Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Smoke Sea—the protection of faith, madness, and the golden sea monster

Today, we have made a decision that may be recorded in the history of the Iron Islands—to sail into the Smoky Sea. Just uttering the name evokes a sense of curse. True accounts of this eerie realm are rarer than dragon crystals, more obscure than shadows. This is a sea utterly abandoned by the gods, perpetually shrouded in a thick, poisonous fog that never dissipates. Sunlight futilely attempts to penetrate this heavy veil, only managing to dye the sea a sickly, eerie green, like a vast, boundless, slowly decaying emerald.

Only the most reckless gamblers, or desperate outlaws driven to the brink by fate, would grit their teeth and steer the trembling rudder toward this realm of death. For us Iron People, this is not a voyage, but a sacrifice to the drowning god.

Here, the ocean itself seems to be suffering from an incurable disease. Submarine volcanoes occasionally awaken from their slumber with a roar, spewing the stench of sulfur and asphalt-like black smoke into the distorted sky. Boiling seawater violently collides with undercurrents from the frigid abyss, tearing out countless deadly whirlpools that devour everything.

Beneath that deeper darkness lurks nightmares far more terrifying than the sailors' drunken tales—forms beyond mortal imagination, their slimy tentacles like giant pythons, capable of dragging even the sturdiest ships like toys into an abyss of eternal darkness with a mere touch.

The wise Oberyn Martell—"The Red Viper"—naturally rejected this insane offer. Reason is always the shield of the intelligent. I did not force him and his mercenary group; I had them detour to a safe route and wait ahead.

Then I turned to my Iron People. The waves crashed against the hull, and I called out, "Would you like to come with me to witness the true miracle of the Drowned God?"

My response was a hearty, unrestrained laugh, followed by an even more resolute shout: "By the God of Drowning! The sea belongs to the Iron People!"

"Those unwilling to take the risk," I gave them one last option, "can board Red Viper's ship and enjoy safety."

My response was even louder laughter and the command to raise the sails. Not a single person left.

And so we sailed into the fog. The seawater gradually became scalding, as if being boiled in a demon's cauldron; the air became pungent, burning our lungs, each breath feeling like swallowing corrosive pus. The whole world seemed to be slowly decaying.

However, as the Serenity led the fleet deeper into the heart of the Smoky Sea, something incredible happened—the raging seas suddenly became unusually calm, and the thick fog gently parted around our ship, as if making way for us. My Ironborn smiled at each other; they knew this was not a miracle, but a blessing. With the golden sea monster banner fluttering on the masts and the unwavering faith of the sons of the sea in their hearts, the Ironborn were fearless.

In this cursed sea, we are not prey, but children returning home.

Hey, the Red Viper, who said he'd rather die than enter the Smoky Sea, is now baring its teeth and standing at the bow of the ship, following behind us.

"You haven't paid your commission yet!!! Who am I supposed to get my money from if you die!!!" Red Viper roared.

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The Serpent Islands—Whispers of Filth, Desire, and the Black Market

If Valyria is the graveyard of fallen gods, then the Basilisk Islands are the breeding ground for the sins of mortals. This is a festering wound on the northern coast of Sothros, a few so-called "settlements" that are in fact nests built of mud, blood, and despair.

The town was overcrowded, the air perpetually thick with the sour stench of cheap rum, the pungent smell of leather, and some deeper, indescribable stench of decay. It was teeming with people abandoned by fate: runaway slaves with gleaming eyes, merchants peddling bloodstained furs, numb prostitutes, and slave traders with steel scimitars, their gazes like weights weighing the value of each person. Here, everything had a price; with enough gold, you could obtain fresh water, food, and even any forbidden delicacy you desired.

The laws here are simple yet brutal. Pirates and slave traders, like predatory vultures, plunder everywhere, with the tranquil island of Nash being one of their favorite hunting grounds. They chain up the peace-loving Nash people and transport them north like livestock, turning them into commodities on the auction tables of Slave Bay. Sin is the currency here, and violence is the only authority.

