Tidehead Island, Spice Town.
The sky was dark, the air cold and damp, and the north wind seemed to howl in one's ears.
Yet the town was unexpectedly lively.
Rows of closely packed shops stood with their doors wide open, displaying goods from all over the world. Some clerks shouted loudly to attract customers, while others stood by the shelves discussing the quality, origin, and price of goods with patrons.
On the muddy streets, the crowd jostled shoulder to shoulder. There were nobles in luxurious furs riding horses, knights with swords hanging at their waists, merchants calling out to friends, laborers pushing carts or carrying crates, and ordinary folk with their hands tucked into their sleeves.
The smells of strong liquor, roasted meat, baked bread, manure, and urine all mixed together. Though unpleasant, they blended into a vivid sense of life that filled every street and alley.
At the southern end of the main street stood a four-story stone building called the "Spice Inn."
At this moment, eight knights bearing silver seahorse emblems on their chests stood guard at the entrance.
Every guest attempting to enter was subjected to questioning.
"Ten days ago, when I took a fast boat from Tidehead Island to Myr across the sea, I heard they were negotiating.
It's been nearly half a month now, and they still haven't reached an agreement. Damn, they're dragging this out.
And instead of negotiating in Valyrian High Tide Castle, they chose a tavern.
Every time we enter, we have to give our identities and get searched for weapons. Isn't this just making things difficult?" In the northwest corner of the hall, a knight with drooping eyes complained while drinking.
Judging by the crest on his leather armor, he was from House Hogg of Sow's Horn in the Crownlands.
Sitting with him were Ser Haff, wearing a green wave-patterned cloak on a golden background, and an olive-skinned merchant from Myr.
"It can't be helped. This involves one hundred thousand tons of grain and the ownership of a duchy. Of course it takes time," said Ser Haff, who had a boil on the left side of his forehead.
"Trading one hundred thousand tons of grain for a duchy is a huge profit," Ser Hogg said, raising his brows in envy.
Ser Haff nodded in agreement. "It's just one hundred thousand tons of grain. Ten years ago, even our Haff City could have scraped that together if we tightened our belts and endured for a decade or two."
Ser Hogg narrowed his eyes and chuckled. "Thinking about it now, that fake prince Aegon was really unlucky.
If he had returned to Westeros a few years later, with several hundred thousand tons of grain in hand, even if he couldn't take the Iron Throne, he could at least have become a duke.
Now it's all gone to Sansa Stark. Sure, she was his wife, but once the pretty widow becomes a duchess, if she wants to remarry, who can stop her?
Even the Seven Gods can't oppose a widow remarrying. That little demon has worked so hard, but who knows if he succeeded. Now that she's pregnant, he'll probably have to find other ways… hehe."
"Hehe…" The two men at the table grinned lewdly and laughed together.
"You can't call him 'little demon' anymore," Ser Haff said, wincing as his laughter pulled at the boil on his forehead. "He's completely changed. Even a man like me feels a bit drawn to him. Those women… they all call him 'little angel' now."
"That 'little angel' deserves to be pecked by ice wights," Ser Hogg spat disdainfully. "Haven't you heard how he broke the curse? Kissed by prostitutes ten thousand times. What state must he be in? I say he should be called 'little lecherous dragon' instead."
"Shh, keep your voice down," the Myrish merchant said nervously, glancing toward the stairs and the entrance before speaking unhappily. "What kind of place is this? And who is he now? If someone hears you insulting him and spreads it around, you might not care, but I still plan to do business with him."
"How is that an insult? I'm not wrong. The story about how he broke the curse came from Dragonstone," Ser Hogg retorted.
The Myrish merchant, Buffett, sighed helplessly. "Now he is the elder brother of the Dragon Queen. She has even granted him the title of Prince Gene.
You are nobles of the Crownlands, old vassals of House Targaryen, and you plan to rely on Dragonstone to survive the Long Night. What benefit is there in offending Tyrion?"
Ser Hogg and Ser Haff fell silent, drinking gloomily.
Seeing the tension, the Myrish merchant changed the subject. "On the surface, this negotiation is about Lady Sansa exchanging one hundred thousand tons of grain with Stannis for a duchy. But the real issue is still the ownership of the Iron Throne."
"Don't forget the Dragon Queen's 'Long Night Hero Rankings,'" he added in a low voice.
"What rankings?" Ser Hogg asked, puzzled.
Ser Haff also looked confused.
