The fog in Braavos seemed thicker tonight, swallowing the city in a damp, suffocating veil. Ned Stark limped down a winding street, the weight of the night pressing down on him with a force he could barely withstand. His breath formed mist in the cold air, and the ache in his leg was a constant reminder that he was no longer the man he once was. The pain throbbed in time with the pulse of the city around him—Braavos, with its twisting streets and towering buildings, seemed alive, like a beast waiting to devour those who dared to wander too far from its light.
Ned had learned quickly that Braavos was not a city for the weak. The cobblestone streets were treacherous, lined with grime, and the shadows were home to creatures more dangerous than any wolf in the North. Here, strength was not measured by honor or title, but by cunning and survival. And in these darkened streets, Ned Stark was just another stranger, a broken man lost in a foreign land.
His cloak clung to him, wet from the fog that hung heavy in the air. The narrow alleyways seemed to close in around him, each step a reminder of how far he had fallen. There had been a time when he walked the halls of Winterfell with pride, the Lord of the North, a man of honor and integrity. But that man was dead now. What remained was a shadow, a shell of the man who had once stood tall among the great houses of Westeros.
Here, in the underbelly of Braavos, honor was a weakness. It had been the very thing that had brought him to this point, left him to rot in a foreign land, far from his home, his family. The thought of Winterfell, of his children, burned like a dagger in his chest. They were out there, somewhere, but he had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead. The distance between them felt infinite, and every day he spent in this city made the chasm grow wider.
Ned had no choice but to keep moving. Staying in one place for too long in Braavos invited danger. His leg screamed in protest with each step, but the pain had become a constant companion, something he had learned to live with. He passed under a low archway, the stone cold and slick beneath his fingers as he steadied himself against the wall. The street ahead of him opened into a narrow courtyard, a filthy place where the detritus of the city gathered in forgotten heaps. Rats scurried through the garbage, their eyes gleaming in the faint light of a distant lantern.
This was where he lived now—among the discarded, the forgotten. He had no money, no title, no power here. He was just another beggar, lost in a sea of the damned.
Ned paused at the edge of the courtyard, his gaze sweeping over the squalid scene. He had seen it all before, but tonight, it felt heavier, more oppressive. His leg was giving out beneath him, and he knew he would have to rest soon. The makeshift cane in his hand had become a lifeline, one he gripped tightly as he scanned the shadows for any sign of danger.
The air was thick with the stench of rot and waste, and somewhere in the distance, the soft gurgle of water echoed through the canals. The sound of Braavos at night was always the same—a symphony of decay, of forgotten souls and lost hope. And somewhere in that murky darkness, Ned Stark wandered, a man without purpose, without direction.
He found a small alcove tucked between two crumbling buildings, its shadowy depths offering a semblance of shelter. It wasn't much, but it would do for now. Ned lowered himself to the ground, his back resting against the cold stone wall. His leg throbbed painfully, the injury a constant reminder of his weakness. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weariness of the day wash over him.
The silence of the night was broken only by the distant sounds of the city—faint whispers of movement, the occasional clink of metal, the splash of water in the canals. It was never truly silent in Braavos, and yet tonight, the city felt quieter than usual, as if something lingered just beyond the veil of fog, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Ned's mind wandered as he sat there, his thoughts drifting back to Winterfell, to the family he had left behind. He saw Robb's face, strong and determined, the way his son had looked the last time they had spoken before he had left for King's Landing. How long ago that seemed now—an eternity, a lifetime. The North was far behind him, and yet it haunted his every thought.
He thought of Jon, the boy who had been like a son to him, though not by blood. The secret of Jon's true parentage was a burden he had carried for so long, and now, in the darkness of Braavos, it weighed on him more heavily than ever. He had wanted to tell Jon the truth, but the time had never seemed right. Now, it was too late. The boy was lost to him, just like the rest of his family.
A sharp pain shot through his leg, pulling him from his thoughts. He gritted his teeth, pressing his hand to the wound, as if the pressure might somehow dull the pain. It had been months since he had been injured, but the wound had never healed properly. Infection had set in more than once, and each time, it had left him weaker. He had tried to care for it himself, but without proper medicine, without the aid of a maester, there was only so much he could do.
The days in Braavos blended together, each one a reflection of the last. Time had lost all meaning here. Ned had been reduced to mere survival, moving from one moment to the next with no greater purpose than to stay alive. The man who had once been a leader, a protector, had been stripped of everything that had defined him.
His eyes scanned the courtyard again, lingering on the shadows that seemed to pulse with life. He had learned quickly that Braavos was not a place where one could let their guard down, not even for a moment. Danger lurked in every corner, and the city had a way of chewing up the weak and spitting them out.
