Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 181 Oberyn - If You Die

Euron turned around, his cold gaze fixed on the other side where the battle between Dorne and Tyrell was still raging.

While Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, was undeniably fierce, and the Dornish warriors gained the upper hand with their agile and ruthless fighting style, the Tyrell Rosekians put up an exceptionally tenacious resistance. It would clearly take considerable time and effort to completely defeat them.

Euron's lips curled into a smile as he shouted, his voice piercing the battlefield's clamor: "I told you we'd end this battle much sooner! Hold on, Oberyn! The Iron Islands are coming to your aid!"

Oberyn had just dispatched a charging Tyrell knight with a cunning thrust when he heard this, and without turning his head, roared, "Then get the hell over here! These rose thorns really hurt!"

Euron laughed, "I thought you'd be tough enough to say—'Get lost, I don't need your help!'" Oberyn threatened, "If you don't come soon, I'll join forces with Tyrell and kill you first!"

This is obviously a joke, but it's not impossible.

With the arrival of fresh troops—especially the Iron Islands warriors who had just defeated Frey and were riding high on morale—the tide of battle turned instantly.

The Tyrells' defenses crumbled instantly. Seeing that the defeat was irreversible, the commander immediately issued orders, and the remaining troops abandoned the battle without hesitation, withdrawing from the battlefield as quickly as possible to preserve their strength.

On the other side of the battlefield, the Valley and Western Frontier Allied Forces, who had regarded the Second Sons as "easy targets," had met their match.

The mercenaries of the Second Sons displayed astonishing battlefield discipline and resilience. They quickly formed a solid circle, like steel hedgehogs curling up their spikes, stubbornly resisting the attacks from all sides by the allied forces.

These ruthless outlaws, who live on the edge, are extremely skilled at coordinated defense and counterattacks. Every move they make is ruthless and efficient. Almost every fallen member of the Second Sons takes one or two allied soldiers down with him, causing the lords of the Valley and the West to pay a far heavier price than expected.

An eerie silence suddenly descended upon the battlefield.

The deafening cheers that erupted from the direction of the Dornish and Iron Islands alliance acted like an invisible barrier, abruptly severing the fighting between the Second Sons and the Vale and Westerlands alliance.

The soldiers of the Second Sons, the Valley, and the Western Frontier, panting heavily, their blood-stained faces showing bewilderment and vigilance, simultaneously ceased fighting and took a half-step back, creating distance between them. Their gazes, however, were all fixed on the newly emerged force that had just won a victory and whose morale was high.

The commander of the Second Sons—a mercenary leader with a hideous scar on his face—spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva. His gaze swept over the Tyrell remnants, who stood ready for battle, and the advancing Iron Island-Dorn coalition, finally settling on the equally somber-looking Knight Lord of the Vale and the representative of the Westerlands. His hoarse voice broke the silence, concise and to the point: "How so?" Every word seemed to have been honed on a whetstone, carrying the cold hardness of metal and the cruelty of reality.

The valley knight lord wiped the blood from his broadsword, while the representative from the west narrowed his eyes. The situation instantly became clear: continued infighting would only lead to being completely devoured by a waiting, well-rested third party. In a flash, a pathetic and laughable consensus was reached regarding mutual interests.

"Unite," the Western representative's voice was dry but unusually clear, "three against two. If any of us survive after that—we'll settle the score."

Without hesitation, without wasting words.

When faced with the prospect of survival, fleeting hatred can be temporarily set aside.

The scarred commander forced a cruel smile and nodded emphatically: "Alright!"

The moment the words left his lips, a fragile, hastily formed alliance was established. The three sides swiftly adjusted their formations with remarkable coordination; the wounded were helped to the inner flank, while the able-bodied soldiers gripped their weapons and turned towards their common, greater threat. A chilling atmosphere returned, more complex and more desperate than before.

There were no superfluous movements; this was the battlefield. The cold glint of weapons and the dark crimson of blood intertwined to form the only language.

The only difference was that this battle did not take place in a desolate wilderness, but in the center of a circular arena. The towering stands all around were packed.

Noblemen and women, dressed in their finest attire, leaned forward, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism and greed; commoners, on the other hand, clutched their simple betting tickets, shouting and cursing at the top of their lungs for their chosen opponents. Their cheers and gasps, like invisible waves, crashed against the souls of every person locked in a life-or-death struggle.

In the blink of an eye, the situation has evolved from a chaotic melee into a brutal standoff: the rising coalition of Dorne and the Iron Islands against a hastily formed tripartite alliance of the Second Sons, the Vale, and the Westerlands.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment, then was torn apart by an even more ferocious killing intent. Before the two sides could even rearrange their formations, they clashed once more amidst deafening shouts!

