Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 270 Failure and Glory

As the clamor of victory gradually subsided, the tallying of casualties brought heartbreaking news.

The smug look on Mace Tyrell's face froze and shattered the moment he heard the devastating news. His nephew, the young Ser Quentin Tyrell, had charged bravely into battle in the initial chaos but had tragically fallen.

Mace strode toward the young body that had been placed on the cloak; his obese frame appeared somewhat unsteady at that moment.

He dismissed everyone around him, knelt down alone, and with trembling hands closed Quentin's unclosed eyes. In that moment, he was no longer the ambitious Warden of the South, but simply a grieving uncle.

"Foolish child—why rushed so eagerly towards the swords—" he murmured softly, his voice hoarse, carefully wiping the blood and dust from his nephew's face. When collecting the body, his movements were unusually gentle, as if afraid of disturbing the young man's eternal slumber.

When Mace rose again, his face wore an expression of mixed sorrow and pride. He turned to his soldiers, his voice now booming with genuine emotion: "Behold! This is the blood of our Tyrell family! My nephew, Ser Quentin, has displayed unparalleled courage! His bravery will be celebrated alongside this victory!"

These words were both a lament for his nephew and a tool to boost morale, a skill the Duke excelled at. They were also imbued with genuine emotion; the melancholy emanating from his broad back as he turned to order Quentin's grand funeral was more real than any words.

Before the smoke of battle had even cleared from Cen Shu Tan, the curtain had already been quietly drawn back on political deals.

Count Cavallin, a knight who had been captured at the Battle of Summerhall and then persuaded to join the rebels, ultimately gave his life to save his lord from Randyll Tarly's sword, fulfilling a new kind of loyalty. His head was solemnly placed by Randyll Tarly in an exquisite wooden box lined with black velvet, in a manner befitting his status.

When this heavy spoils of war, along with an objective report of the battle, were sent to King's Court, Highgarden's messengers, carrying a personal letter from Duke Mace Tyrell, arrived at the Red Keep much faster.

In his letter, the Duke of Mace lavishly described the Battle of Thonbour Beach as a masterpiece of his strategic brilliance and courage. He claimed that his timely arrival with his massive army, its overwhelming force completely intimidating the rebels, and his skillful command ultimately led to the decisive defeat of the arrogant Robert Baratheon. The letter only briefly mentioned Randyll Tarly's heroics in slaying enemy generals and the true cause of Lord Cavallon's death, stating only that "the soldiers of Mordor fought bravely."

This meticulously crafted report of victory was intended to emphasize to the Iron Throne that the Tyrell family's loyalty to the royal family was unbreakable, and that Mace Tyrell was the true pillar of the kingdom. As for the box containing the head, in the Highgarden report, it was presented as an inevitable result of his brilliant command. When Randyll Tarly learned of this, he merely glanced at Duke Mace Tyrell, a barely perceptible hint of contempt flashing in his eyes.

Robert Baratheon rode north, his defeated army trailing behind him like a wounded python struggling through the mud.

With each thud of the horse's hoof, the wounds on his shoulder and neck throbbed with pain. The rough white cloth, already soaked with blood and dried and hardened in the wind, stood like a brand of shame, a constant reminder of Cen Shutan's defeat.

The biting wind brushed against his cheeks, but it couldn't dispel the burning passion in his heart.

Robert's thoughts drifted uncontrollably back to that battle, the image of Randyll Tarly's cavalry moving with perfect precision, their intricate coordinated attacks like a cold trident, accurately tearing through his ranks. Even as a defeated general, a pure warrior's respect still welled up within him. That guy certainly had a knack for warfare.

This sliver of respect was instantly swallowed up by an even more raging fury. He, Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, had actually been defeated in a direct confrontation, felled to the ground by that Valyrian steel sword known as "Heartbreaker"! This humiliation was a hundred times worse than the pain of the wound, burning through his very being.

