Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 158 Mercenaries - Don't Be a Suicide!

In the distance, a row of unfamiliar flags fluttered in the wind—not the emblems of any known family, but the battle flags of several rare and dangerous mercenary groups.

The three of them stopped in their tracks, their eyes scanning warily the patterns that symbolized money and blood.

Euron locked onto one of the flags: a black and white background with a ferocious black goat, its horns dripping blood.

"That's the Warriors—some also call them the Blood Troupe." Euron's voice carried a hint of disdain as he said, "Composed of exiled knights, criminals, and outlaws, they are known for their brutality and fickleness. They have no honor whatsoever; they are a bunch of utter traitors and butchers."

Euron's lips curled into a sneer. "The reason they're called the Blood Troupe isn't just because they're bloodthirsty, but also because they dress like a circus troupe when they fight—if you consider performing with severed limbs ridiculous." He paused, then added, "Their leader is Waghurst, a tall, thin man from Kohol who has a slurred speech and whose favorite thing to do is to chop off the limbs of prisoners piece by piece."

Ashara Dayne replied softly, her gaze falling on another banner embroidered with a knight and a lance.

"The Knights of Faith," she said, "are active around the Stepstone Islands. Those islands are of uncertain ownership, and the war has never truly ended. Today they may fight for Lys, and tomorrow they may raise the banner for the Tyrothy. Ser Osmond Kettleblack once said that he was knighted there for his bravery in battle."

Tyrion's gaze was drawn to a simple banner with a broken sword. "The Second Sons," he said hoarsely, "founded in the Free Cities, with a history that's not short, but a rather unremarkable reputation."

Finally, Tyrion's gaze settled on the most striking and unsettling banner: a gilded skull embedded in a spear, its surface gleaming in the setting sun.

“The Golden Company,” Tyrion’s voice deepened, tinged with disbelief, “their motto is ‘Words are gold,’ their battle cry is ‘Gold above, Cold Iron below.’ Founded by Aegon Rivers of Cold Iron—for a century they have been the Targaryen family’s most steadfast enemies.” He looked up, his gaze complex as he looked at the two beside him. “They dare to come here?”

Euron narrowed his eyes slightly, a cold, hard smile curving his lips. "That was a long time ago." He said with a smile, "During the tournament, everyone who participated by name was a guest of the He'an family—at least within the fenced area." He raised his hand and pointed to the brightly colored mercenary group flags, a hint of amusement in his tone, "But once they stepped out of the arena, into some deserted alley, or some dark forest—whether anyone would cause them trouble is another matter entirely."

Euron chuckled. "But I must say, they've got some nerve. For a few golden dragons, they've crossed oceans to get involved in this mess." He turned and gave Tyrion a somber look. "I wonder if they'll end up making a living, or just a bunch of unclaimed bones rotting in some foreign land."

Tyrion swirled the wine in his glass, the amber liquid reflecting his furrowed brow.

"In Westeros," Tyrion said in a steady but clear voice, "we practice chivalry."

Knights fight for honor, for their lords, for their oaths. He glanced at the noisy mercenaries, his gaze undisguisedly scrutinizing and contemptuous. "But in the eyes of most nobles, including my father's mercenaries, they are nothing more than a pack of hyenas selling their lives for money," utterly devoid of honor. He often referred to them as "laborers doing odd jobs." Except they cleaned the battlefield not with brooms, but with swords.

Tyrion took a sip of his drink and chuckled, "Then let's wait and see if these laborers will have the luck to collect their 'wages' in the end."

Aside from the renowned or infamous mercenary groups, there were many unfamiliar flags that no one had ever seen before, haphazardly clustered at the edge of the camp like wild mushrooms after the rain. These were groups hastily assembled from wandering mercenaries, down-on-their-luck knights, and free riders seeking fame—a motley crew, of varying quality.

Their flags were utterly haphazard: some were crudely embroidered with twisted beasts, others were just pieces of cloth of different colors sewn together, and some were even symbolic symbols drawn directly on a dirty cloth with charcoal. These hastily pieced-together patterns fluttered helplessly in the wind, as if telling the story of their owners' equally uncertain fate.

However, though the flag was crude, every pair of eyes gathered beneath it burned with undisguised ambition.

This is the ironclad rule of warriors: in literature, there is no first place; in martial arts, there is no second. Standing on the arena, no one believes they were born to be a loser. Whether a renowned champion or a novice just starting out, the same heart beats within them, yearning for victory.

Everyone who stepped onto this field held the same belief—to win the competition, to win glory, and to win the golden dragon that could change their destiny. They rubbed their weapons, inspected their saddles, and cast glances at their competitors filled with assessment, vigilance, and undisguised confidence. The air was thick with the scent of steel and leather, and an almost scorching anticipation, as if a single spark could ignite it all.

Just as the three turned to leave, a sharp scream suddenly pierced the noisy air, coming from the direction of the Blood Play Troupe's camp.

Euron's gaze shot like an arrow—he saw the young girl who delivered sea monster wine to various mercenaries and always had a sunny smile on her face, who was now being held tightly in the arms of a burly mercenary from the Blood Opera Troupe.

The man's dirty hands roughly groped her body, ignoring her cries and struggles, and he was rudely dragging her towards the dark tent.

Euron's brow furrowed sharply. Without turning around, he spoke in a calm yet undeniable voice to Tyrion and Ashara beside him: "Stand here, don't move."

Having said that, he strode alone towards that place of trouble. His steps were steady yet menacing, like a shark smelling blood.

"Let her go." Euron's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced through the surrounding noise with a chilling intensity.

The mercenary looked up—he was bald, his beard braided into an ugly little braid, and his eyes were smeared with black greasepaint. He coldly sized up Euron, and instead of letting go, he deliberately pinched the girl hard again in front of Euron.

"So what if I don't let go?" he sneered, spittle flying from between his teeth.

"If you're looking for a woman, there are plenty of prostitutes outside the camp." Euron's tone was calm, but a storm was brewing beneath. "She's an employee of the Greyjoy family, only responsible for selling and distributing drinks, not for you to play around with."

The mercenary let out an exaggerated laugh: "Don't worry, sir! I'll reward her with a copper coin after we're done!"

Euron's jaw tightened, and he said coldly, "I'm speaking to you politely," he enunciated each word, his voice dropping to freezing point, "You'd better listen to me obediently. Don't... look for... death."

Before he finished speaking, the other members of the blood drama troupe who had been watching the show stopped laughing and gathered around with unfriendly expressions, forming a semi-dangerous encirclement.