Volantis — The Long Bridge, Former Flowers, and Today's Swamp
The Rhoyne River, like a murky artery, splits Volantis in two, with the Long Bridge being the fragile vessel connecting these two distinctly different worlds.
I stood on the bridge, feeling the vastly different pulses beneath my feet: On the East Bank, the quiet world of ancient nobles behind the Black Wall, filled with the whispers of power and the haze of sandalwood; on the West Bank, a noisy mire formed by mercenaries, foreigners, slaves, and commoners, the air churning with the intense smells of sweat, spices, and decay. The division of this city is so naked, so cruel.
Slaves. This is the underlying color Volantis cannot ignore. Their numbers are suffocatingly huge, reportedly five times that of free men. They shuttle silently through streets and docks, eyes lowered, forming the silent pedestal on which this city runs.
People say this was once the "City of Flowers and Fountains," the strongest, most prosperous pearl of the Nine Free Cities.
Today, I can only barely piece together its former glory from the ruins of massive statues and ornate fountain pools.
That foolish war of conquest a century ago drained its lifeblood. The resentment of defeat led the populace to smash countless statues of Tiger Party triarchs. Today's Volantis is like a patched-up gorgeous robe—dazzling from afar, but up close, the stitching is crude and full of flaws. Many fountains have long dried up, becoming stagnant pools breeding mosquitoes; some districts have even been reclaimed by swamps, desolate with only memories remaining.
I went to the places one must see to say they've visited.
The Black Wall — It is not just a wall; it is a declaration, coldly proclaiming the insurmountability of bloodline and class.
The Temple of the Lord of Light — Red priests serve their R'hllor in gloomy halls, flames dancing in shadows, promising illusory power and salvation.
The Red Priestess Gwendolyn dragged me inside, preaching their god to me.
The Merchant's House — The best inn in Volantis, a four-story behemoth overlooking the surrounding docks, wharves, and warehouses. Its hall is larger than the great halls of most Westerosi castles. The central courtyard is paved with stone, planted with many grape trellises. Surrounding pavilions and alcoves make the hall look like a maze. It is said to be the world's largest and most expensive inn. Yet guests fill every table, showing there are plenty of rich people in this world. If I opened a large-scale tavern in King's Landing's port, there should be money to make.
Finally, The Long Bridge. Spanning the mouth of the Rhoyne, connecting the two districts of Volantis. The entrance is an arch of black stone carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons, and other beasts. All kinds of buildings are erected on both sides of the bridge; you can buy almost anything here. In the middle of the bridge, thieves' hands and criminals' heads are impaled on spears for display.
We were lucky; we arrived just in time for the city's election. In Volantis, Triarchs are elected annually from the Tiger and Elephant parties. Every free-born, land-owning Volantene has the right to vote. The election lasts ten days, a carnival for Volantenes.
Whether Tiger or Elephant, I am just a passerby, so I enjoyed this sea of joy... but this election system makes their policies change constantly, giving this nation a smell of rot.
Volantis is still breathing, but every breath carries a trace of staleness and weakness. It taught me one thing: the deepest decline begins with internal decay, not the blades of foreign enemies.
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The Dothraki Sea — Grass Sea, Arakhs, and the Land of Trial
We finally left so-called "civilization" behind and stepped into this boundless grass sea known as the Dothraki Sea.
The sky here becomes incredibly vast, like a giant bronze bowl with green patina overturned at the end of the world. The wind is the only eternal voice here, blowing through waist-high grass, emitting an endless low whistle, as if thousands of souls are sighing simultaneously.
Here, laws are written by hooves and revised by arakhs.
We found a massive Khalasar, presented gifts, and showed eyes that were not timid, barely gaining permission to follow as "guests." But the look every Dothraki warrior gave us was crystal clear: Guest? Prisoner? The distance between them is merely the outcome of a fight.
We migrated with them, chasing water and grass, scorching sun overhead, horizon extending to the stars underfoot. Finally, we reached the legendary place—Vaes Dothrak.
No walls, no gates, this giant city grows savagely from the earth's chest. Thousands of tents fill the view like a white ocean. The air mixes the charred scent of roast horse meat, the sour rot of fermented milk, and eternal dust. The neighing of horse herds is denser than thunder, more heart-palpitating.
Right here, I met Khal Bharbo, the Khal with a voice like a great bell. And I, in a duel watched by all warriors, laid his son Drogo—who is about my age—flat on the ground with a clean Fish-Man Karate strike. In that moment, the noise stopped; only the grass still hissed in the wind.
[You defeated Drogo, son of Khal Bharbo, obtained 40 Points.]
Here, all language is superfluous. Strength is the only pass—strength of muscle, strength of will, strength to command hearts. Humility is the virtue of the weak; weakness is original sin, receiving no pity. Only by proving your value will this grassland stingily grant you an inch of ground to stand on.
After I defeated Bharbo's son Drogo, Bharbo deigned to look me, a child the size of his son, in the eye.
I wanted horses. Yes, Dothraki horses, the best in the world. I would trade salt, wine, and iron for their horses. Bharbo agreed to this deal.
The Red Viper was somewhat puzzled. He didn't understand why an Ironborn from the Iron Islands needed horses. Did an island lord need to form a cavalry regiment?
I didn't explain to him—in the future, my territory will be not only the ocean but also the land!
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Slaver's Bay — Clearly Priced Humanity and Three Masks
Oberyn sketched this coast for me in his tone mixed with poetry and venom—he called it the "Three Sisters," three whores born of the same source but wishing to slit each other's throats. And now, I saw them with my own eyes.
Yunkai's scent rushed into my nose first—cloying fragrance mixed with faint whip cracks, disgusting yet inexplicably rousing. The entire city is a giant, meticulously run brothel and beast-taming arena. They claim to export the world's most perfect pleasure slaves and servants, but in reality, they systematically dismantle and polish humans into docile commodities. I walked through it, watching slaves with trained smiles, feeling only irony: they turned "tenderness" into the coldest business.
Meereen is shrouded in a layer of ochre dust that never disperses. That towering pyramid pierces the sky, like a tombstone left by some giant. Dust covers everything, seeping between teeth, inhaled into lungs—it is the true ruler here, symbolizing an ancient, stubborn tradition that refuses change. Slaves here wear copper collars, laboring silently under the shadows of the Great Masters; even resistance seems heavy.
But what truly stopped me was Astapor. If the first two cities wrapped their "goods" in a layer of illusory gauze, Astapor tore even this last bit of hypocrisy to shreds. This is a human modification factory. The "product" is only one type: The Unsullied.
I visited a training line—they call it "The Flow." Boys are stripped of names, emotions, fear, even flesh, recast into slaughter machines of absolute obedience. Every finished warrior is born standing on countless broken souls. No deception here, only efficiency and cost.
Slaver's Bay makes no secret of its nature: Here, people can be dismantled into parts, clearly priced, and put up for sale. Oberyn was right; this is the ultimate place where humanity is priced.
I cannot change this place, at least not now. In the three cities of Slaver's Bay, I traded with those arrogant slavers who look down their noses at everyone. I need people, all kinds of useful people: doctors, smiths, carpenters, stonemasons, scholars, poisoners, warriors, merchants, generals... I want them all!
The future of the Iron Islands needs countless useful talents!