Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 247 War - Prelude

Brandon's rage finally broke through the dam of reason. He strode over to Caitlin Tully, grasped her hands tightly, and his grey eyes burned with an unwavering determination.

"My lady," his voice was deep yet unusually firm, as if making a sacred vow, "I assure you, this journey will not be long. Once I bring Lyanna back from King's Landing, we will immediately proceed with the wedding."

Before he finished speaking, he had already turned and left, his cloak billowing behind him in a gust of wind. He and his companions—the loyal Ethan Glover, the valiant Keller Royce, Albert Arryn, heir to the Vale, and the young Joffrey Mellist—swiftly mounted their warhorses and charged out of Riverrun with a thunderous thud, galloping off toward King's Landing.

Caitlin's heart clenched suddenly; a sense of foreboding washed over her like ice water. She immediately lifted her skirt and ran towards her father's bedroom.

Lord Hoster Tully, who was fast asleep, was awakened and, upon hearing the news, immediately flew into a rage and became wide awake. He then immediately summoned Lord Rickard Stark.

Duke Horst Tully slammed his fist on the table: "What a fool who acts like a hero! Running to King's Landing to demand his son-in-law, he's trying to rip the sky out of the sky!" He immediately roared that he would send out a cavalry to intercept this reckless son-in-law.

Lord Rickard Stark, who had remained silent until now, raised his hand to stop him. The Lord in the North's face was etched with weariness and understanding; he knew his eldest son's temperament better than anyone. "It's no use, Hoster," he said with a heavy calm. "Even if you sent ten oxen to pull that stubborn wolf back, you couldn't. Even if I went myself—he would never turn back."

The message, carried by the sea breeze, reached the Iron Islands faster than ravens.

When news of Brandon Stark's southward journey reached Euron Greyjoy's ears, his eyes lit up.

Without a moment's hesitation, the order was immediately issued from Park City.

Euron did not explain the reason, but the words "Euron's summons" were enough to set the Iron Islands ablaze.

Tens of thousands of Ironborn poured in from every corner of the seven islands—experienced captains, bloodthirsty sailors, and warriors eager for spoils and glory. Like sharks that have smelled blood, they sailed their longships from Black Tide Island, from Great Wake Island, from Old Wake Island, and swarmed to the shores of Pike City.

The beach quickly filled with a dense, dark mass of people, their iron armor and axe blades gleaming coldly in the gloomy light. They needed no reason; they were summoned by Euron Greyjoy—"Son of the Drowned God," Euron, the man who brought victory and endless plunder. They fanatically believed that by following Euron, they could drink and eat heartily, relive the ancient glory and freedom of the Ironborn, and wantonly plunder the rich, green lands.

Warhammers and longswords clashed excitedly, roars and shouts drowning out the thunder of the waves. In this restless frenzy, Euron stood high above, overlooking his powerful fleet and warlike people, a cold and knowing smile playing on his lips.

An old Ironman with a scar on his face couldn't contain himself any longer. He stepped out from the crowd and asked in a gruff voice, "Captain Euron!"

Where will our longship sail this time? To the golden vineyards of Green Pavilion Island, or the glittering gold mines of Lannisport?

Euron Greyjoy turned around, his voice low but carrying an undeniable authority that clearly reached everyone's ears: "Don't speak, don't ask." He uttered the four words slowly, as if issuing a mysterious incantation, "Suppress your curiosity, and now do only one thing: sharpen your axes, polish your armor, and forge your bodies into steel. Then, await my command."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the warriors who were used to the deck and the waves, and suddenly asked a question that stunned all the Ironborn: "Can you ride horses?"

A slight commotion and confused whispers arose among the crowd. They were experts at sailing, but warhorses? Those were the domain of the knights of the southern greenlands.

Euron didn't wait for their reply and gave the order decisively: "No, from today onwards, you'll practice horsemanship every day! I want you to be able to ride as if it were flat ground!"

This strange request left the Ironborn looking at each other in bewilderment, but no one objected; Euron's orders were ironclad law.

The storm roared, and the salty sea wind, carrying the thunderous roar of the waves, relentlessly pounded against the massive walls of Windbreak Keep day and night.

When news of Lyanna Stark's "kidnapping," along with Brandon's reckless charge into King's Landing, reached the ancient fortress, a hurricane raged in its master's heart, far more violent than any storm at sea.

Robert Baratheon, the Duke of Stormlands, known for his strength and fiery temper, stood in the hall.

The scholar finished reading the messages in a trembling voice, and the whole world seemed to freeze for a moment.

Robert's face turned an unbelievable pale, then a terrifying, almost purplish-red. Veins bulged on his thick neck, and all the laughter and magnanimity in his deep blue eyes vanished in an instant, leaving only a pure, all-consuming rage.

"Rega—!!!"

A roar, like that of a wounded beast, shook the entire hall. Without uttering a word, he grabbed the enormous warhammer leaning against the corner of the wall. The next moment, destruction descended.

