Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 406 Six Leaders—Six Heads

The battle unfolded brutally on Tears Island, like a death symphony woven from the clash of steel, the explosion of flames, and the agonizing cries of the dying.

A soaring overture was played from the sky.

The giant wings of the thousand-year-old dragon Halsien tore through the clouds. The three sisters of Lonely Lamp Island stood on the dragon saddle, their indifferent gazes locked onto the defensive nodes of the fortress below. They precisely dropped pottery jars, each one carrying a ghostly green death.

The first wave of wildfire airstrikes landed precisely on the most critical heavy ballista positions on the outskirts of Weeping Fortress. With deafening explosions, eerie green flames shot skyward, seemingly alive, instantly engulfing the wooden structures, winches, and the massive, unfired crossbow bolts. The viscous flames even clung to the rocks, burning fiercely and turning the fortified positions into twisted wreckage.

Several carefully selected supply depots, piled high with logs and stones, were also engulfed in a green sea of ​​fire. The defensive forces positioned in strategic locations were annihilated by the judgment from the heavens before the attacking enemy could even arrive.

This devastating blow not only destroyed the fortifications but also created immense panic and chaos within the pirate camp. Many pre-planned crossfire networks that relied on these strongholds were rendered ineffective before they could even function.

On the highest platform of lamentation, "Weeping Lord" Maurice took it all in. His long-range advantage, which he relied on to maintain the defensive line and keep the enemy at bay, was being nullified before his eyes by a force he could not comprehend. The eerie green flames danced on his deep purple cloak, making his already pale face appear even more bloodless, covered with a layer of frost.

On the serpent path, the battle immediately descended into the most bloody and brutal melee combat.

"Mountain Splitter" Agalon and his Giant Axe Pirates, along with their desperate men, firmly guarded this strategically vital passage, a place where one man could hold off the entire enemy. They held the high ground and should have had a significant advantage.

Even though the wildfires from the sky had severely weakened their support, even though "Rock" Olado's men deployed on both sides of the cliff could only fire a few scattered arrows and push down a few insignificant boulders, they could no longer form a deadly downpour.

They still have the advantage of terrain!

King Balon personally led the Ironborn forces, displaying the Iron Islands' standard siege tactics in the face of this remaining resistance. The elite warriors at the forefront formed an impenetrable mobile wall with massive shields covered in iron plates, advancing steadily up the narrow paths with heavy but unified steps, enduring sporadic attacks.

The giant, barbed fishing nets set up by Agalon did indeed serve as some obstacle, attempting to entangle the shield wall and disrupt the Ironborn's formation. However, the Ironborn were prepared for this, and the warriors who followed immediately began hacking away with their sharp battle axes, tearing the obstacles to shreds with unwavering ferocity.

As the shield wall drew near, it immediately parted, revealing gaps like gaping maws. The Ironborn roared and surged forth, colliding violently with the pirates. In such a confined space, there was no room for tactical maneuvering; only the most primal and savage slaughter remained. Weapons clashed, bones struck bones, and with each step forward, they trod upon warm blood mixed with mud.

Agalon, like a mad giant, stood at the forefront of the battle, wielding his terrifying double-bladed battle axe. Each of his strikes carried the power to split mountains and shatter rocks; at least three Ironborn who attempted to challenge him had their heads cleaved, shield and all, splattering red and white matter across the rock walls.

Agalon's bravery also attracted true hunters.

King Balon let out a bloodthirsty roar and charged forward like a heavy battering ram. His axe was so powerful that each strike made Agalon's arm go numb. Lord Gubler of Warhammer Horn swooped in from the flank like a ghost, his axe skills even more cunning and ruthless.

Faced with the combined attack of these two formidable opponents, Agalon, despite his fierce courage, eventually succumbed to exhaustion. Baron unleashed an unstoppable, devastating slash that pierced Agalon's shoulder blade, the sound of bones shattering clearly audible. Agalon's massive body staggered, the excruciating pain causing him to almost drop his battle axe.

In the instant he lost his balance, Gubler's axe struck him precisely behind the knee like a venomous snake.

"Mountain Splitter" Agalon, this seemingly invincible giant, finally collapsed to his knees. He let out a final roar filled with resentment and madness before being engulfed by the axe-wielding Ironborn surging from all directions. His once invincible body was instantly dismembered and torn apart.