Just as Ned was about to close his eyes, a sound reached his ears—a faint, almost imperceptible rustling. It was nothing at first, just the wind shifting through the alleyways. But then it came again, louder this time, closer. His hand instinctively tightened around the cane, his body tensing as his eyes searched the darkness.
From the far side of the courtyard, a figure emerged. Ned's heart leaped in his chest, his pulse quickening as he took in the sight of the man approaching. He was tall, his body cloaked in a tattered black robe, the hood pulled low over his face. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one sending a small ripple through the puddles of water that dotted the courtyard floor.
Ned remained still, his eyes fixed on the stranger. The man moved with a grace that belied his appearance, his movements fluid, almost predatory. Something about him felt off, wrong. There was an air of danger around him, a darkness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.
The stranger stopped a few paces from Ned, his face still obscured by the hood. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
"What do you want?" Ned finally asked, his voice rough, his throat dry from disuse.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was a coldness to it that sent a shiver down Ned's spine.
"You don't belong here."
The words hung in the air, their meaning clear. Ned had known it from the moment he had arrived in Braavos—he was an outsider, a stranger in a city that had no place for men like him. But hearing the words spoken aloud only solidified the truth he had been avoiding. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere anymore.
The man took a step closer, and Ned's grip on the cane tightened. He wasn't sure if he could fight this man, wasn't sure if he even had the strength left to try. But he wouldn't go down without a fight, not here, not like this.
"Who are you?" Ned asked, his voice steady despite the fear that coiled in his chest.
The man's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile.
"A friend," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Or perhaps something else. It depends on what you need."
Ned's breath hitched, the fog curling around him like a shroud. There was something in the man's voice—cold, empty, like the promise of death. Ned had encountered men like him before, men whose words were just as deadly as their blades. In Braavos, you learned quickly that a man could kill you with a smile just as easily as with a knife.
The stranger took another step forward, the hood still obscuring his face. His presence seemed to drain the light from the narrow courtyard, as though the city itself was recoiling from him. The fog thickened, and Ned could feel the weight of the man's gaze even though he couldn't see his eyes. It was like being judged by a faceless god.
"I need nothing from you," Ned said finally, his voice steady though his heart raced. "I am no one."
The man chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Ned's spine. "No one? Perhaps. But no one still has a face. No one still has a name."
Ned's fingers tightened on the cane. He didn't like where this was going. Braavos was full of secrets, and many of them were deadly. He had heard the whispers, the rumors of the House of Black and White and the Faceless Men who called it home. Assassins, merciless and skilled beyond reason, who could be anyone, anywhere. But he hadn't believed the stories—until now.
The man stepped closer, and the fog seemed to part just enough for Ned to glimpse the edge of his face beneath the hood. His skin was pale, unnaturally so, and his eyes gleamed in the dim light. There was something wrong about him, something inhuman. Ned felt the old instinct to reach for a sword, to prepare for a fight. But he had no sword, and his body was no longer capable of the battles he had once fought.
"You don't belong here," the man repeated, his voice a whisper of death. "But perhaps... there is still use for you."
Ned's jaw clenched. "I have no use for killers."
The man's smile grew, slow and deliberate, like a snake preparing to strike. "You misunderstand. In Braavos, everyone is a killer. Some just do it for a higher price."
Ned didn't answer. His thoughts raced, but his body remained still, frozen in place by the tension between them. He had learned long ago that men like this only made themselves known when they wanted something. And in Braavos, the price of such knowledge was often paid in blood.
The man tilted his head again, as if weighing a decision. "Winterfell... you miss it, don't you?"
Ned's chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The mention of Winterfell, his home, was like a blade through his heart. It had been so long since he had heard the name spoken aloud, and now, in this godforsaken city, it felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.
"How do you know of Winterfell?" Ned asked, his voice low, a growl of suspicion.
"I know many things," the man said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "You are not as forgotten as you think, Ned Stark."
The name sent a shock through Ned's body. It had been months since anyone had called him by his true name. Here, he was no one. But now, this stranger, this ghost of Braavos, stood before him, speaking his name as if it were a secret they shared.
"Who are you?" Ned asked again, this time with more force. "What do you want?"
The man's smile didn't fade. He stepped closer, his face now fully visible beneath the hood. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes dark and hollow, and his smile held no warmth. There was something ancient about him, something that made Ned's blood run cold.
"Names don't matter," the man said softly. "But I have something that does."
Ned's pulse quickened as the man reached into the folds of his cloak, pulling out a small, weathered piece of parchment. He held it out to Ned, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity.
"Read it," the man urged, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ned hesitated, his hand hovering over the parchment. Something about this felt wrong, as if by accepting it, he would be crossing a line he couldn't return from. But he had no choice. He was a broken man, lost in the depths of a city that wanted nothing to do with him. If this parchment held any answers, any way out of this hell, he had to take it.
