Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 304 Battle of the Tower of Joy

The battlefield is silent, the scorching sun burns the heart.

Euron slowly drew his twin swords, their blades gleaming coldly in the sunlight. "It seems a battle is inevitable after all." His voice was devoid of emotion, only a deep, calm detachment.

Ser Arthur Dayne held "Dawn" upright before him, its milky-white blade seemingly breathing. "Very well," his voice came from beneath his helmet, tinged with scrutiny, "let me see if you truly deserve the title of 'Blade of Justice,' and the championship you won at the Harrenhal Tournament."

This showdown is entangled in a complex and unspoken relationship.

Euron is about to marry Arthur's sister, Ashara Dayne of Starfall, making him Arthur's future brother-in-law. Earlier, Euron had received swordsmanship instruction from Arthur on the Iron Islands and Dragonstone, and they share an unfinished master-disciple relationship.

Meanwhile, Eddard Stark's gaze was fixed on Ser Geralt Hightower. This captain of the Kingsguard had been one of the chivalrous exemplars he most admired in his youth, renowned for his character and martial prowess as a model for the Seven Kingdoms. Now, fate had brought them to war.

Oberyn Martell chuckled, pointing his spear like a venomous snake at Ser Oswell Heane. "Old friend," he said, his tone carrying the Dornish characteristic of a mix of warmth and danger, "do you remember when we shared drinks in the Heane family hall at Harrenhal? Today, it seems we'll have to reminisce in a different way."

Three pairs of figures, under the shadow of the Tower of Bliss, began their duel.

On the sandy ground, two figures suddenly crossed paths!

Euron's twin blades drew two silver arcs, like venomous snakes emerging from their holes, aiming straight for Sir Arthur's neck and ribs. His movements were ruthless and unpredictable, devoid of any knightly discipline, yet each strike was deadly.

Sir Arthur's "Dawn" arrived first, though it was delayed. The milky-white greatsword felt weightless in his hands. A simple horizontal slash, not a parry, but an offensive move, was aimed directly at Euron's twin blades, forcing Euron to change his tactics and retreat.

"Your speed is much faster than it was in Harrenhal," Sir Arthur's voice came from beneath his helmet, still calm and steady, "but your swordsmanship seems more hasty."

Euron smiled and charged forward again. This time, his twin blades danced like a curtain of light, the blades whistling as they tore through the air, enveloping the white armor from all directions. He no longer tried to meet the divine weapon head-on, but instead used the agility of his twin blades and his own speed to target the gaps in the armor and blind spots.

Ser Arthur's steps were steady, as if rooted to the red sand. "Dawn" seemed to come alive in his hands, each swing precisely appearing in the most needed position, weaving an impenetrable wall of milky white light. Swords clashed, producing a continuous series of crisp sounds, sparks flying everywhere. The immense force made Euron's wrist numb, but with his superior agility, he always managed to deflect the force and change direction before his strength gave out.

After a fierce clash, the two suddenly separated, facing each other a few steps apart. The blazing sunlight shone on the blade of "Dawn," and its milky white, glassy texture seemed to absorb and exhale the light, with visible, slightly distorted ripples of air appearing around the blade.

"Is this the magical power of Dawn?" Euron's eyes sharpened even more.

"It chooses those who are worthy of it," Ser Arthur replied calmly, pressing the tip of his sword down slightly to adopt a more imposing stance. "Unleash your full power, Euron Greyjoy, and unleash your fire and thunder!"

Let me see what makes you think you can marry my sister!

Euron did not use Shave or Moonwalk, nor did he use those ineffable, almost divine powers. He licked his dry lips, a glint of fanaticism in his eyes, crossed his twin swords in front of his chest, and lowered his body slightly, like a sea monster poised to pounce. Azure lightning crackled from every part of his body and the blades.

"continue!"

Beneath the Tower of Joy, another duel was equally gripping. Eddard Stark gripped the greatsword "Ice" tightly, the cold Valyrian steel gleaming darkly in the blazing sun. His opponent was Ser Geralt Hightower, captain of the Kingsguard, an elder whom he had once regarded as a model of chivalry.

Although Sir Gerald's white robes were stained with sand, his posture remained dignified. In his hand was a heavy knight's longsword, his swordsmanship steady and powerful, without any frills, each move honed through countless trials and tribulations, embodying profound skill.

