Plans and Recruitment

Oberyn Martell spread a thick parchment map out before Yulon and tapped the mark for Braavos with his finger.

Yulon had originally given him a month to draw up the plan, but the Red Viper was indeed efficient. He had finished the whole thing in just half that time. Perhaps, as he had said, he had already planned to travel around Essos and had simply never gotten around to it.

"We'll set out from here. First, the Nine Free Cities." His tone was brisk, like a mercenary captain assigning a mission. "We'll head southeast along the coast, stopping once in each city, and end at the Serpent Isles."

His finger traced the route as he explained in an even voice. "We'll leave from the port of Braavos and head east. Our first stop will be Pentos."

"After leaving Pentos, we'll first need to find a large Khalasar. We'll present them with gifts, and the Khal will allow us to travel with them as 'guests' on their journey to their holy city, crossing the Dothraki Grass Sea along the way. Naturally, you'll be paying for the gifts, though I'll give you some advice. If you choose the wrong gifts, heh, those Dothraki arakhs won't show any mercy."

"Then we'll turn southeast and follow the mountain road into Norvos. The city is ruled by a group of priests. The food is poor, and every meal consists of smoked, rock-hard salted meat and tooth-breaking black bread, washed down with murky ale. The real thing you can't miss in Norvos is their runic ironwork, especially the daggers. Each one is hand-forged by mountain smiths, its edge engraved with ancient wards against evil. They're sharp enough to cut through shadows, and they never rust."

"After leaving Norvos, we'll head due east into Qohor Forest. There are many bandits there, and it's impossible to get through the forest in a single day. We'll definitely have to spend a night there, so we should be ready for a fight with the bandits. Beyond the forest lies Qohor City. The whole city is one enormous forge, and the air is forever filled with the smell of burning metal and sulfur. The craftsmen here have mastered forging secrets passed down for a thousand years, while the red priests study red magic that demands blood and fire as its price."

"Next, we'll head south. The roads will gradually narrow as they wind deep into the rolling gray mountains of Lorath. Far from the trade routes, silence is the only language spoken here. The locals are like the mountains they depend on for survival: quiet and hard, accustomed to exchanging information with a glance rather than small talk. Lorath is rich in beautifully veined silvery stone and silver deposits, and stone-carving workshops can be found everywhere. The craftsmen's skills, passed down through generations, turn cold stone into works of art where graceful curves coexist with sharp angles. They're worth a stop."

"Turn southwest, and then we can enter Lys. It's a decadent city, where desire is an open transaction and the very backdrop of life. There are more pleasure houses than taverns along its long streets. Men and women draped in sheer silk lean on carved balconies, their laughter dripping down like thick honey. The air is always heavy with the fragrance of sweet wine, the warm scent of costly spices, and a more private, intoxicating musk."

Oberyn Martell beamed. "That's Lys, my favorite city."

Yulon listened quietly to Oberyn's plan, asking questions and suggesting changes to only a few parts of the route. He accepted almost all of Oberyn's arrangements. In truth, Yulon had already come up with dozens of workable routes before Oberyn presented his plan. Otherwise, he couldn't have made a decision so quickly.

Besides having a plan drawn up, they also needed to recruit some extra hands. Not just warriors, either. A dangerous journey like this called for all kinds of people.

The first was Vittorio Grey, once a Khal who had struck fear into the hearts of men across the Dothraki Sea. His roar had once made even the fiercest warhorses bow their heads, and wherever his arakh pointed, the sea of grass had parted before him. But fate had played him the cruelest joke of all: in one battle, a terrible fall from his horse had not only broken his leg, but also broken his spirit as a warrior.

He had cut off the braid he'd once been so proud of and shaved his head. Now he walked with a limp, his left leg no longer strong enough to bear the strain of riding. Among a people whose lives revolved around horses, a Dothraki who could no longer ride into battle was like an eagle with broken wings. He had lost his standing as a Khal, and with it, his reason to live. With a broken heart, he could only leave the grasslands where he had been born and raised, wandering from city to city like an empty shell weighed down by the glory of his past.

