AN #1:

Greetings dear readers!

Oh golly, suddenly Christmas is here and freezing my ears off before I knew any better! Regardless, I have been gone for far too long, and I have only myself and my busy schedule to blame. I thought you should have a little Christmas treat to wake up to (if I may allow myself to call it such).

I know you are all waiting for answers, and do not fret - for I have many answers to give. But this will be spread out in multiple chapters, so as not to overcrowd the text and build suspense. I hope everyone has had an excellent holiday season with excellent presents, visits from family, friends etc!

Anyway, here you have the chapter (more notes by the end)!

Missandei

The cool morning breeze rustled the papers lying on her table, as the soft pitter-patter of rain falling accompanied the wind through the small open window. Distinct from the rain, which had fallen steadily throughout the morning, were the occasional sounds of boots against the cobblestones and occasional gravel which defined the streets where the scribe was employed.

Sometimes a few of the downtrodden people which had been sent to her in the hopes of finding their role in the expansive Braavosi economy would wave at her in passing as their enriched living-conditions were displayed upon their figures. As she had been a former slave herself, nothing felt more luxurious than being safe and sheltered from the rain, with solid leathery boots to protect one's feet. Such were the luxuries few slaves could even dream of. Most slaves held in the free cities would employ wraps of linen around their feet to protect against the most deceptive of sharp stones from breaking their skin. Though it hardly served as much protection from the rough ground, it was certainly preferable to bare feet most would start off with.

As such, the hard click of a boot against stone was a wondrous sound for any and all who started their journey from the bottom. The Braavosi economy, being diverse in its all aspects and needing all kinds of labour proved a safe ladder for most to climb. The homeless street urchins would most often have ended in their position due to some personal misfortune. For some, the odds were merely stacked against them. For others, they would be left the struggle for themselves by families who either would or could not provide for them. The remaining population of street-dwellers would all have different stories, yet connected in communities the lived in Braavos' nooks and crannies. Most of them were the people who simply chose the lack of any permanent residence. The appeal of sleeping under the sky, with no belongings except the clothes on your body and the contents of your backpack was not lost on Missandei, yet it was a life devoid of the very purpose which she had sought after.

The life of a freed slave was a difficult one. The masters understood efficiency. They understood division. As such, each slave was trained for one specific purpose, and very little else. Therefore, it always proved troublesome, when former slaves were to enter the workforce. It was a difficult choice for the slaves: Do what you have been forced to do your whole life, or train from the ground up to become someone else. The majority would choose the former since it proved less toilsome and expensive. One would need significant resources to receive the training needed to enter a new field. Resources a slave would seldom find themselves in possession of. Missandei herself was given the same choice once she was freed. A small merchant ship would come by, and cram as many slaves as they could into the hull of the ship where the goods used to be. Before anyone would notice, the ship would quickly set sail for the Secret City. A small race to see who first made it to the titan. As it stands, no ship led by the slave masters ever managed to reach the titan before Braavos' own. Once inside the city, slave tattoos would be burned off, new clothes would be given, and now, a place in the Braavosi workforce would be found for the now-freed men and women. In the case of children being smuggled away, they would be placed in the care of a family who had the means and understanding to help the child.

All such things happened to Missandei when she first arrived at the Secret City, and now it was her orchestrating where these newcomers would find their place. One evening, during some late hours of translation work, Missandei had heard a few swift knocks on her door. On the other side, she was confronted with a nightmare wearing a smile. The chill that ran down still gave her shudders in reminiscence. These were the sorts of nightmares – ghosts even – that Missandei had been taught to fear her whole life. Yet, despite the awkward silence and what could only have been a stupefied look on herself, the nightmare continued the friendly, empty smile that had adorned its face since she opened the door. The nightmare was wrapped in a heavy cloak masking the robed figure beneath, the stormy grey eyes, of which the smile would never extend to, glinting in the silvery moonlight. The street outside the threshold to her small house was wet, still dripping as the steady rain continued to pour upon the ghoul's wet cloak.