"You don't know?" The merchant turned to Ser Haff in surprise. "A week ago, Dragonstone sent messages in the Dragon Queen's name to all counts and higher nobles of the Seven Kingdoms. Since the Night King cannot be killed in one strike, the rule that 'whoever ends the Long Night becomes king' has been changed to a points system."
"Your family holds a comital title, right? You should have received a raven from Dragonstone."
Ser Haff gave a bitter smile. "You know, Ser Hogg and I have been busy taking loans to purchase grain. We just returned from across the Narrow Sea and then came to find you…"
"Tell us how this Hero Rankings works," Ser Hogg urged.
The Myrish merchant poured himself a glass of summer red wine, took a sip, and slowly explained, "As the name suggests, the Hero Rankings is a ranking of those who contribute to ending the Long Night.
Any noble or commoner in the Seven Kingdoms can participate in this effort of human survival. Based on their contributions in each battle against the Others, they earn a certain number of points.
For example, in the Battle of Winterfell, Miss Arya killed the Night King once, earning Lady Sansa fifty thousand points. Stannis challenged the Night King to the death. Though he lost, his effort was honored with thirty thousand points.
Logically, the Dragon Queen did even more by breaking the Cold God's curse, but she considers fighting the Cold God her duty.
Battling the Cold God does not count toward the 'whoever ends the Long Night becomes king' oath, so she only has twenty thousand points.
At present, the top three are Lady Sansa, Stannis, and the Dragon Queen.
After them are Princess Arianne of Dorne, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Westerlands, and others. Even Lord Tarly is on the list. His eldest son died at Winterfell… very tragic.
However, their points are relatively low, ranging from a few hundred to just over a thousand."
"Why is Sansa Stark ranked first? Wasn't it her sister Arya who killed the Night King?" Ser Hogg asked, confused.
"Because Arya has sworn allegiance to her sister. Just like when a soldier kills the Night King, it is his liege lord who sits on the Iron Throne. It's quite reasonable, isn't it?" The merchant smiled meaningfully.
The two knights came to a sudden realization and understood why Davos and Tyrion had been arguing for so long.
In the end, it was all about the Iron Throne.
"I used to think the price of a duchy was just one hundred thousand tons of grain. Now I see that Stannis is using someone else's resources to exchange for his own Iron Throne.
The Reach and the Vale aren't even his lands," Ser Hogg remarked.
The merchant sighed. "Westeros has been too chaotic these past few years. Kings are constantly at war, and noble houses are being wiped out one after another. When you count it up, it's shocking. House Tully of the Riverlands and House Tyrell of the Reach are gone. Jon Arryn's son is said to be near death. Even the Baratheons…"
At the mention of the Baratheons, the merchant suddenly fell silent, cautiously glancing around. Seeing no one paying attention, he let out a long breath and gave an awkward smile. "That one is even more terrifying than the little demon."
The two knights nodded in agreement. After that, they avoided discussing politics and turned to recent business matters.
"It's not just human disasters. There are also natural ones. Westeros faces a Long Night worse than war, along with millions of Others. I don't even dare enter the interior anymore. If I run into the undead, I might not come back. Business can't go on like that, so I've switched to moneylending."
Though the Myrish merchant sighed, his face carried a clear sense of superiority.
It was like netizens watching terrible data about a virus outbreak across the ocean, or seeing beautiful scenes, or listening to a famous comedian's monologue, or hearing that the comedian had finally been infected.
They might feel sympathy for the distant people, yet could not help deriving a bit of satisfaction from others' misfortune.
"It's not just Westeros that's unstable. Essos isn't peaceful either, right? I wonder how many of the hundreds of ships you sent to Slaver's Bay actually returned."
At that moment, several young women dressed as warriors sat down at a nearby table. The petite, curvy, and beautiful woman leading them casually spoke up.
"And you are?" The Myrish merchant felt an instant familiarity seeing the olive-skinned, black-haired, black-eyed woman.
"Ah, Princess Arianne!" Ser Haff, slightly balding, failed to recognize her at first. But upon seeing the distinctive Sand Snakes and noticing their house sigils, he immediately cried out.
Ser Hogg stood and gave a courteous bow before sitting again. "I heard Dorne is establishing a third defensive line at Prince's Pass under your command. Why do you have time to come to Tidehead Island?"
Arianne shrugged. "I'm just a figurehead. The real person in charge at Nightsong is Ser Jon Connington."
"If you ask me, instead of putting so much effort into building defenses, it would be better to build ships and flee to Essos. No matter how strong the Others are, they can't cross the sea, can they?" the Myrish merchant said with a smile.
(End of Chapter)
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