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Chapter 204: The Merchant Woman of Myr
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 12:43:10 +0000 UTCAfter leaving Bello Town, Lynd stopped in a dense forest to change his clothes and equipment. From his chest, he retrieved and donned the golden lion armor of Dragon Hunter Ornstein and his dragon-hunting spear.
With the final clasp of his leg armor secured and the lion-helm placed over his head, Lynd had now fully assumed the guise of Ornstein, the Dragon Hunter in the world of Ice and Fire.
This golden lion armor was far more intricate in design than his Banished Knight armor. Every piece of its plating and components had been personally forged by Tobho Mott, using only the finest steel from his smithy.
It was said that while crafting this armor, Malora had ventured into the restricted zone to infuse it with a form of black magic from the world of Ice and Fire. Tobho, too, had incorporated Qohoric forging techniques, adding gold to the alloy. As a result, the armor's exterior, beyond its unmistakable golden hue, bore enigmatic black and red patterns.
Though Malora claimed that the armor had been imbued with black magic, Lynd could sense no magical aura emanating from it. Whatever power Malora spoke of was not something he could perceive.
To Lynd, those black and red markings seemed more like decorative embellishments than anything supernatural. Since they did not compromise the armor’s aesthetic or its protective qualities, he gave them little thought.
Lynd had come to Essos with two main objectives. The first was to retrieve his Banished Knight armor from Braavos. How he would do so was still undecided—he would determine that when he arrived.
The second, and far more crucial, objective was to assess the situation in the Disputed Lands firsthand. He needed to gauge how far the Dothraki incursions had spread and what the three Free Cities intended to do in response.
Though the Miracle Merchant Guild of the Free Cities had been gathering intelligence on the region, their reports were sparse and unreliable due to communication challenges.
Furthermore, the Disputed Lands were swarming with Dothraki horsemen, making it extremely dangerous for the guild's intelligence operatives to venture out of the city for field reconnaissance.
Lynd valued every intelligence officer under the guild’s employ and could not afford unnecessary losses. Before deploying any of them, Balin had been instructed to emphasize the importance of safety above all else. Consequently, there was virtually no firsthand intelligence available from the Disputed Lands.
Without sufficient intelligence, it was impossible to determine the right moment to act or formulate a sound strategy.
Thus, while using the resettlement of Stepstones' island migrants as a cover to deploy disguised Chosen Soldiers across the archipelago, Lynd also chose to personally travel to Essos to gather information.
His first destination was Lys. Compared to the other two Free Cities, Lys—isolated from the mainland—had been the least affected by the ongoing turmoil. It was also the best place to observe the current stance of the Free Cities regarding the Disputed Lands.
However, to his surprise, the day before his ship arrived, Lys had abruptly closed its port. With the exception of ships carrying food supplies, no other vessels were permitted to dock.
The reason, it was rumored, was to receive a delegation from an unknown location. The exact origins of this delegation remained unclear, but considering Lys had gone so far as to close its harbor for them, their arrival was evidently of great significance.
Uncertain how long the port closure would last, Lynd decided against waiting or attempting to enter the city. Instead, he redirected his course to Bello Town to first gather information on the Dothraki presence in the Disputed Lands.
Once he had changed into his armor, Lynd mounted his steed. The tall black horse beneath him was not Ebon, but a descendant of Nymeria’s mount, Moonmaid. Ebon was far too recognizable—riding him would make Lynd an easy target, defeating the purpose of his disguise.
This black horse, while one of the more ordinary among Moonmaid’s many offspring, possessed the greatest endurance and speed of them all.
Leading a packhorse carrying his tent and supplies, he rode north along the Valyrian road toward Myr.
In the days of the Valyrian Freehold, the Disputed Lands had been one of the most prosperous regions under its rule, serving as the key trade hub between Essos and Westeros. Nearly eighty percent of the commerce between the two continents passed through this area.
Because of this, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh had once been far wealthier than the other Free Cities.
In order to better control the region, Valyria not only carried out large-scale resettlements in the three castles but also built a city at the heart of the Disputed Lands, appointing a governor to oversee the area.
However, with the Doom of Valyria, the empire fell, and the Disputed Lands were soon engulfed in war.
