Debt to Faceless Men: Part 1 (rated MA for Violence/language)

The Busty Gal sailed steadfast on turquoise sea with only her oars to propel her; her twelve wooden arms gently breaking the still surface with timed and rhythmic splashes to the sound of “HEAVE!…HO!…HEAVE!…HO!…”. She was a sturdy cog, as strong as she was ugly, who had braved the worse of what the narrow sea could throw at her, under the helm of seven different captains. Her patchwork sails of green and white were limp, but the rowers pushed her onwards, slipping through the seas as swift as any wind might urge her. The wooden wench that graced the bow stared out at the sea beyond with weathered, wooden eyes quietly watching the horizon for Blackwater Bay and a port in King’s Landing to rest her weary hull. Her belly was full of spices and wines, dates and figs and dried peppers, crates of smoked fish, mussels drowned in oil, and crabs enough to leave even the drowned god bloated. She smelled of some exotic sea, not quite sweet though not near fowl, but rather a potent mix of salt and herb and sweat and mollusks. Timmon, “the Talker“ as the crew had come to call him, didn't care much for the ships particular salty perfume, though he was growing more accustomed to it as time passed. It had been several days since his departure from Braavos, and the majority of the voyage was spent above deck roaming in silent contemplation, even though the captain was kind enough to offer him a cramped, though not entirely uncomfortable cabin below. By day he would pace from bow to stern, listening to the crew swap tales and rumors from across the sea, or argue over which Inn had the best meat pies or which brothel provided the choicest whores. Each man, it would seem, had his own unique taste when it came to the latter. The pot bellied cook, with his toothless grin, shaggy graying beard and milky squinting eyes, preferred his woman as lumpy and questionable as his pies. “Them skinny ones,” he would say, “not worth a piss, less to start a fire when ya rub two together. Only the big ones can please a man with my appetite. Aye, one's with the hard faces, well fed bellies and tits as big as the busty gals. Them the ones worth a good coin, fuck a man so good he'd think to pay her twice.” He’d laugh at his own vulgarity, spewing out ale, only to replace it with another greedy swig from his mug.
There was “Pretty Lad” a boy of six and ten who served as the captain's cabin boy; a spindly, awkward boy truth be told, but could mend sails, haul lines, and was among the few on board who could read if not yet write, which made him that much more useful. He had a boys face; baby smooth skin and thick lashes over chestnut colored eyes that matched his flowing mane. The girls in port found him handsome enough despite his baby face and boyish charms, and it would be safe to say that under other circumstances that he would have his pick of them;  but he was as shy as he was soft spoken, with blushing cheeks and sweating palms when he’d come within a few steps from the opposite sex. Some crewmen had suspected that perhaps he had no interest at all in women, favoring “cock over cunt“ as they would say, or maybe they secretly hoped it was so. Long days at sea have been known to make a lonely man desire nearly anything that breathes. The boy himself had a lovers heart despite his coyness  no doubt, but a life at sea would change that; sooner or later he would have as many crabs feasting on his loins as the Busty Gal had within her hold, and a bastard in every port that he should land in. There were many an interesting character aboard the Busty Gal, from the hard and sketchy to the frail and bitter and young and bullheaded, but all sharing an affinity for the sea and lust for adventure that only wind sails and a murky surf could satisfy 
At sunset, Timmon would seat himself upon the back of the Busty Gals figurehead washing down meager meals of sour red grapes and smoked eel with a tart wine. When he finished, he would lay back and watch the stars drift in the skies above him. He enjoyed the silence, the chill of the night air and steady bobbing of the cog as it made its way through the inky dark. As soothing as the sea nights proved to be, they did not come without their ghosts; memories of days long past, people long lost, men he used to be and names he used to live by. 
He abandon his real name when he entered the temple of black and white, along with memories  of a past life he longed to forget entirely but managed to stubbornly linger. That was not my life, he would remind himself, I am no one, I am a faceless man with no life but that which the many face god wills me.
 “That is a lie.”  Back at the Temple of Black and White the priest would say this each time his thoughts betrayed him while a temple apprentice. “You are Alyx Rivers, the thief, the liar. An outlaw, a murderer and a hanged man left to die. Do you deny it?” he would ask.
“ I wore his face, I do not deny this, but that was long ago. The true Alyx Rivers died within the temple of black and white, Though some would say  he was dead before then, left to swing from the end of a rope tied to a twisted oak, where the crows had plucked out his eyes and the ants nibbled away his rotted flesh until beasts carried away what remained and scattered his bones.”
The priest would cup his hands, the hood of his robe covering most of his face, though Timmon could feel his eyes raise inquisitively beneath it. “Some would say he earned such a death.”
