Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 172 Seven-Party Group Martial Arts Competition

Night fell completely over Harrenhal, but the great city did not fall asleep.

Countless torches, bonfires, and huge bronze braziers were lit, and the leaping flames transformed every boulder of the castle into a stage of interwoven light and shadow. The intense light even dispelled the deep darkness of the night, turning the sky into an eerie, dim yellow.

Under this daylight-like light, the seven-team martial arts competition—the most chaotic, brutal, and exciting event of this tournament—is about to begin its bloody battle.

The rules were simple yet brutal: each side would send a full one hundred warriors to participate. Originally, forty-six teams registered, but to align with the sacred number of the Seven Gods faith, the competition was divided into seven preliminary rounds, each featuring exactly seven teams battling it out in the vast arena. The three missing teams were filled by retainers and soldiers from the host family, the He'an family; however, they would only make a symbolic appearance at the start and then voluntarily withdraw, leaving the battlefield to the true contenders.

The sole rule of victory is as cold as steel: at the end of each preliminary round, only one team's members can remain standing in the arena.

There is no third option: either die in battle or voluntarily withdraw and admit defeat.

In this vast killing field, intrigue and force are equally important.

The seven teams can form alliances at will, and can also abandon their allies at any time.

Alliances, ambushes, betrayals, and fight to the death—any means are permitted, any trickery can be employed. Only the side that stands firm to the end can bathe in blood and fire and advance to the final contest.

The Iron Islands teams weren't scheduled to fight on the first night, but Euron and all his men stood on the viewing platform, gazing at the battlefield below, which was illuminated by fire and resembled a hellish inferno. The River An family's filler members had already left as per protocol, leaving only six teams truly yearning for victory and glory.

As the chaos began, alliances and betrayals unfolded one after another. Two teams quickly formed an alliance, while three others did not hesitate to create a temporary coalition, attempting to overwhelm their opponents with numbers. Only the Stormlands Bucks, led by Robert Baratheon, remained defiantly independent from beginning to end, refusing to associate with anyone.

Tonight, Robert himself was the most dazzling eye of the storm. Like a legendary warrior reborn, he wielded the colossal, incredibly heavy warhammer "Skullcrusher," each swing carrying devastating power, tearing through the air with a terrifying howl. No elaborate techniques were needed; anyone struck by the hammer suffered dented armor, shattered bones, and either death or maiming. He laughed wildly, caring nothing for alliances or tactics; he only wanted to fight and slaughter to his heart's content in this primal carnage.

"Come on! Charge at me!" His roar drowned out the clamor of the battlefield. "I'll smash you all to pieces, and I'll be the last one standing!"

Finally, as the screams and clashes of weapons gradually subsided, only Robert Baratheon and the Stormlands warriors beneath him remained standing on the bloody battlefield.

They won the preliminary round, but looking around, of the hundreds of valiant warriors of the Baratheon Bucks, only about thirty remained standing and breathing. The price of victory was a mountain of corpses and blood soaking the sand around them.

Standing beside Euron, Asara's fingertips were icy as she gripped his hand tightly. She gazed at the still-wet bloodstains on the battlefield and the bodies being dragged away swiftly, her voice trembling almost imperceptibly: "If—if every match were this cruel, then—"

She didn't finish her sentence, but her worry and fear were already evident.

Euron felt the slight coolness and trembling of her hand, and he gripped it even tighter in his own, the warm strength carrying a reassuring firmness. He turned his head, his gaze no longer fixed on the bloodshed in the arena, but instead focused intently on her face, which was etched with worry.

"Don't be afraid," his voice was deep and steady, without the slightest perfunctoriness, carrying a solemn promise, "I assure you, I will never be reckless."

The night was deep, and the noise had subsided. Most of the torches in the arena had been extinguished, leaving only a few scattered embers flickering in the darkness.

The crowd dispersed; some crawled back into their tents to numb their senses with alcohol, some strolled and chatted under the stars in twos and threes, and some even hid in the deep woods, seeking a moment of private pleasure.

Euron and Ashara strolled side by side at the edge of the woods, enjoying a moment of peace after the great battle.

However, a faint, melodious harp tune broke the silence, leading them to an unexpected scene—Prince Rhaegar sat alone on the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, his fingertips gently plucking the silver strings of his harp. And the one listening intently beside him was not his wife, Princess Elia, but Lyanna Stark.

Lyanna listened, completely absorbed, cupping her face in her hands. The glow of the campfire made her face glow red, and her usually wild eyes were now fixed on Rhaegar, filled with obvious affection and infatuation.

Euron and Ashara exchanged a glance. Though surprised, they tacitly refrained from disturbing the ambiguous and secretive atmosphere, instead quietly retreating into the deeper shadows.

Unexpectedly, a few moments later, a fight broke out in a clearing in the nearby woods, accompanied by sounds of fighting and malicious laughter.

Holland Reed—the young swamp dweller from the Neck Swamp—was being attacked by three squires taller than him. One served the Pitchfork Knight (of the Hay family), one the Porcupine Knight (of the Braun family), and the third was from the Twin Towers Knight (of the Frey family). Although these squires were all under fifteen years old, they easily took Holland's only trident, pushed him to the ground, and kicked and shoved him while hurling insults at him.

Prince Rhaegar frowned upon seeing this and immediately put down his harp to stop him. However, someone acted faster than him—Lyanna Stark.

Like an enraged she-wolf, she charged forward without hesitation, shouting, "Stop! He is a vassal of Winterfell, under the protection of House Stark!" Before her words even finished, she had already grabbed a blunt training sword from the ground and swiftly attacked the three squires who were bullying the weak. Her swordsmanship might not have been top-notch, but her fierce and ruthless aura and unexpected attacks quickly knocked the three boys to the ground, sending them fleeing in disarray.

Prince Rhaegar stopped in his tracks, gazing at Lyanna Stark's figure standing with her sword drawn. The firelight outlined her resolute profile and the strands of hair fluttering in the wind. Her heroic spirit and sense of justice, unlike that of ordinary noblewomen, struck him like the most precise arrow, quietly stirring the strings of his dormant heart.

Lyanna took the wounded Swamplander back to her tent. She personally cleaned his wounds and carefully bandaged them with clean linen. She then introduced Holland Reed to her brothers—the wild and unruly Brandon Stark, the silent and steady Eddard Stark, and the still-young Benjen Stark.

After Rhaegar and Lyanna left with Horan Reed, Euron and Ashara slowly emerged from the shadows of the forest. Both of them had clearly seen the way Prince Rhaegar had gazed at Lyanna Stark; the focus and admiration in his eyes went far beyond ordinary etiquette, exuding an indescribable ambiguity.

Asara frowned slightly, her voice tinged with worry and confusion: "Between the two of them—"

'

Euron's reaction was much calmer and more restrained. He gently took Ashara's hand and whispered, "Seeing is not believing, so don't say too much. Perhaps it was just a fleeting moment of admiration from the prince, like a spark, gone in an instant, and not as serious as we imagine."

Asara paused for a moment, then nodded slightly, a hint of pity for the other woman flashing in her eyes: "Yes—I was just thinking about Princess Ilya; her situation is sad enough—"

Her voice trailed off, her lingering worries dissipating into a soft sigh.

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