The hardest bone on the snake trail was completely crushed, and on the almost vertical rock walls on either side, another equally brutal hunt was unfolding.

The warriors of the Drum family of Old Wake Island formed a mobile barrier below with their heavy round shields. Behind them, the archers of the Harlo family of Tuta City drew their bows, their eyes as sharp as hawks. Whenever a pirate tried to peek out from the shadows of the cliff to throw an arrow or push a falling rock, a precise arrow would pierce the air and send him plummeting into the abyss.

But this was merely suppression. The real task of clearing them out was entrusted to the Ironborn, agile climbers as nimble as ibex. With short blades in their mouths, they moved nimbly up the near-vertical cliffs, using crevices and protruding rocks as tools, like the most patient hunters, beginning to clear each of the lairs laid by "Rock" Orardo.

The battles erupted in every narrow crevice and cave entrance, fierce yet brief.

This was a face-to-face, inescapable battle. Roars, the clash of weapons, and the screams of the dying echoed between the cliffs, as figures—whether Ironmen or pirates—constantly fell from the heights.

"Rock" Olado's ambush position was exposed due to the chaos and smoke caused by the previous wildfire air raids. He attempted to rely on his familiarity with the terrain to command his men to fight and retreat, using the complex rock formations to resist step by step. However, the Ironborn's clearing forces were extremely efficient and quickly outflanked him, cutting off his retreat.

Olado was forced back step by step until he finally had his back against a huge, weathered black rock, with nowhere left to retreat. His rugged face was covered in blood and sweat, his chest heaving violently, but his eyes remained as stubborn as a reef.

The Ironborn slowly closed in from the front and flanks, raining down arrows and javelins like deadly hail on his position.

Olado brandished his weapon to parry, but ultimately could not withstand all the attacks. One, two—more and more arrows and spears pierced his chest, abdomen, and limbs. His massive body slammed against the rocks behind him with tremendous force, but he did not fall, as if he had truly become one with the boulder.

In the end, he was almost riddled with bullets, his blood flowing down the rocks. This pirate leader, known as "The Rock," ultimately lived up to his name, dying in an unyielding posture on the last battlefield he had chosen.

In the labyrinth of tear caves and underground rivers, "Crocodile Tail" Vic and his men are experiencing unprecedented torment.

They were like crocodiles lurking in the mud, holding their breath and waiting for their prey to walk into their trap by water.

But the Ironborn who were expected to infiltrate never appeared. Instead, there was a suffocating silence and the muffled sound of a fleet sailing faintly coming from the entrance to the water.

The Iron Islands' response was simple, brutal, and efficient.

Their warships completely blockaded the surrounding waters, and they dispatched multiple squads, armed with powerful crossbows and heavy harpoons used for hunting large sea monsters, to guard all known outlets of underground rivers. Whenever a pirate couldn't resist the urge to peek out for air or check the situation, he was met with a rapid barrage of deadly arrows or harpoons powerful enough to pierce the ship's planks. Beneath the clear water, streaks of crimson began to appear. Their meticulously laid underwater ambush zones instantly transformed into inescapable death traps.

Vic quickly realized that the plan had completely failed and that his escape route had been cut off. He made a decisive move, abandoning the plan to hold out, and led his remaining men, using their familiarity with the cave's terrain, toward another, more hidden exit deep within the Tear Cave, attempting to escape unscathed.

They trudged through the dark, damp cave, with only the sound of dripping water and the echo of their own hurried footsteps in their ears.

When the light of the exit, symbolizing the way out, finally appeared ahead, Vic and his men almost cheered.

But as soon as they rushed out of the cave, before they could even adjust to the outside light, they were greeted by rows of cold, sharp blades and countless indifferent eyes.

Medred Merlin himself led his family's warriors, who were already waiting there. There were no warnings, no offers of surrender, only the silent and deadly charge of the Merlin family warriors.

A brief battle erupted at the dark cave exit. Vic and his men, already demoralized and having just squeezed out of the narrow cave, were in disarray and were instantly overwhelmed by the well-rested and disciplined Merlin family warriors. Blades flashed, and blood splattered.

Vic brandished his poisoned dagger, fighting desperately, but was quickly pierced by several longswords simultaneously. He staggered backward, his back against the cold rock wall, his eyes filled with resentment and disbelief. Finally, under the barrage of blows, he slowly slid to the ground, merging with the dark cave he had been clinging to, never to rise again.

