Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 182 The Banquet After Victory—Cersei's Slap

The clamor of victory seemed to be abruptly cut off at that moment.

Ashara Dayne stood with her hands on her hips, her eyebrows raised, and her bright violet eyes burning with the flames of offense as she glared unceremoniously at Oberon, who was leaning against the box looking disheveled.

"What?" Her voice was crisp and sharp, like a drawn blade. "Would marrying me, Ashara Dayne, be a disgrace to you? Hmm?" She took a step closer, ignoring Oberyn Martell's convulsing expression of pain and surprise, and Euron's frozen back. "To dare make such a rude joke about my name in front of everyone in the arena, Oberyn Martell, I think you deserve to be beaten like this! You're lucky you're not dead!"

At that moment, Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne approached with a beaming smile. She affectionately took Ashara's arm and winked at her uncle, adding fuel to the fire: "Yes, yes, who doesn't know that our Miss Ashara already has a fiancé renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms? And that lord—" she deliberately drew out her words, her smile sly, "—is notoriously powerful and not to be trifled with. Next time, it won't be just a few broken ribs, you know?"

Euron slowly turned around, his gloom replaced by a complex, almost resigned expression.

His gaze swept over the furious Ashara, the onlooker Arianne, and the bruised and battered Oberyn, who was forcing a smile. He spoke in a low voice, a hint of weariness barely perceptible in his tone: "Perhaps this is the best-case scenario. At least, we're both still alive."

Oberyn endured the pain and forced a serious expression. He looked at Euron, his previous mockery completely gone, replaced by the solemnity of warriors: "Yes, that's right. My battle—is over." He paused, his voice lowering, "But Euron, your battle is not over. Next, you have a final decisive battle."

He raised his head, his eyes sharp and clear: "That will be far more dangerous than what we've experienced today. Listen, don't be reckless."

As soon as she finished speaking, the feigned fierce look on Ashara's face vanished instantly, replaced by genuine worry.

Princess Arianne's playful smile froze on her lips. The two women's gazes turned to Euron simultaneously, and the celebratory atmosphere in the air quietly faded, replaced by a heavy and silent worry.

Euron shrugged and chuckled, "Tomorrow hasn't come yet, there's no point in thinking about it. Let's celebrate the victory today!"

In this wild celebration belonging to the victors, two figures who seemed out of place suddenly appeared: Tyrion Lannister and his sister Cersei Lannister, stepping into this land known for its unbridled nature.

Tyrion, carrying a wineskin that seemed disproportionate to his size, and with a genuine smile on his face, strode toward Euron in the center of the crowd.

"To victory!" Tyrion shouted in celebration, raising his wine flask. "I must admit, Euron, you always manage to pull off the most jaw-dropping and breathtaking spectacle."

Euron took the wineskin, took a sip, and turned around, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. He looked at Tyrion, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "Ah, our little giant." His gaze swept past Tyrion, landing on the icy Cersei behind him, his tone becoming even more playful. "Speaking of which, I haven't congratulated you yet. I don't know whether to feel sorry or happy—Jaime has become a Kingsguard, which means—oh, my dear friend, you've suddenly become the rightful heir to Casterly Rock, the future Warden of the West. Congratulations indeed."

Tyrion's smile instantly froze, finally turning into a bitter, twisted expression. He took a large gulp of wine and remained silent.

Cersei, standing nearby, let out a clear, mocking laugh. Her long golden hair shone like a cold crown in the firelight. "He's dreaming," Cersei's words were like a viper's hiss, every syllable dripping with undisguised contempt.

Euron, as if he'd heard the funniest joke, raised an exaggerated eyebrow, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the siblings. "Dream on! But Jaime has sworn an oath. He's now a Kingsguard, destined to serve the King for life. From now on, he can't marry, can't have children, can't have lands; the white robes are his destiny." He spread his hands, feigning doubt. "Besides our clever Tyrion, who else can Lord Tywin rely on? You? Or—" he drawled, maliciously mocking, "to have your father, at his age, marry a young wife and try to produce a new heir for us?"

"My father?" Cersei's face paled even more in the firelight, as if Euron's words weren't a question, but a key that instantly unlocked the floodgates of long-suppressed venom in her heart. Her blue eyes burned with hatred, and her voice trembled slightly with extreme rage: "It would have been better if he hadn't said it! If it weren't for him! If Father hadn't insisted on forcing Jaime to marry that stupid Tully woman, Lysa! If he hadn't insisted on that cold, calculating marriage! How could Jaime have—how could he have been forced to become a Kingsguard?! How could he have left me like this?!"

