The Smoking Sea — Faith, Madness, and the Golden Kraken's Protection
Today, we made a decision that might go down in the Iron Islands' annals—to sail into the Smoking Sea. Just speaking the name, my tongue seems to taste the curse. Authentic records of this treacherous region are scarcer than dragon glass, blurrier than shadows. It is a sea utterly abandoned by the gods, shrouded all day in thick, never-dispersing toxic fog. Sunlight tries in vain to penetrate this heavy curtain, only dyeing the sea surface a sickly, ghostly green, like a colossal, slowly rotting emerald.
Only the maddest gamblers or desperadoes forced to a dead end by fate would grit their teeth and turn the trembling helm toward this domain of death. For us Ironborn, this is not a voyage, but a sacrifice to the Drowned God.
Here, the ocean itself seems stricken with an incurable disease. Underwater volcanoes occasionally wake screaming from long slumber, spewing the stench of sulfur and pitch-black smoke into the twisted sky. Boiling seawater crashes violently against dark currents from the freezing abyss, tearing open countless deadly whirlpools that swallow everything.
Beneath that deeper darkness lurk nightmares far more terrifying than sailors' drunken tales—their forms beyond mortal imagination, mucus-covered tentacles like pythons. With just a light touch, they can drag the strongest ships like toys into the lightless abyss of oblivion.
The wise Oberyn—the "Red Viper"—naturally refused this mad proposal. Reason is always the talisman of the clever. I did not force him or his mercenary company, letting them detour to a safe route to wait ahead.
Then, I turned to my Ironborn. Waves beat against the hull as I asked loudly, "Are you willing to follow me, to witness the true miracle of the Drowned God?"
Answering me was a burst of rough, heroic laughter and a firmer shout: "Drowned God above! The sea belongs to the Ironborn!"
"Those unwilling to risk it," I gave them a last choice, "can board the Red Viper's ship and enjoy safety."
Answering me was louder laughter and the command to set sail. Not a single person left.
So, we sailed into the mist. The seawater gradually became scalding, as if boiling in a demon's cauldron; the air became pungent, burning the lungs, every breath like swallowing corrosive pus. The whole world seemed to be slowly festering.
However, as the Drinker led the fleet deep into the core of the Smoking Sea, the incredible happened—the violent waters suddenly became unusually calm. The thick fog parted gently around our ships, as if making way for us. My Ironborn looked at each other and smiled; they knew this was not a miracle, but protection. With the Golden Kraken banner flying on the mast and the firm faith of the Son of the Sea in their hearts, Ironborn fear nothing.
In this cursed sea, we were not prey, but children returning home.
Eh, the Red Viper, who said he wouldn't enter the Smoking Sea even if he died, was actually standing on the prow of his ship, teeth bared, following behind us.
"YOU HAVEN'T PAID THE COMMISSION YET!!! IF YOU DIE, WHO DO I ASK FOR MONEY!!!" The Red Viper roared.
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The Basilisk Isles — Filth, Desire, and the Whispers of the Black Market
If Valyria is the graveyard of fallen gods, the Basilisk Isles are the hotbed where mortal sins breed. This is a festering sore on the northern coast of Sothoryos. The few so-called "settlements" are actually nests piled from mud, blood, and despair.
The towns are overcrowded, the air eternally mixing the sour stench of cheap rum, the stink of leather, and a deeper, indescribable scent of corruption. It is packed with people abandoned by fate: fugitive slaves with shifty eyes, merchants peddling blood-stained hides, numb-faced prostitutes, and slavers with steel scimitars weighing everyone's value like a scale. Everything here is clearly priced. As long as you have enough gold, you can get fresh water, food, and even any taboo you desire.
The laws here are simple and cruel. Pirates and slavers, like scavenging vultures, raid everywhere. The peaceful Isle of Naath is one of their favorite hunting grounds. They chain the peace-loving Naathi like livestock, shipping them north to become commodities on Slaver's Bay auction blocks. Sin is the currency here; violence is the only authority.