The three Free Cities acted swiftly, joining forces to attack the city—one so short-lived that its name was never even recorded. Unable to defend itself, the city fell quickly. Knowing he was doomed, the governor set the entire city ablaze before taking his own life, reducing it to ruins.
While most of the city's residents managed to escape, they were soon captured by the waiting armies of the three Free Cities.
The majority of the surviving Valyrians ended up in Lys, which is why Lys has the purest Valyrian bloodline to this day.
Since none of the three cities managed to capture the governor and obtain a legitimate claim to the Disputed Lands, none recognized the others' authority, leading to centuries of conflict.
During this prolonged struggle, there was a brief period of unification—but not under any of the three Free Cities. Instead, it was Volantis, claiming to be the rightful heir to Valyria, that momentarily brought the region under its rule.
However, this unity was short-lived. When Volantis attempted to attack Tyrosh in a bid to complete its conquest of the Disputed Lands, the other Free Cities allied with the Storm King of Westeros and House Targaryen of Dragonstone to aid the besieged city. In the end, Volantis was driven out, and Myr and Lys were liberated.
This war permanently soured relations between Volantis and the three Free Cities of the Disputed Lands. Even now, the ports of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh refuse to allow Volantene ships to dock.
Lynd had studied this history extensively before setting his sights on the Disputed Lands. He had even gone to great lengths—and great expense—to obtain firsthand accounts of the war from Volantis.
To him, Volantis served as the best case study. If he was to take the Disputed Lands for himself, he had to avoid the mistakes Volantis had made.
...
Years of war had left the Valyrian roads—once paved with solid stone—badly damaged. The villages that had once lined the route now lay in ruins. Yet, even in their abandoned state, these ruins still provided shelter from the elements.
For the wounded, even a crumbling house that could keep out the wind and rain could mean the difference between life and death.
In an abandoned village at the heart of the Disputed Lands, the Myrish merchantwoman Fenya ordered her men to move the injured into whatever intact buildings remained. She then used firewood gathered along the way to light a fire. Together with her subordinates, she covered their goods and the spoils taken from a Dothraki camp with waterproof canvas and stationed hidden sentries around the perimeter to guard against ambushes.
Only after ensuring everything was in place did Fenya return to the shelter where a fire was already burning.
“How are their injuries?” she asked grimly, glancing at her men lying near the fire.
“Not good. They might not last the night,” one of her subordinates replied, his face full of frustration. “If only we had the Elixir of the Seven…”
Fenya shot him an exasperated glare. Of course, she wanted the Elixir of the Seven, but only a handful of people in all of Myr had access to such a rare remedy. Her modest caravan certainly wasn’t among them.
Lowering her voice, she gave a quiet order to one of her servants. “Take care of them. Make them as comfortable as possible. If we can’t save them, at least make sure they don’t suffer too much.”
“Yes, mistress,” the servant responded softly.
Fenya stepped to the doorway, watching the relentless downpour outside, her unease deepening.
Since inheriting her father’s caravan, she had worked tirelessly to pull it back from the brink of bankruptcy. Over the years, she had not only stabilized the business but also expanded it to twice its original size, growing it into a fleet with dozens of wagons and three ships.
Caution had always been her guiding principle. She would rather earn less than take unnecessary risks.
But this time, she had been forced to gamble.
A little over a month ago, one of her ships had become entangled in an armor-smuggling case in Miracle Harbor.
Everyone knew that Summerhall, on the continent of Westeros, sold weapons but strictly forbade the sale of armor or other protective gear. Getting caught violating this ban was a serious crime—no merchant with any sense would dare break this rule.
The Blood Armored Men of Miracle Harbor were notorious for setting traps to ensnare those who defied the prohibition, making an example of them to deter others. This was common knowledge among traders who frequented the port. Everyone knew better than to trust anyone claiming they could procure armor.
And yet, her trusted ship captain had somehow lost his senses and gotten himself mixed up in an armor-smuggling operation. He was intercepted at Bloodstone Island and caught red-handed. The crew was arrested, and the ship was confiscated.
The loss was catastrophic. Years of hard-earned profits had vanished in an instant.