Her words were like a runaway wildfire, scorching everyone present.

Finally, her voice, lowered to a whisper yet carrying a chilling, terrifying resolve, sneered, "As for inheritance? Hmph, even if Father were to burn Casterly Rock to ashes, he would never let it fall into the hands of a dwarf!"

The air froze instantly, with only the crackling of the campfire echoing, as if it too was holding its breath in the face of this cruel declaration.

Tyrion's face flushed red in the flickering firelight, fueled by the alcohol and the public humiliation.

Especially in front of Euron, a friend who had come specifically to congratulate him on his victory, being so humiliated by his own sister.

"Don't think I didn't see it, Cersei!" He took a step forward, his voice sharp with emotion. "Don't blame everything on Father! Jaime wouldn't have agreed so readily if you hadn't signaled! I saw him glance at you before he nodded! Just a moment before he made up his mind to put on that cloak! And you nodded!"

Cersei raised her chin even higher, her icy sense of superiority re-arming her: "Where's the evidence, dwarf?"

Is what your deformed eyes see evidence?

"I have no proof!" Tyrion growled, each word seemingly squeezed out between clenched teeth. "But I know you! I know you too well! You've always opposed Jaime's marriage, not because you love him, not because he's your brother, but because of your twisted possessiveness! You want to possess everything—your brother, your father, power! And when you can't possess it, if you can't have it completely, you'd rather destroy it with your own hands!"

His words were like a precise dagger, piercing through all her pretense.

Cersei's reaction was as swift as a viper.

There was a crisp "snap" sound!

She raised her hand and, with all her might, slapped Tyrion hard across the face. The force of the blow made the dwarf stagger and nearly fall to the ground.

"Remember who you are, monster." Cersei spat out the words through gritted teeth, then whirled around, her long golden dress tracing a resolute arc, like a lioness utterly enraged, disappearing into the dim shadows of the camp.

Cersei's resolute departure and icy words froze the previously noisy air like invisible ice. Euron bent down and steadied Tyrion, who was stumbling. He looked at the dwarf's swollen cheeks and the bloodstains at the corner of his mouth, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes, and let out a low sigh.

"I originally thought," Euron's voice, cutting through the faint sounds of distant revelry, carried an almost mocking sigh, "that Jaime taking off his golden robes, going to King's Landing, and donning that white coat would be a turning point for you. You would rightfully become the heir to Casterly Rock, with a bright future ahead." He shook his head, his gaze sharpening as he looked at Tyrion, "but now it seems I was wrong. Your future will not be easy; it will be even more difficult."

Tyrion fiercely wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve; it burned, but nothing compared to the icy ache in his heart. He let out a short, bitter laugh, his eyes a mixture of helplessness and a long-awaited clarity: "I knew it, didn't I? From the day I was born, from the moment he knew I was a dwarf, from the moment my mother died with my birth, it seemed my life was destined to be difficult." He shrugged, a gesture that seemed utterly weary in the moment. "But it's already like this, what else can I do but drink and read?"

Euron's lips curled into a cold smile. He leaned closer, the mingled scent of sea salt and blood filling the air. His voice, deep and resolute like an undercurrent, said: "Remember this word—endure!"

Tyrion, upon hearing this, paused for a moment, then chuckled self-deprecatingly as if he had heard a brilliant joke: "Endure? That's right, a truly wise saying." His laughter grew louder and louder, but it was devoid of warmth, filled with an absurdity. "Endure until my dear sister marries and goes to the ends of the earth, endure until my noble father finally returns to the embrace of the Seven—haha, I just wonder how many years that will take? Ten years? Twenty years? I hope I'm still alive by then, and still remember what I'm waiting for."

Ashara approached quietly, silently brushing the dust and grass clippings from Tyrion's robes. Gazing at his slightly forlorn profile, she sighed softly, her voice gentle yet carrying a distant allure: "Since this place is suffocating, why not come sailing with us sometime?" Her gaze shifted to Euron, a slight smile playing on her lips. "This guy said that after we're married, he'll build the largest treasure ship ever built, sailing eastward from the Summer Sea, perhaps to explore Sothros, or perhaps—directly to Ashara in the Shadowlands."

