Lys — Honey, Blades, and Lucid Pleasure
Before the ship even docked, the scent of Lys entangled us—cloyingly sweet, warm, carrying a fragrance of decay like over-bloomed golden lotuses.
The entire city is steeped in a perpetual warm mist. The sunset seems to stall here, gilding painted roofs, lazy balconies, and every smile with extravagant yet false golden edges.
Here, desire is a commodity clearly priced and displayed.
Pleasure houses outnumber bakeries along the long streets. Men and women draped in gauze lean on balconies, their laughter dripping stickily like honey onto the shoulders of every passerby. The air is a chaotic symphony of scents: sickly sweet wine, expensive eastern spices, and a more intimate, provocative musk—the unique perfume of Lys, masking the smell of calculation and trade.
I tasted their honey cake, dusted with gold-leaf-like spices. One bite, and the scalding syrup almost burned my throat.
Delicious, yes, but danger stems from this too—many sweet treats are laced with gentle narcotics, not for flavor, but to knock you unconscious directly.
The classic trap involves those garish "flower boats"—velvet cushions, floral decorations, promising a tour of the most beautiful water alleys. But once aboard, the sweet air knocks you out. When you wake, you are no longer a tourist but a commodity, chained at the feet, standing on an auction block for appraisal.
The Red Viper warned repeatedly, but many Ironborn and mercenaries remained dismissive.
However, it is precisely this undisguised hypocrisy that makes Lys appear so... real in my eyes.
It doesn't pretend to be noble, nor does it hide greed.
It blatantly uses beauty and sweetness to deceive, yet generously gifts ultimate sensory pleasure. Here, a blade might hide behind every smile; every handshake might be an appraisal.
Lys doesn't lie to you about what it is. It simply spreads a web woven of temptation, testing the will and sobriety of every intruder. And I, immensely appreciate this cruel honesty.
This is the favorite place of the Red Viper, our Dornish Prince Oberyn Martell. Upon arriving in Lys, he couldn't wait to dive into a gentle embrace. The other mercenaries and my Ironborn were of the same virtue. I gave them three days of free movement to play to their hearts' content. After all, they are men; I understand.
Though I say this, being less than eight years old leaves me powerless in spirit but not flesh. So, I decided to teach my handmaid Lysa how to use a sword and dagger to protect herself. An unintentional act led me to discover another way to earn Pirate King System points.
[You defeated Handmaid Lysa, obtained 5 Points.]
My handmaid cannot be that weak, so I decided to continue training her.
[You defeated Handmaid Lysa, no points obtained. — Can only obtain victory or kill points from the same enemy at most once per month, and points will decrease.]
A pity; I wanted to farm points. But, I looked at the other two women—the bright red-haired Red Priestess whom the Red Viper had been eyeing greedily with her voluptuous figure, and the Shadowbinder from the Shadow Lands, fully wrapped, mask covering her face, revealing only emerald eyes.
I kindly persuaded them: Magic is good, but... casting magic takes time, and sometimes magic doesn't work. So you need to learn how to use a short sword or other weapons.
[You defeated Red Priestess Gwendolyn, obtained 20 Points.]
[You defeated Shadowbinder Evelyn, obtained 30 Points.]
On the third day, when Oberyn Martell returned after playing all night, he saw the three of them clutching their buttocks and looking at me resentfully. He suddenly realized, extending a thumb towards me. Soon, all mercenaries and Ironborn "knew" of my feat, admiring me prostrate.
Sigh, too lazy to explain; let them misunderstand.
Staying in this luxurious city for twenty days, I finally understood what debauchery meant. In the end, I didn't buy the local specialty: bed slaves. I only bought a few madams who knew how to train bed slaves. Westeros might need some exotic features.
Mm, I plan to open such a "Red Pavilion" in every kingdom. Making money is secondary; these are places where news spreads fastest. Building an information network is something I've always wanted to do but lacked the chance. This might be an opportunity.
Gentle lands are tombs for heroes! If I hadn't issued an unquestionable order to leave, they would have stayed here forever, eventually dying on women's bellies!
Two Ironborn and one mercenary are missing. They didn't appear at the agreed time. They might be dead, or... living a fate worse than death!
Integrity and keeping promises are universal standards! So we wait no longer, nor will we scatter to search. They must take responsibility for every willfulness.
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Tyrosh — Ostentation, Pepper, and Knives in Dark Alleys
The moment the ship entered the harbor, the city rudely pierced my eyes.
Painted towers, gilded domes, mansions carved with complex gods and monsters—Tyrosh is like an overly dressed prostitute, brazenly showing off her vulgarity and wealth under the scorching sun. The entire city is an unending stage, and every entrant is forced to become an actor.
On the pier, heat waves wrapped in two scents hit our faces: the pungent chemical stench of the dye market, and the fresh fruity aroma of the citrus market. They intertwined weirdly, drilling into nostrils. Baskets of oranges and lemons piled up bright colors, while nearby, indigo, crimson, and purple dye vats splashed stronger blocks of color, dyeing fabrics through, and dyeing the fingertips and souls of bargainers red.
This is a paradise for trade, and a sanctuary for outlaws. Pirates with scimitars at their waists and scarred mercenaries shuttle through the crowd. They pay with gold coins and reason with blades. I witnessed a dispute at a gambling table with my own eyes; before a sentence was finished, a dagger was plunged into a throat. Daytime noise covers transactions, but once night falls, the port district belongs only to shadows and murder. In dimly lit places, cold arrows are more common than greetings.
I sat before a smoky stall and ordered their specialty: Fire-Pepper Grilled Fish. The whole fish was wrapped in a thick layer of scarlet chili, grilled charred and hot. I took a bite; instantly, extreme umami and violent burning pain exploded simultaneously, rushing straight to the top of my skull. Delicious, but full of aggression, as if warning the diner: Here, even a dish carries an edge that brooks no provocation.
Tyrosh never hides its rules. It lures you deep with ostentation, and teaches you sobriety with savagery. Here, relaxing vigilance is suicide.
Ironborn and mercenaries clashed with pirates in a tavern, which evolved into a slaughter. We killed all those pirates in the end, but three Ironborn and ten mercenaries died here.
Sigh, this is the norm of life. Life and death are unpredictable; I learned to accept it long ago.
Bestsellers here are pear brandy, gaudily decorated armor, and exquisite torture devices. I don't love brandy; I prefer practical, cheap armor; torture devices are useless (though the Dornish Prince who likes kinky games is very interested in them).
After cremating our thirteen dead companions, we left this city.