His fingers brushed against the rough paper as he took it from the man's hand. The stranger's smile widened as Ned unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar script. The words were written in the language of Braavos, but their meaning was clear enough.
It was a contract.
A contract for death.
Ned's stomach twisted as the realization hit him. This man wasn't offering him help. He was offering him a job. A job that would stain his hands with blood, just like the assassins who lurked in the shadows of this city.
"I'm no killer," Ned said, his voice harsh.
The man's eyes gleamed in the darkness. "Not yet."
Ned felt the weight of the parchment in his hand, the words staring back at him like an accusation. Could he do this? Could he abandon everything he had once stood for, everything he had fought to protect? The man who had once been Lord of Winterfell, the man who had believed in honor and justice, would have burned this paper without a second thought. But that man was gone, buried beneath the weight of betrayal and loss.
"I have no use for this," Ned said, his voice hollow as he tried to hand the parchment back.
The man's smile never faltered. "You will. When the time comes, you will."
With that, the man turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared into the fog, leaving Ned alone in the courtyard, the contract still clutched in his trembling hand. The weight of the paper felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
For a long moment, Ned stood there, the fog swirling around him, the silence of the city pressing in on all sides. His heart raced, his mind spinning with the implications of what had just happened. He had been offered a way out, a way to reclaim his life, but at what cost?
He glanced down at the parchment again, the words blurring before his eyes. His hands were shaking, his thoughts tangled in a web of fear and doubt. He had never killed for profit, never taken a life without reason. But Braavos was different. This city demanded sacrifice, demanded blood, and if he was to survive here, he would have to make a choice.
Could he do it? Could he become the very thing he had always despised?
As the fog thickened around him, Ned crumpled the parchment in his hand, his knuckles white with the effort. He wouldn't become a killer, not yet. But the seed had been planted, and he knew that in Braavos, nothing stayed buried for long.
With a final glance at the empty courtyard, Ned turned and limped away, his leg screaming in protest with each step. The fog closed in behind him, swallowing the city once more, and as he disappeared into the shadows, the contract weighed heavy in his pocket.
He didn't know what the future held, but one thing was certain—he was no longer the man he had once been. And in Braavos, that might be the only thing that kept him alive.
The fog clung to Ned as he limped through the twisting alleys of Braavos, his thoughts tangled in the web of doubt the stranger had woven around him. The crumpled contract burned in his pocket, its weight dragging on his conscience like a leaden chain. He couldn't shake the feeling that the man's words had already begun to poison his mind, planting seeds of doubt where there had once been only honor.
Honor. The word felt hollow now, an echo of a life long gone. Here, in the underbelly of Braavos, honor was a luxury no one could afford. Survival was the only currency that mattered, and Ned was beginning to understand just how much he would have to sacrifice to keep himself alive.
The streets grew narrower as he walked, the buildings closing in around him, their walls slick with moisture from the ever-present fog. Ned's leg ached with each step, the pain radiating up through his hip and into his spine. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the weakness that threatened to consume him. He couldn't afford to stop, not here, not now.
His mind replayed the encounter with the stranger over and over, each word like a dagger twisting deeper into his soul. The man had known him—known Winterfell, known his name. That alone was enough to unsettle him, but it was the offer that gnawed at him the most. A contract for death. The Faceless Men, if that's what the stranger had been, were not like the killers Ned had known in Westeros. They didn't kill out of anger, revenge, or even greed. They killed because it was their duty, their purpose.
Ned had never believed in such things. Killing was never a duty. It was a choice, and every life taken left a scar, whether it was visible or not. He had taken lives before—on the battlefield, in defense of his family, in the name of justice. But this was different. This was cold, calculated murder for hire. Could he do it? Could he become a killer in the shadows, like the very men he had once hunted?
The thought made his stomach churn, but he couldn't dismiss it. The truth was simple, brutal: if he didn't find a way to survive in Braavos, he would die here, forgotten in the fog. And if he died, there would be no one left to fight for his family. He would never see Winterfell again. He would never see his children again.
The faces of his children flashed before his eyes, each one a reminder of what he had lost. Robb, proud and fierce, marching to war in the name of justice. Sansa, alone and trapped in a world of vipers, her innocence stolen by the cruelty of the Lannisters. Arya, lost somewhere in the world, her fate unknown. Bran, crippled, left to fend for himself in a world that would not show him mercy. And Jon—Jon, who wasn't truly his son, but whom he had loved as if he were.
Ned's heart twisted at the thought of Jon, the boy who had lived his whole life believing he was a bastard, never knowing the truth of his parentage. Ned had kept that secret, carried it with him like a weight on his soul. He had promised his sister Lyanna that he would protect Jon, that he would keep him safe. But now, here in Braavos, what good were promises? What good was honor when it left you powerless to protect the ones you loved?
