Yulon's Travel Diary (II)

Through Qohor Forest—Shadows Have Teeth, and They Say They Bite

We entered the domain of Qohor Forest. If Norvos was a mountain city shackled by faith, then this was a land steeped in ancient malice. Towering trees twisted together, blotting out the sky; the light was as scarce as the occasional mercy of the gods. There were no paths beneath our feet, only mud and a tangle of roots, each step like stumbling into some nightmare that wished to remain undisturbed.

The air was damp and cloying, thick with the smell of rotting leaves, wet earth, and something else impossible to name—like metal, or blood. The locals called it "the rust of magic." They said there were bandits here, traps more cunning than the bandits, and things older still. Dark magic had settled over the forest like a miasma: invisible, but deadly.

We passed a forgotten temple. Temple was hardly the word for it; it was more like a ruin of stone and madness. Vines coiled around the crumbling statues like veins. Time and runes had worn their faces into indistinct shapes, yet they remained unsettling. I had never seen those symbols before, but instinctively, I recoiled from them. They were not asking for protection; they were keeping something imprisoned. One of the mercenaries reached for a broken slab that seemed to whisper, but the Red Viper barked at him to stop. Here, curiosity killed faster than any blade.

Deeper in the forest, we encountered bandits. But it was obvious that we outnumbered them and had sharper blades, so they withdrew without a sound. We didn't pursue them. Qohor Forest was their territory, and they knew every blade of grass and every tree. I had no desire to stumble into a trap and get ambushed.

After night fell, the forest truly awoke. The darkness grew so thick that our firelight could only hold back a small, fragile circle. And beyond it... something moved. It was neither human nor beast, but some slow, low, patient presence. It didn't like being disturbed, and we were all unwelcome guests. I ordered the Night's Watch to double their watch and stand back to back. No one was to leave the firelight. The Ironborn and mercenaries gripped their weapons, listening in silence to the slow scraping sound circling us, as if something enormous were dragging its feet around the only pool of light we had.

Only at dawn did the thing withdraw. No one saw it, but everyone felt it. Not one of us slept soundly that night. Once the sun came up, though, even half-dead with exhaustion, we set off at once. We had to get out of that cursed forest before dark.

I guarantee this is a place where you absolutely wouldn't want to spend another night!

Qohor City—Iron and Fire, Blood and Price

We left that cursed forest behind, casting its shadows and whispers aside, only to collide with Qohor's scorching breath. The whole city was like one enormous forge that never stopped burning; even the air was on fire. There was the acrid stench of metal, the sharp bite of sulfur, and something deeper and more primal, like blood and souls in the smelting pot. Every breath felt like inhaling sparks.

The streets here belonged not to pedestrians, but to smiths and their creations. Hammer blows rang out from every corner without pause, like the city's furious heartbeat. Craftsmen labored amid firelight and shadow, wielding secret arts passed down for a thousand years. Their blades were said to drink moonlight and cleave through spells. Deeper within, men in red robes—the mages—studied magic that demanded blood and fire in payment. I once saw an old man's eyes. What flickered in them wasn't a gaze, but the heart of a furnace. Here, knowledge was more expensive than gold, and more dangerous, too. Every question came with a price, and some answers were more than you could afford.

But I liked the rules here. Fixed prices were more honest than the false oaths and empty honor of Westeros.

When I grew tired, I stopped at a smoky stall and ordered a spicy sausage and a cup of strong liquor they called "Firebreath." The sausage sizzled over the coals, hearty and rustic, its piping-hot juices bursting with a sharp spiciness. Then I downed the drink. It was no liquor at all, but liquid fire, burning all the way from my throat to my stomach. The heat was so fierce I could almost see visions. In an instant, the cold and fear clinging to me from the forest were burned away.

I offered the finest smiths triple their usual pay to come to the Iron Islands, promising freedom, gold, and endless Kurozumi and ore. Some wavered, distant flames flickering in their eyes. But a few stubborn old men bowed their heads and said they had put down roots in this cold soil, and no coin could break their faith.

So I turned to my silent Ironborn companions and spoke in a quiet voice, yet one that was enough to make even the strongest backs stiffen. "Do you remember our Old Way?"

No more needed to be said. They remembered, and they would never forget. We came from the sea; taking what we wanted was our creed. If a request was refused, then... there were plenty of other ways to persuade them. But if they wouldn't take the offered cup, then the way we "invited" them might not be quite so cordial.

Qohor believed it was protected by mountains and watched over by the gods. But they had forgotten that the people of the Iron Islands knew no such thing as an obstacle. After we left the city, many smiths disappeared. Yet no one pursued us as I'd expected. Apart from their closest kin, hardly anyone investigated their disappearance. The city had no shortage of smiths, and the bearded monk cared just as little about these "lesser folk."

Lorath—Stone and Shadow, Blood and Silence

We continued south. The road narrowed like a frightened snake, winding into the gray mountains of Lorath. There was no bustle of merchant caravans, no salty harbor breeze, only a silence so oppressive it stole the breath from your lungs. It had weight, pressing heavily on your shoulders.

The locals were like the mountains themselves: hard, stern, and sparing with words. They weighed you with their eyes and answered you with silence. A nod might mean approval; looking away might be a warning. Here, words were superfluous, and could even be dangerous.

One sound echoed through the entire valley: the crisp clink of chisel against marble. Lorath wasn't a wealthy land, but it produced two things in abundance: silvery-white stone veined like moonlight, and rich silver deposits buried deep underground. Stone-carving workshops lined the mountainsides. For generations, the artisans had conversed with stone, turning cold, hard rock into works of art both graceful and sharp. They carved in silence, as though each stroke etched an unreadable family secret into the stone.

The food was as rough and plain as the land: sheep's cheese so salty it was bitter, nut cakes hard enough to serve as armor, and a pot of bitter tea brewed with mountain spring water. It wouldn't please your palate, but it would keep you alive. Here, survival was the only luxury anyone acknowledged.

But I hadn't come here for stone or cheese. I saw their silver mines and the workshops where they had honed weapons for generations. Their stonemasons were highly skilled, so I offered thirty percent more than the going rate, while keeping the Iron Islands' ambitions hidden in my eyes. Some silently shook their heads, their loyalty rooted as deeply in their families' soil as the mountains themselves. For those who hesitated, my Ironborn companions simply stepped forward, their fingers resting casually on their axe handles. They said nothing, but they said everything.

The Iron Islands had plenty of stone. They'd be very happy there, and so would I. The Iron Islands needed talented people from every walk of life.

The deepest mines here weren't silver, but family feuds. One careless greeting, one wrong name, could ignite blood debts that had built up over generations. They settled disputes in a terrifyingly direct way: the silver-handled dagger at their waist was their law.

I noted everything: the location of the mines, the names of the craftsmen, and which families were mortal enemies. Knowledge, whether of metal or of human lives, was a weapon sharper than Valyrian steel in the right hands.

I wrote it all down in this journal, certain it would prove immensely useful when I set foot on this land again.