Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Valyria—the land of ashes, whispers, and fallen gods

We have finally arrived at this land that should only exist in nightmares or legends—the Valyrian Peninsula. Even just hovering its edge, the ancient, almost tangible aura of destruction is enough to make the bravest sailors hold their breath. This is not a journey, but a pilgrimage, a dark pilgrimage to the apocalypse and power.

Everywhere the eye could see was a scene of desolation. The sky was shrouded in an eternal veil of ashes, sunlight struggling to penetrate, casting sickly, yellowish shadows that distorted the passage of time. The earth beneath one's feet was covered with a thick layer of pale dust, each step sinking deeper into it, as if dragged down by countless hands of the dead. The former glory had long since turned to ruins, with only twisted and deformed stone pillars and grotesque crystalline walls piercing the dust, like the weathered skeletons of ancient beasts, silently recounting the catastrophe that tore civilization apart.

And what lingers in the air is not just dust and death. There are also these—"Stone Golems." These terrifying creations, formed from solidified magma and endless resentment, have no consciousness, no purpose, only a pure, destructive instinct towards all living beings. Their very existence is a whisper and warning of that catastrophe that continues to this day.

To traverse this place requires utmost preparation, and even more so, the favor of fate. We proceed with extreme caution, as if walking on thin ice, each breath carrying the scent of sulfur and despair. But I felt no fear; instead, I felt an unprecedented… clarity. Here, the pride of civilization and divinity is utterly shattered and crushed into dust. It cruelly reveals the ultimate face of power—not only creation, but also complete and indiscriminate destruction.

I camped far from Valyria, and at night, I ventured alone into the more dangerous depths of Valyria. As I approached, the Dragon Crystal Compass—the Beacon of Blood and Fire—that I had kept with Lisa began to heat up, its needle spinning rapidly. I seemed to hear a voice calling to me.

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Deep within Valyria—Whispers, Dragonglass, and the Weight of Fate

I feel as if I am walking on the ashes of the world.

Every footstep was swallowed by the heavy silence, each step felt like a desecration. Just as I ventured deeper into the area where even starlight was completely swallowed, I suddenly stopped—the dragon crystal compass in my hand, which had been dormant all along, was now burning hot, even showing a faint dark red glow between her fingers, as if it had been ignited from within.

It was no longer a guiding tool, but had become a frenzied, living thing.

The needle spun wildly, emitting an almost inaudible high-frequency hum, defying all known geographical laws, stubbornly pointing only towards the deeper, darker future. And then, I heard it—not through my ears, but directly resounding within my skull: a deep, ancient call, crackling with the sound of flames. It repeated a syllable that wasn't a word, but its meaning was directly imprinted on my consciousness: it was my name, it was waiting, it was destiny.

Following the guidance of this mad compass, we finally stopped in a hollow surrounded by massive, twisted black stone structures. The magic permeating the area was so dense it made our teeth ache, and even the ash in the air seemed to dance slowly. In the center of a volcanic glass surface, glowing with an eerie light, lay there quietly—a dragon egg.

Its scaly shell is a deep, inky black, with dark red patterns that meander like flowing molten gold. It is warm to the touch, as if an eternal ember lies dormant inside.

Beside it, half-buried in the ashes, was a huge, twisted horn.

It was entirely black, made of neither gold nor stone, and its surface was engraved with ancient Valyrian runes. The characters seemed to flow in the moonlight, as if they possessed their own life. When I reached out and grasped it, a powerful force instantly surged into my arm, and at the same time, I almost hallucinated a dragon's roar that seemed to echo through the ages.

I stand amidst the ruins, a dragon egg bearing life in my left hand, a horn binding power in my right. Destruction and rebirth, creation and control—Valiria has bestowed upon me its legacy and its curse.

I placed them in a system space that no one but me could see, waiting for the day when they were needed...

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Qarth – Golden Eyes, Mist, and the Taste of Power

We finally arrived at Qarth, the city of immense wealth that calls itself the "center of the world." Even I must admit, it lives up to its arrogance. Three massive walls, like rings hurled by the gods, rise in layers, from thirty to fifty feet high, constructed of sandstone, granite, and finally, black marble, each more imposing and deadly than the last. The walls are adorned with lavish carvings: men and women in intercourse, armies locked in battle, and exotic birds and beasts leaping about… as if branding all the desires and conflicts of the world onto the city's exterior. The inner city gates, inlaid with golden eyes, silently watch over every intruder, sending chills down one's spine.

