Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 197 Unexpected? — Just as expected!

The morning sun shone brightly on the magnificent courtyard of Harrenhal, where the grand awards ceremony was held as scheduled.

Dressed in a solemn formal suit, Count He'an stood on a makeshift platform and personally presented the golden dragons, symbols of glory and wealth, to the winners of each competition.

As the champions took turns to receive their awards, the Iron Islands became the undisputed focus of the entire event, having won all three major championships in one fell swoop for the first time in history!

Euron Greyjoy stepped steadily onto the platform and took the heavy chest containing forty thousand gold dragons from the Earl of Riveran—his enormous reward for winning the singles tournament.

Then Baron Greyjoy stepped forward with a smug smile and took the 10,000 gold dragons representing the champion of the axe-throwing tournament.

Finally, when Euron and Baron, once again representing the Iron Islands' Seven Islands Army, accepted the enormous treasure chest containing 60,000 golden dragons—symbolizing the highest honor in the tournament between the seven groups—the atmosphere reached its climax.

Three championships, totaling 110,000 gold coins! When this astonishing fortune was carried down, it almost dazzled all the onlookers.

The Iron Islands shone brightly at the Harrenhal Tournament, stealing the spotlight and winning immense glory and wealth with their undeniable strength.

At noon, when the sun was at its most intense, it bathed the huge Harrenhalle arena in a golden light.

The most traditional, most revered by knights, and most anticipated final battle of all the tournaments—the jousting tournament—has finally arrived! This ultimate showdown will be scheduled for the very end of the event, serving as the grand finale of this epic celebration.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen will face off against Ser Barristan Selmy the "Dauntless" on this battlefield, delivering an ultimate contest of speed, power, and skill for all spectators.

Their duel will surely bring the ten-day-long Harrenhalle Tournament, filled with bloodshed, glory, and legend, to a most glorious and astonishing close.

Where all the expectant light converged, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, and young Arianne stood guard on either side of Ilya. Their eyes held the pain etched by yesterday's events, yet burned with an almost desperate anticipation.

Oberyn's hand unconsciously tightened around his spear, his knuckles turning white from the force. Princess Ariane clung tightly to Ilya's arm, as if that could prevent the impending tragedy. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, but it couldn't dispel the gloom in their eyes.

Euron's prophecy from yesterday lingered in their minds: Prince Rhaegar's heroic figure in the tournament, the moment Ser Barristan was knocked off his horse, and Rhaegar's even more unsettling actions after his victory—all of these weighed heavily on their hearts.

Ilya tried to appear calm on her pale face, but her trembling fingertips betrayed her inner fear. Oberyn leaned down and whispered in her ear, his voice so soft only she could hear: "Prophecy is but a whisper in the wind, sister. No matter what, we'll always be by your side!"

Arianne's nails dug deeply into her palms. At that moment, they prayed together—hoping that Ser Barristan would win, that Euron's prophecy would fail, and that fate would smile upon them with an alternative ending.

The bugle call for the final battle of the spear duel suddenly sounded, tearing apart the anticipation and silence in the air.

Rhaegar Targaryen and Barristan Selmy rode into the arena, their full armor gleaming in the blazing sun, like two war gods straight out of legend.

Rhaegar rode his tall, black warhorse slowly to the center of the stands. Princess Elia Martell's gaze followed him intently, and then she saw—the prince's eyes passed over her, fixed firmly on Lyanna Stark on the other side of the stands. At that moment, Elia felt a sharp pain in her chest, but she maintained the composure befitting a Dornish princess.

Rhaegar finally handed the dragon-patterned spear to Ilya. Her face was ashen, yet she still gracefully raised her hand to accept the symbolic spear. Her slender fingers trembled slightly as she carefully tied the ribbon of blessing to the spearhead, each movement so solemn it broke Oberyn's heart.

Meanwhile, Ser Barristan spurred his horse toward Euron Greyjoy's direction. The legendary knight unexpectedly pointed his lance at Asara, who stood beside Euron. Encouraged by Euron's subtly amused gaze, the young Asara rose and carefully tied a ribbon around the legendary white knight's neck, sincerely wishing Barristan glory.

Two warhorses paced back and forth in the arena, their metal armor clanging crisply. After receiving each other's blessings, the two knights lightly touched their lances, then turned their horses and rode off to opposite ends of the arena. The sunlight cast long shadows behind them, as if foreshadowing the impending duel that would change the fate of the seven kingdoms.