In this newly formed, bloody vortex, Euron Greyjoy and Oberyn Martell displayed astonishing teamwork, like two complementary, deadly whirlwinds. Ignoring ordinary soldiers, their gazes, like those of hawks, locked onto the three core First Division commanders opposite them: the Scarface, the Vale knight lord, and the representative of the Westerlands.

The two transformed into a merciless dagger, plunging straight into the heart of the allied forces!

Oberyn's spear struck first, its serpentine tip creating a dazzling array of afterimages that simultaneously enveloped his three opponents, forcing them to parry and retreat, their attention completely drawn to the attack. In that split second, Euron let out a roar that seemed to come from the deep sea, and he kicked off Oberyn's suddenly taut, iron-like shoulder armor, using the momentum to propel himself into the air!

His black leather armor unfurled in the air, like the wings of death. The twin blades in his hands drew a terrifying arc powerful enough to cleave sunlight, carrying his entire weight and the momentum of his descent, in the most primal and brutal way—

Take the head of the Second Son Regiment commander!

[A single strike to slay the dragon!]

Click!

After a dull, teeth-grinding thud, all other sounds seemed to vanish.

The head, with a frozen expression of shock, flew into the air, and blood gushed out like a fountain from the neck cavity of the still-standing body.

Euron landed heavily on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. He raised his face and looked at his next target.

The alliance of the three parties collapsed the instant the Second Sons' commander's head flew off, like a tower whose foundation had been removed.

The mercenaries of the Second Sons were the first to react.

These desperate criminals, who risked their lives for money, may lack honor, but they certainly didn't lack the shrewdness to save their own lives. When their leader died suddenly, they didn't hesitate for a moment. Their formation immediately contracted, and with a few short, sharp whistles, the entire team retreated decisively like the receding tide, using the corpses of their comrades and discarded shields to build a temporary barrier, trying to keep out the two deadly reapers.

The warriors of the Western Frontier displayed some of the discipline of those under the command of the great nobles, mixed with an undisguised dishevelment. They retreated in small groups, their longswords and spears still pointing outwards, step by step, trying to maintain their last shred of dignity in their desperate situation. However, their increasingly rapid pace and panicked eyes betrayed their inner defeat.

The soldiers in the valley, completely overwhelmed by fear, lost all will to fight. Someone shouted first, and the entire right flank collapsed instantly. The surviving knights and soldiers dropped their heavy shields and honors, turned around without hesitation, pushing and shoving, crying and shouting, wanting only to run faster than their comrades, completely exposing their backs to the enemy.

"Chase them! Slaughter them!" The Ironborn and Dornish warriors, their eyes bloodshot, roared, brandishing their blood-dripping weapons as they charged forward, eager to quench their victory with more carnage.

But two figures stood like rocks, blocking the raging tide.

Euron held his twin swords horizontally at his sides, his cold gaze sweeping over the fleeing enemy troops before returning to his restless subordinates. The ruthless curve of his lips remained unchanged, but he slowly shook his head.

Beside him, Oberyn's spear thudded to the ground. Though Oberyn was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes were clear and sharp. He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, his voice hoarse yet carrying an undeniable command: "Enough! Get them out of here!"

In the center of the battlefield, where the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated, the warriors of Dorne and the Iron Islands stopped in their tracks.

They stood about ten steps apart, the brief tacit understanding they had shared while fighting side by side quickly cooling down, replaced by wary scrutiny and a renewed fighting spirit.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and dust, and also with an unspoken tension—their common enemy had been defeated, and now it was their turn.

Euron and Oberyn exchanged a glance. Without a word, they both raised their hands almost simultaneously and stepped back. Their warriors followed suit, dragging their weary bodies and stepping over the corpses of their comrades and enemies, slowly widening the distance between them and the duel.

Inside the circular arena, the previous noisy melee suddenly subsided, leaving only heavy breathing and the soft sounds of weapons and light armor clashing.

At this moment, only two teams remain on the field.

Seventy-two Iron Islands warriors remained, most of them covered in blood, their eyes as cold and hard as the swords and axes in their hands; the Dornish had sixty-eight men left, though they looked tired, their agile and ruthless spirit was still concentrated in every taut muscle line.

The numbers are roughly equal, all being elites who have crawled out of blood and fire; the outcome is unpredictable.

Oberyn Martell suddenly stepped forward, slamming his blood-stained spear into the ground, shattering the suffocating silence. His gaze swept across the crowd, landing squarely on Euron: "Euron!" His voice boomed, slightly hoarse from battle, yet carried clearly throughout the arena, "Let's duel!"

Euron let out a low chuckle: "A one-on-one duel?" He tilted his head, his scarlet cloak fluttering in the breeze. "Oberyn Martell, look closely, this is a seven-way tournament. Are you trying to break the rules?"