It was his former standing as a Khal and his strategic insight that had led Malleo to keep him close. Though Vittorio could no longer charge into battle himself, he had once been a Khal. When it came to dealing with the Dothraki, he was the most suitable man for the job.

The second and third were both bearded men: Areo Hotah and Bastian Fernandez.

Areo Hotah was the current captain of House Martell's guard, sent by the Prince of Dorne to "protect" Prince Oberyn Martell. The wording had greatly annoyed the unruly Red Viper. When had he ever needed anyone to look after him? But despite his displeasure, he couldn't outright refuse. It was not only an order, but also a concern from his family that left no room for argument.

Areo Hotah was steady as a mountain and just as quiet. In his youth, he had undergone grueling training under the bearded monks of Norvos. He was a master of arms, especially skilled with his fearsome long-handled axe. His gaze was sharp as an eagle's, and he was always on guard. He seemed less like a bodyguard than a walking fortress.

His friend Bastian Fernandez had come with him. They had trained under the same masters and had both been tempered by the monastery's discipline of iron and blood. Their understanding was flawless. Bastian was just as capable and dependable. Standing side by side, they were like Dorne's blazing sun and shifting sands: one still as stone, the other fierce as a blade. These two "greatsword monks" from Norvos were not only formidable fighters, but also possessed a loyalty as solid as bedrock. Their presence was both a shield and a silent warning.

The third was Lomas "Long Lomas," named for his extraordinary height and tireless stride. As a scholar and writer, he was almost useless in a fight. Yet his value could not be measured by swords.

His travels had taken him to every corner of the known world, even to hidden places beyond the reach of ordinary people. Desolate ruins, isolated cities, and the remains of forgotten civilizations had all borne witness to his explorations. He had recorded and compiled his extraordinary experiences and observations in his famous work, Miracles. The book was not only a guide to the wonders of the world, but also a testament to his keen powers of observation and inexhaustible curiosity. Though he was physically weak, his mind was his greatest weapon, and his experience was his strongest armor.

Yulon remembered that the Imp was one of his devoted readers. His copy of Miracles had nearly fallen apart from all the times he had read it.

The fourth was Castor Daniels, the "Regretful Guest," from the great eastern city of Qarth. He belonged to an ancient and mysterious assassin order. Its members were elegant and deadly, famed throughout the world for their unique "farewell ritual": before delivering the final blow, they would always lean close and whisper in an almost tender voice, "I'm so sorry." Unlike the Faceless Men, they had no faith to guide them. Otherwise, they wouldn't have come just because they'd heard the pay was good.

The Red Viper had dealings with Castor Daniels before. How the two had met, or what business or grudges they might have shared, was none of Yulon's concern.

Yulon asked only one question. "I'm very interested in your martial arts. Could you teach me during the journey?" Castor Daniels, the Regretful Guest: silence. Yulon went on, "I'll double your fee." Castor Daniels, the Regretful Guest: "I'd be honored to serve you."

The fifth came from the mysterious continent of Sothoryos. Samur was a Wildling from the heart of the jungles. He was extraordinarily huge, his bones as massive as boulders and his entire body covered in muscles as solid as armor. What stood out most were his long arms, which seemed to belong to some ancient and dangerous creature of the jungle.

He currently worked as a mercenary in a small company. His face looked like a primitive totem: his forehead sloped sharply, his heavy jaw seemed capable of crushing stone, and his enormous square teeth could be glimpsed even when he was silent. His coarse black hair fell in thorny tangles, adding to his wild appearance.

When Samur arrived, he was wrapped tightly in a heavy cloak—not out of shyness, but because he had just slaughtered a group of men in a dim tavern. The Sea King's guards and his lover had been left in a pool of blood. Their deaths were said to have been gruesome, their limbs twisted as if they had suffered a savage beating by some inhuman force.