Rhaegar's ruby ​​armor gleamed in the morning sun, the three-headed dragon emblem leaping at the tip of his lance. Barristan's white armor, like melting snow, bore the marks of twenty years of battle. The two riders stood fifty yards apart, lances hanging low to the ground, the reins taut in the wind.

The bugle call resounded throughout the arena, announcing the start of this highly anticipated duel.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Barristan Selmy collided violently in the center of the arena like two torrents of metal.

In the first round, the two riders passed each other, their lances whistling sharply through the air. Reggar's ruby ​​armor gleamed like burning flames in the sunlight, while Barristan's white armor stood like a steadfast snow-capped mountain. Both lances struck their shields simultaneously with a deafening roar, but neither knight remained unmoved.

In the third round, Rega changed tactics, suddenly lowering his lance at the last moment. This strike cleverly struck the lower edge of Barristan's shield, almost knocking the old sir's shield away. A gasp erupted from the audience, but Barristan steadied his shield with astonishing wrist strength and counterattacked in the instant they passed each other. His lance grazed Rega's shoulder armor, sending sparks flying.

In the seventh round, Rhaegar's black warhorse reared up, and the prince, with superb horsemanship, executed this sudden movement, thrusting his lance out like a venomous snake. Barristan dodged to the side, the tip of the lance barely grazing his breastplate, leaving a clear scratch. Dorne's Oberyn Martell leaned forward abruptly from the stands, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

In the tenth round, Barristan began to show why he was called a legend. His lance seemed to come alive, the impact so powerful that Rhaegar swayed on his saddle, almost losing his balance. Rhaegar's lance also pierced Barristan's left shoulder.

Princess Ilya involuntarily gripped the armrests of her chair, her knuckles turning white.

In the thirteenth round, Rhaegar launched a furious attack. He changed his angles repeatedly, his lance striking Barristan's shield. The old sergeant calmly parried the blows, but the impact left his arm numb. Dust billowed across the arena, and both horses were drenched in sweat, their nostrils steaming.

As the horn signaling the end of the fourteenth round sounded, the two knights rode back to their starting positions. Rhaegar lifted his visor, revealing a sweat-drenched face and gleaming purple eyes. Barristan, slightly out of breath, had a noticeable dent in his left shoulder armor—a mark Rhaegar had left during the tenth round.

The sun beat down on the stadium, and the shouts of the spectators seemed to be muffled by a veil of water. Barristan steadied his breathing, his gaze sweeping over King Iris II's tense face in the stands. The king's fingers tapped nervously on the armrest, his eyes burning with a burning desire for his son's glory.

"Let him win." The king's words from the previous night echoed in Barristan's ears. "I will let the seven kingdoms witness the passing of the true dragon."

Twenty years of loyalty weighed heavily like shackles. When the horns sounded for the fifteenth round and the two warhorses started moving again, Ser Barristan knew this moment had finally arrived.

The two riders closed in swiftly. Rhaegar's lance was as steady as a rock, its tip aimed directly at Barristan's wounded left shoulder. The old sergeant's eyes were sharp as an eagle's, and at the last moment, he slightly adjusted the angle of his lance—a perfectly executed strike deflected slightly. At the same time, he deliberately relaxed his grip on his shield.

The moment the two horses crossed paths, Rhaegar's lance struck Barristan's shield with pinpoint accuracy. The immense impact should have been absorbed by the old sergeant, but he chose to yield. Amidst the deafening crash of shattering wood, Barristan felt a dizzying sensation as the force propelled him from his horse.

A deafening roar erupted from the stands. Barristan adjusted his posture in mid-air and landed with practiced ease, his heavy armor slamming into the ground. He lay on his back, peering through the gaps in his helmet at the azure sky, the shouts of "Rega! Rega!" echoing in his ears.

Regalia reined in his horse, removed his helmet, and his deep purple eyes gleamed with the light of victory, yet also with a hint of doubt.

He looked at the old knight who had landed, as if questioning the true value of the victory.

Zhongke C

Barristan slowly rose and knelt on one knee. "Your Highness," his voice sounded somewhat muffled through his mask,

A resounding victory.

In the stands, King Iris smiled with satisfaction, while Barristan felt a bitter taste in his mouth—this was the first and only time in his career that he had deliberately lost a duel.

