The World Is So Big

The prophecy of the long winter was like an invisible chill, penetrating the marrow of the Iron Islands even before the salty, cold sea winds from the Narrow Sea.

Beneath the dome of the Maester's Tower, Yulon Greyjoy's gaze lingered not on the map of Westeros' granaries and forests before him, but on the enormous, ancient map of Essos covering the wall, its edges blurred by the gnawing of insects and the dampness of time.

Another option in the face of the coming winter was to go to another continent.

On the parchment, from the frozen Shivering Sea to the smoke-choked Valantis, from the winding Rhône River like a giant serpent to the mysterious and eerie Asshai, that vast, boundless eastern land was depicted as a mosaic of countless city-states, deserts, oases, and grasslands.

King Kolen's deep voice analyzed the grain reserves of the Vale, the plight of the North, and the increasingly wild and unpredictable shipping lanes of the Narrow Sea. But Yulon's thoughts had already taken flight on the wings of imagination, soaring across that storm-ravaged sea.

Yulon knew that the winter in Westeros was no ordinary one. The Maesters of the Citadel explained it with celestial trajectories and climatic cycles, but deep down, they all harbored a more ancient, more unsettling understanding—the seasons of this land were distorted by some vast, primal, incomprehensible magic.

The long summer was both a blessing and a curse, heralding the long, harsh winter that followed, a winter capable of freezing the soul and civilization. It was an ailment rooted in the very laws of the world, afflicting Westeros alone.

And what of Essos across the Narrow Sea? When the ice crystals of Winterfell adorned the battlements, when the fields of the Riverlands were covered in deep snow, when even the beggars of King's Landing shivered in corners...

The southern reaches of Essos might be bathed in the perpetual sunshine of Rhys and Valantis, the Spice Islands still wafting warm breezes, and the hills of Ghiscali still dotted with olive trees and vineyards. Their winter would be but a mild footnote on the trade calendar, requiring an extra velvet cloak.

Their troubles were trade tariffs, sellsword contracts, and slave prices, not whether they could dig the last grain from the deep snow.

The laws governing the world were so disparate between this shore and that.

Yulon's fingertips silently traced the narrow, ink-blue fissure representing the Narrow Sea on the map. This sea trench divided not just two continents, but two entirely different destinies.

Westeros struggled on the chessboard of Gods and Demons, bearing the cost of extreme seasonal changes, perhaps also secretly nurturing corresponding ancient powers (like the Children of the Forest, White Walkers, Dragons). Essos, despite its own gods, its Blood Magic, its Shadowborn, seemed to operate under different, more "secular" rules driven by trade, conquest, and pleasure, spared from the cyclical, magic-induced divine punishment.

Yulon mused that every shard of Valyrian steel sang of lost incantations; every sacrificial fire in the Red Temple might burn with true divine power; every Undying in Qarth might guard the secrets of time; every deformed creature on the edge of the smoking sea could be the product of a twisted magical experiment.

These, within the system's laws, were all shining "points" to be harvested. His journey eastward would be a grand hunt, not for lions or wild oxen, but for miracles, secrets, and forbidden Knowledge itself.

In Westeros, magic had faded, becoming a pale ghost. The Citadel dismissed it as superstition, nobles merely dabbled in ancient rituals, its presence as faint as the last warmth of summer's end. Dragons were long extinct, the Children of the Forest relegated to legend, and White Walkers became bedtime stories to frighten children. The world's colors here had become monotonous, confined to the dull cycle of steel, honor, and power.

But in Essos... magic had never truly died. It had merely changed form, lurking in the shadows, waiting to be awakened.

Yulon's fingertip stopped on the ruins of Valyria's doom, and he could imagine the furious energy of Blood Magic and dragonfire still lingering in the billowing sulfurous mists. He thought of the Shadow Lands of Asshai, where sorcerers were said to still trade with beings not of this world. He thought of the Undying of Qarth, perhaps soaking in jade pools, peering into the currents of time. He thought of the priests of the Lord of Light in the Red Temple, who might truly revive the dead through faith.