Former pirate captain Edwin Ramirez is a cheerful, mischievous, and fierce-looking man with a kind heart. Along the way, he gets along very well with the mercenaries Ironborn, to the point of becoming sworn brothers.

Upon arriving at the Lizard Islands, over twenty mercenaries and more than ten Ironborn followed him without a word, armed with knives and axes, searching for the crew who had betrayed him. Since this was a personal mission, they were naturally responsible for their own lives, so 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 from the Caribbean.

I lingered in the Basilisk Islands because I'd heard that beneath this filth lay a black market capable of satisfying almost every desire. And what I wanted wasn't ordinary goods. The ancient whispers of dragon eggs, the cold touch of Valyrian steel… these treasures, unattainable elsewhere, might be hidden here beneath some smoke-filled shack, waiting for a pair of eyes sharp enough, and ruthless enough, to discover them.

Risk? It's everywhere. Every transaction could be a meticulously planned heist, every treasure a deadly trap. But to touch true power, one must be tainted by filth and lies. Here, discernment is more important than swords, and ambition is the best compass.

A wizard with a face full of sores and wearing a black wizard's pointed hat was selling dragon eggs. My companion, the Shadowbinder Evelyn, told me that it was a dead egg and could only be kept as a collectible, but in the end I still spent gold coins to buy the dragon egg.

Dead eggs? A certain dragon mother also had three dead eggs, but in the end, she hatched three giant dragons. Maybe I can do it too... You have to have dreams, right?

Edwin Ramirez found his original crew. He didn't kill all the traitors, but hanged the ringleader: his first mate. He chose to forgive the others. This truly surprised me; I never expected him to have such magnanimity.

Personal charisma is a strange thing. After Edwin Ramirez became the pirate captain again, more than a dozen mercenaries chose to follow him and stay on his ship. "Long Legs" Lomas also decided to stay by Edwin Ramirez's side. He said he wanted to write a biography of the pirate captain, and he believed that the days spent with this man would be very interesting.

They came and went as they pleased. Before leaving, Red Viper and I gave them our sincerest blessings.

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The Journey Home—Red Sands, Blazing Sun, and Chilling Cold

The voyage finally turned westward. We set sail from the infamous Serpent Islands, rounded the southern edge of Essos, leaving the mystery and danger of the East behind. The bow of the ship cleaved through the exotic waves one last time, heading towards Westeros—the land we called home.

The first to greet us was Dorne. Oberyn—my partner, the elegant and deadly "Red Viper"—was in their territory.

On the distant horizon, that familiar scene gradually came into focus: crimson mountains like the bare muscles of the earth, and the boundless sea of ​​sand shimmering with dazzling gold under the blazing sun. We landed on this scorching land. The Dornish sun, unyielding and relentless, poured down like the fire of a furnace wielded by the gods. It baked our deck, its heat seemingly capable of forging away the sea salt frost that had settled on our armor, burning away the eerie shadows and distant memories that clung to our very bones.

Let this land, with its scorching sands and howling winds, judge the stories we bring back; let its burning heat wash away the dust and blood from our journey. Here, everything is exposed to the naked light, nowhere to hide.

Oberyn stepped onto the beach and took a deep breath of the dry, scorching air of his homeland. For him, this was truly home.

As for me, I simply returned to Westeros.

I stand under the same scorching sun, feeling the same hot wind, but my gaze has already crossed the Dunes of Dorn, settling on the northern horizon. My home is the Iron Islands, that grey sea and hard reefs. There, the people of the Drowned God find their final resting place.

Dorne is good, but it's just a stop on the way home. The real destination is yet to come.

But since I was already there, I figured I should let this red viper treat me well. After nearly three years of traveling together and going on life-or-death adventures, I found that the red viper was actually quite cute and reliable. Throughout the journey, he didn't act like a prince or put on airs like an elder; he treated me, a ten-year-old child, as a friend.

I didn't linger here; I was eager to go home and couldn't wait to taste the sea breeze of the Iron Islands.