"Might a girl come in?" She asked, not at all unkindly. The voice was not the raspy, harsh tones one would expect from such unnatural beings, yet was smooth as the finest silk. Normally such voices would hardly reach anyone's ears during a rainy evening, but it passed through the air like a hot knife through butter. "A ghoul's eye is always watchful," the masters used to tell her. And if any of the things they told her were true, she could not pretend that she had not heard what was said, given her very clear reaction. Any farmer's boy running a casual errand would have no trouble spotting her shrinking back into the doorway when the frugal words were uttered. Missandei took a deep breath, moving away from the portal to the outside world – this time deliberately – as to hear what had the girl visiting her meagre residence during the ungodly hours they found themselves under.

As the ghoul entered, she glanced briefly around her residence calmly; evaluating and assessing the assets that Missandei had eventually come upon following her work as a translator. She soon discovered the papers on the rough wooden desk where she would carry out the translator duties – most often between trading partners – to ensure that communication was clear and not misunderstood. She walked over to the desk just as calmly as she had glanced around the room and studied first the wood with her fingers, and proceeded to give her work residing above it the same treatment.

"Was there something you wanted?" Missandei questioned, summoning as much calm as she could muster. Even as her mind was screaming at her to storm out of the house, leaving behind the deathly stranger and all she brought with her; if she even was a woman in the first place, that was.

The woman did little to respond. She merely continued inspecting the surroundings that had been unlocked for her. The woman turned her eyes slowly towards Missandei, her eyes as impassive as when she first arrived at the door. The kind, half-smile that she arrived with settled back on her features. She would never have known that the girl was a ghoul, had the girl not worn their colours and their robes. It had happened in the past, that someone fascinated with the cult of death had tried to replicate their garments, only to find the whites and blacks stained with the blood of the man wearing it. The robes and cloak carried an authority in Braavos. An authority that feared, respected, and even admired, despite the cold, cunning ruthlessness those sentiments were built upon.

"We have a use for you." The words were haunting, yet spoke of more than Missandei could ever ask for; since within hours of the cryptic declaration, two ravens appeared at her doorstep waiting for her to retrieve the messages they brought. One stayed, to her initial surprise, while the other one disappeared into the evening's mists as quickly as it appeared. Within the letters resided all the information she could possibly have wished for to decide whether she would or would not accept the aforementioned use. In retrospect, most would likely be prickly of the Ghoul's way of addressing her, yet most in Braavos knew men were little but servants, yet between two servants trained to look death in the eye; manners mattered little. And although the Ghoul would doubtlessly be better at what they were both trained for, the connection made them kin, despite her previous self's refusal to even consider this notion.

The second raven remaining was her option. Whether to refuse or accept the assignment carried by their black and white scrolls. The flourishing texts making the whole experience even more lucrative than most in Braavos would ever know. Yet now, the familiar caw of ravens told her another assignment in her new job was coming. And right she was when she heard the now-familiar two taps of the raven's beak on her door. Walking slowly to the door and subsequently opening it, the raven released its hold on the letter and it fell softly into Missandei's open hand. She looked at the medium-sized letter as she felt the wind of the raven's wings bolting it out into the rain once more.

The faceless men knew the plight of a mind left to rot. How the days stretched on endlessly and turned meaningless; continuous even. How a year could pass and one could not differentiate it from a single day. This was why they showed up at her doorstep, introducing her as the backbone to handle the prerequisites and fallouts of their many accomplishments, or so she liked to believe. A lot of work and thought went into managing the city's affairs and new arrivals. Doing so under the banner of black and white only made the security she was promised with her job all the more convincing. Though her new – more expansive – home was situated at the docks, none would dare approach her home as they did before. Even when raiders came to Braavos' shores, not a single one of their horde dared set foot near her, and they were hastily repelled and flushed out from the gutters of the city. For the faceless were renowned and feared throughout the world, and those who even dared approach Braavos with hostile intentions all had their own ideas of how they would handle the infamous assassins. Few survived further than to the very shores surrounding the city.