Former pirate captain Edwin Ramirez is a cheerful, prank-loving man with a fierce face but kindness in his heart. Along the way, he got along very well with the mercenaries and Ironborn, reaching the point of calling each other brothers and swearing blood oaths.
Upon arriving at the Basilisk Isles, over twenty mercenaries and a dozen Ironborn grabbed their weapons without a word and followed him to hunt down the crew members who betrayed him. For such personal actions, naturally, life and death were their own responsibility. I didn't interfere; on the contrary, I helped them find some useful clues, because I quite liked this guy who resembled Captain Jack Sparrow.
I stopped at the Basilisk Isles because I heard that beneath this filth lies a black market that can satisfy almost any desire. What I want is not ordinary goods. The ancient whispers of dragon eggs, the cold touch of Valyrian steel... treasures unattainable elsewhere might be hidden under some smoke-filled shack here, waiting for a pair of eyes sharp and ruthless enough to discover them.
Risk? Everywhere. Every transaction could be a meticulously set robbery; every treasure could be a deadly trap. But to touch true power, how can one not steep oneself in filth and lies? Here, eyesight is more important than blades, and ambition is the best compass.
A warlock with a face full of pustules and a pointy black hat was selling a dragon egg. My companion, Shadowbinder Evelyn, told me it was a dead egg, only good for collection, but I still spent gold to buy it.
Dead egg? A certain Mother of Dragons had three dead eggs too, but in the end, she hatched three dragons. Maybe I can too... One must have dreams...
Edwin Ramirez found his original crew. He didn't kill all the traitors, only hanged the ringleader—his first mate. He chose to forgive the others. This indeed exceeded my expectations; I didn't expect him to have such magnanimity.
Personal charisma is truly a strange thing. After Edwin Ramirez became a pirate captain again, more than ten mercenaries chose to follow him and stay on his ship. Lomas Longstrider also decided to stay by Edwin's side. He said he wanted to write a biography for the pirate captain, believing the days following this man would be very interesting.
Come and go freely. Before leaving, the Red Viper and I gave them our sincerest blessings.
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The Return Journey — Red Sand, Blazing Sun, and Cold Homecoming
The end of the route finally pointed west. We set sail from that hotbed of sin, the Basilisk Isles, rounding the entire southern edge of Essos, leaving the mystery and danger of the East behind. The prow broke the waves of foreign lands for the last time, sailing toward Westeros—the land we call home.
The first to welcome us was Dorne. The territory of Oberyn—my partner, that elegant and deadly "Red Viper."
On the distant horizon, that familiar sight gradually became clear: crimson mountains like the earth's exposed muscles, boundless sand seas shimmering with blinding gold under the scorching sun. We docked on this burning land. Dorne's sun, without haze or compromise, poured down like furnace fire from the gods. It roasted our decks, its heat seeming to forge away the alien salt frost on our armor, burning away the eerie shadows and distant memories entangled in our bones.
Let this land, with its scalding sand and howling gale, judge the stories we brought back; let its scorching breath wash away our dust and bloodstains. Here, everything is exposed under naked light, with nowhere to hide.
Oberyn stepped onto the beach, taking a deep breath of his homeland's dry, hot air. For him, this was truly home.
And I, I had merely returned to Westeros.
I stood under the same blazing sun, feeling the same hot wind, but my gaze had crossed the dunes of Dorne, cast toward the northern horizon. My home is the Iron Islands, that grey sea and hard reef. There lies the destination for the children of the Drowned God.
Dorne is good, but it is just a stop on the return journey. The true destination lies ahead.
But since I'm here, naturally I must let this Red Viper host me properly. After nearly three years of traveling together, facing life and death adventures, I found the Red Viper actually quite cute and reliable. During the journey, he didn't put on airs of a prince or an elder, treating me, a ten-year-old child, as a friend.
I didn't stay long. Eager to return home, I couldn't wait to taste the sea breeze of the Iron Islands.