Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 195 One-Armed - Domilik

Robert lost, but he lost decisively. He threw the fearsome warhammer onto the sand with a clang, signifying his complete surrender.

He wiped the sweat and blood from his face, then turned to Euron, grinning broadly. His booming voice held no resentment, only a triumphant satisfaction: "Damn, well done! Remember to leave plenty of drinks for our Windbreak Fort brothers during the victory celebration!"

Euron sheathed his sword and turned around, bursting into hearty laughter upon hearing this: "Don't worry! There's plenty of wine; we won't stop until you're all drunk!"

Under Robert's leadership, all the warriors of Storm's End withdrew from the arena in an orderly fashion. Although they were defeated, they still held their heads high and won the respect of the audience.

When only the warriors of the Iron Islands remained in the arena, the referee—Sir Gerald Hightower, "White Bull"—strode to the center of the field, took a deep breath, and solemnly announced in a high-pitched voice that could pierce through all the noise: "The victor is the Iron Islands—the Seven Islands Iron Army!"

As the announcement faded, the entire Harrenhalle Stadium erupted into a sea of ​​jubilation. Everyone cheered loudly for the unexpected yet well-deserved champion team, the roar of which shook the heavens and the earth.

The seven-team competition finally came to a close, and the entire arena instantly erupted in a frenzy of celebration.

The servants and maids of the He'an family poured out like a flowing river, carrying out large barrels of ale, fragrant wine, whole roasted cattle and sheep, and piles of bread. The sumptuous feast of wine and meat was laid out directly in the spacious arena, the aroma filling the air and tempting the mouth.

At the heart of this jubilant ocean lies the ecstasy of the victorious Iron Islands.

Euron Greyjoy was surrounded by people, receiving a constant stream of congratulations from friends.

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, strode in with a goblet in hand, his signature mocking smile on his face; Ashara Dayne's violet eyes gleamed with undisguised joy and pride; her brother, Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, also stepped forward to pay his respects; Princess Arianne of Dorne and Princess Elia arrived hand in hand, beaming; Brienne of Tarth, though her voice was hoarse, still tried her best to express her excitement; even Tyrion Lannister, holding a goblet that seemed disproportionately large to his size, squeezed in to offer his clever yet sincere blessing.

Everyone gathered together to share in Euron and the Iron Islands' victory and glory.

Euron left first, carrying precious medicines for treating burns and external injuries, and personally went to the camp of the Bolton family in the North's Dreadfort, intending to visit Domilik Bolton, whose arm he had severed.

The Bolton family guards outside the tent glared angrily, the air thick with undisguised hostility. They resolutely blocked and refused Euron's entry. Just as the atmosphere reached a stalemate, a calm, almost icy voice came from inside the tent: "Let him in."

Roose Bolton—Domilik's father, the current lord of Dreadfort, known as "Lord Leech"—stepped out slowly. He gestured for the guards to step back, his gaze falling on Euron, and spoke softly, his voice compelling everyone to listen attentively: "The duel is over. The Bolton family will not refuse friends who come with good intentions."

Roose Bolton was of medium build, not particularly strong, and of above-average appearance; time seemed to have left few marks on his face. He was beardless, and most striking were his unusually pale eyes, a shade darker than milk yet lighter than rock, like a frozen swamp, sending chills down one's spine. His face possessed a timeless depth and composure; whether angry or joyful, it seemed only a single, indifferent expression could convey it. Many whispered that he was born without love or hate, and knew nothing of sorrow.

Domilik Bolton leaned against the makeshift bed, his severed arm wound properly bandaged. Although his face was slightly pale, his mental state was surprisingly calm. His eyes were serene, even carrying a faint smile, as he spoke to Euron: "You should be celebrating your victory on the field now, not here."

Youlun placed the medicine he had brought aside and replied frankly, "In the arena, it's a life-or-death struggle, where each side relies on their own skill and shows no mercy. Please forgive any sudden heavy blows."

Domilik nodded slightly, his tone devoid of any resentment: "That's how it should be. If you choose to go on stage, you should be prepared to get injured or even die." He paused, a hint of calm appreciation flashing in his eyes, "If I possessed your unpredictable and elusive methods, I would also not hesitate to find a way to eliminate you first."

Euron glanced at his bandaged left shoulder, his tone becoming more serious: "That being said, but your arm—"

Domilik raised his undamaged right hand, his tone still calm: "It's alright. This is my usual hand for wielding a sword."

Upon hearing this, Euron laughed and replied, "It's a pity, though. From now on, you probably won't be able to play the harp with one hand."

