Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 127 Ilya Martell

The ship slowly approached the dock of Dragonstone. The salty sea breeze grew increasingly fierce, and the air seemed to be filled with the unique sulfurous smell and heavy sense of ancient magic unique to this volcanic rock island.

The heir to the Iron Throne will be granted the title of Prince of Dragonstone, who is now Prince Rhaegar.

Euron Greyjoy stepped onto the black lava ground first, followed closely by Lisa, with Dagmer the Rift always by his side and six elite Ironborn guards. This small group stood out conspicuously on this strange island marked with the Targaryen family's imprint.

Legend has it that about a hundred years before the apocalypse struck Valyria Freehold, the Valyrians expanded their influence to the Narrow Sea. They annexed this island that guarded the throat of Blackwater Bay and built a castle on it, but did not continue westward. Dragonstone thus became the westernmost territory of Valyria.

The castle towers were sculpted from rock by Valyrian magic and are shaped like dragons to create a sinister and terrifying atmosphere, hence the name Dragonstone.

Perhaps it's because this island is imbued with Valyrian magic that it awards more points than other towns. [Explore:]

You discovered Dragonstone and gained 120 points.

Euron stepped into the cold and solemn main hall of Dragonstone Castle—the Stone Drum Tower—and his gaze was immediately drawn to the figure beside the throne.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen rose to his feet, his silver-gold hair shimmering faintly in the torchlight, his face as handsome as a legendary god, his bearing impeccably elegant. However, what was most striking were his dark purple eyes, which, though they should have been sharp and majestic like an emperor's, now held a deep melancholy, as if the ashes of the Summerhall had never left them.

"Welcome to Dragonstone, Euron Greyjoy," Rhaegar's voice was gentle and magnetic, yet carried a subtle hint of aloofness. "The sea breezes have brought the Iron Islands' valor here. I have heard of your exploits on Greenwood." His words were carefully chosen and appropriate, expressing welcome without being overly enthusiastic, his movements elegant and refined.

Euron nodded slightly, meeting the prince's gaze without flinching. "Thank you for your hospitality, and thank you for allowing me to come and receive your guidance, Prince Rhaegar. Though the Iron Islands and Dragonstone are separated by vast oceans, the sea always brings together interesting souls. As for Greentree Island, it was merely an unnecessary voyage." His response was equally skillful, acknowledging the fact while glossing over it lightly.

In the somewhat dim yet solemn main hall of Dragonstone, Euron calmly scrutinized the prince, as if appraising a precious yet fragile work of art, while also noticing the three white-robed knights and the Kingsguard following closely behind the prince.

Most striking of all was Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Dawn," a figure seemingly embodying legend. He stood silently behind the prince's throne, his posture as upright as a cedar tree atop a solitary peak, the world-renowned greatsword "Dawn" on his back seemingly radiating a faint glow even from its sheath. His sharp eyes, like those of a hawk, calmly swept over Euron and his Ironborn, carrying his usual scrutiny and unapproachable majesty.

However, when his gaze met Euron's eyes, a complex glimmer seemed to flash across that cold scrutiny—because his sister, Ashara Dayne, had been betrothed to Euron in Lannister Harbor, and she had mentioned in her correspondence with him that they had been exchanging letters and that their understanding of each other was growing.

This personal connection created an indescribable, subtle atmosphere between the two equally proud and powerful men, a mixture of familiarity and estrangement. Sir Arthur remained silent, offering only a very slight, almost imperceptible nod to Euron—a gesture of acknowledgment that transcended official business and existed solely on a private level.

Standing on the other side was Sir Oswell Hoyne, from House Hoyne of Harrenhal. His calm demeanor and experienced air made him seem as reliable as a rock. His gaze lingered more on his surroundings as he fulfilled his duty as a guard.

At the center of the three white-robed figures stood Ser Gerald Hightower, nicknamed "The White Bull," captain of the Kingsguard. Slightly older, he possessed a dignified and solemn air, his white armor spotless. He didn't deliberately flaunt his authority, but his composed demeanor and commanding gaze clearly indicated his status as the Kingsguard's leader. His gaze calmly settled on Euron, carrying an official's caution and assessment.

The presence of these three elite knights acted as an invisible barrier, highlighting the prince's noble status and silently reminding every visitor of the Targaryen family's power and prestige.

Ser Oswell Heane leaned forward slightly, a subtle smile playing on his weathered face. His tone was a mixture of business acumen and a barely perceptible probe: "Lord Greyjoy, I've heard that my brother in Harrenhal is having all the drinks for this grand tournament exclusively supplied by your Iron Islands? And you're even going to make that 'sponsorship' announcement at the start of the tournament? Truly—a uniquely ingenious business mind."

Oswell paused, his voice now tinged with genuine curiosity. "To be honest, Iron Islands homemade wine? This is the first time I've ever heard of such a thing. Is this so-called fine wine just grape wine infused with the saltiness of the sea?"

Euron smiled faintly. "Sir Rivern, you flatter me. It's simply a mutually beneficial arrangement. Harrenhal needs fine wine to enhance the feast, while the Iron Islands happen to have some unique new brews, eager to find distinguished guests who appreciate them." He paused briefly, his tone carrying a confident nonchalance. "As for whether the sea salt will affect the flavor? Perhaps it is precisely because our 'Sea Monster' is bathed in the winds and waves of the North Sea that it possesses a unique richness and untamed spirit. We brought some with us this time, and if Sir is interested, you can taste them later and judge for yourself."

He said with great confidence, "We have brought in the best winemakers and the best winemaking equipment in all of Westeros, and sourced the best grapes from the best vineyards in Pentos. After the wine was made, we had the best sommeliers taste it, and they confirmed that its quality has surpassed that of the wines from Greentree Island in the past. I believe that just one sip will leave you full of praise and amazed."