"The rule is that the winner stays in the circle!" Oberyn refused to back down. He gestured towards the wounded warriors behind him and opposite him, who had endured a fierce battle. "If we were to commit the entire army into a chaotic melee, at least half of our men would die! Is it worth it? Let's settle this with you and me, using the most ancient method to determine the final victor!"

His words were not only for Euron, but for everyone who could hear them. A slight commotion arose among the warriors on both sides, many glancing at the wounds of their comrades with complex expressions in their eyes.

Euron's eyes gleamed with a calculating light. After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly, his voice tinged with amusement: "Interesting—the winner of the duel will have all members of their group remain in this circle to enjoy the ultimate glory."

"And the loser of the one-on-one duel—" He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Dorn warriors, "all of his subordinates voluntarily withdrew from the circle, acknowledging defeat. Is that what you mean?"

"Exactly!" Oberyn laughed, sweat trickling down his forehead, but his eyes shone with an astonishing light. "So, Euron? Do you dare to stake everyone's fate on the two of us?"

Euron did not answer immediately. He slowly turned around to face the silent and fanatical Ironborn behind him.

His radiant light swept across the faces etched with both ferocity and loyalty, then he raised his voice, a voice like the clash of cold iron: "You all heard that, my warriors!" He opened his arms. "Our friends of Dorne, you want to stake all the qualifications you've fought so hard for on the outcome of my battle against him! Tell me—" His voice suddenly became sharp and oppressive, "Are you willing to place all your bets—on me?"

Baron stepped forward, punched his brother hard in the chest, raised his battle axe, and shouted, "Euron!"

A moment of silence fell over the Iron Islands ranks, then erupted into a wild roar and the clang of swords and axes striking shields: "Euron! Euron! Euron!"

That roar was the best answer.

The focus of the battlefield suddenly narrowed.

From chaotic group battles to the ultimate showdown between the two, this transformation was unexpected by everyone, yet no one questioned it—on this battlefield surrounded by frenzied shouts, strength and will are the only rules.

Euron Greyjoy and Oberyn Martell faced each other ten paces apart.

They were old acquaintances, even friends, but at this moment, they carried on their shoulders something far heavier than personal feelings: the expectations of those who had shared life and death with them, the glory of their own banner, and the spirits of those fallen brothers who could not rest in peace.

To hold back even slightly is to betray everyone.

Euron slowly drew his twin swords, their blades gleaming coldly in the blood-red sunset. His deep voice carried a cruel mockery: "Oberyn, if you die, I will personally return your body to Dorne, to your brother Doran. I will also adopt your bastard son or daughter as my godson/goddaughter—"

"I'll make sure they experience the real sea breeze."

Oberyn's face still bore that signature, cynical grin, as if the impending battle was not a fight to the death. He deftly twirled the spear in his hand, its tip slicing through the air with a venomous hiss: "If you die, Euron, I'll finish what you didn't finish, like, I'll help you marry Miss Ashara in style—you'll never have the chance anyway."

The moment the words left their mouths, all the fake smiles vanished from their faces.

"Let's start the war!"

Oberyn launched the first attack, his spear flashing like a venomous dragon emerging from its lair, aimed straight at Euron's vitals.

Euron's twin swords clashed, his figure moving like a ghost, precisely parrying the continuous thrusts. The clang of metal against metal was as dense as rain, the two moving and dodging at high speed, their swords flashing and spears shimmering, their exchange already exceeding dozens of rounds!

Euron seized a slight opening, his left-hand longsword suddenly slashing outwards, while his right-hand longsword, like a leech, slashed at Oberyn's hands holding the spear with lightning speed along the shaft!

If this sword strike lands squarely, Oberyn's ten fingers will be in grave danger!

Red Viper reacted swiftly! Without hesitation, he released his grip on the gun, as if the deadly weapon were merely a disposable toy. In that instant of release, using the momentum of his rotating waist, he delivered a devastating side kick, the wolf slamming into the end of the spear!

hum!

The spear seemed to be fired from a crossbow, transforming into a black lightning bolt that tore through the air, striking Euron's chest at a speed far exceeding that of before!

Euron's pupils contracted sharply; abandoning his swords was the only option! He abruptly released his two swords, his arm muscles bulging, and at the critical moment, his palms precisely gripped the spear shaft!

But that power was too ferocious!

The gun slid him backward, his boots carving two deep grooves in the sand. The instant he gripped the gun, a strange power surged through his body and into his hands!

[Naval Type 6 - Iron Body!]

An invisible, resilient force covered his palms and forearms, and his skin instantly took on a cold, metallic texture, effectively resisting the terrifying impact that could have torn flesh apart! Otherwise, his hands would probably have been a bloody mess.

The smoke and dust settled down somewhat.

The two faced each other from a distance. Oberyn had lost his spear and was now empty-handed. Euron's twin swords lay scattered in the distance, but he held firmly the weapons that had once belonged to his opponent.

