NOVEL NEXT Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Lifelessness
Ghoyan Drohe wasn't at all what I expected.
Yandry and Ysilla had told me much about the old Rhoynish cities—how they had once looked, long before the Valyrian conquest.
Ghoyan Drohe, though never a major power in the rivalries between the Rhoynar, was said to have been a place of breathtaking beauty and prosperity.
A city of flowing canals and sparkling fountains, where greenery thrived, and flowers bloomed everywhere.
They said it was a charming haven where dancers performed in the streets and singers filled the air with melody.
Massive domed buildings of colorful stone and gleaming bronze stood proudly, and the princes of old paraded on the backs of their great river turtles.
The air was said to have been thick with the tantalizing aroma of spices, alive with laughter and music.
I had dreamed of seeing it all—not as it was now, but as it had been. I wanted to step back in time, before the Valyrians came, before the Rhoynar fell, before even the events of the tales I'd read.
I wanted to witness the ancient civilizations George wrote about: the Rhoynar, the Valyrians, the Ghiscari in the height of their empire. It would have been something to behold.
But what stood before me now was nothing like the city of my imagination. What I found instead was a tangle of ruins, swallowed by time. It reminded me of the forgotten cities of the Americas, lost to the jungle and decay.
The forests that the Rhoynar had once tamed had reclaimed the land when the people fled, driven out by Valyria's conquest of the Rhoyne.
History recorded how, after Prince Garin the Great's failure in the Second Spice War, the Valyrian legions marched north, sacking the cities one by one.
They enslaved half the population—or more—and took the young, the skilled, the learned—those who kept the cities alive.
Now, thousands of years later, nature had overtaken what remained. The canals, once filled with clear, flowing water, were now choked with reeds and mud.
The fountains and public baths were stagnant pools, home to turtles and clouds of biting flies. What buildings still stood were hollow, crumbling shells, slowly sinking into the muddy ground.
Wildlife roamed freely, and invasive plants twisted their way around broken columns and leaning towers.
And yet, people still lived here. Among the ruins, small riverside shacks clung to the edge of the water. Gnarled willows shaded tiny, carefully tended gardens.
Markets bustled within the crumbling remains of ancient halls, where traders stored goods moving up and down the Rhoyne. There were lodges, taverns, even brothels, scattered amidst the ruins of the once-great city.
Ysilla said the people here were the descendants of the Rhoynar, clinging to hope and looking to the future—to the rebirth of their principalities.
She spoke with such conviction, her voice bright with optimism. But when we docked, I struggled to see the hope she described.
The traders, like those from the other towns along the Rhoyne, looked prosperous enough. But the natives?
They were another story entirely. Their faces bore the weight of centuries of loss, and their tattered clothes told the tale of a people left behind by history.
The people of Ghoyan Drohe looked frail, their gaunt faces marked by hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes.
Their thin, bony frames moved with quiet efficiency as they hauled crates from carriages to the waiting riverboats.
"Trade is the lifeblood of Essos," Griff had said, and here, the truth of it was undeniable.
Since our arrival, we had barely stepped off the Shy Maid. Lord Connington insisted we wait for Magister Illyrio to arrange transportation to Pentos.
To me, the delay seemed unnecessary—why not simply ride there?—but I didn't complain. The ruins of Ghoyan Drohe were fascinating, and any chance to explore them was an opportunity I wouldn't miss.
Of course, leaving the boat required supervision. Griff rarely let me off without a chaperone, and it was usually either Septa Lemore or Rolly who accompanied me.
Griff might have been overprotective, but Septa Lemore argued that a growing boy needed room to stretch his legs.
Today, it was Rolly's turn to watch over me.
I leapt off the Shy Maid, eager to begin, and turned to see him approaching. He wore a training doublet and carried two sparring swords slung over one shoulder.
"Ready for a few more bruises?" he asked, adjusting the sack that kept slipping.
"By the end of this, I'll be nothing but a bruise," I quipped.
Rolly chuckled and gave me a playful punch on the arm. I grinned despite the heat pressing down on us. The air was thick with flies, and sweat was already gathering under my sparring gear.
The padded aketon clung to me uncomfortably, and the cervelliere on my head trapped the heat. My high-heeled riding boots would soon be soaked with sweat, and my padded trousers were already itching.
I couldn't imagine how suffocating full plate armor must feel in weather like this.
Thankfully, Jon had assured me it wasn't necessary today. Mail was kept in the hold, both for practice and in case of pirate attacks, but Griff had deemed it unnecessary for our training session.
We headed away from the river, moving deeper into the ruins toward a massive domed structure. Its walls leaned precariously, and its turrets—half-collapsed—reminded me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, though these were in far worse shape.
Flocks of seagulls had claimed them as their home, their cries echoing in the humid air.
The crumbling walls were slick with moss, the damp air clinging to our skin. Despite the heat, the shade offered some relief. We climbed over a fallen pillar, stepping into what must have once been an audience chamber.
The space was vast and circular, crowned by a massive dome. Light poured through small holes in the ceiling, forming golden beams that illuminated the swirling dust motes in the air. The faint traces of color on the stone hinted at murals long faded—a reminder of the life this place once held.