Within the city, countless slender spires pierced the sky, as if climbing a stairway to heaven. Each square had fountains shaped like griffins or dragons, their waters flowing clear, but the air was thick with the scents of spices, gold, and something deeper, the corrosive aroma of magic. Nominally, the royal family ruled the Thousand Palaces. But every whisper on every street corner knew that true power lay in the hands of the mighty merchant guilds—the Thirteen Giants, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the Spice Guild. It was their gold that wove the fate of this city.

Above all this, another shadow looms—the sorcerers. Their Temple of Dust, that terrifying structure known as the "Temple of Immortality," devours all fools seeking power and revelation. They drink a blue, viscous, honey-like "Water of Nightshade."

I took a bite, and my first sensation was like swallowing rotten flesh mixed with ink—utterly disgusting. But then, a strange warmth exploded in my chest, like flames enveloping my heart, while my tongue was strangely filled with the sweet aroma of honey, fennel, and cream… Dangerous, yet intoxicating, just like Qarth himself.

Here, Lisa's reaction caught my attention more than any fountain or spire. When a member of the Thirteen passed by on the avenue with a spice merchant, she froze instantly, her fingers clenched so tightly that she didn't even notice her nails digging into her palms, blood seeping from between her fingers.

"You are one of my people," I whispered to her, my gaze still sweeping over the city filled with golden eyes and mist. "If you have a grudge against them, feel free to speak up."

She remained silent, but that silence was more deafening than any accusation.

As I gazed at those wealthy merchants, draped in silks and satins, a thought spread through my mind like shadows in the night: the thirteen giants were nothing more than merchants. Yet they managed to control a nation with gold. How simple, and how… alluring, is this principle?

“If we support a merchant,” I turned to Lisa, my voice devoid of a joke, “do you think we could let him replace one of them?” This city has taught me one thing: true power doesn’t always have to involve wielding a sword; sometimes, it can buy everything simply by sitting on a bag of enough gold coins and smiling.

"This is to your advantage," I added, looking at her pale face, "and to me as well."

I told Lisa, "Use your intelligence to think of ways to take control of this city. I'm definitely an investor in you because I believe this deal will be worthwhile!"

Red Viper even nodded in agreement: "If that's true, I'd be willing to invest in it too."

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Yilin, Summer Islands—Whispers of the Rainforest and Songs of the Islands

The edges of the nautical chart twist here, the route abruptly turns south, resolutely piercing into those vague areas marked as legend, fantasy, and skull warnings.

If fate still has a sliver of madness in its favor, we may become the first madmen—or fools—in centuries to dare sail to the cursed shores of Sothros.

Standing on the stern, the salty wind couldn't dispel the image of that lush, green hell in my mind. My gaze seemed to pierce the horizon, seeing that tropical rainforest that greedily devoured time and civilization. The ancient Yimen Tower lay prostrate in the eternal swamp, its broken boulders tightly entwined by serpentine vines, like the skeleton of a strangled giant; and deeper still, the legendary Yilin was reduced to inhumanly carved stone formations, silent amidst the churning miasma, guarding long-forgotten secrets. There, the humid, hot air itself was poison, fever was ever-present, and the indigenous people, their skin painted with mottled oil, greeted us with poisoned blowguns and icy silence.

They viewed us as intruders—and they were absolutely right about that. It wasn't a land waiting to be explored, but a graveyard awaiting burial; turning it into a place of fear would deter anyone from intruding.

This perilous reality was starkly confirmed by the bloody fate of two foolish mercenaries. They caught sight of a girl washing clothes naked on the shore, were lured off the ship by primal desire, and vanished behind that deadly green curtain, never to be heard from again. We didn't expend a single soldier to search for them—in this land, mercy is tantamount to suicide. Their fate served as the clearest testament: Sothros only takes, never gives.

So, our bow slowly turned, following another whisper of the trade winds, pointing northwest to that sun-kissed paradise—the Summer Islands.

The laws there are the complete opposite of the somber, deathly atmosphere of this place. The sea breeze no longer carries warnings, but rather vibrant drumbeats, unrestrained songs, and the fragrance of myrrh. Dark-skinned, gleaming people adorn themselves with gold and feathers, their smiles as radiant and open as the midday sun. They are children of the sea, skilled with longbows and scimitars, and adept at celebrating the vitality of life itself through endless dances and feasts. Beneath swaying palm trees, sweet rum flows like a spring, and ancient seafaring songs are sung from generation to generation, reciting legends of courage, hunting, and pure joy.