The entire sky was filled with the name Rega, and cheers surged like a tidal wave.

Oberyn's eyes dimmed instantly, while Arianne closed her eyes helplessly. Only Ilya remained staring at the arena, a bitter smile playing on her lips. Their deepest fears were becoming a reality, step by step.

With a solemn smile, Count Heinrich held the "Crown of Love and Beauty," woven with gold and silver threads, inlaid with pearls and winter roses, in both hands, and slowly walked to Réga. The prince's warhorse was still trotting excitedly, as if sharing in its master's glory.

Rhaegar took the crown and tossed it high at the tip of his lance. Sunlight streamed through the jewels, refracting a dazzling light. He spurred his horse and began to circle the arena, his hooves kicking up dust, and the stands erupted in a tidal wave of cheers. Women showered him with flower petals, and men shouted "Long live the dragon!" and "Targaryen!"

All the light present followed Rhaegar's figure. Ilya Martell sat calmly, or rather, feignedly calmly, her hands firmly clasped Oberyn and Arianne on either side. As the prince's wife, the Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, this crown rightfully belonged to her.

But last night's prophecy—

Euron leaned against the railing of the stands, his face calm as still water, with only a hint of amusement flashing deep in his eyes, as if he were watching a carefully choreographed drama.

As Rega completed his second lap, the cheers grew even louder. However, when he passed the Royal Stand for the third time, he surprisingly did not stop. Amidst the bewildered gazes of the crowd, he continued riding forward.

Elia's smile froze on her face, her slender fingers tightened slightly, her knuckles turning white. Oberyn narrowed his eyes, and a suppressed commotion arose from the Dornish ranks.

Rhaegar's warhorse finally came to a stop in front of the Stark family's stands. Lord Rickard frowned, Brandon Stark and Eddard Stark stared in bewilderment, while young Benjen stood completely stunned.

Under the watchful eyes of the entire audience, Prince Rhaegar gracefully bowed, his lance trembling slightly. The winter rose crown, a symbol of supreme glory, fell precisely, resting gently on Lyanna Stark's lap.

The blue and white petals contrasted sharply with her long brown hair. The girl looked up, her eyes filled with shock and bewilderment.

In an instant, the entire venue fell into dead silence.

Cheers, applause, music—all sounds seemed to be abruptly cut off by an invisible hand. Thousands of faces were filled with disbelief, and only the sound of flags fluttering in the wind was particularly jarring.

"Rega!" A roar exploded like thunder.

Brandon Stark abruptly pushed back the chair in front of him, his tall frame standing erect like an enraged direwolf. Veins bulged on his forehead, and his grey eyes burned with the cold and fire of the North.

"You lunatic! Are you fucking insane?!" Brandon's roar echoed through the silent arena, each word seemingly spat out from between his teeth: "This is the greatest insult to the Stark family!"

Robert Baratheon, standing beside him, was equally ashen-faced. The heir to the Stormlands clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his broad chest heaved violently, like a storm about to erupt.

Brandon abruptly pointed towards the royal stands, his gesture almost breaking free of decorum: "Your queen is sitting right there! And Lyanna—" His voice trembled with anger. "My sister, betrothed to Robert! The wedding will be soon! What do you mean by this?"

As the eldest son of Lord Rickard and heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark possessed the fierce spirit and sense of honor characteristic of the North. At this moment, he felt not only anger, but also a blatant trampling of his family's dignity. He could almost see the whispers of the nobles in King's Landing, and imagine how this incident would be distorted beyond recognition throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The stands were completely silent; everyone was stunned by the sudden conflict.

Thousands of eyes darted back and forth between the enraged northerner, the livid Stormlands lord, and the still composed but cold-eyed Rega.

Rega slowly turned his head, his face enigmatic beneath his helmet. But before he could speak, Brandon erupted: "What are you implying? Are you implying you and my sister are having an affair? To tarnish the reputation of an unmarried girl in such a despicable way?"

Every word was like a heavy hammer blow, slamming into the deathly silent arena. At this moment, even the breeze seemed to have stopped blowing, and only Brandon's angry questions echoed throughout the world.

Rhaegar ignored Brandon's deafening tirade, as if those angry words were nothing more than a breeze brushing past his ears. He calmly turned to Lyanna and gave her an elegant bow, a gesture as perfect as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times.

