Ocean voyages could drive a man mad with tedium.
From the Smoking Sea to Volantis was two hundred leagues—about nine hundred and sixty kilometers. For more than a month, the fleet pressed on through waves and wind, day after monotonous day, until at last they reached the sprawling, boisterous delta at the mouth of the Rhoyne. There, crouched across the sandbanks, rose the vast and majestic city of Volantis.
The wide Rhoyne split Volantis in two.
The Eastern City, home to the old noble bloodlines, was tightly encircled by an elliptical wall of black stone, two hundred feet high.
The Western City was a boiling cauldron of life—merchants, sellsword, prostitutes, thieves, mummers... all crammed into narrow streets and bustling markets, the air heavy with the smells of spices, sweat, and cheap drink.
The two halves were joined by a massive bridge, broad enough for two four-wheeled wagons to pass abreast.
Once docked, Lo Quen, his wounds fully healed, ordered Jaelena to purchase seaworthy ships to replace the worn-out vessel they had salvaged from the ruins of Valyria, and to resupply fresh water and food.
Lo Quen himself, together with Janice, planned to visit the slave market.
With Janice—her curiosity nearly spilling over—and thirty Dragon Soul Guards as silent as iron shadows, he stepped into the tumult of the Western City.
The great white stone street had been polished smooth by countless feet.
Janice's eyes went wide as she took everything in—hawkers shouting at stalls, performers juggling and tumbling, strangers in bizarre clothes crowding the way. To a girl raised among ruins, the scene was like stepping into a strange and dazzling dream.
At the market gates, a few sellswords in faded leather armor, dust-caked and weary, were shouting themselves hoarse, waving a crude wooden placard:
"Windblown Company recruiting warriors! High pay! Rare chance...!"
Lo Quen slowed.
The Windblown Company? The Tattered Prince's men?
He gave them a longer look. Clearly, business was poor. No matter how hard they shouted, not a soul stopped at their stall.
Without lingering, Lo Quen continued on toward the slave market.
The stench of sweat hit him the moment he stepped into the square.
A broad-faced slaver with jowls like slabs of meat cracked a long whip over a huddle of ragged, gaunt slaves, spitting curses as he drove them forward.
When he noticed Lo Quen—his fine clothes, his strikingly youthful Eastern face, the lively girl at his side, and behind them thirty armored guards exuding a cold, murderous aura—the slaver's demeanor changed at once. He plastered on a sycophantic grin and trotted forward.
"Honored master, good day! How may I serve you? Looking for clever servants, or strong backs for hard labor?"
Lo Quen's eyes swept over the trembling slaves. "How many do you have?"
"You've come to the right man," the slaver boasted, chest puffed out. "These two hundred here are just a sample. Inside the houses, I've got another thirteen hundred. All prime stock—men, women, young, old, from every land. Satisfaction guaranteed."
Seeing Lo Quen's expression remain unreadable, the slaver spread five stubby fingers, his grin widening. "Just five golden honors each—fair and square."
Lo Quen's gaze chilled.
He had once been sold from this very market. Did the man think he didn't know the prices?
Volantis's golden honors were small and thin. Worth less than Westeros's golden dragons, yes, but still dearer than silver moons.
"One golden honor per slave. Otherwise, we're done."
He made to turn away.
"Ah—master, wait!" The slaver snatched at his sleeve, his face twisting in a show of reluctance mixed with shrewd calculation. "One golden honor... gods, that's... Well, since you're clearly a man of great means—one golden honor each, but you must take the entire lot. All fifteen hundred. Agreed?"
Fifteen hundred? Lo Quen considered.
The Stepstones were harsh and undeveloped; a large labor force would be essential at the start.
He gave a slight nod and gestured behind him.
Several Dragon Soul Guards immediately heaved forward over a dozen heavy wooden chests, dropping them with a resounding thud.
When the lids were thrown open, the sunlight flashed across piles of golden coins, dazzling the eyes.
The slaver reached greedily for them—only to have his hand smacked aside by the cold iron gauntlet of a Dragon Soul Guard.
"Count them. Money and goods settled." Lo Quen's tone left no room for argument.
