[133] The Face of Death

Chapter 133: The Face of Death

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The creature rushed at me with inhuman speed, its features still shifting like a nightmare made flesh. Where moments before had been the seductive curves of Lady Lyra, now stood a lean, predatory form—neither man nor woman, but something between and beyond.

I barely had time to register the transformation before it was upon me.

A fist connected with my jaw, carrying force that would have shattered a normal man's skull. My head snapped back, but I recovered instantly, countering with a strike of my own. My knuckles crashed against its sternum, sending the assassin skidding across the floor.

Blood dripped from my hand where the dagger had pierced it, but already the wound was closing, my enhanced healing at work.

Indeed, I was far from mortal. My fists also carried enough strength to sever a head from the torso. So how was the creature fine?

The assassin flipped to its feet with fluid grace, eyes calculating, reassessing.

I recognized that look—the shock of finding prey that fought back. But beneath that shock was something more disturbing… Adjustment. This was no common killer surprised by resistance. This was a predator adapting to unexpected circumstances.

Dragons don't bleed for long, but when they do, the world trembles.

"What are you?" I demanded, circling slowly.

"No one," it replied, voice no longer feminine, yet not manly either. It was no longer anything recognizable. Its accent shifted between syllables, as if multiple people spoke through one throat.

We clashed again, exchanging blows at speed that blurred the air between us. I was stronger, each of my strikes leaving dents in the wall where the assassin dodged, but the creature moved like smoke, impossible to pin down. Its fists found my ribs, my kidneys, my throat, striking with surgical precision.

The assassin darted past my guard, retrieving the fallen dagger. Steel flashed, opening a gash across my chest before I could react. Another slash, and my forearm split to the bone. A third cut across my thigh, blood spraying across Tywin's expensive carpets.

Hell of a housewarming gift.

Indeed I had superior strength, but the defence that I was so proud of didn’t stand against this creature. My speed wasn’t anything extraordinary against it either. This wasn’t good.

Despite my strength, the assassin matched my speed—perhaps even exceeded it. Cuts appeared on my body faster than they could heal, blood soaking through my silken robe. The assassin was growing more confident now, ducking under my increasingly desperate swings, countering with that wicked blade.

"Fuck this," I snarled, blood streaming into my eyes.

I remembered, too late, the notification that had flashed earlier. Poison. Whatever coated that blade was no ordinary venom. It burned through my veins, slowing my reactions, dulling my senses. My legendary healing couldn't keep pace with both the poison and the wounds.

I needed to end this. Now.

Focusing on my mental interface, I called forth my Inventory. Time seemed to slow as glowing blue windows materialized around me, although it didn’t actually slow down. I had to be quick, fast.

With a thought, I selected the armor and sword crafted specially by the Tyrells' finest smiths. The metalwork was exquisite, inspired by descriptions of Rhaegar's legendary plate—black as midnight, with a three-headed dragon crafted from rubies upon the breastplate. The sword matched it, a hand-and-a-half blade with a dragon-shaped hilt.

Power wasn’t just worn; it was embodied.

The assassin's eyes widened as armor materialized around me, seemingly from thin air. The look of shock was worth every gold dragon I'd spent on the custom work. My silk robe vanished, replaced by gleaming black plate. The sword appeared in my hand, its blade catching the candlelight.

"What manner of sorcery—" the assassin began, before lunging forward with renewed desperation.

The blade scraped against my armor, finding the gaps between plates with uncanny precision. It hurt, but no longer threatened to open my veins. I swung my sword in wide arcs, keeping the assassin at bay. The creature was fast, dancing away from each strike, but I could see frustration building in its eyes. The game had changed.

Time to end this dance.

I feinted high with my sword, telegraphing the move just enough to be obvious. The assassin, as expected, ducked low, preparing to drive the dagger into the vulnerable spot beneath my armor. But instead of completing the overhead swing, I pivoted, my armored leg catching the assassin by surprise. My boot connected with its neck with a sickening crack.

The creature slammed hard against the wall. When it dropped to the ground, its body twitched once, twice, then went still. Its face continued to shift for several seconds after death, features flowing like wax melting in a fire, before settling into a blank, almost featureless mask.

I stood over it, chest heaving, blood still seeping from dozens of cuts. For the first time in months, I was actually breathing hard, my lungs burning with the effort of combat.

The realization sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the poison.

What if it had been ten assassins instead of one? Or twenty?

A blue notification window appeared in my vision, momentarily distracting me from my dark thoughts.

[You’ve killed a Faceless Human.]

[You’ve received experience points.]

[You’ve leveled up!]

