Yulon's Travel Journal (3)

Lys—Honey, Blades, and the Clear-Headed Joy

Before the ship had even reached shore, Lys's scent had already wrapped around me—cloying and warm, with a hint of something rotten, like an overblown golden lotus.

The whole city was steeped in a warm-colored haze that never cleared. It was as if the sunset had come to a standstill 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.

There were more pleasure houses than bakeries along the main streets. Men and women draped in gauzy silks leaned against the balconies, their laughter sliding down like sticky honey and 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, more tantalizing musk—the unique perfume of Lys, masking the scent of schemes and transactions.

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

Delicious, yes, but that was exactly what made them dangerous—many sweet treats were laced with a gentle sleeping drug, not to enhance the flavor, but to knock you unconscious outright.

The classic trap was the garishly decorated "flower boats," with velvet cushions and floral arrangements, promising to take you sightseeing through the most beautiful canals. But once you boarded, the sweet air would knock you out. By the time you woke, you'd no longer be a tourist but merchandise, iron chains around your ankles as you stood on an auction block for buyers to inspect.

The Red Viper warned them again and again, but many Ironborn and sellswords still didn't take it seriously.

Yet it was precisely this undisguised hypocrisy that made Lys seem so... genuine to me.

It didn't pretend to be noble or conceal its greed.

It shamelessly used beauty and sweetness to swindle people, yet generously offered the most exquisite sensual pleasures. Here, a blade might lurk behind every smile, and every handshake might be an appraisal.

Lys didn't deceive you about what it was. It simply spread a web woven from temptation, testing the resolve and clear-headedness of everyone who wandered in. And I admired that brutal honesty more than anything.

This was the Red Viper's favorite place—our Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. As soon as we arrived in Lys, he eagerly plunged into its tender embrace. The other sellswords and the Ironborn traveling with me were just the same. I gave them three days of freedom to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. After all, they were men, and I understood.

That said, being not yet eight years old left me powerless to do much, so I decided to teach my maid Lysa how to use the sword and dagger in her hands to defend herself. This innocent decision led me to discover another way to earn Pirate King System points.

[You defeated your maid Lysa and earned 5 points.]

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

[You defeated your maid Lysa. No points awarded.—You can earn victory or kill points from the same enemy at most once per month, and the number of points awarded will decrease.]

What a shame. I'd hoped to farm some points. But then I looked at the other two women—the Red Viper had had his eye on them for ages: the Red Priestess, Gwendoline, with her ample bosom and striking red hair, and the Shadowbinder from the Shadow Lands, whose face was hidden behind a mask. She was wrapped from head to toe, with only her emerald-green eyes visible.

I kindly advised them: "Magic is a wonderful thing, but... casting spells takes time, and sometimes magic doesn't even work. So you need to learn how to use a shortsword or some other weapon."

[You defeated the Red Priestess Gwendoline and earned 20 points.]

[You defeated the Shadowbinder Evelyn and earned 30 points.]

On the third day, Oberyn Martell returned after a night of revelry. When he saw the three of them covering their behinds and gazing at me resentfully, he understood at once and gave me a thumbs-up. Soon, all the sellswords and Ironborn had "heard" of my exploits, and they were all utterly impressed.

Sigh. I couldn't be bothered to explain, so I let them get the wrong idea.

After spending twenty days in this luxurious city, I finally understood what it meant to live in drunken splendor. In the end, I didn't buy any of the local specialty—bed slaves. I only bought a few madams who knew how to train them. Westeros might benefit from a little more exotic local flavor.

Well, I planned to open a brothel like this in every kingdom. Making money was secondary; this was where news spread fastest. Building an information network was something I'd always wanted to do but never had the chance to. This might be the opportunity.

A soft life could be a hero's undoing! If I hadn't issued an order to leave that allowed no argument, they could've stayed here for the rest of their lives, only to die between women's thighs!

Two Ironborn and one sellsword went missing. They hadn't shown up by the agreed time. They might already be dead, or perhaps... worse than dead!

Keeping your word was a universal standard! So we stopped waiting. There was no way we'd split up to look for them, either. They had to take responsibility for every reckless choice they made.

Tyrosh—Ostentation, Pepper, and Knives in the Back Alleys

The moment the ship entered the harbor, the city jabbed straight into my eyes without the slightest courtesy.

Painted towers, gilded domes, mansions carved with elaborate gods and monsters—Tyrosh was like an overdressed whore, brazenly flaunting her vulgarity and wealth beneath the blazing sun. The whole city was an eternal stage, and everyone who entered was forced to become an actor.

On the docks, the heat carried two scents that hit me at once: the stinging chemical tang of the dye market and the fresh, sweet fragrance of the citrus market. The two mingled strangely and crept into my nostrils. Baskets upon baskets of oranges and lemons piled up in bright colors, while nearby, vats of indigo, deep red, and crimson splashed out even bolder hues, staining the cloth—and the fingertips and souls of those haggling over it.

This was a paradise for trade and a sanctuary for outlaws. Pirates with cutlasses at their belts and sellswords with scarred faces moved through the crowds, paying in gold and settling arguments with steel. I saw a quarrel at a gaming table: before one man had even finished speaking, a dagger was already buried in his throat. The bustle of daytime masked the deals, and once night fell, the harbor district belonged to shadows and murder. In dimly lit places, crossbow bolts were more common than greetings.

I sat down at a smoke-filled stall and ordered their specialty: fire-pepper grilled fish. The whole fish was coated in a thick layer of scarlet chili and grilled until fragrant and piping hot. I took a bite, and exquisite freshness and violent, searing pain exploded at once, shooting straight to the crown of my head. Delicious, but aggressive—as if warning diners that even a dish here carried an edge that would not tolerate a challenge.

Tyrosh never hid its rules. It lured you in with ostentation and taught you to stay alert through savagery. Here, letting your guard down meant suicide.

The Ironborn and sellswords got into a clash with pirates at a tavern. It later escalated into a massacre. In the end, we killed all the pirates, but three Ironborn and ten sellswords died there.

Sigh. This was simply how life went. Life and death were unpredictable, and I'd long since learned to accept it.

The bestsellers here were pear brandy, flamboyantly decorated armor, and ingenious instruments of torture. I didn't care for the brandy, and I preferred my armor practical and cheap. I had no use for torture devices—though the Prince of Dorne, who enjoyed playing some twisted games, was very interested in them.

After cremating our thirteen dead companions, we left the city.