Yulon's Travelogue (1)

Pentos -- The Sickly Sweet Port, The City of Schemes

It is the Free City closest to the main capital of Westeros, King's Landing, on the continent of Essos.

Before the ship even docked, the wind first carried the "scent" of Pentos—a cloyingly sweet wine aroma, almost chewable between the teeth, that lingered in the salty sea breeze, refusing to dissipate. They say this is the city's breath, its soul. To me, it is merely Pentos' most straightforward introduction: here, everything can be intoxicating, and everything can be priced and traded.

Pentos was initially ruled by a prince, chosen from the adult males of forty noble families, who ruled for life until the prince died and the next was chosen. Today, Pentos is actually ruled by Magisters. The prince is still chosen from the forty families, but he only holds ceremonial functions, presiding over meetings and festive banquets.

A peace treaty stipulated that Pentos could not possess more than 20 warships, could not hire sellswords, enter into contracts with mercenary groups, or maintain any army beyond the city watch. So this city is weak! So weak that it has to send gifts and gold to the Dothraki Khals.

I visited the palace, a gift from the Magisters of Pentos to a Dothraki Khal, standing beside the bay with nine high towers, its brick walls covered in ivy. It was a place where a story began, worth visiting.

Pentos is a prosperous port city, so its docks are the most lively and bustling.

The docks were crowded and noisy, with piles of carpets as colorful as butterfly wings stacked high, almost bending the wooden planks. Merchants approached, their smiles sweeter than wine and their words stickier than honey. They raised silver cups, each sentence mentioning "friend" and "respect." But I knew—behind every compliment here was a price, and every glance was assessing your worth. If you praised his carpet, he had already mentally drafted a quote; if you glanced at his slaves, he was already speculating if you wanted to discuss a human trafficking deal. So I only smiled, nodded, stingy with any genuine praise. In this city, silence was the highest courtesy.

Today I visited three wine merchants and drank no less than ten cups of their proud "heritage vintages."

Without exception, they were sweet. Too sweet. So sweet it was unnerving, like drinking syrup. They proudly swirled the purple liquid in their goblets, recounting family legacies and secret recipes. But all I could think was: such wine, the first cup is enjoyment, the second is tolerance, and the third becomes a burden. True good wine should make one long to return again and again. And I, who had sailed the seas since I was seven but was never allowed to drink, tasted this so-called "nectar" for the first time and only felt... disappointment.

Before this, due to my age, I had never drunk alcohol. After drinking the Pentos sweet wine that everyone praised, my feeling was—this so-called wine is just grape juice for children!

In the afternoon, I went to the vineyards outside the city.

Under the scorching sun, the vines were neat, and workers bent to pick the grapes. Everything was as it had been centuries ago. I picked a plump grape, almost bursting, its juice splashing out, deep red like blood. Such perfect fruit... yet only made into sweet water to please children. This is a waste, and even more so, a disgrace.

The idea in my mind became clearer and clearer: this is an opportunity to let the people of this world taste what real wine is like! It would definitely be a fortune! However, I would have to wait until I returned to the Iron Islands to truly attempt it, controlling the fermentation temperature, or introducing some of Dorne's dry spices to balance the sweetness, improving the packaging so the wine could travel farther and last longer without spoiling...

The people of Pentos are masters of trade, and I will give them a deal they never imagined: I don't want to buy your wine, I want to use your grapes and my methods to redefine what wine is. One day, they will curse me for brewing wine that steals their proud business, while simultaneously drinking my improved mellow brew, and my purse will be filled with the money I've taken from them.

Two and a half years to complete my travel plan is indeed a tight schedule, with most of the time spent on the journey. Therefore, the time spent sightseeing in cities is bound to be limited. In the end, I stayed in Pentos for a total of fourteen days. The trip to Pentos brought in a total of 2600 points.

Norvos -- Stairs, Bells, and the Shadow of Monks

We arrived at this city, divided by theocracy and stone walls. Norvos is not one city, but two—one suspended on the mountaintop, the other sprawling in the river valley, connected by the renowned "Sinner's Stair." A height of three hundred feet separates not just wealth, but two vastly different lives.

The upper city is tightly sealed by massive stone walls, the fortress of the bearded monks. Life here is as hard and cold as its architecture. Summers are hot and humid, winters are biting cold, and the only thing that never stops is the endless sound of prayers from the temples. Everything is shrouded in a solemn, monotonous, suffocating piety.

But their goods are substantial: thick textiles sturdy enough to withstand the salty winds of the Iron Islands, and high-quality oak, exactly what we need to rebuild our fleet. I suppressed my impatience, wanting to exchange gold and silence for what we needed. I met with the monks; they wore coarse robes, their beards reaching their waists, their eyes devoid of the greed expected of merchants, holding only a bottomless scrutiny. Doing business with them felt strange—it was as if you weren't haggling, but undergoing a silent confession.

Descending the "Sinner's Stair" was like falling from an altar into the mortal world. The lower city was filled with the shouts of dockworkers, the low laughter of brothels, and the clamor of taverns. The air was a mixture of the bitterness of dark beer and the sourness of fermented goat's milk. I tasted their "Winter Cake"—a hard cake mixed with ginger, pine nuts, and cherries, accompanied by a tankard of honeyed milk wine called "Nasa." The taste was rough but distinct, much like the city itself.

"Longshanks" Lomas called the bells here a world wonder. When I heard the three great bells ring simultaneously, their roar sounding as if it came from the depths of the mountain, shaking the heavens and the heart, I had to admit—he was right. The sound was solemn and majestic, as if it could cleanse all sins, yet it firmly locked everyone within God's order.

However, hehe, a group of monks ruling a country makes me suddenly think of some Buddhist kingdoms in Journey to the West. It's a strange feeling. If there were a chance to make these bearded monks walk down the stairs and become truly desireless monks, that would certainly be interesting.