How one managed to lay such thoughtful and calculating devastation as the faceless were renowned for, was beyond what Missandei could imagine. Hers was a mind for logistics, language and mathematics. The complexities of war that the faceless employed could not be studied or read in any book. Most knew they were responsible when unsavoury people would suddenly disappear, yet only the guild themselves knew the factors of what, when, where, why and even how anything would happen. She would continue to ponder the secretive guild that she somehow became entangled with in the future, yet for now, she had a job to do. She sat down on the padded chair by her desk – the luxury she had acquired through her servitude readily apparent to her and unwrapped the letter from its silken seal. The writing on the page was the same black on white as she was used to, with the exact same flowing script she had allowed herself to become so used to.

Valar Morghulis Lady Missandei,

A girl has Our most sincere of apologies for the intrusions on her sleep, yet it appears there is another matter that requires a girl's attention.

Such would the letters always start. Through this, she had come to know the Ghoul as a definitive night owl, since all the correspondence she ever had with her had been during the dark hours of the night. Even now, with the rain trickling down outside her window in the darkest night she had seen in her lifetime, she was glad that she worked the hours that suited her the best. And though she was anything but a lady, the code of respect the House had for its servants would always make itself known through their writings.

We have come in need of a residence within the quiet parts of Braavos. We ask that you find suitable lodgings within the city. The allotment will be expected to have room for up to three individuals with a working space for each. The coin will be provided for the services as usual, and all the expenses you should come by will be covered.

This was somewhat of an unusual assignment. She often tended to the finding of homes needed for the new arrivals at the port, yet it hardly ever came to pass, that a faceless one should need lodgings within the city. She would often assign, for herself, the use that the faceless ones would need her services for. She was never correct, yet that was entirely beside the point. It was in order to keep the mind at ease and deafen the need to explore and investigate what this most interesting of guilds were doing and why they needed her help. Finding out would be harder than forcing questions from a brick wall with one's bare hands. It was a retreat from madness.

There was, however, a second part of the message. One holding possibility, not a demand or a promise. It was nothing but a mere suggestion, yet the cryptic nature of the words and the appeal for investigation was beyond anything Missandei could have hoped for in this vast, expansive world of twisting and churning mystery.

In the Purple Harbour resides a young and highly-sought girl with an elderly, honourable man within a house guarded by a great sanguine door. The girl is of significant origin and her wellbeing is of great concern to Us. A guild would advise a girl to go and see her for yourself and ponder if she may be deserving of your attention. We suspect you might have a significant interest in common, despite quite opposing origins. Mayhaps, this will lead a girl onto a path she would wish to walk.If such is the choice; to explore the options which lay ahead, slight caution and manners are advised.

Best regards,

No One.

The Stranger

No One was reading once more when her recruiter came to her. The Lorathi appeared in the doorway and gazed into the intertwined mess of books which surrounded her in her room with a fleeting expression of surprise.

"A girl usually keeps her room tidy." He said, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as his eyes cruised around her room before settling back on her. The golden irises were shadowed in the darkness of the corridor, his figure almost wholly dark against the candle facing his back from the narrow corridor.

"A girl believes our order needs better discipline. A girl has had a lot of reading to do recently, and no person in this temple knows to knock on a girl's door before they seek to enter it." The Stranger said from the small chair she was reclining on. Her brows furrowed slightly, "A man's book is not exactly easy to decipher."

The Lorathi clicked his tongue in response, "Stop whining, lovely girl." his classic smirk spread across his features as the words spilt from his lips. Despite the barbed nature of the comment, the cheeky smile and the deep, soothing nature of his voice revoked all offence that could be taken. She was lost on what to say and chose, instead, to merely sigh at the black, magical book still resting in her hands.

By the small swish and the dull thud, the leather book closed its pages. She placed the book on the shelf all her books previously resided in. Now, it was the sole inhabitant of the old and lonely piece of furniture. It was a matter of time, she knew before the old bookcase would collapse in on itself. The intricate wooden beams and bolts eventually giving way to the incessant march of time which would be the fate of all things. Nevertheless, she turned her eyes from the object of the past to the individual who propelled her towards the very future she was in now.

