Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Pentos—a sweet port, a city of scheming

It is the free trading city-state on the continent of Essos that is closest to King's Landing, the capital of Westeros.

Before the ship even docked, the wind carried the "scent" of Pentos—a cloyingly sweet aroma, almost chewy, of wine, lingering in the salty sea breeze. They say it's the city's breath, its soul. To me, it's simply Pentos's most straightforward self-introduction: here, everything is intoxicating, and everything is priced and traded.

Pentos was originally ruled by a prince, chosen from among the adult males of forty noble families, who ruled for life until his death, at which point a successor was elected. Today, Pentos is effectively ruled by governors, and while the prince is still chosen from among the forty families, he now only performs ceremonial duties, presiding over meetings and festive banquets.

The peace treaty stipulated that the people of Pentos could not possess more than 20 warships, could not employ mercenaries, enter into contracts with free mercenary groups, or maintain any army beyond the city's guard. Therefore, this city was very weak! So weak that it had to send gifts and gold and silver to the Dothraki king.

I visited the palace, a gift from Governor Pentos to Dothraki, standing beside the bay with nine towers and brick walls covered in ivy. It's where a story began and well worth a visit.

Pentos is a thriving port city, so its docks are the most bustling and vibrant.

The docks were crowded and noisy, with piles of brightly colored carpets, like butterflies in flight, almost bending the wooden planks. Merchants approached, their smiles sweeter than wine, their words stickier than honey. They raised their silver cups, their every word a refrain from addressing "friends" and "respect." But I knew—behind every compliment lay a calculation, every glance an assessment of your worth. If you praised his carpets, he had already prepared a price in his mind; if you glanced at his slaves, he was already speculating whether you wanted to discuss a human trafficking deal. So I simply smiled and nodded, sparing no genuine praise. In this city, silence was the highest form of courtesy.

Today I visited three wine merchants and drank no less than ten glasses of their proud "legacy wines".

Without exception, it was sweet. Too sweet. So sweet it was almost unbearable, like drinking syrup. They swirled the purplish-red liquid in their goblets with pride, recounting family traditions and secret recipes. But all I could think was: this kind of wine, the first glass is enjoyment, the second is toleration, and the third becomes a burden. —Truly good wine should make you want to come back again and again. And I, someone who has sailed the world since I was seven but has never been allowed to drink, tasted this so-called "nectar" for the first time and felt only...disappointment.

Before this, due to my age, I had never drunk alcohol. After drinking the so-called sweet wine of Pentos, which was praised by everyone, I felt that these so-called wines were just grape juice for children!

In the afternoon I went to the vineyards outside the city.

Under the blazing sun, the vines stood neatly in rows, and workers bent over to harvest them—everything was just as it had been centuries ago. I picked a nearly burst, plump grape; juice splattered out, a deep, blood-red hue. Such perfect fruit… only to be made into sweet juice to please children. This was a waste, and even more so, a disgrace.

The thought in my mind grew clearer and clearer: this was an opportunity for the people of the world to taste what real wine really tasted like! It would be a guaranteed money-maker! However, I wouldn't be able to actually try it until I returned to the Iron Islands, to control the fermentation temperature, or introduce some of Dorne's dried spices to balance the sweetness, and to improve the packaging so that the wine could sail farther and longer without spoiling…

The people of Pentos are masters of trade, and I will give them a deal they've never even imagined: I'm not buying your wine; I'm going to redefine what wine is using your grapes and my methods. One day, they'll be cursing my wine for stealing their prized business while they're happily drinking my improved brew, and my pockets will be overflowing with the money I've robbed them of.

Completing a travel plan in two and a half years was indeed a tight schedule, with most of the time spent on the road. Therefore, time for exploring cities was inevitably limited. In the end, I spent a total of fourteen days in Pentos. During my trip to Pentos, I earned a total of 2600 points.

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Norfolk – Stairs, Bells, and the Shadow of Monks

We arrived at this city, divided by divine authority and stone walls. Norfolk is not one city, but two—one perched atop a mountain, the other nestled in a valley, connected by the infamous "Stairway to the Sinners." Three hundred feet high, separating not only the rich and the poor, but also two completely different lives.

The upper town, locked by massive stone walls, was the fortress of the bearded monks. Life here was as hard and cold as its architecture. Summers were sweltering and humid, winters were bitterly cold, and the only thing that never ceased was the endless chanting of prayers from the temples. Everything was shrouded in a solemn, austere, and suffocating piety.

But their goods were tangible: thick textiles to withstand the salty winds of the Iron Islands, and fine oak exactly what we needed to rebuild our fleet. I restrained myself, intending to exchange gold and silence for what we needed. I spoke with the monks, dressed in coarse linen robes, their beards reaching their waists, their eyes lacking the greed expected of merchants, only a bottomless scrutiny. Doing business with them was strange—it felt less like haggling and more like a silent confession.

Descending the "Staircase of Sinners" felt like falling from an altar into the mortal realm. The lower town was filled with the shouts of dockworkers, the low laughter of brothels, and the clamor of taverns. The air was thick with the bitterness of dark beer and the sourness of fermented goat's milk. I tried their "Donggao"—a hard cake mixed with ginger, pine cones, and cherries, served in a metal cup of a honey-infused milk wine called "Nasa." The taste was rough yet distinct, much like the city itself.

"Long Legs" Lomas called the bells here a miracle of the world. When I heard the three giant bells ringing simultaneously, the booming sound seeming to come from the depths of the mountain, shaking the heavens and the soul, I had to admit—he was right. The sound was solemn and majestic, as if it could cleanse all evil, yet firmly lock everyone in the order of God.

However, haha, a group of monks ruling a country suddenly reminded me of some Buddhist kingdoms in Journey to the West, a strange feeling. If there were a chance to have these bearded monks come down from the steps and become truly desireless monks, that would be very interesting.