[You’ve leveled up!]

[You’ve leveled up!]

[You’ve leveled up!]

Huh…

[You have reached Level 55.]

Four levels in this economy?

[Poison has been cured.]

That was something, at least.

****

I sat heavily on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath the weight of my armor. Blood pooled at my feet, dripping steadily from a dozen already closed wounds. The poison wasn’t burning in my veins anymore, so I was feeling better.

The assassin's corpse lay crumpled against the far wall, neck bent at an impossible angle, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Those eyes... I'd seen a similar pair once in Braavos during my exile.

The Faceless Men.

I'd heard whispers of their abilities, and seen it unfold in the TV show. But seeing it first hand was another matter entirely.

A Faceless Man. In Westeros. Sent for me.

I forced myself to breathe slowly, deliberately, waiting for the adrenaline to calm down. No need to call for guards yet. The last thing I needed was for anyone to see the Dragon King bleeding like a stuck pig, even if the wounds had closed, the blood remained.

Legends don't bleed; they burn.

My thoughts raced through possibilities. Tywin Lannister was the obvious culprit, wealthy enough to afford the astronomical fee the Faceless Men charged, desperate enough to risk it. But he couldn't have arranged this alone, not from wherever he was hiding. Someone here, in this very castle, must have facilitated it. One of the lords I'd just accepted oaths from, perhaps.

Lady Clegane? The Clegane House certainly is loyal enough.

I laughed bitterly. I couldn’t be sure. In the show, the Faceless Men had been mystical in their deadliness. Arya had trained with them, becoming something both more and less than human, enough to kill the Night King. I'd always wondered how Jaqen H'ghar would have fared against a truly formidable opponent.

Now I knew. Too well.

I thought they were merely people with normal strength and speed, just special face-changing magic. But I was wrong. Or maybe this one was just special?

Regardless, their danger was obvious. Some stories say the first Faceless Men brought the end to the ancient Valyrian Freehold. If this was how strong they were, it couldn’t just be fantasy.

Dammit.

Such strong people roamed this world?

As the minutes passed, my breathing calmed and adrenaline receded. No second assassin came, either. By morning, there would be no evidence I'd ever been in danger. Perfect.

I would announce the assassination attempt calmly, as if swatting a fly. The lords would see me unblemished, unshaken. Let them report back to Tywin that his expensive assassin had accomplished nothing. Let them wonder what sort of monster could shrug off a Faceless Man.

Fear is more effective when it's dressed in mystery.

Rising from the bed, I walked to the assassin's body. In death, it looked almost peaceful, its face settled into features that seemed vaguely Braavosi. I wondered who this person had been before becoming "no one." What life had they abandoned to serve the Many-Faced God?

Not that it mattered now.

“At least she looks like a woman at death,” I noted. That mattered. I didn’t want to wake up tomorrow with the knowledge that I’d slept with a cosplaying dude.

I touched the corpse, opening my Inventory interface. The body disappeared in a flash of blue light, stored safely away for later examination. Kinvara might know more about these assassins; her R'hllor magic had its own mysteries that might shed light on these face-changers.

The blood remained, unfortunately. I'd need to summon servants to clean it. That shouldn’t be any problem that I killed an assassin. People would be curious about the body, but who’d dare ask me for it?

I sat back on the edge of the bed, dismissing my armor and returning to my silk robe. Clean now, as if nothing had happened. I wondered if the poison would have been troublesome if I hadn’t leveled up…? Could be.

Even Viserion shouldn’t be immune to poison, I think. Given enough. I really should research poison. There was no need to take a risk. Before death, I recall a man whose blood became antivenom. I think he was a US snake collector? He gave himself more than 600 doses of venom to build up his immunity. If a normal human could, why not me?

The thought was sobering.

I'd grown complacent, relying too heavily on my raw strength and healing. This assassin had exposed weaknesses I couldn't afford.

I needed to grow stronger, much stronger. At my current level, it would take hundreds of kills to advance further—and I had no desire to needlessly slaughter the people I aimed to rule. There had to be a better way.

Perhaps it was time to accelerate my plans for Essos. The slave cities were already dealt with, but what about the other places? The dothraki? Nobody would miss their savage asses. Their deaths would fuel my advance while simultaneously freeing countless innocents.

Two birds with one stone.

Tomorrow, I would consolidate my hold on the Westerlands. The day after, I would return to King's Landing. And soon… very soon… I would turn my gaze eastward, toward the lands my ancestors had fled.

The Faceless Men might serve the Many-Faced God, but I served a higher purpose.

I was the Dragon King. And dragons took what they wanted.

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