Lyanna instinctively lifted the crown woven from winter snow roses from her lap, the pale blue petals trembling slightly at her fingertips. Her gaze was a mixture of shock and barely concealed excitement, her mind buzzing.

These past few days, images of her private encounters with Rega have flooded back: their late-night conversations about music and ideals, his warm hand gently resting on her waist at the ball, and the gleam in his eyes as he spoke of his lofty ambitions.

As a young girl from the North experiencing her first stirrings of love, Lyanna never truly understood what it meant to be moved. She only knew that her engagement to the rugged and unrestrained Robert was an arrangement by her family, but she disliked Robert for his rudeness, his constant flings with different girls, his drinking and fighting, and his aura of alcohol and blood, much like her own family's butcher, Rud Rhaegar. Yet, he was the first and only man to make her feel breathless and her heart pound like a drum.

Everything around him seemed to blur, and the only thing left in the world was Rega's deep purple eyes and the expression on his handsome face that was a mixture of melancholy and recklessness.

For Lyanna, who was born with a love for freedom and courage, Rhaegar's act of defying societal disapproval touched her deepest desires. At that moment, her heart pounded wildly for this prince who dared to challenge all rules.

"Take your tattered crown away!" Brandon roared, reaching for the wreath in her hand. "We, the Stark family, have no place in such an insult!"

Lyanna snapped back to her senses and quickly clutched the crown to her chest. "Brandon, what are you doing!" she glared at her brother, unusually angry. "That's rude! You should apologize to Prince Rhaegar!"

Brandon stared in astonishment at his sister's unusual reaction, then grew even angrier. He keenly noticed the strange light in Lyanna's eyes, and a terrible suspicion surfaced in his mind: perhaps there really was something between them!?

This thought almost made him lose control. If it were to happen, how would the Stark family face Robert, and how would they maintain their honor in the North?

Brandon's voice trembled violently with extreme anger, each word seeming to burst from the depths of a direwolf's throat: "I apologize to him?" He took a sudden step forward, his armor clanging, his finger pointing intently at Rega, who sat astride his horse.

"What does he mean by presenting this crown to you?" Brandon's voice suddenly rose, like a chilling winter wind sweeping across the arena. "This is not only an insult to you personally, but also an insult to the entire Stark family!"

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, his grey eyes swirling with the unyielding ice and fury of the North. In the deathly silence that filled the arena, Brandon Stark abruptly drew his sword, the sharp sound of the blade cutting through the air.

"Rhaegar Targaryen!" His voice boomed like thunder, echoing throughout the arena. "Take back your damned crown and offer a sincere apology to House Stark for your outrageous behavior!"

Brandon pointed his longsword straight at the prince in the arena, the tip gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

"Otherwise, in the name of the heir to the North, I hereby challenge you to a duel to the death!"

His words struck like a hammer blow, eliciting a chorus of suppressed gasps.

Thousands of gazes shifted back and forth between the enraged direwolf and the calm true dragon, and the entire Harrenhal seemed to freeze at that moment.

Rhaegar finally spoke, his voice calm and clear, like a gentle breeze across a frozen lake: "Leanna is the queen of love and beauty in my heart, so I offer the crown to her, nothing more." His words were slow and sincere, yet they stirred even greater waves in the silent arena.

"Lyanna is a Stark daughter, my sister, Robert's fiancée, what business is it of yours!" Brandon's roar exploded like thunder, instantly engulfing the entire arena. "You Targaryen family are all lunatics!" Veins bulged on his forehead, his finger pointing directly at Rhaegar without any politeness, "You're just as insane as your mad king father!"

These words pierced the air like a sharp blade, causing everyone present to gasp in unison.

An eerie silence fell over the stands; even the sound of flags waving could be heard. The nobles exchanged bewildered glances, their faces etched with shock and unease—though these words expressed the thoughts many dared not utter aloud.

Duke Rickard abruptly stood up and grabbed his eldest son's arm: "Brandon! Watch your words!" But his warning came too late.

Eddard Stark stepped forward, pale-faced, trying to ease the tension: "Brother, watch your words!" Benjen stood frozen in place, bewildered by the sudden turn of events.

A complex emotion flashed across Robert Baratheon's angry face. His clenched fists trembled slightly, both pleased by Brandon's outspokenness and worried about the potential consequences.

Brandon's words were like ice water poured into boiling oil, instantly silencing the crowd.

