Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 293 Marching into King's Landing

The clamor of the Trident River has subsided, but the water still retains a faint blood-red hue.

Robert Baratheon won the legendary duel, his warhammer shattering the ruby ​​on Prince Rhaegar's chest, but at a terrible cost. Rhaegar's final blow left a deep, bone-revealing wound from his shoulder blade to his chest, followed by a high fever that prevented him from mounting his horse. He was confined to a stretcher and carried by his loyal men.

The euphoria of victory was quickly replaced by the urgency of reality. Intelligence arrived sporadically: Tywin Lannister's army was silently approaching from the west, its intentions unclear. King's Landing was like a ripe fruit hanging on a branch; if not picked in time, it would surely fall into the hands of another.

"We must speed things up," said the still-young Eddard Stark, his tone calm but his eyes unwavering. He...

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, and Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands—these three young leaders, who have proven their bravery and talent on the battlefield, have been given new missions.

Soon, the allied forces split in two, like double-edged swords drawn from their sheaths:

A light cavalry unit, led by Eddard, Oberyn, and Euron, broke away from the main force like an arrow and began a race against time along the Kingsroad. Hooves kicked up clouds of dust, and the young commanders had only one goal in mind: to reach King's Landing before the Lannisters.

Meanwhile, the heavily wounded Robert, accompanied by the experienced and prudent Dukes Jon Arryn and Horst Tully, led the relatively slow-moving main force—including infantry, heavy infantry, and the wounded—steadfastly southward.

Each step was firm and solid, like the heavy foundation of a war, advancing step by step towards the ultimate goal.

Two torrents, one swift and one slow, shared the same goal: to travel south along the Kingsroad, to strike at the heart of the dynasty, and to bring an end to the Targaryen dynasty's rule.

Euron Greyjoy galloped on his horse, the salty wind brushing past the cold smile on his lips. He knew, of course. Beneath the seemingly calm surface, the undercurrents were already raging.

He could almost see Tywin Lannister's expressionless face beneath the distant walls of King's Landing, uttering lies as sweet as honey and as sharp as a knife to the guards at the city gates. The scene would unfold flawlessly, like a script of destiny: the gates would be flung open at the promise of "reinforcements," and then the red lions' blades would be wielded against the unsuspecting king and his people. As the looting and slaughter took place, Tywin would calmly attribute all the atrocities to "Robert's wrath," leaving the victorious king to bear the bloody infamy.

This clear premonition, like a cold, leaden weight, fell heavily into his heart. But he could say nothing.

He couldn't divulge a single word to the upright Eddard Stark beside him, nor could he issue a warning to the arrogant Oberyn Martell. In their eyes, this was just yet another race against time.

Thus, Euron could only keep all of this locked away behind his own lips, letting the all-knowing mockery fester in his heart. He was like an audience member who had read the final chapter of the tragedy ahead of time, yet could only sit silently in his seat, watching his companions walk step by step toward the predetermined final act of blood and fire.

"Trick them into opening the city gates? That method is certainly not honorable, and it even tarnishes the very spirit that knights always talk about."

glory".

But war has never been a grand event for knights to twirl.

The battlefield is a meat grinder, a place of life and death, where only the oldest and cruelest law prevails—the victor takes all. Glory cannot shield your soldiers from swords, nor can virtue fill the moat. When tens of thousands of soldiers bleed beneath the towering walls of King's Landing, all that so-called glory is nothing more than the pale rhetoric of the survivors to embellish the corpses.

In his mind, another image had already formed: the allied forces crashing against the impregnable walls like a tidal wave, rolling stones, scalding oil, and arrows raining down, countless lives falling like harvested wheat, and victory still a long way off. In contrast, Tywin's "dishonorable" move, though despicable, was as efficient as a dagger precisely plunged into the heart. It saved countless lives in exchange for a decisive victory.

So, to hell with glory.

Euron Greyjoy, in the howling wind, silently acquiesced to Tywin Lannister's actions. Before survival and victory, glory is merely the last fig leaf for the powerless.

This approval is limited to the scheme of tricking people into opening the city gates!

Euron acknowledged Tywin's "key" to opening the city gates, but did not condone the potential atrocities that might follow.

Once the old lion takes over King's Landing, he will surely use iron and blood to wash away his "loyalty" to the Mad King. Some of his actions may even cross the line of cruelty that Euron would find completely unnecessary.

But rather than judging Tywin's morality, Euron harbored a stronger thought: a burning and secret longing for the capital itself.

King's Landing, at the heart of the power struggle among the Seven Kingdoms, where countless untold secrets, ancient dragon bones, or individuals of extraordinary value lie dormant? These thoughts stirred within him like sea monsters in the deep.

He had to get there as soon as possible. He had to throw himself into the shadows of chaos before Tywin could bring everything under control and seal the most valuable spoils to the Lannisters.

He spurred his horse sharply, and the warhorse neighed and accelerated, as if leaving hesitation and judgment behind. Eddard and Oberyn saw glory and victory, but Euron Greyjoy saw a different kind of hunt about to begin.

He absolutely cannot be late.

Inside Tywin Lannister's golden-red camp, candlelight blazed brightly.

He sat upright at his desk, spreading out a sheet of fine parchment. Outside the city lay the army he used to gain the mad king's trust; the tip of his pen was the bridge to his future new dynasty. He had to make the allied forces, especially Robert Baratheon, understand his "intentions."

The quill pen glides across the paper, making a steady, rustling sound.

He did not explicitly describe the bloody details, but instead, in the tone of a strategist, outlined a blueprint for taking the capital without bloodshed: his army would be "invited" into the city to control key routes, thus avoiding heavy losses for the allied forces in the siege.

He cautiously suggested that, to ensure the plan's success, the main force of the allied forces should slow down their advance in the rear to avoid alerting the city's defenders and ruining the entire operation.

At the end of the letter, he dipped his brush in ink and wrote a weighty promise: "I swear by the name and honor of House Lannister, my sword will fall upon King Robert and his new dynasty. The roar of the lion will now resound throughout Baratheon."

The wax seal fell off, and the lion's mark was clearly imprinted on the golden sealing wax.

Tywin Lannister's gaze swept over the knights standing solemnly in the tent, finally settling on a composed face. It was Adam Marbran, a knight renowned for his shrewdness and loyalty.

"Marble," Tywin's voice was as calm as a frozen lake, as if stating a predetermined ending. "Take three light cavalrymen, set off under cover of night, and avoid all royal outposts."

The candlelight flickered in Tywin's deep green eyes, revealing not a trace of emotion. He personally handed over the sealed parchment letter, the lion's mark on the wax seal still warm.

"Find the Starks, or any of the allied leaders in Arryn who have the authority. Tell them that the gates of King's Landing will be open to me, but this show of loyalty will take time to unfold." He paused, letting each word carry its weight, "and ask them to halt their advance and wait patiently. This will not only preserve the city but also save thousands of their warriors from unnecessary sacrifice."

Marble knelt on one knee, and when he looked up, he met Tywin Lannister's final gaze—a gaze as cold and sharp as a Valyrian steel sword drawn from its sheath.

The messenger carefully concealed the secret letter concerning the kingdom's future, mounted his horse, and disappeared into the night, galloping towards the allied forces. Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, remained seated in his tent, like a chess player who had long foreseen the endgame, patiently awaiting the placement of each piece in his predetermined positions.