Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 188 "The Sword of Dawn" Arthur Dayne VS Prince Rhaegar Targaryen

People love exciting martial arts competitions, and they are even more fascinated by those unexpected and legendary stories that seem to be sung in folk songs. And now, they are witnessing such a story unfolding right before their eyes.

An eleven-year-old boy from the Iron Islands, surprisingly, emerged as an underdog in this grand tournament watched by seven nations, overcoming all obstacles to break into the top four.

Facing the legendary knight Barristan Selmy, renowned throughout the seven kingdoms, he showed no fear, giving his all and fighting to the very last moment.

Even though they ultimately lost, their tenacity and courage earned them everyone's respect; they were honored in defeat.

What's even more moving is that, in the center of this arena where glory and dust intertwine, he tightly grasps the hand of the one with purple eyes...

The beautiful and charming fiancée, Ashara Dayne, stood side by side with him. Under the cheers and gazes of thousands of spectators, they seemed no longer to be just a simple boy and girl, but to have transformed into a living symbol of a legend, allowing the entire Seven Kingdoms to witness this sincere and courageous love that began with a tournament but far transcended victory or defeat.

Sir Barristan, standing on the other side of the field, could only shake his head with a wry smile as he watched this dramatic scene, finding himself at a loss for words.

He had clearly won the duel fair and square, but now, in this electrifying scene, he seemed to have become a mere backdrop, while Euron Greyjoy, who had been knocked off his horse, was the ultimate victor who had won all the glory and applause.

Deep down, Barristan Selmy still silently offered his sincerest blessings to this golden couple.

He too had been deeply captivated by Asara Dayne's clear, bright eyes, like amethyst gems. Had he not been clad in the white robes that symbolized vows and asceticism, he might have been one of her many suitors. (This is recorded in the original work; Asara was the queen of love and beauty in his heart. It feels a bit strange to see this, considering Barristan was in white robes and there was a significant age difference.)

But he soon realized that while Asara respected and was close to him, she only saw him as a trustworthy brother and a kind elder. Her eyes were full of respect and warmth, but not a trace of romantic feelings. The chasm of time that separated them made him understand clearly that this stirring of emotion was ultimately just a hopeless fantasy on his part.

Thus, Barristan, with his unique chivalry and restraint, had long since buried that hazy love deep within himself, transforming it into a more enduring and open sense of protection—a pure, brotherly care.

At that moment, Barristan looked at the young couple clasped hands in the center of the arena, bathed in the cheers of thousands of spectators. He felt no bitterness, only an indescribable sense of satisfaction. He was happy that he could, in this way, be a witness to Asara's happiness and love.

The previous showdown between Euron and Sir Barristan had already brought the atmosphere to a climax. The boiling enthusiasm and noise in the audience had not yet subsided, and the air was still filled with that chilling excitement and anticipation.

The even more exciting spear duel extravaganza continues.

All eyes are now focused on both ends of the arena, awaiting the true highlight of the day: Prince Rhaegar Targaryen versus Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

This is not just a contest of martial arts skills, but more like a collision of legend and destiny, enough to make the blood of all witnesses boil.

Prince Rhaegar sat astride his warhorse, a ribbon of blessing tied to his head by his wife, the gentle Dornish princess Elia Martell. Elia's movements were soft and focused, yet Rhaegar's gaze drifted unnaturally and uncontrollably over her shoulder towards a certain spot in the stands, searching for the wild and radiant figure of Lyanna Stark.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Dawn, gazed at his sister Asara with a teasing smile. She stood side-by-side with Euron Greyjoy, their fingers intertwined, like a match made in heaven. Sensing her brother's gaze, Asara blushed, released Euron's hand, and quickly stepped forward to carefully wrap a ribbon, a symbol of victory, around Arthur's lance, her eyes filled with pride and encouragement.

The bugle sounds, the duel begins.

In the first round, the two riders clashed like shooting stars, their spear tips striking each other precisely, producing a crisp sound before separating.

In the second round, the speed was faster and the force heavier, and the wooden shaft groaned under the strain, but it still did not break.

Round three, ————

The audience in the stands were completely engrossed in the spectacle, but the two players on the field knew perfectly well that the decisive moment would be a long time coming.

Rhaegar and Arthur were not only ruler and subject, but also inseparable friends. They often trained and sparred together, knowing each other's tactical habits, strengths and weaknesses, and even horsemanship characteristics inside and out. Every battle was like a dance in a mirror, gorgeous and thrilling, yet filled with amazing tacit understanding.

Ashara leaned close to Euron's ear, a hint of worry in her voice, and whispered, "Do you think—brother will win?"

Euron's gaze did not leave the two figures clashing on the field. A knowing smile appeared on his lips as he replied in a low voice, "They know each other very well, and their strengths are evenly matched. You should know this better than anyone else."