Oberyn Martell's men had recruited him because he was a truly formidable fighter. But Yulon Greyjoy watched him with a cold, cautious gaze and said, "Our journey will be long and dangerous. The foremost quality I require in everyone I recruit is loyalty." His voice was calm but firm. "How can I be sure you won't stab me in the back one dark night?"

Samur met Yulon's gaze without fear, his eyes filled only with a primitive, open calm. He answered in a low voice, "My former company, the Stone Crow Company, can vouch for me. I've never betrayed a companion."

Oberyn Martell nodded. He had already checked Samur's reputation before bringing him here. Only after getting Oberyn Martell's confirmation did Yulon smile and nod. "Welcome aboard!"

The sixth was Edwyn Ramirez, from the Serpent Isles, a former pirate captain with a complicated air about him. His carefully trimmed mustache always curled up at the ends, like the pride that had never been beaten out of him, while his deep black eyes hid a barely perceptible fear and paranoia. Beneath his wind-tangled brown hair was a face full of stories.

Several months earlier, a brutal betrayal had changed his life. Two of his most trusted sailors had stabbed him in the back and thrown him into the freezing sea. He had floated alone on the endless ocean for ten whole days. Only his will to survive and a little luck had kept him alive until a passing merchant ship rescued him. The ordeal had left an indelible mark on him. He often touched his back without thinking, his gaze swinging wildly between trust and suspicion.

Now he habitually rubbed his distinctive curled mustache between his thumb and forefinger, his voice low and full of obsession. "I need money—a lot of money. Your pay is good." His gaze passed over the others, as if he could already see the shadow-covered docks of the Serpent Isles. "The Serpent Isles are your last stop, but they're my starting point. I'm going back to find those traitors one by one, slit their throats, and take back my ship. Then I'll return to the sea where I truly belong."

"To everyone else, the Summer Sea off Sothoryos is a deadly, mist-shrouded mystery. But I could swim three laps across it with my eyes closed. And the Serpent Isles are my home. I'm undoubtedly the best guide you could have."

Yulon needed someone familiar with Sothoryos. If Edwyn Ramirez wasn't lying, he was a very necessary addition.

The seventh was Gwendoline, from Asshai, the city of shadows and sorcery. She was a red priestess who served R'hllor, the Lord of Light. Faint flames flickered in her eyes, as if she could see the threads of fate beyond the reach of ordinary mortals.

Yulon Greyjoy had recruited her to join the ship not out of faith, but from a cold sense of curiosity.

He had read the original story and knew of the terrifying powers displayed by the famous priestess Melisandre: foretelling the future, controlling shadows, even stealing life through Blood Magic. He held no reverence for those powers themselves, but knew that ignoring any kind of power in this game of politics was fatally foolish.

He had no ambition to learn such uncanny arts, but he was certain someone had to understand the rules by which they worked.

Gwendoline's presence was like a firewall he had set up by his side. Through her eyes, he would see into the mysteries of light and shadow and guard against the possibility that one day he might fall victim to the same dark tricks.

Knowledge, especially knowledge of one's enemies, was itself a weapon.

The last was Evelyn, a Shadowbinder from the legendary Shadow Lands.

She always wore a mask, her entire body covered in dark, concealing garments. The only visible part of her was a pair of emerald-green eyes, like dark jade. Her eyes seemed to hold centuries of secrets and whispers. Whenever she looked at someone, her gaze was unnervingly calm and penetrating.

Yulon Greyjoy was deeply interested in her. He had always been almost greedily curious about every rare and dangerous magical power in the world. Whether it was the fiery prophecies of the Lord of Light or the Shadowbinder's uncanny manipulation of light and shadow, he saw them all as different forms of power, worth understanding, dissecting, and even mastering.

Oberyn Martell could only shrug and shake his head.

The Prince of Dorne was well-traveled, but he couldn't understand Yulon's obsession with such mysterious arts. He said nothing, merely letting a helpless smile tug at the corner of his lips. After all, Yulon was paying. He was the boss, and the boss's will was the course they sailed.