Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 123 Substituting One Thing for Another

As the smoke of battle gradually dissipated, what remained was a scene of devastation and heavy losses.

Five out of the ten strong packhorses, which were carrying goods, lay in pools of blood, their bodies riddled with crude arrows and short spears; their dying cries had long since faded.

The Harrenhal family steward was pale, pressing his hand tightly against a not-too-deep but still bleeding sword wound on his waist, his forehead covered in cold sweat from the pain.

The casualties among the caravan's guards were even more horrific. Of the original twenty-odd guards, fewer than ten were still standing, most of them wounded. The ground was littered with the corpses of their companions, as well as the mutilated bodies left behind by the mountain clans. The heavy stench of blood almost drowned out the expensive, still-flowing aroma of wine.

The family steward, enduring excruciating pain, scanned the scene of carnage. He knew that with their current manpower and condition, there was no chance of safely reaching Harrenhal, or even dealing with any further sporadic attacks. Gasping for breath, he ordered a less seriously injured but seemingly calm guard in as clear a voice as possible: "Quick! Mount the fastest horses, don't hold back, get back to Harrenhal at full speed! Tell the Earl everything that's happened here, request immediate reinforcements! And at least three packhorses! Go now!"

The guard nodded emphatically, and without hesitation charged toward a frightened but uninjured horse, mounted it, cracked his whip, and sped off along the road they had come from toward Harrenhal, pinning their hopes for survival on this plea for help.

Watching the departing figure of the guard who had pleaded for help, and the battered and nearly incapacitated team before him, Euron's eyes flashed with a hint of deliberation. This place was still some distance from Harrenburg, and no one could guarantee that the scattered mountain clans wouldn't return, or that other bandits wouldn't take advantage of the chaos.

Euron made a decisive decision and turned to the six Ironborn warriors beside him, led by Dagmo – these burly men, still catching their breath from the fighting, their bodies stained with the enemy's blood, yet their eyes remained fierce and loyal.

Euron didn't say much, but his orders were clear and unambiguous: "Those savages, finish off the seriously wounded, and tie up the ones who are still breathing tightly."

After counting the men, Dagmo reported back to his commander: "There are five survivors left, three with broken legs and two with chopped arms."

"As long as they're alive, that's enough. Stop their bleeding, and we'll hand them over to the Harrenhals as a gift. We'll surely be able to pry something useful out of them." Euron's voice left no room for argument. "Take a headcount of our men and bandage their wounds. Send two men to the high points on the front and flanks to keep watch. Signal immediately if there's any movement. The rest of you, help surround the usable trucks and form a makeshift vehicle formation. Move the wounded to the center."

These Iron Man warriors sprang into action without a word of complaint. They roughly but effectively helped the caravan survivors push the scattered wagons together, forming a makeshift barrier; two men, as nimble as mountain goats, swiftly climbed to a nearby high point, their sharp eyes scanning the surrounding woodlands and hills; others took out clean strips of cloth they carried with them to help apply simple pressure to the most seriously injured guards to stop the bleeding.

Euron himself stood rooted to the spot, his twin swords sheathed, but his wary gaze swept across the surroundings like a hawk's. The flame named Apollo burned silently on his shoulder, radiating an unassailable aura. His very presence was a powerful deterrent, giving the shaken group a temporary sense of direction.

They will hold their ground and await rescue and support from Harrenhal.

The reason they stayed put was not only because they were worried about an ambush ahead, but more importantly, they needed horses to replace the dead pack animals pulling the cart.

The family steward lay on a makeshift blanket, his face deathly pale, his collar soaked with cold sweat, each breath accompanied by a painful groan. Lisa knelt beside him, her face showing just the right amount of worry and focus, carefully cleaning his wound, applying herbal medicine, and bandaging it.

Her movements were gentle and practiced, as if she had rehearsed them countless times. In a moment when no one was paying attention, her fingertips discreetly slipped a tiny, almost colorless powder from her sleeve and cleverly mixed it into the hemostatic powder that was about to be applied—a carefully prepared "extra blessing."

Shortly after the bandage was applied, the family steward's groans of pain did not lessen but instead suddenly became rapid and sharp. His whole body convulsed violently, his eyes widened in disbelief as he stared intently at Lisa, who was looking at him with "concern." He made a strange "hoarse" sound in his throat, then suddenly froze and died completely, as if the sword wound had triggered some kind of fatal disease.

The sudden "death from injuries" left the surviving caravan members stunned and panicked. With no leader in sight, the caravan leader who had secretly passed messages to Euron stepped forward. With a face of grief and decisiveness, he quickly took command, calming the group and handling the aftermath, demonstrating remarkable composure and ability.

The newly appointed leader, Irwin Snow, a bastard from the North, was originally a pawn that Euron had planted and infiltrated.

Irwin Snow successfully replaced Harrenhal's confidant, not only stabilizing the situation but also meaning that Euron's influence could penetrate even deeper into the inner workings of House Harrenhal. He stood beside the steward's corpse, his gaze meeting Euron's for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, everything unspoken.

Initially, this was not part of the plan.

Euron's plan was meticulous, but he hadn't accurately predicted the large-scale attack by the Mountain Clan in this area, nor had he anticipated that the Harrenhal family steward would be seriously injured. It was purely an unexpected coincidence.

However, when opportunity suddenly arrives like a glimmer of light in the darkness, a well-planned chess player will never miss it.

The barbaric attack by the mountain clan created perfect chaos and casualties, and the clan steward's constantly bleeding wound provided a godsend opportunity. On the chessboard of fate, since this unexpected piece had moved to a position where it could be captured, then swallowing it whole and making it one's own was the calmest and most rational choice.

Thus, what was originally just Euron's journey to Dragonstone and his caravan's trip to Harrenhal, a chance encounter that happened to be passing by, instantly transformed into an accelerated "double agent" plan due to this bloody meeting. Chaos became the best cover for the conspiracy; casualties provided the most reasonable explanation for the change of power.

The setting sun, like a crumpled piece of beeswax, scattered its last golden-red rays across the wasteland.

The dust rising on the distant horizon belonged to the cavalry of Hollenburg. Forty or fifty chestnut warhorses trampled the grass, their hooves clattering in the wind, much like the surging tides of the South China Sea back home.

Earl Walter Hoan had four sons and one daughter, the leader of whom was Earl Hoan's second son, Leopold Hoan.

Ser Leopold Hoan dismounted, his boots crunching over a bloodied arrow shaft. As he approached Euron, the scabbard of his dagger lightly tapped against the hilt of his sword. His expression was one of anger: "These savages of this wretched place dare to attack a Harrenhal caravan—" He looked at Euron, nodding in gratitude, "If Lord Euron hadn't been traveling with the caravan, the situation would have been far worse! It's getting late; come with us back to Harrenhal. Wine and meat are ready!"

"Give my regards to the Earl! I'll definitely be there before the tournament begins. Now—" Euron shook his head and pointed southeast: "I have other places to go."

Not telling him about my trip to Dragonstone wasn't out of distrust, but rather out of the caution I'd developed over years of travel.

So at the crossroads, they parted ways and went their separate ways.