Ed launched the first attack, his "Frost" slashing horizontally across the waist with a whistling sound like the north wind. Sir Geralt didn't take the blow head-on; instead, he sidestepped, his longsword precisely slashing diagonally at the side of the greatsword, deftly deflecting the powerful strike. The deafening clang of metal clashing echoed. Ed felt a tingling numbness in his arm, a chill running down his spine: though the captain was older, his strength and skill remained undiminished.

Sir Geralt switched from defense to offense, his sword strikes relentless and relentless, pressing forward relentlessly. Eddard defended with "Frost," his greatsword, though somewhat cumbersome, forming an impenetrable defensive barrier in his hands. The swords clashed—

The sounds were incessant, sparks flew everywhere. Ed calmly parried and retreated, searching for the slightest opening in his opponent's attack. This was a contest of patience and experience.

"Stop, Sir!" Ed growled during a lull in the defense. "Rhaega is dead. Your resistance is futile! Is it worth sacrificing your lives for a lost dynasty?"

Ser Geralt's offensive showed no sign of slowing down. His voice, transmitted through his visor, carried an undeniable firmness: "Lord Stark, the meaning of an oath lies not in whether the object it protects still exists, but in whether the person who made the oath will persevere to the end."

"The Kingsguard, never break our oath!" Before the words were even finished, Ser Geralt delivered a precise thrust that nearly pierced Eddard's defenses.

Ed broke out in a cold sweat and parried with all his might. He finally understood that words could not shake this loyalty rooted in his soul.

Oberyn Martell's Red Viper lance ripped through the air in a deadly arc, while Ser Oswell Heaney calmly raised his sword and shield, like a rock standing firm in a storm.

Oberyn launched the first attack, his movements as agile as a Dornish sand scorpion. His spear became a blur, swiftly thrusting at Ser Oswell's face, the back of his knees, and his sword-wielding wrist—joints that armor could not fully protect. However, Ser Oswell's greatshield always arrived just in time, each dull thud repelling the viper's fangs. His counterattacks were simple and unadorned; his broadsword would strike with tremendous force the instant the spear was pulled back, forcing Oberyn to use a light leap to deflect the force.

"Sir Oswell!" Oberyn called out as he dodged, his tone carrying that characteristic Dornish quality—a mix of jest and sarcasm. "Remember the banquet at Harrenhal? You praised Dorne's golden wine as superior to all the mead of the Riverlands!"

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Ser Oswell silently parried a spear tip aimed at his ribs with his sword, and finally spoke, his voice heavy with effort as he struggled to breathe: "I remember, Oberyn. But now—only the oath remains."

"An oath?" Oberyn chuckled, his spear flicking like a viper's tongue at the edge of the shield, attempting to pry it open. "Is an oath heavier than the friendship forged through shared drinks?"

Oswell did not answer, but responded with an even more powerful shield charge. Oberyn deftly dodged to the side, his red robes whipping up a whirlwind on the sand.

The battle reached a stalemate. Oberyn's agility and the range of his spear gave him the upper hand, but Sir Oswell's rock-solid defense made it difficult for him to find an opportunity for a fatal blow. Like the most cunning hunter, Oberyn began to consciously circle around his opponent, his spear no longer seeking power, but rather striking and probing from various tricky angles with greater speed, wearing down his opponent's stamina and searching for the slightest possible weakness in the great shield and armor. Sweat soaked Sir Oswell's white robes, and his breathing grew increasingly heavy.

Finally, after a successful feint, Oberyn's spear lured Sir Oswell to raise his shield. In that instant when his strength was exhausted and new strength had not yet arisen, Oberyn flicked his wrist, and the spear, as if alive, slid along the lower edge of the shield, precisely and ruthlessly piercing the joint of Sir Oswell's thigh armor!

"Ugh!" Sir Oswell groaned, kneeling on one knee, his broadsword deeply embedded in the sand to support his body. Blood quickly stained his white trousers.

Oberyn did not pursue. He sheathed his spear, a drop of blood from its tip dripping dark red onto the sand. He looked at his kneeling old friend, the cynical smile on his face vanishing, replaced by a complex, almost sorrowful expression.

"It seems—" Oberyn said softly, "the wine of Harrenhal is finally finished. Come back to Dorne with me; I guarantee the wine of Dorne is no worse than that of the Kraken!"

Ser Oswell raised his head, his face contorted with sweat and pain, but in his gaze toward Oberyn, there was little resentment, but rather a sense of relief that his mission was nearing its end. The desert wind blew, swirling up red sand and blurring the figures of the victor and the vanquished.