Yulon's Travelogue (II)

Through the Qohor Forest -- the shadows have teeth, and legends say they bite.

We entered the domain of the Qohor Forest. If Norvos was a mountain city bound by faith, then this was a land steeped in ancient malice. Towering trees twisted and intertwined, blocking out the sky, their meager light like the occasional pity bestowed by the gods. There was no path underfoot, only mud and treacherous roots, each step like treading into a nightmare one never wished to wake from.

The air was thick and humid, filled with the scent of decaying leaves, damp earth, and another indefinable aroma—like metal, yet like blood, which the locals called "magic's rust smell." They said there were bandits here, traps more cunning than any bandit, and something older—black magic settled here like the miasma in the woods, unseen yet deadly.

We passed a forgotten temple. It was less a temple than a ruin of stone and madness. Vines like veins wrapped around the crumbling statues, their faces blurred by age and runes, yet still unsettling. I had never seen such symbols, but instinctively felt repulsed—they weren't praying for blessings, but rather imprisoning something. A sellsword reached out to touch a fragment of a stele that seemed to whisper, but the Red Viper stopped him with a sharp reprimand. Here, curiosity was a faster death than any blade.

As we ventured deeper into the forest, we encountered bandits, but it was clear we had more men, sharper steel, and they retreated silently. We didn't pursue, for the Qohor Forest was their territory, and they knew every inch of it. I had no desire to fall into a trap and be ambushed.

As night fell, the forest truly awakened. The darkness was so profound that the firelight could only carve out a small, fragile circle, and beyond it... something was moving. Not human, not beast, but some slow, deep, patient presence. It disliked being disturbed, and we were all unwelcome guests. I ordered the Night's Watch to double their vigilance, to stand back to back, and for no one to leave the firelight. The Ironborn and sellswords gripped their weapons, listening silently to the slow scraping sound that circled us, as if something immense was dragging itself along, pacing the perimeter of our only light.

It wasn't until dawn that the presence receded. No one saw it, but everyone felt it. No one slept soundly that night. But when the sun rose, even though we were dead tired, we set off immediately, determined to get out of this damned forest before nightfall.

I guarantee, this is a place you absolutely do not want to spend another night!

Qohor City -- Iron and Fire, Blood and Price

We emerged from that damned forest, leaving the shadows and whispers behind us, and were met head-on by Qohor's scorching breath. The entire city was like a colossal, ceaseless forge, even the air seemed to burn—the acrid smell of metal, the sting of sulfur, and something deeper, more primal, like blood and soul in the crucible. Every breath felt like inhaling sparks.

The streets here belonged not to pedestrians, but to blacksmiths and their creations. The clang of hammers echoed from every corner, ceaseless, like the city's wild heartbeat. Craftsmen toiled in the firelight and shadows, wielding ancient secrets passed down through millennia, forging blades said to drink moonlight and cleave spells. And deeper within, those clad in red robes—the mages—delved into magic at the cost of blood and fire. I saw the eyes of an old man, and within them flickered not sight, but the core of a furnace. Here, Knowledge was more precious than gold, and far more dangerous. Every question had a price tag, and some answers, you might not be able to afford.

But I liked the rules here. Clearly marked prices were more honest than the false oaths and hollow honor of Westeros.

Tired from walking, I stopped at a smoking stall and ordered a spicy sausage and a shot of the potent liquor they called "firebreath." The sausage sizzled on the charcoal, robust and hearty, its scorching juices bursting with a sharp spiciness. Then I downed the drink—it wasn't liquor at all, but liquid fire, burning all the way from my throat to my stomach, the heat so intense it almost brought on hallucinations. In an instant, the chill and fear I'd picked up in the forest were completely incinerated.

I invited those skilled blacksmiths to the Iron Islands with triple the usual pay, promising freedom, gold, and endless charcoal and ore. Some wavered, their eyes flashing with the distant glow of fire. But a few stubborn old men remained, heads bowed, saying they were rooted in this cold soil, and coin could not move their faith.

So, I turned to my silent Ironborn retainers, my voice low but enough to make the stiffest back tense slightly: "Do you remember our Old Way?"

No need for further words, they remembered, and they never forgot. We come from the sea, and taking by force is our creed. If our request was not granted, then... there were many ways to persuade. But if they refused the offered drink and insisted on the punitive one, the method of "invitation" might not be so harmonious.

Qohor believed itself protected by mountains, watched over by gods. But they forgot that the people of the Iron Islands know no such thing as being stopped. After we left the city, many blacksmiths disappeared. However, it wasn't as if anyone pursued them, beyond their closest kin, for no one tracked their whereabouts. The city had no shortage of blacksmiths, and the bearded monks didn't care about these "lower classes" either.

Lorath -- Stone and Shadow, Blood and Silence

Continuing south, the road narrowed like a recoiling snake, winding into the somber mountains of Lorath. There was no clamor of merchant caravans, no salty breeze from the ports, only a silence that pressed down, heavy enough to suffocate. It was a tangible weight, settling upon my shoulders.

The locals were like the mountains themselves: hard, stern, and taciturn. They measured you with their eyes and answered with silence. A nod might signify approval, a glance averted could mean a warning. Here, words were superfluous, perhaps even dangerous.

A single sound echoed through the valley—the crisp clash of chisel against marble. Lorath was not a rich land, but it produced two things: silvery white stone with a moonlight-like grain, and silver-rich ore veins buried deep underground. Stone carving workshops were built along the mountainside, artisans conversing with stone for generations, transforming cold, hard ore into works of art that were both graceful and sharp. They carved in silence, as if each stroke etched an unreadable family secret into the stone.

The food was as coarse and substantial as the land: sheep cheese so salty it was bitter, nut cakes hard enough to serve as armor, washed down with a pot of bitter tea brewed with mountain spring water. It didn't please the palate, but it kept you alive—here, survival was the only recognized luxury.

But my purpose here was not stone or cheese. I saw their silver mines, I saw their workshops where weapons were honed for generations. Their stonemasons possessed superb skill, and I offered a price thirty percent above market value, my eyes holding the ambition of the Iron Islands. Some shook their heads in silence, their loyalty as deep-rooted as the mountains, anchored in the soil of their families. For those who hesitated, my Ironborn retainers simply stepped forward, their fingers casually resting on their axe handles, saying nothing, yet conveying everything.

The Iron Islands have much stone, they would be very happy there, and I would be happy too. The Iron Islands need talent from all walks of life.

Here, the deepest veins were not of silver, but of family feuds. An careless greeting, a wrong name, could ignite a blood feud accumulated over generations. Their way of resolving problems was terrifyingly direct—the silver-hilted dagger at their waist was their law.

I noted everything: the location of the ore veins, the names of the artisans, which families held grudges against which. Knowledge, whether of metal or of lives, in the right hands, was a sharper weapon than Valyrian steel.

I recorded it all in this booklet, confident that when I next set foot on this land, it would prove immensely useful.