“yes.. some would. Though only the many faced god can rightfully judge who is deserving of the gift. The opinions of men very too greatly to be trusted.”
“You speak the right of it, dead man, but your eyes sing a different song. I see the rage that hides within, the wronged and bitter man that hides beneath your flesh thirsting for justice, screaming for retribution. Try as you might to shut him away, he speaks through your gaze and reveals your lies.”
Timmon could feel that man trying desperately to reveal himself, and he would stuff him back into the recesses of his thoughts, letting any remnant of emotion fade from his face the same as memories from his mind. “Were Alyx Rivers alive he would have longed for such things, wronged men often long for vengeance, but Alyx Rivers is dead, and dead men can long for nothing but life. I am a faceless man, and faceless men long for nothing but to serve. Valar dohaeris.”
“Valar morghulis” the priest would reply,  and the cycle would continue the next day, and the many, many days after that.
Over years at the temple of black and white, amongst the dead and dying, where the watchful eye's of Weeping Woman, the Moon-pale maiden, the Merlin king and the Wayfarer would look down on him with solemn marble faces, smoke and dull light dancing in their gaze, he began to forget. He forgot of his years before Braavos, when he wore the face of Alyx Rivers, stealing and cheating and lying with his name. He had forgotten what that face had looked like, what the voice had sounded like, how old or young the body or how fine or course the hair. He recalled he might have loved, but could not recall of whom, and might have lived a modest life, though where was unfamiliar. All those things were replaced with knowledge that would serve him better then the memories of a dead man. He learned the many tongues of the free cities, mastering their accents and dialects to speak as well as any native. He served with seasoned sell swords who taught him to fight with sword and axe and dirk. He learned to walk as softly as a cat and as swiftly as a mouse, and move through the darkness as easily and quietly as both. He could use potions and herbs to heal most wounds better then any measter, and poisons to rival even those of Dorne. He learned to don new faces as easily as one would don a helm, and most important to his craft, he learned the fine art of death. Any man could kill, but only a faceless man could perfect the delicate details of it. No other man could killed as clean, strike with such precision, or vanished with as much grace and inscrutability as the shadow of death itself then a faceless man.  
One dark night, the hooded priest came to him as he supped alone by candlelight. He could hear a rat move in an adjoining room, but could never hear when the priest came or went until he was already upon him. “Who are you?” he asked softly. Before the voice would startle him, but no longer, surprise was a useless and dangerous response he had long abandoned. Timmon swallowed a mouthful of bean and bacon soup, placed his spoon into the bowl and laid his palms calmly on the table. 
“I am who I need to be.” he said plainly. 
“and who is that?”
“Toric…some call me Cougher.”
The old man placed his hand on Timmon’s shoulder, though he was not Timmon then. He wore a face not as pretty as Timmon’s, frightening in comparison. It was scarred and leathery, with thick purple bags under the eyes, one black the other pale and blind as a cave trout’s. His nose was bulbous and crooked, red and riddled with burst veins, with a set of wormy lips beneath, as chapped and chewed as a man to long under a desert sun, hiding a few brown and broken teeth. What hair he had was  gray and  thin and greasy, doing little to nothing in hiding the spotted scalp beneath. His body looked frail and hunched beneath his beggars rags, but he was as strong and spry as any man that looked not half his age. Cougher, sailors gave him the name. He’d slowly cane himself about the docks and alleyways, hacking into his phlegm coated handkerchief asking for a coin of kindness for a broken old man.
Some would fling him a penny or two, making sure to keep their distance. The young and drunk ones would often kick his cane from beneath him, laughing and mocking him as he fumbled for it on his hands and knees. Others simply paid him no mind at all, less to shoot him a glance of disgust or pity, or cover their mouths and noses to keep from breathing whatever diseases he may spread. The cougher reeked of death and sickness, a feeble creature half blind and deaf, though saw and heard more secrets and plots then any fly in Braavos. 
“Tell me,” the priest said in half a whisper, “In your many days surely you‘ve crossed many a man and learned of many a name.  No doubt, you have heard of the young thief by the name of Alyx Rivers. A murderer some say, if rumors could be trusted. Do you know of him?”
The cougher, nodded solemnly. “Aye, I knew of him, a shamed fool with a face too plain to recall. They hung him from a withered tree, and left him on a wooded road to choke and die and rot,  So they say. Only him of many faces knows for sure.”
“You lie.” 
“Old men tell tales. Some are only half truths, others woven from dim memories. That was the tale of Alyx Rivers, or what I have learned of it. If the story is a lie, I would not know. Rivers existed a lifetime ago, and no one will remember the truth of it. Heard of him aye, but this old man never met him, and if rumors be true he never will.”