This is the site of the Tournament of Harrenhal—the gathering of lords from the Seven Kingdoms, knights and noblewomen alike, every word and gesture could resonate throughout Westeros the next day. Not to mention, high on the main grandstand sits King Aerys Targaryen II, known for his sensitivity and paranoia!

Just moments before, the king had been secretly pleased that his son Rhaegar had publicly snubbed Princess Dorne, and even felt a twisted sense of pleasure at Brandon's rebuke of Rhaegar. After all, anything that could embarrass his heir held a certain amusement in the eyes of this increasingly mentally unstable monarch.

When Brandon's angry outburst unhesitatingly dragged him down with him, the faint smile on Iris's face froze instantly. The king's withered fingers dug sharply into the carved seams of the gilded armrest, his knuckles turning white from the force. His eyes, which gleamed with unease and obsession, narrowed slightly, fixing their light on Brandon below like a venomous snake.

The entire hall fell silent; even the wind seemed to have stopped. The nobles held their breath in unison, many instinctively lowering their gazes, unable to look directly in the king's direction. At that moment, the joyous atmosphere of the tournament celebration vanished, replaced by a suffocating pressure—everyone clearly realized that Brandon Stark's outburst could very well bring unforeseen consequences.

Iris II abruptly rose from his throne, his emaciated body trembling violently with rage. His pale fingers gripped the railing of the stands tightly, his knuckles twisted like eagle claws.

"Insolence!" The king's shrill voice tore through the air, carrying an almost manic tremor. "How dare you insult the Targaryen family, insult your king! Seize him!"

His gaze, like a poisoned dagger, was fixed on Brandon Stark. With that roar, the Kingsguard on both sides of the stands sprang into action, their white armor gleaming like ice, hands already on their sword hilts. Simultaneously, the golden-robed guards on the sidelines pressed forward, spears raised, forming a golden encirclement.

The next moment, a sharp clang of steel being drawn echoed from the Northern stands. Duke Rickard abruptly rose to his feet, with Ed and Bunyan immediately flanking their father. Dozens of Northern lords and knights simultaneously drew their swords, their cold gleams merging into a single, continuous flash. They silently gathered behind Brandon, like a wall of ice and snow.

Harrenhal was gripped by a tense standoff. The white armor of the Kingsguard contrasted sharply with the grey robes of the Northern warriors, while the golden-robed spears clashed coldly with the steel swords of the Northerns. Thousands of spectators held their breath, watching in horror as this sudden crisis erupted. A few words of argument had, in an instant, pushed the joyous tournament to the brink of civil war.

Just then, Robert Baratheon's booming laughter broke the silence. He strode forward and patted Brandon on the tense shoulder.

Robert opened his arms as if to embrace the entire arena, his voice booming: "Lyanna's beauty and virtue are known throughout the Seven Kingdoms! This crown is truly hers!"

He turned to Rhaegar, his laughter carrying an unmistakable warning: "If you're afraid I'll get angry, don't worry! Do you think I, Robert Baratheon, am such a petty person?" Before he finished speaking, he had already reached for the crown on Lyanna's lap and held it high: "But this crown should be accepted by her fiancé—me!"

Robert's gaze sharpened suddenly, and his voice deepened: "However, Prince Rhaegar, please remember: Lyanna Stark is my fiancée. Consider this a congratulatory gift for our upcoming wedding." He turned to face the two sides, their swords drawn, and his voice boomed: "Put away your swords! Do you want the whole world to see the North and the royal family playing a joke on each other?"

T

The warriors of the North exchanged glances, and Duke Rickard nodded slightly. The direwolves slowly sheathed their swords, yet remained vigilant. The Kingsguard also relaxed slightly, looking towards the King awaiting instructions.

Aerys II, on the high platform, snorted coldly, his withered fingers slightly loosening their grip on the armrest of his throne. His sinister gaze swept across the entire hall, finally settling on Robert. "Let's go," the Mad King hissed, abruptly rising and turning to leave. The white-robed guards followed closely behind, and the gold-robed figures retreated like a receding tide. Rhaegar, his eyes dimming, also departed.

The tense atmosphere on the field gradually dissipated, but everyone knew in their hearts that the feud had been formed today.

No one noticed that after Prince Rhaegar handed Lyanna the winter rose crown of the "Queen of Love and Beauty," before the quarrel began, Rhaegar's wife, Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and Princess Arianne had already left their seats.