Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 180 Seven-Party Team Battle - A Night of Slaughter

In the afternoon, the sun scorched the earth, and two fierce competitions were held simultaneously inside and outside Harrenburg.

On the vast plains outside the fortress, the horse races kicked off first.

Each time, three hundred riders set off simultaneously. They need to race from the starting point to a designated location at the farthest end of Lake God's Eye to obtain a flag symbolizing the nine bats of the River An family. Then they race around the lake and finally return to the starting point outside Harrenhal.

This competition not only tests the horse's speed and endurance, but also the rider's route selection and horse control skills.

However, only the top ten who return the fastest will qualify for the next round.

Meanwhile, in the arena within Harrenhal, individual duels were also taking place, with swords flashing and blades clashing.

Due to the scheduling conflict, Euron had to regretfully withdraw from the horse race. Otherwise, with his beloved horse Faruru's superb speed and explosive power, winning the race would not have been impossible.

At this moment, Euron stood on the battlefield of a one-on-one duel. His first opponent was a wandering mercenary named Poron. This man was known for his agility and swift movements, as elusive as a shadow, and always able to evade fatal attacks with his nimble footwork at crucial moments.

Euron's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. What he feared least were precisely these kinds of opponents who relied on speed.

Because on this continent, almost no one can outrun that otherworldly technique, [Naval Six Styles: Shave]!

The result is no suspense.

After dozens of dazzling clashes of swords, Euron seized a fleeting opening and suddenly lunged forward like a ghost!

The next second, Bronn's sword fell to the ground, and Euron steadily placed his feet on Bronn's hands, half-crouching over him, completely suppressing any possibility of counterattack. At the same time, the cold longsword in Euron's hand hovered precisely between Bronn's brows. If Bronn swallowed even slightly, he could almost feel the sharp pain of the blade's tip on his skin.

Bronn was an extremely pragmatic mercenary; he immediately ceased all resistance and decisively declared, "I surrender."

Upon hearing this, Youlun deftly sheathed his sword, his movements fluid and indifferent.

Bronn got up from the ground, dusted himself off, and even managed a professional smile, his tone tinged with relief at surviving a close call: "Thank you for sparing my life, sir."

Euron merely glanced at him indifferently, his voice devoid of any emotion, only a pure, almost cruel, statement of fact: "It wasn't that I held back. It's just that my blade happened to be able to stop at that distance. If necessary, for the sake of victory, I wouldn't mind adding another soul to my slew."

The real highlight unfolded as night fell completely—the bloody and brutal seven-party group martial arts competition.

This was not an elegant contest between knights, but a miniature battlefield bound by strict rules. Compared to a real war, it only limited the number of participants to one hundred on each side and strictly prohibited the use of shields; otherwise, the fighting and death were no different.

The blades will slice through flesh, the hammers will shatter bones, and the shouts and howls will intertwine to form the most primal symphony.

The enormous arena, illuminated by braziers and torches, resembled the entrance to hell. Seven teams representing different factions stood poised on the sidelines, like waves about to collide.

Besides Euron's Iron Islands forces, there were Dornish soldiers led by Prince Oberyn Martell, the elite Tyrells of Highgarden, soldiers of House Frey of Lee River, knights of the Eyrie, Lannister troops of the Westerlands, and the infamous Second Sons mercenaries.

Seven factions and seven hundred warriors are about to engage in a ruthless melee on this designated battlefield, for glory, money, or survival.

As night fell, the arena outside Harrenhal was illuminated by countless torches, as bright as day, and the air was thick with tension and a bloodthirsty atmosphere. The hundred-man squad from the Iron Islands gathered together, making their final pre-battle decisions.

Baron Greyjoy surveyed the warriors who would soon fight alongside him, then suddenly burst into a rough, booming laugh: "Eat your fill! Drink your fill! Fill your bellies with fine wine and fresh meat! This might be our last meal!"

Euron glared at him irritably: "You can't utter a single nice word from that mouth of yours."

Just then, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, strolled leisurely to the Iron Islands camp with a few trusted followers. With his signature cynical smile, he cut to the chase: "Euron, in chaos, a lone wolf dies easily. Let's join forces to eliminate the other troublesome foe at the start, and then—we can settle the score between the two of us, shall we?"

Euron nodded calmly, unsurprised. "Agreed. But until only the Iron Islands and Dorne remain on the field, neither side shall stab the other in the back."

Red Viper chuckled and extended his hand: "Of course. I, Oberyn, still have that much credibility."

Two hands clasped tightly in mid-air, and a brief but dangerous alliance was formed.

The sky was lit up by torches, and in the firelight, Euron could see his fiancée Ashara holding his brother Arthur's hand tightly. Arianne and Ilya were also beside them, all with tense expressions and furrowed brows.

The starting horn of the competition was like a spark thrown into boiling oil, instantly igniting the entire battlefield! Almost immediately, the seven teams, based on pre-battle calculations and old grudges, split into four distinct battle groups.

