Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 142 Challenge - The Battle of Engagement

Before the enthusiastic atmosphere of Prince Doran's toast had completely subsided, a completely different voice rang out during the banquet.

A voice tinged with provocation.

"A marriage contract?" a young nobleman deliberately drawled, raising his voice so clear it pierced the music. "Then we're not officially married yet!"

These words seemed to ignite a fuse, immediately drawing many echoes.

"Well said! The jewel of Starfall City is also the jewel of Dorne! How can it be taken away so easily?"

""

"At least let us see if this sea monster from the Iron Islands is worthy of our pearl!"

"That's right! To take away our Dornish treasures, you have to follow our ancient Dornish rules!"

Upon hearing this, Asara's slender fingers tightened slightly, a hint of worry flashing in her eyes as she instinctively glanced at Euron. However, Arianne, standing beside her, quietly pulled her hand, giving her a sly look that said, "Watch the show." On the other side, Prince Oberyn Martell leisurely sipped his wine, his face showing no sign of worry, but rather a hint of expectant smile.

Euron felt the challenging gazes that instantly focused on him from all around, and knew this was no time to back down. He slowly set down his glass, a calm yet unwavering smile playing on his lips, and asked loudly, "Oh? The rules of Dorne? I'd like to hear them in detail."

The young nobleman who had spoken first immediately replied, "Our Dornish rule is—every true wedding is not complete without a few brave warriors who genuinely love the bride and dare to challenge her!" He paused, his tone emphasizing, "Anyone who harbors feelings for the bride may challenge the groom."

Euron's gaze swept over the many eager young faces present, his tone still calm, yet carrying a chilling edge like a sea breeze: "I see. So, tonight, who would like to be the first to try?"

No sooner had the words been spoken than a dozen spirited young noblemen stood up from the banquet hall with a whoosh. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords or guns, their eyes burning with fighting spirit and envy.

Prince Oberyn Martell coughed lightly, a soft sound that carried a strange, penetrating quality, instantly silencing the commotion in the hall. He swirled his wine glass, a playful smile playing on his lips, his gaze sweeping over the eager young nobles. His tone was languid yet clear: "What, are you warriors planning to rush in all at once and try to overwhelm me? Or are you going to line up and play a war of attrition until we exhaust this little sea monster who has come all the way from the Iron Islands?"

Oberyn's question was like a probe, precisely piercing the Dornish sense of honor that they valued most.

Sure enough, someone immediately retorted loudly, their tone filled with indignation at having their honor questioned: "Prince Martell!"

We, the warriors of Dorne, have never known the meaning of "taking advantage of someone's weakness"! We disdain the practice of overwhelming the enemy with numbers or using a war of attrition to wear them down!

Before the words were finished, a young man stepped forward from the crowd. He was robust, clad in exquisite soft armor, and had a thick head of dark brown curly hair on a round face with slight freckles. With a cheerful and confident smile, he first bowed in the direction of Oberyn and Prince Doran, then looked intently at Euron and announced in a loud voice, "Roger Elion of Divine Grace City! I will be the first challenger today." He paused, looked around, his confidence almost overflowing, "And I assure you all, I will also be the last one today."

With the challenger stepping forward, the atmosphere in the banquet hall instantly became tense.

Without being given a command, the guests moved back in perfect unison, quickly clearing a circular space in the center of the hall large enough for two people to maneuver. The flickering firelight and candlelight illuminated this makeshift battlefield.

Euron and Rogé Elion stepped into the circle and stood facing each other. Euron did not immediately assume a fighting stance, but calmly spoke, his voice exceptionally clear in the silent hall: "Swords have no eyes. I wonder if this contest will be fought with sharpened real swords, or unsharpened practice swords?"

Upon hearing this, Roger's cheerful smile instantly turned into a hint of mockery. He said loudly, "Hehe, if the little sea monster is afraid of blood, of course he can choose to practice swordsmanship." His words were full of provocation.

Euron was not angry. He simply responded calmly, his tone carrying a realistic composure: "What I'm afraid of is that I might accidentally lose control of my strength and hurt you."

"Hmph! Enough said!" Rogé's fighting spirit was further fueled by this calm confidence. "Warrior or coward? Come, let's settle this with our skills!"

Just as the two were locked in a tense standoff, and the atmosphere was about to explode, Prince Doran, seated at the head of the table, finally spoke. His voice was gentle yet carried an undeniable authority, instantly quelling the commotion in the room: "Young men, calm your tempers. I don't want my parlor to be stained with blood; that would spoil your enjoyment of fine wine."

Prince Daolang slightly raised his hand to signal: "Someone, change their swords and knives to practice swords."

Having mastered the sword, Euron casually twirled it, feeling the weight and balance of the blade. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pointed the tip of the sword diagonally at the ground and made a simple "please" gesture to Roger Elion. His demeanor was so composed that it seemed he was not in the midst of a duel, but rather engaged in routine practice.

Roger Elion snorted coldly, enraged by the opponent's almost dismissive composure. He let out a low shout and attacked with his sword! His moves were wide and sweeping, following orthodox knightly training, and each move showed no obvious flaws, demonstrating a solid foundation.

However, in Euron's eyes, his speed was too slow, his movements too sluggish, and the power of his sword swings seemed unremarkable. Euron didn't even need to use the strange movement techniques of [Paper Painting]; with just basic dodging and subtle footwork adjustments, he effortlessly evaded more than a dozen of his opponent's all-out slashes as if strolling in a garden. His figure weaved through Rogé's storm of attacks, yet not even the hem of his clothes was touched.

Finally, after Euron deftly dodged a seemingly fierce thrust, Rogé's attack momentarily faltered and opened up. Euron's eyes narrowed slightly, and his previously restrained aura suddenly erupted!

Everyone only saw a blur before their eyes! Euron's figure suddenly cut in, and the next second, the blunt tips of the two practice swords accurately and coldly touched Roger Elion's vital points at the same time—one was pressed against his Adam's apple, and the other was steadily stopped at his heart.

Silence fell over the arena, broken only by Roger Elion's heavy, incredulous breathing and the cold touch of the sword tip against his vitals.

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