Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Crossing the Kohol Forest—Shadows with teeth, legend says they bite.

We entered the territory of the Kohol Forest. If Norfolk is a mountain town locked away by faith, then this is land steeped in ancient malice. Towering ancient trees twist and gnarled, blocking out the sun, the light so thin it seemed like the occasional mercy bestowed by the gods. There was no path beneath our feet, only mud and tangled traps, each step feeling like stepping into a nightmare we didn't want to wake from.

The air was thick and damp, filled with the smells of decaying leaves, damp earth, and another indescribable odor—a metallic, yet bloody smell, which the locals called "the rust of magic." They said there were bandits here, traps more cunning than bandits, and something even older—dark magic settled here, like miasma in the forest, invisible yet deadly.

We passed a forgotten temple. More than a temple, it was a jumble of stones and the remnants of madness. Vines coiled like veins around the crumbling statues, their faces blurred by time and runes, yet still unsettling. The symbols were unfamiliar to me, yet I felt an instinctive repulsion—they weren't pleading for blessings, but imprisoning something. A mercenary reached out to touch a shard of broken stone that seemed to whisper, but Red Viper sharply stopped him. Here, curiosity was a quicker death than any sword.

Deeper into the forest, we encountered bandits, but it was clear we outnumbered them and had sharper blades. They retreated silently. We didn't pursue them, because the Kohor Forest was their territory; they knew every blade of grass and every tree there, and I didn't want to fall into a trap and be ambushed.

As night fell, the forest was fully awakened by darkness, so intense that the firelight could only illuminate a small, fragile area, and beyond that... something was moving. Not human, not beast, but some slow, deep, patient presence. It disliked being disturbed, and we had all become uninvited guests. I ordered the watchmen to double their ranks, standing back to back, and forbidding anyone from leaving the firelight's perimeter. The Ironborn and mercenaries gripped their weapons tightly, silently listening to the slow, grinding sound that surrounded us, as if something enormous was dragging its feet, circling our only source of light.

The thing didn't disappear until dawn. No one saw it, but everyone felt it. No one slept well that night. But when the sun came up, even though we were exhausted, we immediately set off to get out of this damned forest before nightfall.

I guarantee this is a place you absolutely won't want to stay another night!

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Kohol – Iron and Fire, Blood and Price

We emerged from that damned forest, leaving the shadows and whispers behind, only to be met with the scorching heat of Kohol. The entire city was like a giant, never-ending forge, even the air seemed to burn—the acrid smell of metal, the pungent stench of sulfur, and some deeper, more primal force, like blood and soul being forged. Each breath felt like inhaling sparks into our lungs.

The streets here don't belong to pedestrians, but to blacksmiths and their creations. The sound of hammers striking echoes from every corner, never ceasing, like the city's raging heartbeat. Craftsmen toil in the firelight and shadows, their hands wielding secret arts passed down for millennia, forging swords said to drink in moonlight and cleave spells. And deeper within, those clad in red robes—mages—explore magic paid for with blood and fire. I once saw an old man's eyes; what flickered within them wasn't a gaze, but the very core of a furnace. Here, knowledge is more expensive and more dangerous than gold. Every question comes with a price, and some answers you may not be able to afford.

But I like the rules here. A clear price tag is much more real than the empty vows and hollow honors of Westeros.

Tired from walking, I stopped at a smoking stall and ordered a spicy sausage and a glass of what they called "Fire Breath." The sausage sizzled on the charcoal, its robust texture and scalding juices exploding with a sharp, spicy kick. Then I downed the liquor—it wasn't really liquor at all, more like liquid flames, burning from my throat down to my stomach, the intense heat almost hallucinating. In an instant, the chill and fear that had settled over the forest were completely burned away.

I invited the best blacksmiths to the Iron Islands with three times the reward, promising freedom, gold, and endless charcoal and ore. Some wavered, their eyes gleaming with the distant firelight. But a few old stalwarts remained, heads bowed, saying they were rooted in this cold soil, and money could not sway their faith.

So I turned to my silent Iron Citizen followers, my voice not loud, but enough to make even the stiffest backs tremble slightly: "Do you still remember our ancient road?"

Needless to say, they remember, and will never forget. We come from the sea, and taking by force is our doctrine. If a request is not accepted, then... there are many ways to persuade, but if someone insists on taking the punishment instead of accepting the offer, then the method of "asking" might not be so harmonious.

Kohol thought it was protected by the mountains and watched over by the gods. But they forgot that the people of the Iron Islands knew nothing of obstruction. After we left the city, many blacksmiths disappeared, but they were not pursued as one might have imagined. Apart from their closest blood relatives, few people searched for their whereabouts, because the city had no shortage of blacksmiths, and the bearded monks paid no attention to these "lower classes."

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Loras—Stone and Shadow, Blood and Silence

Continuing south, the road narrows like a shrinking snake, winding its way into the gray, somber mountains of Loras. Here, there is no clamor of caravans, no salty winds of the harbor, only a suffocating silence. It is a heavy weight, pressing down on your shoulders.

The locals are like the mountains themselves: hard, austere, and taciturn. They assess you with their eyes and respond with silence. A nod might signify approval, while averting their gaze could be a warning. Here, words are superfluous, and may even be dangerous.

A sound echoed throughout the valley—the crisp clinking of chisels against marble. Loras was not a wealthy land, but it was rich in two things: silvery-white stone with veins like moonlight, and silver-rich veins buried deep underground. Stone carving workshops were built along the mountainside, where artisans had conversed with the stone for generations, transforming the cold, hard ore into works of art that were both graceful and sharp. They carved in silence, as if each stroke was etching unreadable family secrets into the stone.

The food is as coarse and substantial as the land itself: salty, bitter goat cheese, hard nut cakes that could be used as armor, accompanied by a pot of bitter tea brewed with mountain spring water. It may not please the taste buds, but it keeps you alive—here, survival is the only recognized luxury.

But my purpose here was not stones or cheese. I saw their silver mines, their workshops where they had forged weapons for generations. Their stonemasons were highly skilled; I offered them thirty percent above market value, my eyes revealing the ambition of the Iron Islands. Some silently shook their heads, their loyalty as deep as the roots of their families. As for those who hesitated, my Ironborn follower simply stepped forward, his fingers casually resting on the axe handle, saying nothing, yet saying everything.

The Iron Islands have many stones, and they will be very happy there. I am happy too. The Iron Islands need people from all walks of life.

Here, the deepest vein isn't silver, but family feuds. A careless greeting, a wrong name, can ignite generations of blood feuds. Their way of resolving problems is terrifyingly direct—the silver-hilted dagger at their waist is their law.

I wrote everything down: the location of the mines, the names of the craftsmen, which families were sworn enemies. Knowledge, whether concerning metal or human life, in the right hands, is a weapon sharper than Valyrian steel.

I have written all of this into this booklet, and I believe it will be of great use when I set foot on this land again.