The warriors of the Iron Islands and Dorne quickly aligned themselves, forming an unbreakable alliance to jointly confront threats from all sides.

On the other side, the soldiers of House Tyrell and House Frey also joined forces without hesitation.

The Freys, ruthless and cunning, were fixated on Euron Greyjoy. They had received a death order from their lord: in this battle, everything else was secondary; their priority was to wipe out the Iron Islands, especially to take Euron's head at all costs! Meanwhile, the knights of Highgarden channeled their burning rage against Dorne into their weapons. Their heir, Velas Tyrell, had been severely wounded by Prince Oberyn, and the physician had diagnosed that Velas would henceforth be unable to walk.

The allied forces from the Valley and the West simultaneously turned their attention to the isolated Second Sons.

In this ever-changing and brutal battlefield, forming alliances and prioritizing the elimination of weaker forces are the most basic rules.

The allied forces of the Valley and the West did not hesitate to choose a two-on-one confrontation, directing their attack directly at the relatively isolated and helpless Second Sons—the universally acknowledged "easy target."

At the same time, they were secretly hoping that the two sides about to fight each other would be so badly injured that they could reap the benefits.

Although the mercenaries of the Second Sons Group were at a disadvantage of being outnumbered two to one, they all looked fierce and fearless. Long before the competition, they had foreseen this fate of being targeted and were prepared to fight to the death.

Euron quickly whispered to Oberyn Martell beside him, "We in the Iron Islands will deal with House Frey. You Dorne, hold off the Tyrells! Once you've dealt with them, I'll bring reinforcements to support you!"

Prince Oberyn scoffed, twirling his spear. "You're coming to help me?! Hmph, worry about yourself first. Don't die at the hands of these mad dog-like Freys! The way they look at you is like they'd rather die than let you go hungry!"

"Likewise!" Euron retorted without hesitation. "The Tyrells would rather cut off your snake's tail and avenge the Highgarden heir lying in bed!"

As the two continued their exchange of taunts and pressure, Baron Greyjoy, unable to contain his surging killing intent, slammed his massive battle axe into the ground with a deafening roar: "Kill! What's with all the talk! Slaughter those Frey bastards!"

His roar was like a battle horn, instantly igniting the frenzied fighting spirit of the Iron Islands warriors!

The battle horns have sounded, and the allied forces of the Iron Islands and Dorne have boldly confronted the alliance of Tyrell and Frey.

The battlefield was instantly torn into two main battle groups: the warriors of the Iron Islands, like a gray tidal wave, swept straight toward House Frey of Leh River; while Dorne's spears and scimitars, like vipers emerging from their holes, precisely met the Rose Knights of Highgarden.

This was a bloody massacre with no room for maneuver, not a martial arts contest.

Rules have long been disregarded. Here, unless one actively escapes the designated boundary, even those who are severely injured and unable to resist will not be spared any mercy. The cold blade will not hesitate to deliver a fatal blow, ensuring that they can never stand up again.

The Frey family's soldiers were no weaklings; they were well-trained and well-equipped. But today they faced an elite Iron Islands force that had undergone a radical transformation.

All of this was thanks to two extraordinary instructors Euron had found for them—one being Raphael, a master water dancer from Braavos, who taught these Ironborn accustomed to fighting on decks how to use more agile...

Their even more unpredictable footwork made their attacks as turbulent as the ocean waves; another was the exiled Dothraki former Kaovitrio Gray, who deeply imprinted the wild and violent scimitar fighting style and fearless charging spirit of the steppe nomads into the souls of the Iron Islands warriors.

These two completely different fighting styles were perfectly integrated in the Ironborn, turning into a terrifying storm that the Freys had never encountered before, combining the eeriness of the sea with the ferocity of the grasslands!

What terrified the Frey soldiers even more, and even drove them to the brink of madness, was the Iron Islands warriors' utter fearlessness, which was ingrained in their blood and culture!

This group of people, born in Lihe City, with the Twin Towers as their emblem, and who have made a living by collecting bridge tolls for generations, are pampered and only know how to scheme and bully the weak. They simply cannot understand the Iron People who live in the barren and cold land of the Iron Islands, let alone understand the cruel survival rule that in order to eat and stay warm, one must risk one's life, set sail and fight the sea and enemies, and the almost crazy ferocity that is born from this!

With their leader's head smashed open by Baron Greyjoy's powerful axe, the Freys' morale collapsed instantly. The surviving soldiers were terrified and no longer cared about honor; they only wanted to abandon their armor and flee this bloody slaughterhouse.

Driven to a bloodthirst, Baron roared and tried to pursue the fleeing soldiers, determined to slaughter them all.

Euron abruptly raised his hand to stop his brother: "Enough, Baron!" His voice was calm and out of place with the surrounding frenzy. "There are countless eyes watching. They have already chosen to flee the battlefield. If we continue to slaughter them, it will only make the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms criticize us Iron Islands for being bloodthirsty and having no honor whatsoever."

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