Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 262 The New Hand of the King—Jon Clinton

When Euron Greyjoy reappeared at the docks of Gulltown, the port city had completely changed.

The once-flying Targaryen red dragon banner has been torn down and replaced by the sky-blue crescent falcon banner of House Arryn.

The air still faintly carried the scent of blood and smoke, silently telling the story of the brutal purge that had taken place not long ago. The royalist forces that had once occupied this place had been uprooted and wiped out completely.

Of the Grafson family, only Jero Grafson survived; the rest perished in battle. In the most conspicuous spot in Seagull Town, a spear held aloft Eisen Erin's head. His once ambitious face was now twisted and stiff, swaying slowly in the salty sea breeze, his empty eye sockets staring at everyone who came and went.

Without uttering a word, his own ultimate fate served as a stark warning to all the lords and nobles of the valley: this was the consequence of choosing to support the Mad King Iris II.

The towering white castle of the Eyrie resembles a spear piercing the clouds. At this moment, all the important vassals and lords of the Vale have been summoned and gathered here, solemnly awaiting the final war order from their Guardian, Jon Arryn.

The air was thick with a tense atmosphere, as if a storm was brewing.

Euron and his Ironborn army stayed at the Eyrie for two days, and also received the latest intelligence from Lord Jon Snow from King's Landing and the North.

When Euron learned of the latest personnel changes in King's Landing from Jon Arryn, even he had to admit that the Mad King, in his rage, had finally made a decision that was consistent with the logic of war.

Former Hand of the King, Earl Owen Mariewes, was considered an incompetent old man by Aerys II for his hesitation and weakness in the early stages of the war. In a fit of rage, he was stripped of all his titles and lands and exiled overseas.

His successor was Lord Jon Clinton.

The new Prime Minister was one of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's few close friends and staunch followers. He was proud, brave, and passionate, with a burning desire for honor, and also a seasoned and capable warrior and commander. His beard was neatly trimmed, and although the corners of his eyes were etched with the wrinkles of time, his face remained as resolute as a rock.

Even more interestingly, Jon Clinton once served as Prince Rhaegar's squire at the Red Keep, and there are secret rumors that he harbored a selfless and profound affection for this "Silver Prince," even privately referring to Rhaegar as "my Silver Prince." This complex emotion may well be the underlying motivation that drives him to take on this critical mission and support the crumbling Targaryen dynasty.

Compared to the aging and conservative Owen Mariveth, the vigorous and ambitious Jon Clinton was undoubtedly a more suitable candidate for Hand of the King during wartime. Aerys desperately needed a figurehead who could rival Robert Baratheon in energy and presence, and Jon Clinton perfectly met all those requirements.

The second message came from the North.

In the square of Winterfell, the cold wind whipped the Stark direwolf banners, making them flutter loudly.

Eddard Stark—the newly crowned Duke of the North, clad in a thick, grey-brown fur coat—stood atop the reviewing stand. His face was more resolute than when he left Winterfell, his eyes reflecting the grief of losing his father and brother, and an unwavering determination.

The horrific massacre suffered by Lord Rickard and his heir Brandon in King's Landing had already swept across every inch of the North like the cold winds of winter. The tyranny of the Mad King Aerys II was not only a persecution of House Stark, but also an insult and provocation to the entire North. This naked cruelty ignited the pent-up anger within the hearts of all the vassals of the North.

Without much mobilization, loyalty and the will for revenge had already tightly bound this vast and cold land together.

House Bolton, House Umber, House Karstark, House Manderley—all the vassals, large and small, regardless of their past relationship with Winterfell, now sent their armies to answer Eddard Stark's call. They may have had doubts about the young duke's qualifications, but at this moment, their shared responsibility for the blood debts of House Stark transcended everything.

Now, the massive northern army has been assembled.

Spears stood like a forest, warhorses neighed, and the soldiers' breath formed a continuous white cloud in the cold air. With Eddard's command, this army, burdened with deep-seated hatred, surged southward like a thawing glacier. Their goal was singular: King's Landing.

In the high court of the Eyrie, a cold wind whistled through the snow-covered eaves. Euron slung his black velvet cloak over his shoulder and gazed at the towering mountains to the northeast.

"Lord Jon, the Northern army should be nearing the Neck soon." He tapped his fingertips lightly on the granite railing. "I will leave today with the Ironborn and meet Lord Eddard at the Twins."

Jon Arryn stroked his crescent brooch and pondered, "The Vale Legion will set off in three days. However—" He suddenly sneered, "I need to make the wildlings of the Moon Mountains understand the situation first."

Euron laughed, "Did those cavemen steal your sheep again?"

"Robbing caravans on ordinary days is tolerable," Jon's knuckles suddenly clenched, "but if you dare to cause trouble behind my back at this time—" His unfinished words froze into frost as he exhaled white mist.

"Actually, if we could recruit them," Euron suddenly smirked, "those savages who dared to fight Shadow Lynxes with their bare hands would be a ready-made elite force."

Jon gazed at the undulating silhouette of the distant mountains, a bitter smile on his face, and sighed softly, "How I wish I could! I tried twenty years ago—" He shook his head, his gilded staff suddenly striking heavily, "But this time, we must first remind them who the true master of the Vale is!"

Euron turned around, his black robe billowing like raven wings: "Then may your falcon banner be planted on every mountain." His footsteps fading as he descended the spiral staircase faded into the distance, his final words carried on the wind: "We, the allied forces, will meet at Harrenhal."

Prince Oberyn Martell leaned against a marble pillar in the Eyrie's Great Hall. After hearing Euron and Jon's conversation, he shrugged lazily and a playful smile appeared on his lips.

"I led my troops from Sunspear City and traveled all the way here, but I haven't fought a single decent battle yet. My hands are really itching to get going." He flexed his long fingers, his eyes gleaming with a hunter's light. "I hope that Duke Jon will show me what those legendary savages who move like the wind in the Moonlit Mountains are all about."

Jon Arryn laughed heartily, his laughter echoing through the empty hall. "Your Highness," he said, walking to the window and gazing down at the mist-shrouded canyon below, "we have yet to engage the main royal army in direct combat. And our ultimate target, King's Landing, is no easy city to conquer. The Red Keep's walls are a hundred feet high, the Blackwater is a formidable natural barrier, and the entire royal fleet is stationed there..."

"7

He turned to face Oberyn, his gaze becoming serious: "There will be plenty of opportunities for you to show your skills."

7

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, took a wine flask from his waist, and took a swig. "Then I'll wait and see. But before that..." He wiped the wine stains from the corner of his mouth, a dangerous glint in his eyes, "I really want to meet those mountain savages who even the valley eagles find troublesome."