Despite his defeat, Robert's eyes showed no sign of despondency; instead, they burned with an even fiercer flame. Defeat, like a heavy whetstone, failed to dull his edge, but instead honed his will for revenge to the point of even greater sharpness. He looked north, where his allies lay, and where a wider battlefield lay.

A warrior's glory can only be reclaimed on the battlefield, with the blood of the enemy and a complete victory.

Robert gripped the reins tightly, secretly vowing that he would never lose again!

Before the dust had settled from the collapse of River City, the allied forces led by Euron and Eddard were already moving south along the Green Fork River like an unstoppable torrent, heading towards Riverrun.

When this victorious army appeared in the heart of the Riverlands, the drawbridge of Riverrun slowly lowered.

The castle, protected by a rushing river, welcomed its vital ally. Duke Horst Tully himself came out to greet him; the Riverlands Governor was tall and imposing, his blue eyes gleaming with wisdom.

Lord Hoster Tully stood beneath the grand portico of Riverrun, his ailing frame still as upright as a pine tree. His deep-set eyes shone brightly as he gripped Eddard Stark's arm tightly, his voice carrying a long-suppressed relief: "I've waited so long, you've finally come."

Eddard Stark's expression was calm, a hint of heaviness flashing in his direwolf-like gray eyes. He bowed deeply, placed his hand on his chest, and said in a deep voice, "Your Grace, regarding the Frey family, we have no choice but to—"

"You should call me father-in-law now!" Horst raised his hand, shook his head firmly, and interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, Father-in-law." Ed smiled awkwardly, still adjusting to the new form of address due to the sudden change in status and the pressure brought by the war.

This Riverlands governor, known for his strength and pride, was also a devout follower of the Seven Gods. "Ed, my son-in-law, you have no need to apologize for the right decision and the fight." His voice suddenly turned cold, filled with chilling rage. "If I had known that Walder Frey would dare sacrifice a pregnant woman's blood to an evil god, committing such a blasphemous and outrageous act, you wouldn't need to lift a finger; my Tully family's trout flag would have already been planted on the ruins of Leh River!"

Euron Greyjoy, standing nearby, smiled and said, "What a pity. That was a large sum of tolls and taxes, just gone with the flow."

Horst gave a cold glance, his expression carrying the disdain typical of nobles: "Castles and bridges can be rebuilt, but honor and faith cannot be tarnished. Enough, let's not mention that disgusting family name again." The coldness on his face vanished instantly, replaced by the hospitable smile befitting a lord. He put his arms around the shoulders of his two allies. "Come, I've ordered a feast to be prepared. Victorious warriors deserve to enjoy fine food and wine; this is the best way to express our gratitude to the Seven Gods."

Having said that, Horst turned around first and led everyone toward the castle.

At the castle gates, Lord Horst Tully solemnly presided over an ancient ceremony, and a servant brought a silver platter containing coarse bread and a salt dish, which was first presented to Eddard Stark.

Ed, with a solemn expression, broke off a small piece of bread, dipped it lightly in salt, and then put it in his mouth. Euron did the same, though his movements were somewhat casual, he did not disrespect this thousand-year-old tradition.

As the flavors of bread and salt melt on your lips and teeth, the sacred guest privileges take effect immediately.

From this moment on, until they leave Riverrun, Duke Horst is obligated to ensure their safety, and they must not harm their master in the slightest.

In the hall, the aroma of roasted meat and the sweetness of mead began to waft through the air.

The banners of the allied forces—the golden sea monster of House Greyjoy and the direwolf of House Stark—flew alongside the silver trout banner of House Tully atop Riverrun. The three forces converged beneath this formidable city, signifying the true unification of the resistance against the Targaryen dynasty.

Eddard Stark and Lord Horst shook hands firmly. Between the new Warden of the North and the seasoned Lord of the Riverlands, father-in-law and son-in-law, no words were needed; a steadfast alliance had already been formed.