This pervasive, living power, tangible and perhaps even controllable, exuded a more alluring scent to Yulon than any gold or crown. The system needed "anomalies" and exploration, and his soul, perhaps on a deeper level, yearned to understand, even to command, this wild and dangerous primal force that formed the underlying logic of the world.

The Seven Kingdoms played the game of thrones, while certain corners of Essos enacted the game of Gods and Demons. He would go there, not merely to observe, but to learn, and ultimately to... join the game.

Finally, there was an insurance policy. If, by some chance, Westeros could not withstand the White Walkers, the lands across the Narrow Sea would be the Ironborn's last sanctuary.

Historically, the exile of House Targaryen before the "Mad King" Aerys had already proven the value of the East. When the harsh winters or wars of Westeros became unbearable, the East was a natural refuge and supply line. Dragonstone was the outpost, and Essos was the vast rear base.

The light of the whale oil lamp flickered in Yulon Greyjoy's mismatched eyes, reflecting the enormous, astonishingly detailed map of Essos spread on the table. His fingertip slowly slid across the rough surface of the parchment, from the Pyramids of Meereen in Pentos, sliding towards the Black Forest of Qohor, and finally stopping beside the shadowed Asshai. It was not merely a geographical tour, but a quest for the magnetic poles of destiny.

"The Narrow Sea becomes a roaring beast in autumn and winter," Kolen's voice pulled Yulon back to reality, his brow furrowed as he pointed to the strait on the map. "Storms can tear apart the sturdiest longships, and fog hides reefs and worse. Every crossing is a gamble with the Drowned God. All ships must remain ashore, all trade must cease."

Risk. Yes, the risk was immense.

But this risk itself was a natural barrier, protecting Essos from immediate encroachment by Westeros' cold currents, and also filtering out the brave and the desperate who had the courage and ability to traverse it.

A thought, like a sea monster silently surfacing in the darkness, became clear in Yulon's mind: The world is so big, I want to see it.

Not just see it, I want to touch it, taste it, understand that land untouched by the curse of the magical winter.

The system needed points, and the continent of Essos was filled with "anomalies" and "stories," a prime hunting ground for acquiring points.

More practically, it held the grain and timber Westeros desperately needed, and the Ice and Fire Trading Company's trade network required him to personally integrate, strengthen, and expand it.

This trade network was complex and intricate, involving too many Free Cities, too many cultural differences, too much greed and betrayal. It required a brain with absolute authority, extraordinary computational ability, and cold determination to personally integrate, intimidate, and make split-second decisions. Those agents, those partners, needed to see the Greyjoy will firsthand, even if that will resided in the body of a seven-year-old child.

This was not an inspection, but an activation, transforming potential trade routes into the lifeblood of the Iron Islands.

His father and others would worry about safety, but they didn't know that the Ice and Fire Trading Company, with its forward-thinking business acumen and a bit of "luck" (thanks to Yulon's hints), had already quietly laid its groundwork in Pentos, Braavos, and even further afield in Rhys over the past two years. Nearly a hundred Ironborn elites—not just merchants, but artisans, scouts, and even warriors disguised as sellswords—had already infiltrated the major Free Cities like wedges.

His journey was not into an unknown peril, but to inspect and grasp the fishing net that had already been quietly cast.

The lords of Westeros were still fighting tooth and nail for the Iron Throne, for fiefs, for inheritance. But had they ever looked up at the world?

True power, perhaps, did not only come from cold blades and long bloodlines, but also from rivers of gold, from information networks, from a deeper understanding of the world's operating rules. Essos was the best classroom for understanding all of this.

Yulon craved a "winter camp," located across the Narrow Sea.

This was not an escape, but a form of advancement. While Westeros huddled in the winter, licking its wounds and gathering strength, he, Yulon Greyjoy, would be on another stage, accumulating a different kind of power, one capable of overturning everything in the future, for House Greyjoy and for himself.

His gaze returned to the unfamiliar place names on the map of Essos, as if he could already see the factory chimneys, the bustling slave markets, the fragrant spice bazaars, and beneath it all, the surging undercurrents of gold and power. It was a hot and vibrant world, not frozen by Westeros' long winter, waiting for him to explore, to conquer, in a way different from the Old Way of the Ironborn.