“Then it is clear that you truly have learned much in your years, old man.”
The priest moved to take a seat across the table. His jaw line seemed to morph and contort beneath his hood from the shadows cast by the fluttering candle between them.  
“There is a cog,” the priest began, “set to sail westward to King‘s Landing. Its captain is a cautious man, weary of strangers, but coins can make a quick friend of him as it would with many men. A compelling man with coin to spare might persuade this captain to book himself passage on such a ship. Once in the west, this man will find a woman to greet him with a letter of great importance. This man must be have the look of a nobleman, a sharp intellect and versed in the ways of sword and shield and honor. Do you know such a man?”
“I do. He has not seen the west in many years, but he has not yet forgotten the lands. He is much younger and more handsome then I, but clever and well read in the histories of the seven kingdoms and its many houses. I trust this man would serve well.”
A smile parted the priests lips in agreement. He was well past eight and eighty but his mouth still held all its teeth, all evenly aligned and white as pearl. 
“I will leave you to your meal then my old friend, the hour is late but I am sure you have much to do. When you find this man, tell him the many faced god will be pleased with his devotion, as am I. Valar morghulis.”
“Valar dohaeris” the cougher replied, as the old priest left him to his soup and silence. 
The next morning, the Inn of the Green Eel was abuzz even before the sun had fully revealed itself from behind the horizon. Men were already filling the tables, stuffing down fried sardine and washing the spice from their pallet with bitter wines, trying to recover from a night of drunkenness or working on a day on it. The air was ripe with the scents of baking bread, stale ale and sailor musk, and the talk was that of this port or that, western rebellions, shifty traders or wonton women all spoken in a dozen different tongues. Only a few noticed the moment the well dressed youth entered, they gave him a quick go over, a loath full squint, then quickly went back to breaking there fast and drowning their ailments. His golden hair was fine and neatly combed flowing  in waves to his shoulders, and beneath it, piercing eyes of bronze. He wore a silken tunic of the same color as his locks, seamed with white and trimmed with a lighter shade of violet. Dark brown trousers covered his legs, with knee high boots of blacked leather to shield his feet. A longsword hung from his belt with a ebony hilt carved in the likeness of a serpent. Too pretty to be a sailor, the men could see that clearly. Perhaps the son of some wealthy trader, or a traveler from the west looking for some grand adventure in the lands beyond the sea, full of pride and a young fools bravery. The Inn keeper seemed to be the most leery of him, it was plain to see in his beady eyes when the dapper youth requested wine. The Inn keep was an ugly, portly man with the lips of a fish and hair as wild and black as a boars. He had a boars nose as well, tilted upwards and flattened against his pudgy red face, and smelled as if he had some dead and rotting creature buried in the folds of his neck. The youth had to ask him twice before the Inn keep finally broke his glare with a grunting response. “Coin first.”
The youth tossed a silver stag at him, but even that he did not trust. He had to bite at it with the remaining few teeth he had to be sure of its authenticity, scowling at the youth begrudgingly but taking it all the same.  The youth found himself a table near the back of the Inn seating himself with his back to the wall, allowing for a good view of anyone coming or going. When the Inn keep finally brought the wine, the youth stopped him before he could wobble away. “A cog named The Busty Gal is ported in Ragman’s Harbor, set to sail west near dawn. I have heard her Captain frequents here, favors your smoked fish to take with on his voyages. Do you know of him?”
The Inn Keep looked around, as if to be sure nobody was noticing him conversing with such a fancy fellow. “I might, depends on who’s ask’n?”
The youth grinned, pulling a golden coin to dance across his fingers. “A dragon.”
The inn keeps eyes widen and he licked his lips as his sausage like fingers reached for the gold, but the youth closed his palms around it before the man could snatch it. 
“Aye.” the Inn keep said, sweating at the prospect of reward. “Soggy Jon they call em. But if ya come to kill em, ya best go right back where ya came from. He’d eat a pretty lad like you ta break his fast.”
“I have no need of his life, Only his ship. I must book passage west as soon as yesterday. The Busty Gal is worn but swift I hear.”
“Aye, that she is. And not a finer Captain in Braavos to sail er.”
The youth opened his palm, But again before the man could grab it, his palm closed again to the Inn keeps increasing dismay. 
“And where would I find this captain?”
The Inn keep leered at him, until the youth revealed the coin once more, this time the Inn Keep was quick to grab it less it be hidden once more. He pointed to a table adjacent to the door where three men sat laughing. “There.” he grunted, before wondering off to his business, one dragon wealthier.