Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 114 Harrenburg Tournament - Iron Islands Registration

In the deep halls of the Seastone Palace in Park City, the discussion about the 220,000 gold dragon prize had temporarily subsided, but the air was still thick with the burning heat brought by that number.

King Coron's gaze swept over his sons and loyal captains, and he spoke slowly, his voice low and pragmatic:

"Two hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons—" he repeated, as if savoring the weight of the number, "The total population of Pike Island is only twenty thousand. If we calculate that each person consumes one gold dragon per year, this amount of money is enough to ensure that the entire Pike Island lives a life of comfort for eleven years." He paused, then shook his head, "But this money is distributed among the champions of the six competitions, and no family is arrogant enough to think that they can sweep all the crowns."

Balf scratched his wind-roughened cheeks and asked, "Your Majesty, are we Iron Islands also going to attend this southerners' festival?"

"Of course we'll go!" Corren's answer was resolute. "Such a grand event, such a huge prize—the reward itself is irresistible. Secondly, it's the perfect opportunity for us Iron Islands to flex our muscles before the Seven Kingdoms and declare that we are no longer just 'sea bandits'! We should let those Southern knights taste the power of our axes!"

Before he could finish speaking, his two sons' voices rang out almost simultaneously.

Euron's voice was calm yet carried an undeniable firmness: "I sign up for the spear duel."

Baron roared even louder, his voice brimming with a thirst for battle: "I sign up for a one-on-one duel!"

Euron's choice made Corin frown slightly. Lance jousting was a game exclusive to the Southern Knights, emphasizing etiquette, skill, and horsemanship. The entire Iron Islands were completely out of step with that style, and no one had ever used a knight's lance as their primary weapon—except for Euron, who was an anomaly, though he had indeed been secretly practicing for a long time.

But he was only eleven years old, and compared to those renowned champion knights of Westeros—like Barristan the Fearless—…

Compared to Selmy, Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the difference is like heaven and earth. In recent years, the champion of the spear has almost invariably rotated among these three.

"In a spear duel," Corren said to his second son, his tone direct, "your chances of winning are extremely slim."

"Father," Euron met his gaze, his eyes devoid of fervor, only displaying a calm assessment, "victory doesn't necessarily mean winning the championship. I simply want to personally measure just how far I am from the top fighters on this continent."

Euron met his father's questioning gaze, his tone calm yet carrying an undeniable seriousness. He didn't argue directly, but instead chose a legendary story known to everyone in Westeros.

“Father,” he began, his voice carrying clearly through the stone hall, “do you remember the story of the ‘Fearless’ Barristan?” He continued without waiting for his father’s reply, as if stating a given fact.

"Back then, at the tournament in Black Harbor, ten-year-old Barristan Selmy couldn't even afford a decent suit of armor. He was able to participate anonymously as a mysterious knight thanks to donations from others." Euron's eyes gleamed with recollection and consideration of that history. "He ultimately didn't win the championship. Yes, he was even defeated by a true master quite early on."

He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle. "But what he won was far more precious than a fleeting championship trophy—he won glory that will endure for generations. It was that courageous appearance, that fearless charge against a formidable opponent, that earned him the title that would accompany him throughout his life—'The Fearless' Barristan."

Euron's voice wasn't loud, but every word struck King Coron's heart. He wasn't asking for permission, but stating a fact: glory sometimes doesn't depend on final victory, but on the courage to step onto the field.

King Coron looked at his son, moved by his unexpected courage for his age. He felt that Euron was no less capable than the "Fearless" Barristan of yesteryear, and was even a year older. After all, jousting with spears rarely carried fatal risks; even if he lost, it wouldn't be a serious matter. He finally nodded slowly.

However, when his gaze turned to Baron, it instantly became incredibly stern: "A one-on-one duel? Absolutely not! That's a real killing field, where there's no stopping when the strength is evenly matched. Historically, the death rate is over 50%! You are the future heir of the Iron Islands, and I will never allow you to take that risk!"

Baron's face flushed instantly with anger and resentment. He growled, "Then I won't be the heir! I'll give it to Euron, to Victorion, or to Ellen! Whoever wants it can have it!"

King Coron, enraged, rose abruptly and smacked his eldest son on the forehead: "Fool! Is the position of heir a game? How dare you push it to me today and give it to him tomorrow?!" He caught his breath, suppressing his anger, and pointed at Baron, saying, "I remember your 'finger dance' is the best in the Iron Islands. Axe-throwing competitions are where you belong! Go and show everyone what the strength and accuracy of the Ironborn truly are!"

Baron tried to argue, but King Coron's eyes widened suddenly, and he roared without room for argument, "Say another word, and you can forget about going to the axe-throwing competition! You'd better stay here on Pike Island and guard the house!"

Baron's arrogance was completely suppressed by that roar. He angrily shut his mouth, and could only turn his full of resentment into an infinite desire for the axe-throwing competition.

King Koren tapped his rough fingers on the table, his gaze shifting to his loyal captain, Balf, his voice low and direct: "Balf, how much do you know about the specifics of this 'Seven-Party Tournament'? Southerners always have a lot of tricks up their sleeves."

Balf stepped forward, his years of experience traveling proving invaluable. He organized his thoughts and answered clearly, "Brother, the rules sound simple, but they are incredibly cruel. Regardless of where the participants come from—Westeros or Braavos, what their status is—king or slave, male or female or neither—as long as either side gathers a hundred people who can participate, gives themselves a resounding name, and raises a banner, they are eligible to register."

There are almost no restrictions on the participants themselves—they can be riders, mercenaries, or even Ironborn like us.

He paused, a hint of appreciation, even longing, for this chaotic set of rules appearing on his face: "Once the competition begins, the seven registered teams, totaling seven hundred people, will be simultaneously herded into a huge, designated area. There will be no gradual elimination, no fair one-on-one competition. From the very beginning, it will be a chaotic free-for-all with no rules!"

His voice unconsciously took on a ruthless edge, the kind only found on the battlefield: "Among the seven teams, alliances are allowed at any time, and betrayals are encouraged at any time. A friend one second may be an enemy the next; everything is for the sake of staying on the field in the end."

The only rule was: either die in battle or voluntarily flee the designated boundary—either way, you were eliminated. Until only one team remained standing in the entire vast arena, they were the sole victors. This was a war—a strictly controlled conflict disguised as a competition.

After listening, King Koren remained silent for a moment, then let out a low laugh: "Heh, this is quite interesting. Compared to those pretentious knightly duels, this seems more like a game prepared for us Ironborn." He stood up and announced, "Gather your men! We are going to participate in the 117th Group Tournament!"