Desperate to recover, Fenya had been left with no choice but to accept a highly dangerous commission from Merchant Prince Pash—to deliver a shipment of weapons to Khal Shako, who was waging war in the Disputed Lands.
Everyone knew how dire the situation in the Disputed Lands had become. Not long ago, two Khals had even led their warriors into battle right outside the walls of Myr, and the carnage was so extreme that it took the city three full days to clear away the corpses.
That brutal clash, unfolding within sight of the city, made it clear to every Myrish merchant operating in the region that stepping beyond the city walls meant stepping into mortal danger. As a result, nearly every merchant caravan traveling south chose to pay the exorbitant tolls of the Stepstones to take the safer sea route rather than risk overland transport. No matter how much a client was willing to pay, no merchant was willing to leave the protection of Myr’s walls.
So when word spread that Fenya had accepted a commission to deliver goods to Khal Shako and was seen leaving Myr’s gates with her loyal subordinates, everyone assumed she was marching to her doom.
And indeed, events played out exactly as they had predicted. Before Khal Shako could even take possession of the weapons, he was wiped out by Khal Jhaqo, and Fenya’s caravan naturally fell into the hands of the victor.
She had thought she was finished, certain that the Dothraki would sell her into slavery in Slaver’s Bay. But that very night, Khal Jhaqo was assassinated and ambushed by an unknown rival. Fenya seized the opportunity to escape with her remaining people.
“You don’t need to worry. We’re lucky enough to have made it out of the Dothraki’s grasp,” an older man in the caravan said, noticing Fenya’s troubled expression and offering her words of comfort. “And not only did we escape with our own goods, but we also managed to loot a bit from the Dothraki. Once we get back to Myr and sell what we took, we’ll still turn a profit.”
“It’s too early to think about that.” Fenya remained grim. They were still deep in the Disputed Lands, where Dothraki raiders continued to pillage and slaughter. At any moment, they could be ambushed.
As she spoke, a quiet sobbing came from near the campfire. Two of the wounded hadn’t made it through the night—their labored breathing had just come to a halt.
Fenya took a deep breath, then silently stepped outside into the rain and began digging a grave. Seeing this, the others followed suit without a word.
Before long, they had dug a pit and laid the two bodies inside, though they did not yet cover them with earth. Three others lay unconscious by the fire, gravely wounded. They might not survive the night either, and if they perished, they would all be buried together.
Fenya washed the mud from her hands with the falling rain, then returned inside and accepted the bowl of hot soup handed to her by one of her men. She took a sip, letting the warmth chase away the chill creeping into her bones.
The rain made nightfall come even faster. Soon, darkness swallowed the landscape, and the downpour only grew heavier.
By the time full night had settled, the remaining wounded had also succumbed. Their bodies were buried alongside the others.
Five comrades had died, yet the mood in the group remained steady—perhaps even lighter than before. The oppressive weight of watching their dying companions suffer had lifted, and after a brief moment of mourning, the survivors returned to a calmer state of mind. With fewer injured to slow them down, their journey tomorrow would be quicker.
Most of Fenya’s men had been with the caravan since her father’s time. Her fair treatment of them—including a policy that ensured compensation for the families of fallen employees—had fostered deep loyalty among her people.
Even now, after being captured and escaping in such a desperate state, none of them had abandoned her. Not one had thought of slipping away with the loot and leaving her behind.
It was that unwavering loyalty that had kept Fenya from losing hope, even when she had been locked in a Dothraki cage with shackles on her wrists and throat. She had never stopped believing in a way out.
At this moment, her mind was occupied with more than just planning their escape route. She had to think ahead—what would she do once they returned to Myr? How would she offload the weapons and plunder they had reclaimed from the Dothraki? How could she best use her remaining resources to rebuild her caravan?
Lost in thought, she drifted off by the warmth of the fire.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a sudden jolt woke her. Blinking in the dim light, she saw her guard captain crouching beside her, signaling for silence with a hand gesture. The campfire had been hastily smothered with dirt, and the rest of her people were already on their feet, gripping their weapons tightly, eyes fixed on the door.
Beyond the sound of the pouring rain, a faint but distinct noise reached her ears—the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
A lot of hooves.
Hundreds of them.
A single thought flashed through Fenya’s mind.
“The Dothraki have caught up to us.”
