#faceless men

The contract was simple—kill Daemon Targaryen. The man they called the Rogue Prince.

You had been trained in the ways of the Faceless Men since you were old enough to wield a blade. Death had been your teacher, your god, and your constant companion. You were one of their finest—swift, silent, untraceable. Kings had fallen to your hand, their last breaths stolen before they could even summon fear. You had whispered poison into the ears of men who led empires, guiding them to ruin with a smile. Wars had begun from your murmured lies, and entire bloodlines had perished by your unseen design.

Daemon Targaryen should have been no different.

And yet—somehow—he was.

Perhaps it was his name, the title he held as a Targaryen prince—a title steeped in dragonfire and blood. Perhaps it was his skill as a warrior, feared and respected even among the deadliest fighters of Essos. Or perhaps it was the simple, maddening truth that Daemon Targaryen did not fear death.

He welcomed it.

You arrived in King’s Landing under the guise of a courtesan.

One of the many forgotten beauties who haunted the downtrodden slums of Flea Bottom. The face you chose to wear was soft, demure—easily forgotten. It was a face that blended easily into the background, yet pleasing enough to catch the eye of a man like him.

And eventually it did.

The plan had been flawless. Everyone knew of Daemon Targaryen’s disdain for his lady wife, Rhea Royce. He made no effort to hide it, no attempt to preserve even the illusion of marital affection. The court whispered endlessly of his affairs—of which taverns and brothels the Rogue Prince favoured and frequented.

It hadn’t taken long for you to find the one he returned to most often, nor to become one of the women who worked there. You slipped into the role as easily as a serpent into shadow—another pretty thing meant to please and soothe the appetites of men who thought themselves gods.

The brothel you chose was draped in gossamer and incense, filled with the hum of laughter and the rustle of silks. It was one of the higher-end establishments in Flea Bottom and it didn’t take long for him to finally deign a visit.

Nor did it take long for him to notice you through the haze of smoke and silks. Daemon Targaryen knew every cutpurse, gambler, and whore that haunted these streets, every soul worth knowing—or using. And yet, you were a face he’d never seen before.

You felt his gaze first, burning against your skin before you dared to look up. Through the swaying curtains of sheer fabric, silver hair caught the candlelight, and those keen violet eyes found you. He pushed past the hanging sheets as he sauntered toward you like a predator cornering its prey.

You turned slowly to face him, careful to keep your expression composed. A faint smirk curved his mouth as his gaze trailed down your form with open, unhurried interest.

“Come here, pretty thing,” he purred, voice low and edged with command. “I’ve not seen you before.”

You tilted your head, lowering your gaze with the perfect measure of modesty. “Few ever do, my prince.”

His laughter rolled out like dark velvet. You were such a pretty little mouse, and he decided then that he would have you before the night was through.

If only he knew how true your words were—how few ever did see you and live to tell the tale.

One night of passion turned to two, two became three, and three became many as you charmed Daemon Targaryen into returning for more.

Your sweetness—soft, yielding, submissive—had been what first drew him in. You played the part flawlessly, a delicate thing meant to be adored and claimed, the perfect contrast to his hunger for dominance and control. Yet it was the fire beneath your surface, the spark that slipped through when he pushed too far, that truly ensnared him. He was a dragon, after all, and dragons were drawn to flame.

You intrigued him.

To Daemon, you were a puzzle—one he intended to unravel piece by piece. A predator cloaked in the skin of a sheep, your claws hidden behind demure smiles and downcast eyes. And he wanted to know just how sharp those claws truly were.

You became the envy of ladies and the desire of men as Daemon began to demand more of your company—shamelessly parading you on his arm at feasts, insisting you be present at the training yards, a constant fixture at his side. 

Eventually, the prince moved what had become his nightly indulgences to his personal chambers in the Red Keep, where silk sheets tangled with silver hair and the scent of fire and blood filled the air. You had come to deceive him, to lure him to his death. Yet, as each night bled into the next, the line between duty and indulgence began to blur until you could no longer tell where the mask ended and you began.