"Yes! Yes! At once! At once!" The slaver bowed and scraped, quickly sending men to fetch the captives.
Before long, the square was packed with a dense, dark mass of people.
The Dragon Soul Guards worked with flawless efficiency, silently and precisely counting—exactly fifteen hundred slaves.
Lo Quen's gaze swept over the numb, terrified faces of the crowd: Lhazareen, Dothraki, dark-skinned natives of the Summer Isles, islanders from the Basilisk Isles... Then, suddenly, his eyes fixed on several figures huddled in a corner.
Black hair. Dark eyes. Eastern features.
Lo Quen strode over and spoke in pure Yi Ti tongue: "You are from Yi Ti?"
The slaves shuddered, their faces showing a jumble of fear and confusion.
One man, perhaps in his thirties, stepped forward under the weight of the others' stares. His clothes were ragged, but they could not hide a quiet dignity. His eyes were not as lifeless as the rest; they held a cautious, measuring watchfulness.
"Yes, my lord," he said, bowing slightly. His YiTish was flawless. "We are all from Yi Ti."
"Where in Yi Ti? And why are you here?" Lo Quen pressed.
The man gestured toward himself and those behind him. "I am Luo Wen, from Yin. They are my retainers and maids, from Jinqi, Tiqui, and Leng. We were merchants trading between the Jade Sea and the Summer Sea. While resupplying on Naath, we were caught in a conflict between local lords. Our guards were slain, our goods seized, and we were taken captive—sold here to Volantis."
He told the tale of his misfortune with a startling calmness, as if recounting something that had not happened to him at all.
Luo Wen? Lo Quen silently committed the name to memory.
His gaze moved to the Yi Ti slaves behind Luo Wen—two men and three women.
The two young men, about twenty years old, stood tall and straight, their muscles taut and coiled like leopards ready to spring.
Of the three women, two were seventeen or eighteen, plain in appearance, with the dull exhaustion common among slaves.
The third was a girl about Lo Quen's age, her face marred by dark red, twisted scars crisscrossing across her features, leaving only a pair of calm black eyes.
Lo Quen gave a slight nod, signaling the Dragon Soul Guards to take them all back to the harbor.
He and Janice then turned away from the noisy slave market.
"What is it?" Janice, sharp as ever, sensed something off.
"Nothing," Lo Quen smiled, shaking his head to reassure her.
But in his heart, suspicion churned.
Just moments ago, when his eyes had fallen on those Yi Ti slaves, he had caught the faintest trace of magical fluctuation.
It was subtle, hidden. Had he not just arrived in Volantis, he might have suspected assassins of the Faceless Men slipping among them.
Lo Quen chose not to reveal it. Even if they were unusual, they posed no threat to him now.
Still, curiosity stirred: who exactly were these Yi Ti people carrying traces of magic?
...
The two returned to the bustling harbor.
Jaelena had worked with striking speed. A brand-new sailing ship with towering masts was already moored nearby, its great sails swelling and snapping in the sea breeze.
On the dock, Dragon Soul Guards bustled like tireless ants, moving piles of supplies from the old ship to the new.
Even the heavy, mysterious black stone had been tightly wrapped in thick linen and was being carefully carried into the new hold by several guards.
Lo Quen told Janice to return to the cabin and meet her sister, while he stayed on deck to oversee the slaves boarding and the final cargo transfers.
Just then, a shrill, frenzied female voice cut through the noise of the port, stabbing at the eardrums:
"Gaze upon the stars! Stars blot the sun! The Long Night has no end! Doom is here!"
Lo Quen turned toward the sound.
Not far away, atop a crude platform of stacked wooden crates, stood a woman clad in black and crimson robes.
Her hair hung loose, her eyes wild and vacant as she flung her bony arms about, shrieking at the bewildered or mocking crowd below:
"Awaken, O Master! Break the chains! Let blood be the sea! Cleanse this world!"
Lo Quen frowned, muttering under his breath, "Raving lunatic... what nonsense is this..."
"Make way, make way..." A rough voice suddenly sounded at his side.
Lo Quen glanced over to see a squat, barrel-shaped old man grinning oddly as he shoved his way through the crowd, pushing closer.