Roose Bolton stood silently to the side, observing everything like a shadow. Deep down, he might have harbored a barely perceptible pain at the thought of his son losing an arm, but his face showed no sign of it, nor did he hold Euron accountable. He spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather, saying slowly, "I solemnly warned him that the arena is no child's play, and swords have no eyes. Since he decided to go, he should naturally be able to bear all the consequences."

Domilik responded in a low voice, "Yes, Father, I have let you down."

Luce Bolton simply shook his head slightly and remained silent, his pale eyes revealing no emotion.

Euron smiled, placed the bottle of precious wound medicine from Braavos on the table beside him, and said, "This medicine is quite effective in healing wounds. I hope you recover soon."

Domilik nodded: "Thank you."

As Euron left and the curtains fell, Roose Bolton, expressionless, reached out, picked up the exquisite medicine bottle, and without even glancing at it, tossed it directly into the trash can in the corner.

Domilik looked slightly taken aback: "Father, why is this? Euron Greyjoy—shouldn't have poisoned the medicine."

Roose Bolton turned around and said in his perpetually calm yet chillingly soft voice, "I don't know him, nor do I need to. I only know that no matter when, where, or who you're dealing with, the only way to live longer is to always be wary of others."

Euron was unaware that Roose Bolton had so readily discarded the medicine after Euron's departure. Even if he had known, given his nature, he wouldn't have felt insulted or angry. He knew all too well that the Bolton family's suspiciousness and ruthlessness were as ingrained as the northern winds; it was simply the way things were, and nothing surprising had happened.

Euron's visit to Domilik was not out of fear of possible revenge from the Bolton family, but simply out of the pure mutual respect between warriors for a worthy adversary.

From the moment Euron first met Domilik, he sensed a familiar quality in him—a resemblance to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Or rather, Rhaegar was clearly the idol Domilik admired and strived to emulate. Not only had he spent a long time learning superb swordsmanship from Rhaegar, but he was also equally proficient in the harp, and his temperament possessed a gentleness and tranquility quite different from the ruggedness commonly found in the North.

Euron believed that Domirick Bolton would have been an outstanding leader, wise and charismatic. Had he not met a tragic end, poisoned by Ramsay Snow, known as "Little Rascal," he might have truly left his own indelible mark on the annals of Westeros history.

When he strolled back to the main arena, the scene before him was completely different from when he left. The entire venue was already filled with people, and the cheers, laughter, and clinking of glasses surged like a tidal wave; a grand victory celebration had begun.

Regretful Victoria Daniels, unusually proactive, stopped Euron, looking at him with a complicated expression: "Just how many golden dragons did you give that bastard my brother? Regretful's assassination skills are so proficient."

Euron blinked: "A lot, enough for him to sell his life to me."

Victoria Daniels' voice carried a hint of suppressed annoyance: "No wonder you seemed to have foreseen every move I made—it's all that bastard's fault. If it weren't for that, I would never have failed." She was still angry about not being able to assassinate Euron.

As soon as Balon, Balf, and Victarion saw Euron, they immediately roared and pulled him into the Ironborn's circle, where they danced the Ironborn's unique Victory Axe Dance together.

After Euron finished his dance with a big laugh, he found that many more people had arrived at the banquet.

Robert Baratheon arrived as promised. He had changed out of his blood-stained armor and into a magnificent robe in deep blue and bright red, a symbol of Storm's End. Despite his formal attire, his bold and unrestrained aura remained undiminished. He was laughing and drinking with those around him, clearly one of the most prominent figures at the banquet.

Brandon and Eddard in the North, and Brynden Tully the "Blackfish" of the Vale, though defeated in the duel, did not hold a grudge and were immersed in the noisy atmosphere of the celebration.

Euron naturally greeted them one by one and toasted them with drinks.

When Brandon learned that Euron had just visited Domilik Bolton, he snorted coldly, clearly still resentful of the Bolton family's last-minute retreat. His tone was tinged with lingering anger: "If the Boltons hadn't suddenly collapsed, the outcome of the battle would have been uncertain!"

Upon hearing this, Robert's eyes widened immediately, and he roared in a booming voice, "The outcome is uncertain?! What? You're not convinced? After the victory celebration, let's find a place and have a real fight to see who the winner is!"

Seeing this, Ed calmly stepped forward, skillfully deflecting a potential conflict into a contest at the banquet. He placed his hand on Brandon's shoulder and said in a calm yet undeniable tone, "Since we're going to compete anyway, why resort to violence? Let's see who can drink until they pass out first."

His words immediately transformed the tense atmosphere into a boisterous drinking contest.

Robert laughed heartily upon hearing this and immediately accepted the challenge. Brandon snorted coldly and said nothing more, which was considered tacit approval. A heated atmosphere of "not giving up until the other is drunk" immediately filled the room.