Through the Forest of Qohor — Shadows Have Teeth, Legends Say They Bite
We entered the domain of the Forest of Qohor. If Norvos is a mountain city locked by faith, this place is land soaked in ancient malice. Towering ancient trees twist and knot, blotting out the sun; light is as scarce as mercy occasionally doled out by gods. There is no road underfoot, only mud and tangled roots waiting to trip you; every step feels like walking into a nightmare one doesn't wish to wake from.
The air is sticky and damp, thick with the smell of rotting leaves, wet earth, and something indescribable—like metal, or perhaps blood. The locals call it the "rusty scent of magic." They say there are bandits here, traps more cunning than bandits, and older things—black magic sedimented here like miasma among the trees, invisible but deadly.
We passed a forgotten temple. Less a temple than the wreckage of stone and madness. Vines wrapped around crumbling statues like veins; their features were blurred by time and runes but remained disturbing. I had never seen those symbols, yet instinctively felt repulsion—they were not praying for blessing, but imprisoning something. A mercenary reached out to touch a broken stele that seemed to whisper; the Red Viper sharply stopped him. Here, curiosity is a faster way to die than any blade.
Deep in the forest, we encountered bandits, but clearly, we had more men and sharper blades. They retreated silently. We didn't pursue because the Forest of Qohor is their turf; they know every blade of grass and tree. I didn't want to fall into a trap and be ambushed.
After nightfall, the forest truly awoke. Darkness was so thick that firelight could only prop open a small, fragile circle. Outside that circle... things were moving. Not humans, nor beasts, but some slow, low, patient existence. It disliked disturbance, and we were all uninvited guests. I ordered double watches, standing back to back, no one to leave the firelight. Ironborn and mercenaries gripped their weapons, silently listening to the slow scraping sounds circling us, as if something massive was dragging its feet around our only halo of light.
Only at dawn did that thing retreat. No one saw it, but everyone felt it. No one slept soundly that night. But when the sun came out, even though we were dead tired, we set off immediately, determined to walk out of this damned forest before dark.
I guarantee, this is a place you absolutely don't want to stay another night!
---
Qohor — Iron and Fire, Blood and Price
We walked out of that damned forest, leaving shadows and whispers behind. What hit us head-on was the scorching breath of Qohor. The whole city is like a giant, ceaseless forge. Even the air is burning—the charred smell of metal, the sting of sulfur, and a deeper, more primitive power, like blood and soul being smelted. Every breath feels like inhaling sparks into the lungs.
The streets here don't belong to pedestrians, but to smiths and their creations. Hammering sounds come from every corner, never stopping, like the city's violent heartbeat. Craftsmen labor in firelight and shadow, holding secret arts passed down for thousands of years, forging blades said to be able to drink moonlight and cleave spells. Deeper still, those in red robes—mages—study magic at the cost of blood and fire. I saw an old man's eyes; what danced inside wasn't a gaze, but the core of a furnace. Here, knowledge is more expensive than gold, and more dangerous. Every question has a price tag, and for some answers, you may not be able to afford the cost.
But I like the rules here. Clear prices are always more real than Westeros' hypocritical vows and hollow honor.
Tired of walking, I stopped at a smoking stall and ordered a spicy sausage and a cup of strong liquor they call "Firebreath." The sausage sizzled on charcoal, rough and solid; hot juices mixed with sharp spiciness exploded instantly. Following that, downing the cup of liquor—it wasn't wine at all, simply liquid fire, burning from throat to stomach. The heat was so violent it almost induced hallucinations. In an instant, the chill and fear stained by the forest were thoroughly burned away.
With triple pay, I invited those excellent smiths to the Iron Islands, promising freedom, gold, and endless charcoal and ore. Some wavered, distant firelight flashing in their eyes. But a few stubborn old ones bowed their heads silently, saying they were rooted in this cold soil; coins couldn't chisel their faith.
So, I turned to look at my silent Ironborn entourage. My voice wasn't loud, but enough to make the stiffest spine shiver slightly: "Remember our Old Way?"
Need not say more; they remember, and never forget. We come from the sea; taking by force is our doctrine. If requests aren't accepted, then... there are many ways to persuade. If they refuse a toast only to drink a forfeit, the method of "invitation" might not be so harmonious.
Qohor thought it was guarded by mountains, watched by gods. But they forgot, children of the Iron Islands never knew what obstruction meant. After we left the city, many smiths disappeared. However, contrary to imagination, no one pursued us. Except for their blood relatives, no one investigated their whereabouts, because this city doesn't lack smiths, and the bearded priests care just as little about these "lower classes."
---
Lorath — Stone and Shadow, Blood and Silence
Continuing south, the road narrowed like a shrinking snake, winding into the grey mountains of Lorath. No clamor of caravans here, no salty wind of ports, only suffocating silence. It's a heavy thing, pressing down on shoulders.
Locals are like the mountains themselves: hard, grim, reticent. They weigh you with their eyes, respond with silence. A nod might mean approval; looking away might mean a warning. Here, words are superfluous, possibly even dangerous.
A sound echoes through the valley—the crisp clash of chisels and marble. Lorath isn't rich, but it abounds in two things: silver-white stone textured like moonlight, and deep-buried rich silver veins. Stone carving workshops are built along the mountains. Craftsmen converse with stones for generations, transforming cold hard ore into art possessing both softness and sharpness. They carve silently, as if every cut inscribes unreadable family secrets into the stone.
Food is as coarse and solid as the land: salty bitter goat cheese, nut cakes hard enough to be armor, accompanied by a pot of bitter tea brewed with mountain spring water. It can't please taste buds, but it keeps you alive—here, survival is the only recognized luxury.
But my purpose isn't stone or cheese. I saw their silver mines, saw their workshops polishing weapons for generations. Their stonemasons are highly skilled. I threw out pay thirty percent above market price, hiding Iron Islands ambition in my eyes. Some shook their heads silently, loyalty rooted deep in family soil like mountain roots. For those hesitating, my Ironborn followers just silently stepped forward, fingers casually resting on axe handles, saying nothing, yet saying everything.
The Iron Islands have lots of stones; they will be very happy there. I am also happy; the Iron Islands need talent in all aspects.
Here, the deepest veins aren't silver, but family feuds. A careless greeting, a wrong name, could detonate blood feuds accumulated over generations. Their way of solving problems is terrifyingly direct—the silver-hilted dagger at the waist is their law.
I noted everything: vein locations, craftsmen's names, which families are sworn enemies with which. Knowledge, whether about metal or human life, is a weapon sharper than Valyrian steel in the right hands.
I write all this into this booklet, believing that when I step on this land again, they will play a huge role.