Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Valantis – On either side of the long bridge, once blooming flowers now stand as marshes.

The Lorne River, like a murky artery, divides Valantis in two, while the Long Bridge is the fragile vessel connecting these two vastly different worlds.

I stood on the bridge, feeling the starkly different pulses beneath my feet: on the east bank lay the tranquil world of ancient nobility behind black walls, permeated with whispers of power and the aroma of sandalwood; on the west bank, a bustling swamp of mercenaries, foreigners, slaves, and commoners, the air thick with the pungent stench of sweat, spices, and decay. The city's division was so naked, so cruel.

Slaves. This is an undeniable underlying theme in Valantis. Their numbers are staggering, reportedly five times that of the free population. They move silently through the streets and docks, their eyes downcast, forming the silent foundation upon which the city operates.

People say that this place was once the "city of flowers and fountains," the most powerful and prosperous jewel among the nine city-states.

Today, I can only piece together its former glory from the ruins of the remaining giant statues and magnificent fountain pools.

A century ago, the foolish war of conquest drained his lifeblood, and the resentment of defeat led the people to smash countless statues of Tiger Party rulers. Today, Valantis is like a patched-up, ornate robe—still dazzling from afar, but upon closer inspection, the stitches are rough and riddled with flaws. Many fountains have long since dried up, becoming stagnant pools teeming with mosquitoes; some districts have even been swallowed by swamps again, leaving only memories of desolation.

I went to those places that I absolutely had to see and check off my list.

The black wall—it is more than just a wall; it is a declaration, coldly proclaiming the insurmountable barriers of bloodline and class.

At the Temple of Laherlo, red-robed monks serve their Lord of Light within the dimly lit halls, flames leaping in the shadows, promising illusory power and salvation.

The Red God priestess, Gwendolyn, pulled me inside and began to proclaim their god to me.

The Merchant's House, the finest tavern in Valantis, is a colossal four-story building overlooking the surrounding docks, wharves, and warehouses. Its main hall is larger than most castle halls in Westeros, with a central courtyard paved with stone and planted with grapevines. The surrounding gazebos and caves make the hall resemble a maze. It's said to be the largest and most expensive tavern in the world. Yet, every table is packed with guests, demonstrating the abundance of wealthy people in this world. Opening a large tavern in King's Landing's harbor would surely be profitable.

Finally, there is the Long Bridge, which spans the mouth of the Lorne River and connects the two districts of Valantis. The entrance is an archway built of black megaliths, carved with sphinxes, maggots, dragons, and other monsters. Various buildings have been built on both sides of the bridge, where you can buy almost anything. In the middle of the bridge, the hands of thieves and the heads of criminals are displayed on spears.

We were very lucky; we arrived just in time for the city's elections. In Valantis, their rulers are elected annually by the Tiger Party and the Elephant Party. Every free-born, land-owning Valantinesian has the right to vote, and each election lasts for ten days, which is a carnival for the Valantinesians.

Whether it's a tiger or an elephant, I'm just a passerby, so I'm enjoying this ocean of joy... But this electoral system makes them change their policies constantly, giving this country a rotten smell.

Valantis was still breathing, but each breath carried a hint of decay and weakness. It taught me one thing: the deepest decline begins with internal decay, not the swords of external enemies.

——————————————————————————————————————

Dothraki Sea – Sea of ​​Grass, Scimitars, and Trial Land

We finally left the so-called "civilization" behind and stepped into this boundless sea of ​​grass called the Dothraki Sea.

The sky here becomes immensely vast, like a giant bronze bowl stained with green rust, upside down at the edge of the world. The wind is the only constant sound here, blowing through waist-high grass with an endless low whistle, as if thousands of dead souls are sighing at the same time.

Here, the law is written with horseshoes and revised with scimitars.

We found a massive khalasar, offered gifts, and showed a defiant look in our eyes before we were barely allowed to follow as "guests." But every Dothraki warrior looked at us with unmistakable clarity: guests? prisoners? The difference was merely the outcome of a single battle.

We followed them on their migration, chasing after the water plants, the scorching sun overhead, the horizon stretching to the stars beneath our feet. Finally, we arrived at the legendary land—Visdothrak.

Without walls or gates, this colossal city sprang forth from the bosom of the earth. Thousands upon thousands of tents stretched as far as the eye could see, like a white ocean. The air was thick with the smoky aroma of roasted horse meat, the sour smell of yogurt, and the ever-present scent of dust. The neighing of the horses was more intense and unsettling than thunder.

It was here that I met Barb, the Khal with the booming voice. And I, in a contest watched by all the warriors, with a clean and decisive Fishman Karate move, knocked his son, Drogo, who was about my age, to the ground. At that moment, the clamor ceased, and only the grass rustled in the wind.

[You defeated Drogo, son of Dothraki Kaobalbo, and gained 40 points.]

Here, all words are superfluous. Strength is the only passport—the strength of muscles, the strength of will, the power to command hearts. Humility is the virtue of the weak; weakness is the original sin, deserving no pity. Only by proving your worth will this grassland stingily grant you even an inch of foothold.

Only after I defeated Drogo, the son of Barab, did Barab finally look at me, a child the same age as his son, with a respectful eye.

I want horses, yes, Dothraki horses, the best horses in the world. I will trade them for salt, wine, and iron. Barber agreed to the deal.

Red Viper was puzzled. He didn't understand why an Ironborn from the Iron Islands would need a horse. Did an island lord need to form a cavalry regiment?

I didn't explain to him that in the future, my territory will not only be in the ocean, but also on land!

————————————————————————————————————————

Slave Bay—Humanity with Price Tags and Three Masks

Oberyn, in his tone a mixture of poetry and venom, sketched out this coastline for me—he called it the "Three Sisters," three women born of the same origin yet wishing to slit each other's throats. And now, I've seen them with my own eyes.

Yuankai's scent filled my nostrils first—a cloying fragrance mingled with the faint crack of whips, both nauseating and inexplicably exhilarating. The entire city was a vast, meticulously managed brothel and animal training ground. They claimed to export the world's most perfect love slaves and servants, but in reality, they were systematically dismantling and molding people into docile commodities. As I walked through, looking at the slaves with their trained smiles, I felt only irony: they had turned "gentleness" into the coldest of transactions.

Meereen was shrouded in a layer of perpetually ochre-red dust. The majestic pyramid pierced the sky, like a tombstone left by some giant. Dust covered everything, seeped into the teeth, and filled the lungs—it was the true ruler here, symbolizing an ancient, stubborn, and unchanging tradition. The slaves here wore bronze collars, toiling silently in the shadow of their great masters, even resistance seemed heavy.

But what truly made me stop was Astapor. If the first two cities at least veiled their "products" with a layer of illusion, Astapor tore even that last bit of pretense away. This was a human modification factory, and the "product" was of only one kind: the Unsullied.

I visited a training line—what they called "the flow." Boys were stripped of their names, emotions, fears, even their bodies, and recast into absolute, obedient killing machines. The birth of each finished warrior was built upon the foundations of countless mutilated souls. Here, there was no deception, only efficiency and cost.

Slave Bay makes no attempt to conceal its true nature: here, people can be dismantled into parts, priced, and sold. Oberyn was right; this is the ultimate place where humanity is put on a price tag.

I can't change this place, at least not now. I'm trading with those arrogant, condescending slave owners in the three cities of Slaver's Bay. I need people, all sorts of useful people: doctors, blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, scholars, poisoners, warriors, merchants, generals… I need them all!

The Iron Islands need countless talented people for their future!