Euron cracked his wrist, which had just withstood the heavy blow, the joints making a slight clicking sound. He stared at Oberyn, who was now empty-handed, a sinister smile slowly spreading across his face, his voice cold and menacing: "Heh heh—"

Without a gun, Oberyn Martell, you're nowhere near as good in hand-to-hand combat.

Oberyn's expression finally changed, his usual relaxed chuckle vanishing without a trace. His strongest weapon was his elusive spear, but now, unarmed, facing a ferocious opponent like Euron, his situation was instantly perilous.

Euron will not give him the slightest chance to breathe!

[Naval Type 6 - Shave!]

A soft popping sound came from the ground beneath his feet, and Euron's figure seemed to vanish into thin air. The next instant, he appeared in front of Oberyn like a ghost, so fast that he left afterimages!

Before Oberyn could retreat, Euron's heavy punch, imbued with immense force, slammed out.

【Fishman Karate】14000 Coins - Tile-Straight Fist!

The fist seemed not to strike the air, but rather to stir up invisible tides, carrying a terrifying force as heavy as the roar of ocean waves. Each strike was heavy enough to shatter reefs, slamming into Oberon's defensive stance.

Oberyn managed to parry with his extraordinary agility, his arms going numb from the impact. But Euron's attacks were like a storm, relentless and unstoppable.

[Foot Technique: Three Kicks in Mid-Air!]

Euron leaped into the air, his legs transforming into three blurry whip-like shadows tearing through the air, each kick higher than the last, so fast it was breathtaking. Oberyn barely managed to block the first two blows, but the third kick landed squarely on his chest, causing him to groan and fall backward uncontrollably, his chest wide open!

The opening has been revealed; the killing move is imminent!

[Naval Six Style - Tempest Kick!]

Using the momentum from his spin landing, Euron unleashed a fierce leg strike, his leg muscles exploding with terrifying power, even creating a visible vacuum slash! This kick, like a steel battle axe, slammed into Oberyn's unprotected rib side.

A clear cracking sound reached their ears. Oberyn, in excruciating pain, completely lost his balance.

Euron's final attack came like a venomous snake!

[The Iron Head Technique of the Green Pepper!]

Euron suddenly lowered his head and bent over, then charged forward with tremendous force. His incredibly hard forehead, like a battering ram fired from a gun, slammed precisely and ruthlessly into Oberyn's nose!

"Snap!"

Another teeth-grinding, crisp sound.

Oberyn felt a sudden darkness engulf his vision, as countless stars exploded in his eyes. A sharp, indescribable pain overwhelmed his consciousness. Warm blood gushed from his nose. He didn't even have time to utter a cry before he fell backward like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing heavily onto the cold sand and losing consciousness completely.

As dust rose slightly, Euron slowly straightened up, wiped the blood from his forehead, and looked down at the fallen Red Viper at his feet.

Until the referee loudly announced, "The winner is the Iron Islands!"

Deafening cheers erupted simultaneously from both inside and outside the stadium!

The clamor of victory replaced the deathly silence of the battlefield.

A huge bonfire was lit on the sidelines, the sizzling sound of dripping grease from the roasting meat filling the flames. Large barrels of ale and wine were pried open, the strong aroma of alcohol mixed with the smell of blood permeating the frenzied air.

The Ironborn and Dornish temporarily set aside their differences, mingling together and using alcohol and food to soothe their weary bodies and excited spirits.

Euron Greyjoy, carrying a wine flask, walked over to Oberyn, who was hastily bandaged and leaning against a supply crate. He tossed the flask to him, a signature, gritty, sea-salt-like smile on his face.

"Drink, Red Viper." Euron's voice was a few degrees hoarser than usual. "You're alive, which is wonderful. It saves me a lot of trouble—just think how much precious time and how many precious spices it would take to transport your chopped-in-three body back to sun-drenched Dorne intact."

Oberyn took the wine flask, enduring the sharp pain in his ribs, and forced himself to tilt his head back and take a large gulp. The pungent liquid made him cough, but it also brought a slight warmth. He wiped the wine stains and dried blood from the corners of his mouth, his dark eyes still gleaming with a playful light even after his injury.

"Ha!" Oberyn laughed, panting. "You're worried about that? Do you know what I'm worried about? When I was lying on the ground, my only worry was what if you really died—then wouldn't I have to bite the bullet and marry that Miss Ashara for you?" He shook his head, feigning fear, then grimaced as he aggravated his wounds. "Damn it—you know, I swore a solemn oath to the gods that I would never marry in this life. To break that oath would be far worse than having a few ribs broken by you."

Although Oberyn was a prince and never married, he had many lovers.

Euron chuckled, trying to suppress his still-unsettled fighting spirit with strong liquor, when a slender figure, radiating anger, suddenly darted out from the shadows behind him.