The questions gnawed at him, relentless and unyielding. He couldn't save his family from here. He couldn't even save himself. The stranger's offer had been clear—there was a way out, but the cost would be steep. And yet, as much as Ned wanted to reject the offer, to cling to what little remained of his honor, he knew the truth. In Braavos, honor was a death sentence. And if he wasn't careful, he would find himself at the wrong end of a Faceless Man's blade.
The streets grew darker as Ned continued to walk, the fog thickening around him until it felt like he was wading through a sea of shadows. The buildings loomed overhead, their windows like empty eyes staring down at him, watching his every move. He had never felt so alone, so isolated from the world he had once known. Even in the darkest moments of his time in King's Landing, when he had been betrayed and imprisoned, he had never felt this level of despair.
The weight of the contract in his pocket seemed to grow heavier with each step, a reminder that he now stood at a crossroads. He could reject the offer, cling to his principles, and likely die here in the streets of Braavos, another forgotten soul lost to the fog. Or he could accept the offer, become something he had never thought he could be, and perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to survive.
But survival came at a cost. Could he really sacrifice the last shred of his honor for the chance to live? Could he become a killer in the shadows, a man without a name, without a face, just like the stranger who had offered him the contract?
Ned's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He froze, his body tensing as his hand instinctively went to the makeshift cane at his side. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, echoing off the stone walls of the narrow alley. Whoever was following him wasn't in a hurry, but there was an unmistakable menace in the way the steps echoed through the fog.
He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the gloom for any sign of movement. At first, there was nothing, just the thick fog and the faint outline of the buildings surrounding him. But then, out of the darkness, a figure emerged. It was another man, dressed in dark, weathered clothes, his face obscured by a hood pulled low over his head. He walked with purpose, each step measured, as if he had all the time in the world.
Ned tightened his grip on the cane, ready to defend himself if necessary. His heart raced, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he tried to assess the threat. The man's movements were calm, too calm. He wasn't a common thief, nor did he seem like one of the city's many beggars. No, this man was something else. Something dangerous.
The man stopped a few paces away, his hooded face turned toward Ned. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like the fog that surrounded them.
"You've been marked," the man said finally, his voice low and smooth. "They're watching you now."
Ned's pulse quickened. "Who are you talking about?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering his next words. "You know who."
The Faceless Men. Ned didn't need to hear the name to understand the meaning behind the man's words. The stranger from earlier had set something in motion, something that Ned wasn't sure he could stop.
"They won't leave you alone," the man continued, his voice a whisper in the night. "Not until you make a choice."
Ned's jaw tightened. "And what choice is that?"
The man smiled, though there was no warmth in the gesture. "To become one of them, or to die."
The words hit Ned like a blow, the weight of them sinking into his chest. He had known, deep down, that this was the choice he was facing. The stranger's offer had been clear—join them, become one of the Faceless Men, or face the consequences. But hearing it spoken aloud made it all the more real, all the more terrifying.
"And if I refuse?" Ned asked, though he already knew the answer.
The man's smile faded, his eyes darkening beneath the hood. "You won't refuse. Not if you want to live."
Ned's heart pounded in his chest, the reality of his situation crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He had always thought of himself as a man of honor, a man who would never stoop to the level of assassins and murderers. But here, in the fog-choked streets of Braavos, honor felt like a distant memory, something that belonged to another life. A life that was gone.
The man took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They're waiting for you. You can run, but you'll never escape them. Not here."
Ned's throat tightened. He had no illusions about what would happen if he refused the offer. The Faceless Men didn't take no for an answer. And if he wasn't careful, he would find himself on the wrong end of their blades.
"I don't want to become one of them," Ned said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The man's smile returned, though it was more of a smirk this time. "You don't have to want it. You just have to do it."
Ned's mind raced. Could he really do this? Could he abandon everything he had ever believed in, everything he had ever stood for, just to survive? The thought made his stomach churn, but he knew the truth. In Braavos, there were no easy choices. And if he wanted to live, if he wanted to have any chance of seeing his family again, he would have to become something else. Something darker.
The man reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, silver coin. He held it out to Ned, the metal gleaming in the dim light.
"You'll need this," the man said, his voice barely a whisper. "When the time comes, you'll know what to do."
Ned stared at the coin, his heart pounding in his chest. It was the same kind of coin he had seen before, the kind used by the Faceless Men to pay for their deadly services. It was a symbol, a key to a door he wasn't sure he wanted to open.
But in the end, he had no choice.
His hand trembled as he reached out and took the coin from the man's hand, the metal cold against his skin. The man's smile widened, and for a brief moment, Ned saw something in his eyes—something dark, something ancient.
"You've already made your choice," the man said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the fog swirling around them. "Welcome to the shadows, Ned Stark."