Her own grey eyes met his as she cocked her head to the side, "Where have you come to ferret me away to this time?" The Lorathi moved slowly, cautiously into her room. His robe was slightly dusty at the hem, likely because the older members of the House of Black and White knew the old labyrinthian tunnels which ran under the city and interconnected every significant part of Braavos to the Isle of Faces. He came to a stop just in front of her and put his hand lightly on her left shoulder.

"A sister confided in a man that a lovely girl does not sleep." His eyes had now taken on an imploring and cautious look; searching her own irises for answers, imploring her soul for honesty.

"A girl has said. She has had a lot of work to do." Her voice emerged slowly, the same tone that she had strived to replicate for so very long. The calm, warm voice she had always adored in her childhood. The Lorathi hummed in response, nodding subtly as his voice, the very model of which she strived to acquire, reached her ears. So very often, would the voices within the temple walls be those of the suffering; their last gasps of breath and sobs marking the struggle to accept or deny the end they journeyed to the temple to receive.

The very last service these unfortunate people would find was the gentle treatment of faceless, aiding them in the acceptance of their demise. And none were better for this task than The Lorathi himself. His gentle, yet handsome features and calm, soothing voice laying rest to the nerves threatening to spasm in the wake of the most unnatural and drastic of acts one could commit to oneself. Perhaps that was what separated humans from most animals. The most loyal of wolves could suffer as much any human when their packmate should die. And while this may make the beast more likely to act carelessly, they would never throw themselves on the sharp horns of a stag willingly; if not for a sacrifice for the remainder of the pack. An act of martyrdom to ensure the survival of what it holds dear and wishes to protect.

"Nevertheless, neglecting it will not end well." The bronze eyes in front of her were glazed with worry, his forehead creasing slightly in conjunction with the sentiment. For a minute, she allowed herself to pretend that the emotions were real; his and hers alike. For in the end; it is all a game - and they must never stop playing – for humanity's eyes were yet to open.

"He won't stop demanding from us, no?" She allowed herself to ask the question, curiosity came easy, in this world that seemed to keep expanding as opposed to herself which seemingly shrunk in significance as insight was offered and seldom refused. "Indeed," he murmured softly, "and that is the origin of our play." His hand had slowly moved from her shoulder to her arm. Unnoticed. The Lorathi now withdrew his soft touch and summoned a small package from inside his robes.

He sighed softly as surprise bloomed on her features. He handed over the small hard leather package to her carefully. Somehow, she felt this object was fragile and precious before she had even dared to investigate the contents of the small box. As she opened the lid she was surprised at the contents. It was a small black leather band with a small clear jewel attached to it. She looked up to the person who gifted her this most unorthodox of items.

"A man wanted to help a girl with her mission. Fret not, lovely girl, it is not merely an adornment." He purred. She looked back towards the small necklace, seemingly too small for her. The Stranger reached out for the jewel with her hand, and the crystal began to glow a distinct purple. The air from her lungs escaped softly without her consent. It was the very same glow as her swords sported when she relieved them of their sheaths.

"What is it good for, Jaqen?" Her slow and calm façade had been thrown slightly off, and a self-satisfied smile spread instantaneously on his features. He took back the box and removed the choker from its box as he moved to stand behind her. She noticed the crystal glowing red as he moved behind her and wondered briefly about its significance.

"It is a magical pendant. A third eye, if you will. Even the greatest of mirrors have their blind spots and mysteries they cannot breach. This will help a lovely girl's eyes to see." She felt a warm buzzing feeling in her neck for a second before she saw the choker adjust itself snugly yet comfortably around her neck. The jewel changed colour once more from The Lorathi's crimson to her own dark purple. The light soon faded, and the glow changed to a dark purple, an almost black colour which now glinted softly as the candlelight struck it.