"I know—" Asara admitted softly, her gaze fixed on her brother Arthur's figure, which shimmered in the faint light of dawn, "but I can't help but be a little worried."

Euron chuckled softly upon hearing this, his laughter filled with insightful observation and a hint of amusement. "My dear, you're worrying too early." He gestured with his chin, indicating the increasingly intense contest in the arena. "See? They're just locked in a pure battle, exhausting each other's stamina and spirit, waiting for an opening before seeking the final moment of victory. The real show—" He paused, his tone brimming with anticipation, "is yet to come."

At the end of the thirteenth round, the two men heavily reined in their horses, their arms gripping their lances trembling slightly, their muscles already strained beyond their limits beneath the sturdy armor.

After the fourteenth round of the charge, even through the thick masks, the heavy and tired breathing of the two men could be clearly heard. Wisps of white steam escaped from the gaps in the masks, and sweat soaked through the inner lining.

The decisive fifteenth round!

The sound of the horn seemed to carry a final, resolute tone, and the two divine steeds accelerated once more, giving all their strength to their master on their backs.

The tips of the spears, like two shooting stars, carrying the last vestiges of their will and strength, collided with a deafening roar!

After the loud bang, there was a suffocating silence.

Prince Rhaegar's body swayed violently on the saddle. He leaned forward abruptly, struggling to regain his balance, which was almost out of control. In the end, he stubbornly steadied himself and remained standing on the horse's back.

On the other side, Ser Arthur Dayne was completely shaken by the final, cumulative impact. His imposing body could no longer maintain its posture; he was forcibly pulled from the stirrups and crashed heavily onto the cold sand, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The outcome is decided.

As Asara and Euron rushed down from the stands and through the crowd to the sidelines, they found Arthur Dayne had already gotten up from the sand. He casually brushed off his dust-covered white cloak, his movements light and easy, clearly unharmed from the fall.

The defeated "Dawn Swordsman" showed no sign of frustration or dejection. Instead, a hint of amusement flickered in his violet eyes, which resembled Asara's, when he saw his sister's anxious expression. He winked in Asara's direction, opened his arms wide, and laughed loudly, "What's wrong? You're only concerned about others. Aren't you going to give your defeated brother a comforting hug?"

His tone was relaxed, as if the intense duel that had just taken its toll was merely a friendly practice. Seeing that he was still in the mood to joke, Asara's heart immediately relaxed, but being teased like this in public made her cheeks instantly flush red. She stomped her foot in embarrassment and annoyance, which made Euron beside her chuckle softly.

This epic duel was absolutely spectacular, worthy of being recorded in epic tales. Euron, however, caught a detail in the final round that was easily overlooked.

Just a moment before the decisive final clash, Arthur Dayne's spear tip, which had been as steady as a rock and contained all its power, showed an extremely subtle but crucial pause as he withdrew a fraction of his strength.

It was this slight reduction in force that provided Prince Rhaegar with crucial cushioning when he was struck, allowing him to regain his balance despite the swaying motion. It was also this slight reduction in force that allowed Arthur, when thrown from his horse by the recoil, to retain enough strength to adjust his posture, land gracefully, and escape injury.

This was by no means an act of exhaustion or a mistake, but rather stemmed from a profound dual consideration—because Rhaegar was his loyal and devoted friend, and even more so because Rhaegar was the king, and he was the subject. This deep-seated loyalty and affection led Arthur, on the verge of defeat, to choose a more dignified and comprehensive way to bring this legendary duel to a close.

In the stands, the cheers and applause for Prince Réga's victory were like surging waves, lasting for a long time, one wave higher than the next.

"Rega! Rega! Rega!"

Tens of thousands of people chanted the prince's name with fervor, the deafening roar almost lifting the dome of Harrenhal.

This glorious shout was dedicated to Rhaegar, yet it was like a series of poisoned daggers, piercing the heart of Aerys II.

Aerys II, perched atop the Iron Throne, his face contorted amidst the deafening cheers. Every word of praise for Rhaegar, every clap of applause for him, felt like a stinging slap across his face as king and father. His withered fingers dug desperately into the cold iron spikes of the throne, as if trying to crush them.

Boundless jealousy gnawed at Iris II's insides like a venomous snake.

He was jealous of Réga, and jealous of his own son!

He was jealous that Rhaegar had so easily won the heartfelt love and fervor of the people—all that glory, all that cheering, should have belonged to him alone, to the King of the Seven Kingdoms, to him, Aerys Targaryen II! He should have been the true dragon, revered by all and celebrated in songs!

In the Mad King's eyes, burning with madness and resentment, his son was no longer the heir, but a despicable usurper who was eager to take away everything that belonged to him.