Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 305 The Battle of Self-Destruction

As the battle continued, the depletion of stamina began to show.

Ser Gerald Hightower's sword slowed imperceptibly for a split second, a tiny opening appearing as he parried the attack. Eddard didn't hesitate; this might be the only chance he had after such a grueling battle. "Frost" transformed into a streak of grey lightning, piercing the fleeting opening, its target Ser Gerald's chest—

At that critical moment, Ed clearly saw that Sir Geralt's eyes showed no fear or resistance, but rather a hint of almost relieved admiration and relief. He even slightly straightened his chest to meet the deadly sword tip.

"Clang!"

The heavy knight's longsword slipped from Sir Geralt's hand and crashed onto the red sand. He completely abandoned his defenses, his arms outstretched as if not welcoming death, but embracing a long-awaited final resting place. He closed his eyes, his face heartbreakingly serene.

He only wanted to die!

Ed's pupils contracted sharply, a wave of immense horror washing over him. He instantly understood the noble knight's true intention—this was not a battle, but a meticulously planned martyrdom at the cost of life. He desperately tried to retract his sword, but the immense inertia of "Frost" was irreversible.

Just as the Valyrian steel sword was about to pierce the white robe, a dark figure appeared like a ghost behind Ser Geralt! Euron Greyjoy had been closing in unnoticed, his hand flashing out to grab Ser Geralt's belt at the back of his waist with lightning speed, pulling him back and throwing him!

"Sizzle!"

The sword's edge grazed Ser Gerald's ribs, tearing a long gash in his pristine white robe, revealing a glaring glimpse of crimson. The force of the blow sent Ser Gerald staggering several steps backward, landing on one knee and desperately bracing himself with his hands to regain his balance.

Euron stood between the two, his gaze like a cold blade, sweeping over Ser Geralt, then over Arthur and Oswell beside him.

A roar like a storm tore through the silence of the desert: "What you want is not a fight! You want to die by our hands, to be buried with our swords for your false oaths, is that it?!"

Just moments ago, amidst the fierce clash of swords between Euron and Arthur Dayne, a strange feeling began to grow in Euron's heart.

Sir Arthur wielded "Dawn" with undiminished skill, his swordsmanship impeccable, each move displaying the pinnacle of knightly prowess. However, Euron keenly sensed that beneath that fierce swordplay lay not a trace of genuine killing intent.

What alarmed him even more was that, despite several deliberate, potentially fatal, openings he had created, Sir Arthur's sword always barely grazed the target, never pressing his advantage. Until one day, Euron's twin blades mysteriously pierced through Dawn's defensive net, aiming straight for Sir Arthur's unprotected throat—a strike that was supposed to decide life or death in the duel.

Just before the blade touched the white neck armor, Euron was horrified to see that Sir Arthur, instead of parrying or dodging, had tilted his head back slightly, exposing his vitals. The gaze hidden beneath his helmet was one of utter, deathly stillness. He was completely ————————

They abandoned their defenses, almost as if they were welcoming the final blow.

"Damn it!" Euron cursed inwardly, his fighting instincts and a surge of inexplicable rage prompting him to react. With astonishing control, he twisted his wrists sharply, forcefully deflecting the thrusting twin blades to one side. The blades grazed Sir Arthur's shoulder armor, sending up a trail of blinding sparks.

The two figures crossed paths and then separated.

The lightning on the blade briefly paralyzed Arthur.

Euron was breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from lingering fear and anger. He stared intently at the white-robed knight before him, finally understanding the source of that unease.

Euron's figure had just passed Ser Geralt, saving the old captain who was seeking death, when his gaze swept like a hawk toward the contest between Prince Dorne and Ser Oswell.

Oberyn's Red Viper spear shot out like lightning, aimed directly at Sir Oswell's throat—a deadly move that was extremely difficult to defend against. However, instead of raising his shield to block, Sir Oswell leaned slightly forward, as if willingly offering his own throat to the spear tip!

How could such a subtle yet decisive movement escape the eyes of "Oberyn Martell"? Just as the spear tip was about to be stained with blood, Oberyn's wrist suddenly sank, abruptly halting the spear's momentum. The sharp spear tip stopped abruptly just a finger's width away from Sir Oswell's Adam's apple, trembling slightly.

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Oberyn sheathed his spear, a flicker of surprise crossing his Dornish eyes before being replaced by a deep understanding, a mixture of anger and sorrow. He looked at his old friend, who lay awaiting death with his eyes closed, then at Euron, who had just roared, and the other two white knights whose intentions were clear.

In an instant, the air beneath the Tower of Bliss seemed to freeze.

The three victors stood on the red sand, looking at the three white-robed knights they had spared. They knew perfectly well that this was not a battle at all, but a carefully planned collective martyrdom in search of glorious liberation.

Euron's voice was like a storm, sweeping across the silent battlefield, each word striking the hearts of the three white-robed knights.

He first turned to Gerald Hightower, who was kneeling on one knee, his gaze piercing: "Gerald Hightower! Is death truly the end of everything? It's nothing but the easiest escape for cowards! Death is too easy; one can close one's eyes and find eternal peace. Living is difficult; living means carrying on with shame, pain, and memories! You have lost your king, but you remain the undisputed model of chivalry in the Seven Kingdoms. Your end should have been a glorious death on the battlefield defending something precious, not like this—like this, seeking a carefully disguised suicide!"

Then his gaze fell on Oswell Hoan, whose thigh was stained with blood and who was leaning on his sword and shield for support. His voice was heavy and specific: "Oswell Hoan! Your brother chose to commit suicide by poison when Harrenhal fell. Your nephews were forced to go to the battlefield by Aerys at the cost of their sister's life, and one by one they fell, almost extinguishing the Hoan bloodline! And your niece—Ariana Hoan—has just lost her young son and was nearly violated herself. I saved her from the Lannister soldiers. Do you want her to lose you, her uncle, after losing all her loved ones?"

Finally, he faced Arthur Dayne, who stood silently holding "Dawn," and his words pierced his deepest concerns: "Arthur Dayne! I am about to marry your sister Ashara! Do you want me to kill you with these two blades today, and then take your blood as a dowry to see her in Starfall? Do you want her to hate her husband forever on her wedding night, simply because he took away her most beloved brother? Is this the 'blessing' you, as her brother, want to leave her?"

Euron's questions were like cold keys, trying to force open these three rusty locks that only wanted to destroy themselves.