She reminded herself of the image of the dead aristocrats littered in Braavos' streets and gasped as her own sight was replaced with a sight that she once remembered. The image started out as murky and unclear, where it went on to morph and change into a phantom of the sight she saw before. She dismissed the image from her mind and her vision was brought back to her small, messy room. "This is… extraordinary," The Stranger's voice was now low, a new thought gracing her mind. "Jaqen, would you happen to know what has become of our Handsome brother since he returned home?"

The Lorathi raised a single eyebrow in response, they were then furrowed deeply and excessively. "A man thought he was the handsome one." He put a hand on his chest in mock offence. The Stranger shook her head, chuckling, "A man is avoiding the question." She commented.

He sobered up quickly from the joke. Far faster than she chose to. "A man is afraid he is unable to tell you this thing. For knowledge that is not present cannot be shared."

The Stranger tutted at him, looking down at him despite his superior height, "Ah, it seems a girl has encountered a sore spot; a section of knowledge which not even The Lorathi himself is privy to!"

A smirk wound its way across his features, "Do pray tell then, lovely girl; what is our brother up to?"

She looked at him, now condescendingly, "Does a man think a girl would waste time asking him such a thing were she in the possession of the knowledge herself?"

The man in front of her shook his head, before sighing softly. The secret sign that only she knew about, which foretold a digression to a different topic. She was tempted to keep him there, struggling to account for why she had yet to see him after his gory entrance into the temple. It had taken the poor Braavosi Acolytes several days to scrub the mess he left on the floor and his clothes clean. He was indeed a man who liked to make grand displays. Something she would have to keep in mind for her future meeting with Kinvara. It was unlikely that the woman would be pleased with the outcome that had materialised due to her initiation. Yet Kinvara would luckily not be privy to that information, as long as she would not read it in her eyes. Utmost caution should indeed be undertaken to prohibit this eventuality. Her mind caught up with the situation before it developed, such that she would not miss whatever it was he had to say.

"There are dark times coming, lovely girl; dark times, with dire consequences. And thus, there is something you must see. But not today. For now, a girl should visit the coroner of Braavos. His name is Edward Sleet, you should find him near the Sweetwater River between Silty Town and the Fishmarket. He knows of your coming and will inform you of any remaining relevant details as to your inquiry.

"What if I need a man's guidance in this?" She asked, the uncertainty displayed by the subtle biting of her lower lip. The Lorathi took a step to the side and tapped his own bottom lip. A reminder not to re-establish the old habit and a hidden assurance of the lack of need to worry.

"A man doubts this thing. A girl has received all the training she needs to accomplish this goal." He inclined his head slightly, "If a girl was to need a man's assistance, he would be aware and act before the desire would even enter a girl's waking mind."

The pupil in front of him sighed. While her ascension to a fully-fledged faceless one had happened some time ago at this point, there was still training and conditioning left to share with her before she could be accepted as one of their masters. This was also why the tension in her shoulders rarely left her. She was always ready; prepared to face whatever trial she would surely be confronted with. Yet the Lorathi had a feeling some time would pass before she would meet her final test. She had certainly come far, and so too did she seek to finally embrace the shadows along with the rest of the masters. No. A girl is not ready.

As he watched The Stranger leave the cluttered room, he let out another sigh as he focused what power had been granted to him; power granted at its own special expense. The retreating Stranger would have to pay this very same price. They all would. Yet this was what they had been ordained to do; to become. As her form vanished into the winding corridors of the temple, he muttered a select few silent words as crimson energy flowed from his body. It wrapped itself around the mess that the student had made of their own quarters and beaconed them to arrange themselves in their assorted places. The books and trinkets acknowledged his request and assorted themselves steadily like an assembly of young temple acolytes gathering for training. Disciplined, yet steady. Items moving; flowing like a river streaming upwards until it reached its goal.