Duty began to mix with desire. You found yourself craving more than his touch. You wanted his mind, his possession, the dark and unguarded corners of him that few ever saw. And though you told yourself it was all part of the act, a tool to get closer to your mark, you could no longer deny the truth.

You watched him more closely than duty ever required. You noticed the way his jaw tightened whenever his brother’s name was spoken, the quiet reverence with which he approached Caraxes, his blood-red dragon, and the rare, fleeting tenderness that softened his eyes when he thought no one was watching. 

It was supposed to be an illusion—your affection, your softness, the careful mask of devotion. Yet as you got to know the man beyond what most saw, felt the tenderness of his touch and dare you say growing affection, you began to realize that you had woven the snare around yourself.

You were trained to see weakness in men, to exploit it to your advantage. But Daemon’s flaws were not weaknesses—they were the very things that made him dangerous.

Daemon Targaryen was no fool. It was something you should have remembered as you played this perilous game with him, because one slip of your mask—one misstep—and it would not be he who met the god of death. It would be you.

Yet each time his rough fingers brushed your skin, each time his lips ghosted along your neck as he claimed your body and murmured that you belonged to him, the sharp edge of purpose began to dull. The weight of the contract that bound you, the threat of failure that loomed over your every move—all of it faded beneath the heat of his touch.

You began to forget the reason you were there.

You began to forget that you were death in disguise.

But the little world you had built for yourself—woven of lies, silk sheets, and stolen moments—could not last forever. Sooner or later, duty would demand its due. And when it did, it would demand the sacrifice promised.

That night you decided the lie could no longer hold. Your heart was far too gone; if there was any chance of finishing what you had been sent to do, it would have to be now, before whatever this was could root any deeper. You waited after your coupling, feigning falling asleep, waiting until the rise and fall of his chest slowed as his breath deepened with slumber.

Your hand slipped beneath the pillow, retrieving the small, slender needle hidden there—a weapon so delicate it could kill without leaving a trace. The poison upon its tip shimmered faintly in the moonlight.

For a long moment, you simply watched. Daemon Targaryen lay sprawled across the sheets, his silver hair fanned like spun silver against the pillow. The soft glow from the window kissed his skin, painting him in light and shadow—too beautiful to belong to the realm of men.

It felt almost sacrilegious to end such beauty.

You could not even take his face to immortalize him in the Hall of Faces; his death had to appear natural and discreet—as if it were nothing more than the mysterious will of the gods. Such was the way of the Faceless Men.

The delicate features of your masked face hardened as you steeled yourself for what had to be done. In one fluid motion, you moved—swinging a leg over him, straddling his waist, the poisoned needle glinting faintly in your hand. 

You watched his violet eyes snap open as the needle came down to finally end him, yet just before it could pierce his skin, you froze at the very last second. The point hovered inches from his throat, so close that a single breath more might have finished what you had come to do. 

His gaze was unflinching, even as sleep still clung to him like fog. He watched you carefully, his sharp mind already beginning to piece together the truth of what you were.

The pale moonlight painted him in shadow and light, the silver of his hair gleaming against the dark silk of the sheets. They had pooled low around his hips, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the faint sheen of sweat along his skin. His sword, Dark Sister, lay within reach, yet he made no move toward it. Only his eyes moved—tracking the rise and fall of your chest as you straddled him, knees braced against his ribs.

The dart in your hand quivered.

For a heartbeat, you hated yourself for it.

“Valar Morghulis,” you whispered, the words softly rolling off your tongue like a final vow. You tried to remind yourself of what must be done—of who you were, of the god you served.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of recognition sparking in them like struck flint. “Valar Dohaeris,” he murmured in reply, his voice rough with sleep yet still carrying that effortless, sultry lilt that always seemed to undo you. A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips as he studied you. 

“A Faceless One,” he drawled, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and fascination. “So the whispers of your guild were true.”

His gaze drifted down to the dart trembling in your hand, then back up to your face—the one he suddenly realized wasn’t truly yours, if the rumours of your kind held any truth.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “if I am to die tonight… isn’t it only fair I see the true face of my killer?”

You hesitated. No one had ever asked that. No one had ever deserved it either.

