. The memories of Marr and Vorro were no longer a chaotic flood; they were neatly cataloged files in the library of his mind, accessible at will. He felt older, not in body, but in soul. He carried the weight of their years, the burden of their knowledge, but wore it as a king wears a crown.

He disembarked, the boy Naelo dissolving back into the city's mists. With a new face—this time, a Braavosi fisherman, weather-beaten and smelling of salt and brine, a life taken in a back alley for the simple crime of being convenient—he made his way back to the House of Black and White.

The sanctum was as he remembered: silent, cold, and imposing. The black pool reflected the carved faces of the death gods, their silent judgment hanging heavy in the air. He found the kindly man meditating before the altar of the Weeping Woman.

Elias knelt, his posture one of perfect humility. He shed the fisherman's face, revealing the original "no one" visage of the boy, scrubbed clean of identity.

"The gift was delivered," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Vorro Tagaros has met the god."

The kindly man did not turn. His voice was a soft whisper that nonetheless filled the vast hall. "Tell me."

This was the test. The debriefing. A verbal confirmation that the acolyte had not been compromised, that the self remained erased. Elias recounted the events with meticulous, dispassionate detail. He told of the infiltration, of observing the magister's habits, of the guards and the taster. He explained how he had used the magister's fondness for Arbor Gold as a delivery vector for the Tears of Lys, editing his true methods down to the simple, elegant solution the House would have expected. He mentioned nothing of Silas Marr. The sellsword's death was an unreported expense, a private acquisition.

Give them the story they want to hear, his inner voice coached. The truth is a commodity too valuable to be shared.

"The merchant was paranoid," Elias continued, his voice a monotone. "He employed a taster for all things. But a clumsy serving boy is easily overlooked. A moment's distraction, a finger brushed against a goblet already deemed safe. It was a small, quiet death. No one was seen. No one was suspected."

He felt the kindly man's attention sharpen. It was a palpable thing, a focused pressure on his mind. He was being weighed, measured. Elias kept his own mind a placid lake, reflecting only the story he was telling, the persona he was projecting. The vast, turbulent ocean of his true consciousness, now enriched with the minds of two other men, was hidden in the depths.

"You did well," the kindly man said, finally turning. His face was a mask of serene approval, but his eyes were ancient and sharp, missing nothing. "The god is pleased. A debt is paid."

He rose and walked towards Elias, his robes whispering against the stone floor. He stopped before the kneeling boy, looking down at him.

"A man's face is a mask he wears for the world," the kindly man said, his voice a low murmur. "But a true servant of the god wears no mask, for he has no face. He is only the instrument. The hand that delivers the gift. You remembered this?"

"Yes," Elias replied. I remembered it, and I improved upon it. You give the gift. I am the gift.

"Good," the kindly man said. He gestured towards a small alcove. "Your next service awaits. The god has many who are owed his gift."

In the alcove lay a simple scroll and a new face, that of a Tyroshi artisan. Elias's training dictated that he should accept without question, that his will was not his own. He picked up the scroll. The target was a slaver in Volantis who had reneged on a deal with a Braavosi magister. A standard contract. A mission that would take months of travel and planning.

And for Elias, it was utterly, profoundly…boring.

A common slaver, he thought, his mind racing, accessing Vorro's knowledge of trade politics and Marr's understanding of risk and reward. The potential gain is minimal. A brute, perhaps. Some knowledge of the slave trade, which I already possess in theory. A pittance of lifespan. It is…inefficient. It is a waste of my time.

He was a unique, apex predator. Hunting mice was no longer an interesting pastime. He needed bigger game. He needed assets that would contribute to his grand design, a design that was slowly crystallizing in his mind. He needed to get to Westeros. That was where the real game would be played. But he couldn't just leave the Faceless Men. To desert them was to become their target, and for all his newfound power, he was not yet ready to face an organization of the world's greatest assassins.

No, he would not desert them. He would use them. He would steer them.

He bowed his head, the picture of obedience. "I will serve."

But as he took the scroll and the Tyroshi face, a new plan was already forming, a complex, multi-layered strategy that drew upon the cunning of Elias Stone, the financial acumen of Vorro Tagaros, and the brutal pragmatism of Silas Marr. The Volantene slaver would be his pretext, his cover story. But his true destination, his true target, would be one of his own choosing.

He needed a specific set of skills for the next phase of his plan. He needed to understand the high-level politics of Westeros, not from the pages of a book, but from the mind of someone who lived it. He needed to build a power base, and for that, he needed more than just a sellsword's strength and a merchant's gold. He needed influence. He needed a network.

Vorro Tagaros's memories provided the key. The magister had dealings across the known world, including a quiet, ongoing correspondence with a man in Oldtown. A man named Archmaester Marwyn. Marwyn the Mage. A known dabbler in the higher mysteries, a scholar of obscure histories and forgotten lore. A man who, according to Elias's own foreknowledge, would one day guide Samwell Tarly. A man whose knowledge of magic and history was likely unparalleled in the Citadel.

Now that, Elias thought, a thrill running through him, is a worthy acquisition.

But Marwyn was in Oldtown, deep within Westeros. He was not the target. Not yet. Getting to him would require subtlety. It would require a stepping stone. Vorro's memories provided another name, a closer, more accessible one. A rival merchant in Lys, a man named Tregar Ormollen, who was one of Vorro's primary competitors in the trade of rare inks and manuscripts. Ormollen, Vorro had suspected, had contacts within the Citadel, a source for the valuable, often restricted texts he sold. Killing Ormollen would not only eliminate a business rival (a phantom rivalry Elias now felt with a strange, possessive intensity), but it would likely yield the name and location of his Citadel contact. A breadcrumb on the trail to Marwyn.

The mission to Volantis would take him south. Lys was a convenient, logical stop along the way. He could complete his assigned task, then take a detour for his personal project. He would kill two birds with one stone, serving his own agenda while maintaining his cover as a loyal instrument of the Many-Faced God.

He left the sanctum, the Tyroshi face tucked away, his mind already alight with his new purpose. He was playing a long game now, a game whose rules only he understood. The House of Black and White thought they had forged a perfect weapon. They had no idea they had unleashed a god.

Walking through the canals of Braavos, wearing the face of a simple man, he felt the power thrumming beneath his skin. The combined vitality of three lives animated his young body, making him feel ageless, indomitable. The future of this world, the grand, bloody tapestry of Robert's Rebellion, the War of the Five Kings, the coming of the Others—it all felt like a story waiting for its true author.

He looked up at the towering statue of the Titan of Braavos, its bronze form straddling the entrance to the lagoon. It was a monument to a past glory, a symbol of defiance.

You are all idols, Elias thought, a final, chilling smile gracing his lips as he stepped onto a ferry that would begin his journey south. Carved from stone and bronze, from faith and fear. But idols can be broken. I am not an idol. I am the force that breaks them.

The world was his for the taking. He just had to decide which piece he wanted to devour first.