Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 271 Robert's Fate

In the hall of Rushing City, the noise of the welcome banquet had not yet completely dissipated, and the lingering aroma of roasted meat still lingered between the stone walls.

A dusty raven brought news of the battle from the south, instantly dispelling the brief jubilation brought about by the victorious meeting.

Eddard Stark, Euron Greyjoy, and Lord Hoster Tully sat around a large table with maps, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on their somber faces. Eddard slowly clenched the letter in his hand.

"Robert has been defeated at Centree Beach." Lord Horst Tully's voice was deep, like the cold winds of the North blowing through the hall.

He raised his gray eyes and looked at the other two. "He fought Randy Tully himself and was injured, but thankfully Robert's injuries are not serious."

The heavy silence that followed the news lasted only a moment. Duke Horst took a deep breath and pointed to the banks of the Green Fork River on the map: "Randall Tarly—he's certainly a tough nut to crack. Robert is incredibly lucky to have escaped his sword unscathed."

Eddard placed his hand on the map, moving north along King's Road: "The Stormlands' army hasn't collapsed; they're heading north under Robert's leadership, closing in on us." His fingertips landed heavily on Riverrun's location. "Now, we need to regroup as quickly as possible. Robert's army needs rest, and our forces must unite."

Euron leaned closer to the map table, his long, slender fingers tracing the map over King's Landing, Riverrun, and Treesend Beach. In the candlelight, his fingers traced a sharp triangle around these three locations, effectively blocking Robert's potential northward route.

"We need to make some preparations to support Robert at any time." Euron's voice was cold and rational. Then, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He said, "If I were the commander of King's Landing in this battle—" His fingertips tapped heavily on the King's Landing position, then drew a sharp straight line, aiming straight for the center of the triangular area, "I would never allow the enemy's wounded commander to reunite with the main force so easily. Intercepting them midway is the best strategy."

These words were like a cold wind sweeping through the hall.

Eddard Stark's grey eyes suddenly sharpened, and he exchanged a glance with Lord Hoster Tully, both of them displaying the same solemnity and seriousness.

Euron's deduction accurately struck at their deepest anxieties.

Duke Horst, his wrinkled hands gripping the edge of the table, leaned forward, his trout brooch gleaming in the candlelight. "So the most urgent thing right now," his voice was low and urgent, "is to ascertain Robert's exact marching route immediately! And who King's Landing will send, and where to intercept him—"

The words hung in the air, and for a moment only the soft crackling of candlelight filled the hall. An invisible pressure permeated the air, and a silent battle over Robert's life and death had quietly unfolded on the map.

The night outside the window was deep, but the strategic chessboard had become clearer. The brief setback did not shake the alliance's determination; on the contrary, it made the path north seem even more urgent and the only way forward.

Inside the throne room of the Red Keep, the chilling atmosphere seemed to solidify into a tangible form.

When the exquisite wooden box from Highgarden, lined with black velvet, was presented before the Iron Throne, Iris II, seated among the menacing iron branches, revealed a twisted smile.

His withered fingers hastily opened the box lid and grasped the treated head inside, Count Cavallin's head frozen in astonishment.

The king lifted it high, his cloudy eyes fixed on those lifeless eyes, as if admiring a masterpiece of art.

"Hahaha—good! Very good!" A burst of maniacal laughter suddenly shattered the silence of the throne room. Before the laughter subsided, Iris kicked the head as if it were a piece of trash!

Count Cavallin's head whistled through the air, arcing as it slammed onto the cold ground. It then rolled with a gurgling sound in the vast, empty hall, finally stopping at the feet of a breathless, bowed courtier, leaving a blurry, dark red mark.

Aerys, panting heavily, seemed to have exhausted himself with the frantic movements. He slumped back onto the Iron Throne, his voice shrill: "That inflatable fish, Mace Tyrell—I never imagined she could be so capable! It seems the roses of Highgarden are more thorny than I thought!"

His words echoed in the hall, carrying a chilling kind of approval. The courtiers lowered their heads even further, none daring to look at the fallen head, nor to respond to the king's "praise."

In the throne room of the Red Keep, a silence more suffocating than the stench of blood filled the air. When Aerys II laughed wildly at Mace Tyrell's "achievements," the courtiers and knights standing on either side knew perfectly well what was going on.

In this well-informed center of power, who didn't know that the one who truly commanded the army at Centree Beach and defeated Robert on the battlefield was Lord Randyll Tarly, wielding the "Heartbreaker"? Mace Tyrell, that "inflatable fish," merely happened to swim to the forefront at the moment of victory, greedily claiming the glorious achievements of his subordinates for himself.

But before this Iron Throne, the truth is often the first victim. No one is foolish enough to shatter the king's fragile illusions and provoke his obvious, volatile rage while he is basking in the "joy of victory." Pointing out the truth requires not only courage, but also the awareness to face death.

So everyone in the hall unanimously adopted the same posture: they bowed their heads deeply, staring intently at the cold granite floor, or humbly gazing at the king's face contorted with maniacal laughter, building a wall of protection for themselves with a collective, deathly silence.

Behind this wall, the truth was suffocated, while the sycophantic lies, along with that rolling head, became the only "fact" at that moment.

In the throne room of the Red Keep, before the laughter of the Mad King Aerys II had completely subsided, the new Hand of the King, Jon Clinton, stepped forward, his calm voice like a block of ice thrown into the still-unquelled, twisted frenzy.

“Your Majesty,” Jon’s voice was clear and steady, “Robert Baratheon has not yet been beheaded. The Battle of Treesbeach may have dampened his spirits, but it did not take his life. At this moment, he is leading his defeated army north, intending to join forces with the rebels of Riverrun.”

His sharp gaze swept over the silent courtiers beneath the Iron Throne, finally settling on Aerys's ever-changing face, where he uttered the most crucial strategic judgment: "Robert is the soul of the rebels, their unifying banner. If he dies, the rebel alliance will inevitably descend into internal strife and crumble. We must not allow him to reach Riverrun alive; we must ambush him en route. This is the fastest way to quell the rebellion."

Aerys II leaned forward, his knuckles white from gripping the Iron Throne, a sickly light gleaming in his eyes. "Very well said! Well said! It's your job." His voice suddenly sharpened. "Jon Clinton, I entrust this to you. Bring Robert's head back and place it before this chair! I want to see with my own eyes how that rebellious stag will ever hold its head high again!"

"As you command, Your Majesty." Jon Clinton knelt on one knee, his voice calm and unwavering as he accepted the order.

Without the slightest delay, he rose and immediately mustered his troops—a thousand elite cavalry and three thousand infantry. Accompanying him was Ser Levin Martell, one of the Kingsguard, who served as both assistant and supervisor, symbolizing the King's extreme importance attached to this battle.

The army set off swiftly, like an arrow released from a bow, heading straight for Robert's inevitable northward route, determined to nip the rebels' hopes in the bud.