There was no reason, no restraint.

The heavy warhammer, imbued with all his fury and brute force, smashed wildly across everything around it. Exquisite wooden tables shattered instantly, silver goblets were smashed into thin pieces that flew everywhere, and magnificent tapestries were torn and ripped apart. Tapestries on the walls, fireplace mantles engraved with the Baratheon coat of arms, and even the solid stone walls themselves groaned in agony under the swing of that terrifying warhammer, with rubble and sawdust raining down. In moments, a magnificent hall had been reduced to a scene of utter devastation.

He stood in the center of the ruins, his chest heaving violently, sweat mingling with dust. He suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with undisguised murderous intent.

"Prepare the horses! Form the army!" he roared at the squires and knights who rushed to his aid but were too frightened to approach. His voice was hoarse but unwavering. "Immediately! I'm going to King's Landing to join Brandon! I'll personally smash every bone in that mad dragon's body!"

The halls of Storm's End were deathly silent, save for Robert's heavy breathing, which seemed to churn the air like bellows. The scattered debris on the floor silently testified to the storm of fury that had just erupted. The raging inferno was about to manifest in action; the stag of Stormlands bared its antlers, preparing to charge toward the center of power.

The elderly maester, leaning on his elm cane, trudged through the ruins and presented Robert with two letters bearing the marks of Riverrun and Winterfell's direwolves. His voice was hoarse but steady: "My lord, urgent letters from Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Rickard Stark. Their message is clear—please—wait."

"Wait?!" Robert jerked his head up, his bloodshot eyes practically spitting fire, his voice hoarse from suppressed rage. "How can I wait! Lyanna's in his hands! Brandon's gone! You expect me to cower here in Stone City like a coward and wait?!"

The old maester's cloudy eyes held no fear, only deep worry and unwavering resolve. "You must wait!" he raised his voice, his withered fingers trembling slightly with the pressure. "Two days have passed since we received news of Lord Brandon's departure! By now, he's probably already in King's Landing, or perhaps—everything is already decided. It will be too late for you to go now!"

Seeing Robert's near-collapse, he softened his tone, but remained firm: "I've used all my ravens and spies. We'll know immediately of any movement in King's Landing. I believe we'll have concrete news of their mission soon."

"But I have to do something!" Robert growled in anguish, his massive hands tearing at his hair. "I'll go crazy waiting here! I'll suffocate!!"

The old scholar remained silent for a moment, then made a startling move. He abruptly pointed his forehead at the broken stone pillar beside him, his gray hair trembling in the wind, his voice carrying a resolute, unyielding sorrow: "If you dare to step out of Windbreak Fortress today, I will immediately smash my head against this very hall, using my blood—to offer a sacrifice to your reckless journey!"

"You—!" Robert's roar caught in his throat as he stared at the old man in disbelief.

This old maester had served House Baratheon since his grandfather's time, witnessing his father's birth, watching him grow up, and even after his parents' early death, giving him care and guidance far exceeding that of a subject. To Robert, he was already an indispensable pillar of the family, a relative he respected and relied on more than his blood brothers.

Boiling rage clashed violently with the resolute familial bond, and finally, the frenzied energy that had been enough to overturn everything slowly leaked from Robert's imposing body, like a punctured skin. He staggered a step, then sat heavily back in the only intact high-backed chair, burying his scarred face in his large hands.

The stag of the Stormlands chose to suppress its overwhelming anxiety and anger, waiting in this great seaside city for news from King's Landing that was destined to shake the Seven Kingdoms.

The long corridor of Yangji City faces west, where the scorching sun bakes the sandstone walls until they are burning hot, and the air is slightly distorted by the heat.

Prince Doran Martell sat in his wheelchair, his gaze passing over layers of citrus groves and dried-up riverbeds, looking into the distance as if it could pierce through endless mountains and see the storm brewing in the heart of Westeros.

A messenger had just finished whispering in his ear. After a long silence, Prince Doran spoke slowly, his voice as calm as water in a deep summer well, yet carrying an unmistakable, chilling weight: "Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark did not simply travel together; they eloped. A furious Brendan has stormed King's Landing." He paused slightly, his world-weary eyes sweeping over the Red Viper beside him. "Euron has sent a message, telling us to prepare."

Prince Doran tapped the armrest of his wheelchair lightly and uttered the words that would put all of Dorne on edge: "A war that will soon engulf the Seven Kingdoms is coming."

Upon hearing this, Oberyn Martell's lips curled into a cold, sharp smile, like a venomous snake poised to strike. He slowly straightened up, his eyes burning with hatred and anticipation that had been building up for over a decade: "War!?" he asked softly, each word like a poisoned dagger. "Excellent. The vengeance for Elia, the shame for Dorne—this time, we will take it all back, with interest!"

Hot winds swept through the corridor, carrying the whispers of the distant desert, as if countless spears were clashing beneath the sand.