Yulon's Travelogue (3)

Rhys—Honey, Blades, and Sober Pleasures

Even before the ship docked, Rhys's aura had already enveloped us—sweet, warm, with a certain rotten fragrance, like an overblown golden lotus.

The entire city was steeped in a warm mist that never cleared, the sunset seeming to linger here, gilding the painted rooftops, lazy balconies, and every smile with a lavish yet false golden edge.

Here, desire was a commodity, openly priced and displayed.

Along both sides of the long street, houses of pleasure outnumbered bakeries. Men and women draped in thin veils leaned over balconies, their laughter, thick as honey, dripping onto the shoulders of every passerby. The air was a chaotic symphony of scents: cloyingly sweet wine, expensive Eastern spices, and a more intimate, tantalizing musk—Rhys's signature perfume, masking the scent of schemes and transactions.

I tasted their honey cakes, sprinkled with gold-leaf-like spices. One bite, and the scalding syrup nearly burned my throat.

Delicious, yes, but therein lay the danger—many sweet pastries were laced with gentle narcotics, not for flavor, but to knock you out directly.

The most classic trap was those gaudy "flower boats," with velvet cushions and floral decorations, promising to take you through the most beautiful water alleys. But once aboard, the sweet air would knock you out. When you woke, you were no longer a tourist but merchandise, chained by the feet, standing on an auction block for all to inspect.

The Red Viper had warned us repeatedly, yet many Ironborn and sellswords paid no heed.

However, it was precisely this undisguised hypocrisy that made Rhys seem so... real to me.

It didn't pretend to be noble, nor did it hide its greed.

It openly used beauty and sweetness to deceive, yet it also generously bestowed ultimate sensory pleasure. Here, a blade could be hidden behind every smile, and every handshake could be an appraisal.

Rhys didn't deceive you about what it was. It simply spread a net woven from temptation, testing the will and sobriety of every intruder. And I, I admired this brutal honesty immensely.

This was the Red Viper's favorite place, our Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. As soon as he arrived in Rhys, he eagerly plunged into its tender embrace. The other sellswords and the Ironborn who accompanied me were no different. I gave them three days of freedom to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. After all, they were men; I understood.

Though I said that, being less than eight years old left me with more will than ability, so I decided to teach my maid, Lysa, how to use the sword and dagger in her hands to protect herself. An unintentional act led me to discover another way to gain points for the Pirate King System.

[You defeated the maid Lysa, gaining 5 points.]

My maid couldn't be so weak, so I decided to continue training her.

[You defeated the maid Lysa, unable to gain points.--You can gain points from the same enemy at most once a month for a victory or kill, and the point value will decrease.]

Pity, I had wanted to grind for more points. But then, I looked at two other women—the Red Priestess with fiery red hair, a full chest, and a keen eye, whom the Red Viper had always coveted, and the Shadowbinder from the Shadow Lands, whose face was covered by a mask, her body wrapped tightly, revealing only her emerald green eyes.

I kindly advised them: Magic is a good thing, but... casting magic takes time, and sometimes magic doesn't even work, so you need to learn how to use short swords or other weapons.

[You defeated the Red Priestess Gwendoline, gaining 20 points.]

[You defeated the Shadowbinder Evelyn, gaining 30 points.]

On the third day, when Oberyn Martell returned after a night of revelry, he saw the three of them looking at me with aggrieved expressions, holding their behinds. He suddenly understood and gave me a thumbs-up. Soon, all the sellswords and Ironborn "knew" of my feat, each of them admiring me to the point of prostration.

Alas, I was too lazy to explain; let them misunderstand.

After twenty days in this luxurious city, I finally understood what it meant to live in debauchery. In the end, I didn't buy the local specialty: bed slaves, but only a few brothel madams who knew how to train them. Westeros might need more exotic features.

En, I plan to open such a Red House in every kingdom. Making money is secondary; this is where information spreads fastest. Building an information network is something I've always wanted to do but haven't had the chance. This might be an opportunity.

A gentle bed is a hero's grave! If I hadn't issued an irrevocable order that we must leave, they could have stayed here forever, eventually dying on women's bellies!

Two Ironborn and one sellsword are missing. They haven't appeared by the agreed time. They might already be dead, or perhaps... they'd be better off dead!

Integrity and keeping promises are universal standards! Therefore, we will not wait any longer, nor will we split up to search for them. They must be responsible for their every whim.

Tyrosh—Frivolity, Pepper, and Knives in Dark Alleys

The moment the ship entered the harbor, the city unceremoniously pierced my eyes.

Painted towers, gilded domes, mansions carved with intricate deities and monsters—Tyrosh was like an over-adorned prostitute, shamelessly flaunting her vulgarity and wealth under the scorching sun. The entire city was a never-ending stage, and every entrant was forced to become an actor.

On the docks, the heat carried two scents that assailed me: the pungent chemical reek of the dye market and the sweet, clear fragrance of the citrus market. They intertwined strangely, drilling into my nostrils. Crates of oranges and lemons formed bright colors, while beside them, vats of indigo, deep red, and crimson spilled more intense hues, dyeing the fabrics and staining the fingers and souls of the bargainers.

This was a paradise of trade, and a sanctuary for desperadoes. Pirates with scimitars at their waists and scarred sellswords weaved through the crowds, paying with gold coins and settling disputes with swords. I personally witnessed an argument at a gambling table; before a word could be finished, a dagger was plunged into a throat. The daytime clamor was a cover for trade, and once night fell, the port area belonged solely to shadows and murder. In the dim light, a cold arrow was a more common greeting than a polite one.

I sat down at a smoky stall and ordered their specialty: fire pepper roasted fish. The entire fish was covered in a thick layer of scarlet chili peppers, roasted until it was fragrant and scalding hot. I took a bite, and instantly, extreme umami and violent burning exploded simultaneously, rushing straight to the crown of my head. Delicious, but aggressive, as if warning the diner: here, even a dish carried an unyielding sharpness.

Tyrosh never concealed its rules. It lured you in with frivolity and taught you sobriety with barbarity. Here, letting down your guard was suicide.

The Ironborn and sellswords clashed with pirates in a tavern, which later escalated into a melee. We ended up killing all the pirates, but in the end, three Ironborn and ten sellswords died here.

Alas, this was the norm of life, the impermanence of life and death. I had long since learned to accept it.

The best-selling items here were pear brandy, ornately decorated armor, and exquisite torture devices. I didn't care for the brandy, I preferred practical and cheap armor, and torture devices were useless (though the Prince of Dorne, who enjoyed some perverted games, was very interested in them).

After cremating the thirteen fallen companions, we left the city.