He knew this would be a convenience The Stranger would extort from him the second she learned of its existence, yet it would do little good to introduce too much convenience. For convenience was the root to contentment. And contentment is the largest contender, along with a lack of any incentive, to approach sloth. A status hard to recover from; especially in their trade. And was this not the very nature of life? Inconvenience slowly overcome through one's life with the help of innovative methods, either developed by oneself or those around you. If only everyone remembered that everything comes at a price.

As the clutter was returned to its allotted location, the glowing red energy began syphoning itself back into his body. He felt his body heat up in reaction, not even realising how cold one could easily become this way. The cold addictive thrill shot down his spine once more when all of the energy had returned to its temporary source. With the completion of the service that had not been bartered for, he went on to look for The Elder of their order. It was about time The Stranger would wake.

Daenerys Targaryen

The grey dreary day loomed outside the window she was currently facing. That is not to say, that there is any likelihood of a more cheerful view from the opposite vantage point. She had indulged in her morning breakfast some time ago, and Ser Willem still looked positively eager to inquire about the new mysterious cloak displayed in the wardrobe. In fairness, Dany had scarcely had the time to create any plausible for its existence on her person. Jorah had been quick to inquire about it; seeing as he correctly judged that it would hardly be something she had a propensity to wear, and seeing the old and grizzly knights puzzled gaze only made him grow all the more suspicious.

As hard as it was for Daenerys to admit, she cared little for the two knights' opinion on its presence. She was still coming to grips with the implications of the meeting herself. She would have rationalised it as a fantasy, had the evidence not hanged in the wardrobe for any inquiring eye to see.

The exiled princess decided that staying cooped up in the shelter Ser Willem's home once again offered her would do her little good. It would help her tremendously to have concrete answers. Something to grasp unto. Mayhaps she would be as lucky as to interrupt Nyx from her daily misdoings. That would buy her questions to ask, though she had little to no idea of the answers she would receive in turn.

Dany compelled the laziness which seemed to plague every morning and summoned the will to get changed into attire suitable for her excursion into the city. She had expected to throw on whatever clothes first met her eye. Yet when considering the sort of meeting she was hoping for, her eyes were first drawn to the most formal garb she still owned before being disappointed in herself. Nyx was a ghoul, not a western noblewoman. She would respect capability, strength and practicality. Not attire that was meant to be seen rather than used.

The attire she settled with was an ironic combination of black and white. A small black coat of embroidered silk layered with black leather. Inside the coat, a simple white shirt that rose in a subtle collar above the coat. The pants followed the same trend of soft black material, with a thin white stripe running down the sides. The attire surprisingly complemented her platinum curls which spread out along her shoulders and flowed down her back reaching the bottom of shoulder blades. This would do.

She was, expectedly confronted by the two grizzly knights as she moved to leave the house. She deflected as best as her intuition allowed her, and fled the home with the black and white cloak flowing from her shoulders once more. When she escaped the confines and was confronted with the weather painted with the colour of Nyx's irises, she heard the caw of a raven from high above and reminisced of the marvel in the faceless one's entrance. The woman certainly had a mind for spectacle.

As she began walking down the streets an array of black feathers interrupted her. It seemed the raven did more things than merely cawing at her, as it presented a small letter tied around its foot. It was absurd, yet she somehow felt the message was addressed to her person. She carefully patted the raven on the head, asking for permission. The raven was cold and stared at her with deliberate black eyes, imploring her to relieve it of the attached message. She indulged in both herself and the raven's wishes only to have her sentiment confirmed. She thanked the raven, silently wondering whether or not the courtesy was meaningless.

She pocketed the small scroll, which was accompanied by a small tag addressing her. This was how she knew this was not merely a badly trained raven which had flown astray. This was deliberate. Somehow. She fixated on a small alley that would afford her shelter and privacy as she would read the message.

Shelter was quick to greet her with shadows and solitude, even if only for a brief moment, she allowed herself to attempt to view the world through the eyes of faceless ones; always keeping to the shadows, weaving between perching above and hiding underfoot. For no other reason than to keep their dealings away from public view. She could not help but wonder why. The faceless men have a complete monopoly on assassinations in the city. And their deeds were surprisingly accepted by the public. So why keep it hidden? Daenerys pushed through the thoughts plaguing her mind of late and focused her attention on the straight, even letter clasped in her hands. The letter was enclosed by a grey wax seal with a hooded man impressed unto it. The symbol of the faceless, she recognised.