Ser Gerald Hightower, captain of the Kingsguard, joined the conversation with his steady, authoritative voice. His white beard was neatly trimmed, and his piercing gaze fell directly on Euron: "As for martial arts, Lord Greyjoy, I've heard a different story from Arthur."

As Geralt spoke, Ser Arthur Dayne, standing to the side, maintained his silent authority. "Arthur says your two-handed swordsmanship is swift as the wind, ruthless, precise, and steady. There's even rumor that Jaime Lannister, the arrogant son of Tywin Lannister, was defeated by you at his coronation ceremony." Ser Geralt's tone carried a pure warrior's interest, a desire to verify the rumors. "Now that we're at Dragonstone, you must practice thoroughly later. Let us witness firsthand what kind of swordsmanship can truly impress the 'Sword of the Morning.'"

Euron said calmly, "Ser Hightower's information network is truly impressive. Ser Arthur's praise is undeserved. My sparring with Jaime Lannister back then was nothing more than a game for teenagers; it doesn't count."

"As for swordsmanship—it is my wish, but I dare not ask. I came to Dragonstone to receive guidance from you seniors, hoping to achieve good results in the future tournament." Euron's eyes gleamed with a warlike light. "The Iron Islands' waves only taught me how to survive and kill most effectively, not how to perform elegantly in the ring. My swordsmanship may be rough, but it is absolutely practical. Since the captain has such an interest, I am naturally happy to accompany him, and it is also a good opportunity to learn a thing or two from you true sword masters."

''

The two Iron Guards, one eloquent and the other martial, outlined their understanding and interest in this visitor from the Iron Islands from different perspectives, foreshadowing that Euron's trip to Dragonstone would not be limited to simple pleasantries.

The banquet hall was brightly lit with candles, and the silverware and crystal glasses glittered in the light.

Euron's gaze passed over the noisy crowd and landed on Princess Elia Martell.

Her beauty was completely different from Cersei Lannister's sharp, almost aggressive brilliance.

Elijah's beauty is the kind that needs to be savored slowly. Her features are delicate and gentle, her eyes holding the warmth of Dorne's sun and the tenderness of its sand, yet without a trace of Cersei's haughty arrogance and coldness. She is more like a fragile, precious porcelain from the East, elegant and serene, radiating a kind and restrained brilliance.

If it weren't for her beauty and charisma, Elia Martell would never have been chosen by the "Mad King" to replace Cersei Lannister, marry his eldest son, and inherit Rhaegar's mantle.

However, this beauty seemed to be shrouded in an invisible fragility. Her face was so pale it was almost transparent, and the faint blue veins beneath her skin were visible—marks left by the weakness she hadn't fully recovered from after giving birth to her daughter, Rhaenys Targaryen, last spring.

At this moment, she was holding her daughter, who was not yet a year old. The little princess had rosy cheeks, which contrasted sharply with her mother. The scene was so beautiful that it made people tremble, and so fragile that it made people hold their breath.

Princess Elijah's gentleness was not merely superficial. Euron noticed that she quietly thanked the maid who came forward to pour wine and gave the guards standing by an understanding smile. Her kindness flowed naturally to everyone around her like a warm spring.

When her gaze finally fell on Euron, there was no scrutiny or criticism in her eyes, only pure and friendly curiosity.

Ilya leaned slightly forward, her voice as soft as a summer night breeze: "Lord Euron, my brother Oberyn mentioned you in a letter. He said you are a warrior of extraordinary insight, who has sailed the Narrow Sea, and whose exploits are far more legendary than those of many elders." A sincere smile bloomed on her pale face. "He has always spoken highly of you. Would you be willing to share some of your stories with me? Though I am confined to my sickbed, my heart still yearns to hear tales of the wider world."

The noise of the banquet seemed to create a warm barrier around them.

Euron, in his low, deliberate voice with an Iron Islands accent, described the landscape across the Narrow Sea—the canals and swordsmen of Braavos, the spice market of Pentos, and the bizarre customs of those distant lands.

Princess Elijah leaned back in her chair, a faint blush rising to her pale face from her excitement. Her eyes shone with an unmistakable curiosity and imagination, as if, through Euron's words, she were witnessing firsthand the vast worlds she had never set foot in.

She often asked questions, her tone gentle and sincere: "So, are the 'Water Dancers of Braavos' really as legendary as they say, able to walk on the cables as if they were nothing?" Especially when Euron's story involved her willful brother, Oberyn...

When she was in Martell, her concern and curiosity grew even stronger. "While my brother was there, did he cause any more trouble for his elder brother, the Prince?"

But she maintained excellent manners throughout, never interrupting him unnecessarily, only expressing her amazement or questions at appropriate intervals between his narrations.

The two engaged in a lively and pleasant conversation, their conversation flowing smoothly as if they had known each other for a long time.

However, amidst this seemingly harmonious atmosphere, Euron's sharp gaze caught a hint of undeniable coldness.

His gaze inadvertently swept over the host of the banquet, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, several times.

The prince's silver-gold hair made him look like a god in the candlelight. He moved among the guests with impeccable manners and remained as elegant as ever.

But he barely glanced at his wife, Ilya, throughout the entire interview.

Aside from a few necessary and polite words, there was no private communication or eye contact that is typical between husband and wife.

That indifference wasn't a deliberate act of alienation, but a deeper, almost complete ignoring of her, as if she were merely an insignificant decoration in the hall.

This silent coldness stood in stark contrast to the warm corner where he was now chatting happily with Ilya, casting a heavy shadow beneath the glamorous surface of the feast.

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