Still, your free hand rose to your jaw as you peeled the mask away. The false face came off like silken fabric and was tossed carelessly beside him, landing soundlessly among the sheets. In its place, your true face was revealed. Sharp eyes glinting in the dim glow, hair spilling loose around your shoulders, lips parted in surprise of what you’d done.

Daemon inhaled sharply, as though the sight had stolen the air from him.

He was the first mark to ever see your true face, and you watched as his pupils blew wide with something that was not fear—but desire.

“Seven hells…” he groaned. “No wonder the gods hide you behind other faces.” His hand, bold even now, traced a path up your thigh. “If this is one of the many faces of death,” he murmured, his voice a sin all on its own, “then I die willingly. But before you claim me—tell me, vezof ñuha—who is it that set you upon me?"

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “What difference shall it make? Is seeing the face of death not enough?”

“You may have her face but you cannot be her,” he murmured, sitting up slowly until your faces were a breath apart. His hand came to rest at the back of your neck, thumb grazing your jaw in a touch that was both intimate and possessive. “If you were truly death, sweet thing, I’d have met you long ago.” His breath brushed your lips as he leaned closer, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “After all, I’ve been courting her all my life.”

Your heart stuttered, a thing you hadn’t felt in years. You were trained to be detached, nothing more than a vessel for the will of the Many-Faced God. But here he was, a dragon in mortal flesh, looking at you as though you were a treasure he’d decided on keeping.

You swallowed hard, forcing steel into your voice. “You should not provoke me.”

Daemon’s smirk deepened.  “I provoke everyone,” he drawled. “Only you seem not to mind it.”

You glared at him, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. “You find this amusing? That your life hangs by a thread?”

“My life has always hung by a thread,” he said lazily, as though the fact were of little concern. “The difference tonight,” he murmured, eyes glinting like amethyst fire, “is who holds the other end.”

His thumb slipped down to the hollow of your throat, feeling the wild beat beneath your skin. “So tell me, little assassin… if you’ve come to kill me, why do your hands tremble?”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t realized he’d noticed—it was so slight, so imperceptible, you only knew because you felt it.

“I could kill you before you can even blink,” you warned, though your voice lacked the certainty you wished it carried.

“Do it, then,” Daemon challenged softly, his gaze locked on yours. He waited—patient, infuriatingly so—watching the war play out behind your eyes. But you didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

A knowing smirk ghosted across his lips. “You won’t,” he said, voice a velvet drawl. “Because you’ve already chosen.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat louder than the last. The poisoned dart wavered once in your grip, then slipped from your fingers, falling soundlessly onto the sheets beside your discarded mask.

You hated the rush of relief that followed—hated the way your body betrayed you when his hands found your hips, drawing you closer as if he had always known you could never go through with his death.

“You belong to me, vezof ñuha,” he growled, the words rumbling against your skin, dangerous and darkly possessive. “I am your god now.”

His claim sent a shiver down your spine—not of fear, but of something far more treacherous. You wanted to resist, to remind him that you served no man, no king, no god but the Many-Faced One. And yet, as his fingers dug into your hips, your denial withered on your tongue.

“You’re no god,” you breathed, though the tremor in your voice betrayed the lie.

Daemon’s smile was slow, a flash of teeth catching the moonlight. “Aren’t I?” he murmured, his hand sliding up your spine until it found the back of your neck, holding you there—close enough that his breath brushed your lips, his steady heartbeat drumming against your chest. 

“Valar Dohaeris,” he whispered, the words a dark reminder, a vow twisted into temptation. “If you cannot kill…” His thumb brushed the pulse at your throat, feeling it race beneath his touch. “…you must serve.”

And when his lips finally claimed yours, rough and possessive, you stopped resisting altogether. You melted into him, into the fire and hunger and inevitability of what you had become. Every ounce of training, every prayer to the Many-Faced God, every rule you’d lived by shattered beneath his touch.

You served him that night—willingly, completely—giving yourself over to every dark desire he demanded of you. Because while he might have been your god in that moment, you decided, with trembling defiance and aching clarity, that you would be his queen.

Translations

Vezof ñuha — My Beloved/My Love

Valar Morghulis — All men must die