She moved to open it but quickly realised that the wax fitted better than she expected. Sighing dejectedly, she searched on her person for the small peeling knife she usually carried with her around the city. A quick search and some thinking revealed to her a problem. She had forgotten it at home. Daenerys huffed a quick breath, closing her eyes as she internally scolded herself for her carelessness. With reluctance clouding her mind, she began searching for any weapons in the cloak adorning her shoulders that Nyx may have left behind. She quickly came upon a small leather sheath, which contained a thin blade. Further inspection from Daenerys revealed multiple more of these blades adorning the sides of the cloak. The sheath relinquished its hold of the blade easily, revealing its wicked edge. Viewing the blade from the side of its edge, it became nigh on invisible. A hesitant finger approached the blade's edge, fascination shining in the purple orbs of the owner of said finger. Upon the feathery touch, a small line of red ran softly across the fingertip, so slight that not a single sensation entered her conscious, despite watching the action playing out.

The blade offered little in the terms of a hilt to grip onto but was rather ended with two horizontal metallic lines. In addition to this, there was a finger-sized slot just under where the tiny blade began, revealing the proper way to hold it; or so she thought. Daenerys put her index finger through the slot and felt a small thrill tingling down her spine. Laying the edge against the thick wax seal, the material gave way at her mere suggestion of doing so, and the wind lifted the envelope just enough to reveal a glimmer of flowing script beneath it. Dany's heart sped up, and her fingers shook a little as she tried to rid her fingers of the impossibly sharp weapon, her inexperience showing as she tried to return it to the place from where it came.

After she had juggled the knife into her pocket, earning her one or two additional scratches, she pulled the letter from the envelope. The letter read:

Valar Morghulis Daenerys,

I would hope you have slept well and remain unharmed. One would presume many questions would come puzzling the mind at this time; and while the faceless would rather have people come to your own conclusions, I believe a degree of transparency is due. It is also likely that this … delivery ... raised even more of those questions. When a princess should thirst for answers, she will know where to look.

Additionally, one friend may come to a princess' residence in the near future. I feel you may have interests and goals in common. Hereby, a mutually agreed arrangement may well be attainable, and rest assured; she will pose even less of a threat to you than the knightly arrival of last night.

I am sure I will see you soon,

Nyx.

A slight thrill ran through her spine along as the riddles and questions in her mind only seemed to multiply. A slight bounce now enhanced her steps as she moved on her way; confidence making the legs seemingly move of their own accord. Moving through the city now, her confidence was only enhanced. People's eyes widened, their heads bowing and bodies moving out of the way at the sight of Nyx's cloak. From the shocked expressions of the Water Dancers, with their mouth slightly agape, to the young children gazing at her with admiration shining in their eyes like a thousand emeralds - Daenerys could not help but wonder what her life would be like, had she been an officiated member of the infamous guild. Would she always be met with the admiration? Whether or not this would be the case, she would not be dissuaded from enjoying this moment.

Such was the power of the faceless, she presumed. A cloak shrouding their members in darkness and mystery both; ensnaring the souls of both the agents and onlookers alike. This cloak seemed not only to bring with it the most lethal of skills and deadly cunning to the people willing to offer their service to their god, but also protection, comfort, and freedom. Even if this very cloak was the veil of death itself.

AN #2:

Again, I wish you all happy holidays and wish you the best.

I sincerely hope you all enjoyed these more calm chapters that will be taking place before we "floor it" - to use a colloquial term. The reviews and support I have received mean the world to me and continues to be the motivating factor keeping me pushing ahead. If you should have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them as clear as I feel I can in the comments.

Thank you very much for taking the time out of your day to read my online ramblings,

- Nuvian ;-)