Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 278 The Helplessness of the He'an Family

The massive, charred remains of Harrenhal, like the skeleton of a giant lying prostrate on the shore of Lake God's Eye, once again bear witness to the convergence of history.

In the past, it was once famous and prosperous because of the unprecedentedly grand Harrenhal Tournament; now, another gathering that may determine the fate of the kingdom is taking place beneath its walls.

The allied forces from the five factions of Westeros, like five surging torrents of steel, converged here into a vast and magnificent sea of ​​troops.

The silver trout flag of the Riverlands, with the red stripes of House Tully, fluttered closest to the castle.

The Moongate Fortress of the Valley and the sky-blue crescent falcon banner of House Arryn stand alongside the tribal banners of the mountains, bringing a sense of solemnity to the Valley Knights.

Despite their defeat, the golden crown of the stags in Stormlands still flies high, surrounding their leader Robert Baratheon, who has recovered from his injuries.

Dorne's lances and the Red Sun Banner fluttered in the wind, and the cavalry under Prince Oberyn carried the heat and untamed spirit of the desert.

The golden krait flag of the Iron Islands stood proudly to one side, and Euron Greyjoy's Ironborn brought the scent of the sea.

The direwolves of the North howl in the wind as Eddard Stark arrives, carrying the vengeance for his father and brother, the disappearance of his sister, and the glory of his family.

Thousands upon thousands of tents dotted the lakeside fields like mushrooms after the rain. The glint of weapons was blinding, and the neighing of warhorses mingled with the hammering of blacksmiths, creating a powerful pre-battle symphony. Banners of various colors fluttered in the wind. Soldiers, knights, and mercenaries came from all corners of the world, with different accents and armor, yet they were temporarily united here for the same goal.

This massive and bustling scene, this grand spectacle that brought together almost half the nation, vaguely resembled the gathering of heroes at the Harrenhal Tournament of yesteryear. Only this time, however, what arrived was not spears and roses, but swords and the flames of vengeance.

Harrenhal's massive shadow fell upon the allied tent. Duke Jon Arryn's aged but sharp gaze swept across the iconic fortress on the map, his steady voice breaking the silence within the tent: "A direct assault on Harrenhal would come at an unimaginable cost. The best course of action would be to persuade the River Anne family to repent and reopen the gates. We need an envoy to venture into the lion's den."

His gaze swept over the leaders in the tent one by one, weighing the most suitable candidate.

Robert Baratheon crossed his arms, his face showing impatience with the "conversation," trusting his warhammer more.

Prince Oberyn Martell toyed with his spear and lazily shook his head: "I have no connection with the River family. Saying too much will only make things worse."

Eddard Stark stood silently to the side. His honesty was beyond question, but persuading someone to surrender required flexibility and adaptability, not the straightforwardness of the North.

Duke Horst Tully made no attempt to hide his disdain for the indecisive Earl of Walter Rivers, fearing that sending him would only backfire.

Just then, Euron Greyjoy, leaning against the tent flap, let out a low laugh: "Persuade him to surrender?" He shrugged. "The chances of success are slim. Earl Walter must have his reasons for choosing to betray us." He stepped forward, his pupils sweeping over the crowd. "However, I'd be happy to meet him. Even if I can't persuade him, at least—I'll ask him directly what his reasons for betraying us are."

Euron Greyjoy rode alone on his warhorse, Faruru, slowly breaking away from the allied ranks and heading towards Harrenhal's massive and menacing gates. He gently patted his mount's neck, and the magnificent white horse moved forward with steady steps, its hooves striking the ground with exceptional clarity in the open space.

There was immediate movement on the city wall, and the figures of the defenders flickered behind the crenellations.

A moment later, the heavy iron gate, large enough to swallow a giant elephant, did not fully open. Instead, it made a heavy scraping sound and slowly cracked open a gap that could only allow a few people to pass through.

From the shadows of the door crack emerged a young knight, slightly thin, with the characteristic reserve and melancholy of the Horian family—Quasimodo Horian, the eldest son of Count Walter Horian. Beside him followed a meek maid, who held a silver tray with respectful hands.

Euron deftly dismounted, his gaze sweeping over the tray upon which lay bread and salt, symbols of the sacred guest's rights. Without hesitation, he reached out, broke off a small piece of bread, dipped it in a pinch of salt, and calmly put it in his mouth. With this simple act, the ancient covenant was sealed: witnessed by the Seven Gods and the Old Gods, the master of Harrenhal was obligated to guarantee his safety, and he was forbidden from harming his master's household in this place.

After completing this symbolic ceremony, Euron's lips curled into a smile. He nodded slightly to Quasimodo Hoan, then followed the young heir into the unfathomable shadows of Harrenhal, the heavy city gates slowly closing behind him.

Euron followed Quasimodo Hean through the cold, dark corridors and into the magnificent yet dilapidated main hall of Harrenhal.

Only a faint flame flickered inside the huge stone fireplace, barely dispelling the chill seeping from the cracks in the stones.

On the towering throne, Earl Walter Hoan sat upright, quietly awaiting the messenger. When Euron's sunlight fell upon the earl's face, even the well-traveled man felt a slight tremor in his heart.

Compared to the Earl of Hean I had seen just a year and a half ago at that grand and bustling tournament in Herenberg, he seemed to have aged twenty years.

Although he was no longer young then, his eyes still held the sharpness and brilliance befitting a great lord. Now, that brilliance has been completely worn away, and deep wrinkles, like knife cuts, cover his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

What was most shocking was his hair, which had almost completely turned silver-white, sparsely plastered to his scalp, and looked particularly glaring in the dim light.

Time and anxiety seemed to have cast some kind of vicious curse on this count.

Euron Greyjoy entered the hall, the light sweeping across the oppressive space before finally settling on Earl Walter, seated at the head of the table. A smile played on his lips as he cut to the chase: "Your Excellency, I suppose it's unnecessary to waste words on why I've come?"

Walter Hoan let out a long, weary sigh, his voice dry: "Things are unpredictable—I never imagined the Hoan family would fall into such a predicament."

Euron stepped forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the other man: "Precisely because it's unpredictable, we want to know the truth. Why did you betray the alliance and side with that madman? Harrenhal's stance must have a plausible reason."

Earl Walter's back seemed even more hunched. He remained silent for a moment before finally revealing the truth, each word carrying a heavy sense of powerlessness: "My daughter, Ariana Hoan—she is in King's Landing." This simple sentence revealed all his helplessness and vulnerability.

Euron raised an eyebrow, quickly considering the possibilities: "What if—we manage to rescue her from King's Landing?" He quickened his pace, saying, "King's Landing is under martial law, but we are not without informants and connections there. If we exert all our efforts, rescuing or hiding a handmaid and ensuring her safety until the war ends is not impossible."

Earl Walter slowly raised his head, his once sharp eyes now empty and lifeless, and dropped a bombshell that could change everything: "Ariana—she's pregnant. The King's." He paused, then added desperately, "She's currently under tight guard deep within the Red Keep, impossible to rescue—and the Mad King has promised to marry her."

Even Euron was stunned into silence for a moment by this sudden news. He never imagined that the bottom of the political game would contain such a twisted personal tragedy.

Coming to his senses, Euron let out a cold laugh: "I deeply regret what happened to your daughter. But, Your Excellency, do you really believe that madman's promise?"

A look of pain and stubbornness, characteristic of fathers, crossed Walter Hoan's face as he asked, "What better way could a father protect his most beloved daughter?"

A deathly silence fell over the hall, with only the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace answering this unsolvable question.