Her voice seemed to possess a magical quality, painting a picture of the unknown: "He said that was where the real magic flowed, ancient and mysterious, far surpassing all the records of the Citadel maesters—it would be a world never before seen."

Tyrion looked up, the gloom in his eyes dispelled slightly by curiosity: "Are you going out to sea again?"

Euron laughed loudly, put his arm around Ashara's shoulder, and his eyes flashed with a wild light: "Not yet!"

"We have to have a wedding two years from now, then Ashara and I will be married. After that, the world is our oyster!" He nudged Tyrion mischievously with his elbow. "See? That's the advantage of being the second son. No castle to guard, no inheritance to carry on, we can go wherever we want—wherever we want!"

"Then you must take me with you!" Tyrion blurted out, his passion fueled by alcohol and anticipation temporarily silencing his pain. "The Shadowland of Asshal—I've read about it in books. Everyone says it's an ominous place, that the Asshals have charcoal-colored skin, wear masks all day, behave mysteriously, and are shrouded in curses and magic—is it true?"

Euron didn't answer directly. Instead, he suddenly reached out and pulled the priestess Gwendolyn, who stood silently in the shadows clad in a red robe, into the firelight. "Come, come, look at her," he said teasingly, pointing to the priestess's delicate features and milky-white skin. "Look at her, isn't she charcoal-black? Isn't she acting furtively?"

Gwendolyn gave Euron a disgruntled look, but did not break free.

She turned to Tyrion, her voice calm as a deep pool, yet carrying an authoritative authority: "Rumors always favor the most horrifying versions, Lord Lannister. The Assassins are indeed different from the Westeros, but they are not as demonized as the ballads portray them." She paused slightly, her red robes fluttering in the night breeze. "However, one thing is true—Assassins are very far from Westeros."

Tyrion's boundless curiosity about the unknown world was ignited. He forgot his earlier humiliation, gripped Gwendolyn's red robe sleeve tightly, and bombarded her with questions. The red priestess, who was used to sitting quietly in a corner and hiding in the shadows, could no longer remain silent. She had no choice but to patiently answer his bizarre questions in a low voice.

Just then, Robert Baratheon swept in like a storm, his massive hand slamming heavily onto Euron's back, his voice booming: "Good lad! Those kicks and punches you threw, especially that clean headbutt at the end, were fucking awesome!"

Red Viper, looking disheveled with medicine plastered on his nose, couldn't help but roll his eyes and point irritably to his sunken nose: "He's got all the limelight, but I'm the one who's in trouble!"

Robert nonchalantly gulped down his ale, the foam wetting his thick black beard. He laughed heartily, "All hands and feet intact, and still alive, Oberyn, you're lucky!" He turned to Euron, his tone becoming eager, "The team tournament finals are in a few days. How about we team up?"

A hint of amusement flashed in Euron's eyes: "You've decided so early? There might be someone even more troublesome than us hiding in the rest of the group. You're betting on me now, aren't you afraid of losing big time?"

"Even if it's true, I won't regret it, and I won't be afraid!" Robert roared without hesitation, his chest heaving with pride. "Only by fighting the strongest opponent can a warrior's glory be demonstrated! It's a deal!" As if suddenly remembering something, he gave Euron a knowing smile and winked. "I have an appointment, hehe—I'm off!" With that, he turned and left in a hurry.

After the crowd dispersed slightly, the last person to appear before Euron was Brienne of Tarth.

She stood ramrod straight, like a longsword about to be drawn, her cheeks slightly flushed, her voice a little nervous but utterly sincere: "Congratulations on your victory, Lord Euron. You—you were incredibly impressive today."

Euron looked at her flustered appearance and couldn't help but laugh: "What's wrong, only good today?"

"No! No!" Brienne waved her hands hastily, her voice even more urgent. "Always—always amazing."

"I was just kidding," Euron said gently. "I haven't seen you these past few days. Did you watch the matches?"

"Of course," she answered almost immediately, her blue eyes shining with determination, "I didn't miss a single one of Lord Euron's matches. They were all fantastic."

The small celebration for the victory didn't last until late at night, but everyone left satisfied. The noise subsided, leaving only the sea breeze and silence.

There will be a spear duel tomorrow, but the proper "ritual" after victory is indispensable.

Euron took Gwendolyn's hand and led her to his room—not because he was indulging in pleasure, but because he longed to hear once again the Lord of Light's whispers and teachings about destiny, given from the flames.

Flames burning — crackling —

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