His cunning "crocodile tail" ultimately failed to escape the hunter's net, and he died on what he thought was his escape route.

When the Iron People's Army, treading on the still-dried bloodstains of the Snake Path, finally reached the heavy main gate of the Weeping Fortress, the last bastion faced its test.

"Anvil" Bren and his heavily armored warriors, just as their name suggests, have long held this position firmly, like an anvil.

Clad in heavy armor and wielding warhammers and broadswords, they formed the last and strongest line of defense at Tear Castle. Bren himself, his bald head gleaming coldly in the torchlight, stood silently at the forefront of the line, awaiting the inevitable melee.

They faced the elite Iron People, who had just survived the bloody battle of the Snake Path, had come over the corpses of their enemies, and whose morale was at its peak.

These berserkers from various islands had a burning desire for conquest in their eyes. Their individual combat strength had been honed to an unparalleled level through years of battles, and their overall aura was as surging and powerful as a tsunami.

The battle erupted in the square behind the city gates. Bren's troops were indeed fierce, each strike powerful and heavy. But under the Ironborn's relentless onslaught, their defenses were like rocks being constantly battered by giant waves—solid, yet gradually eroded, compressed, and torn apart.

The battle zone shrank, and the heavily armored warriors fell one after another.

In the midst of this chaotic battle, a figure darted into the heart of the fray like a ghost.

Euron Greyjoy didn't even bother clearing out the surrounding mobs; his target was clear: the enemy commander, "Anvil" Bren.

Brun also saw Euron, and he let out a deep roar, like an enraged bull, and swung his heavy warhammer down.

Euron neither dodged nor evaded; his twin swords were suddenly drawn. Even more astonishingly, eerie green flames spontaneously ignited on the blades of the two curved swords, as if they were the fires of judgment from the depths of the River Styx.

The burning twin blades clashed violently with the heavy warhammer, sparks flying. Brun possessed immense strength, but Euron's speed and the eerie flames were superior. After only a few exchanges, Euron parried the warhammer with one blade, then his other blade, like a viper's forked tongue, trailed a chilling green flame, slashing diagonally upwards!

The blade flashed and disappeared in an instant.

Bren's forward charge abruptly halted, his heavy warhammer crashing to the ground. He lowered his head with difficulty, seemingly trying to look at his chest, but the movement caused his head to slip directly off his neck. The severed area was charred black, with hardly any blood gushing out, as if it had been instantly burned and sealed by the eerie flames.

On that bald head, the last moment of astonishment and disbelief was still frozen.

Euron flicked away non-existent blood from his blade, extinguishing the flames. He didn't even glance at the headless corpse that had stood for a moment before collapsing to the ground; his gaze was already fixed on the deeper inner courtyard of the Weeping Castle.

As wildfires, like eerie green lightning from hell, erupted on the fortifications of Tearburg, and as the devastating news of the successive deaths of their commanders tolled like a death knell, Tolkien's face, seemingly born with...

The numbness and indifference towards fate eventually shattered, replaced by the most primal despair.

As the commander of the reserve force, he stood in the relatively safe rear, and thus witnessed clearly how the entire defensive line went from partial collapse to total disintegration. This slow and irreversible process was more suffocating than sudden death.

Tolkien, the "Black Sails," made a choice drastically different from the other leaders. Instead of roaring into battle to claim a warrior's end, he retreated like a shadow with his few remaining trusted men, disappearing into the deepest, darkest corridors of the Weeping Castle. He abandoned his troops, abandoned his allies, with only one humble thought in his mind: to find a way to survive, no matter how sordid or wretched.

They fled frantically through the labyrinthine fortress, eventually huddling in a corner of a storeroom filled with discarded cables and moldy food. In the darkness, only their heavy, terrified breathing could be heard. Tolkien covered his mouth tightly, fearing that the slightest sound would summon death.

The police's search and arrest efforts were systematic and ruthless.

The dilapidated door of the storage room was kicked open, and the torchlight pierced the darkness, shattering his last shred of hope.

At that moment, the former leader of the Black Sails made a final, and most futile, struggle—he suddenly knelt on the ground, raised his hands high, and, with tears streaming down his face, pleaded in a choked voice, "Don't kill me! I surrender! I have a lot of money, a lot of secrets, I'll tell you everything! Please, spare my life!"

Tolkien abandoned all dignity, like a drowning dog wagging its tail and begging for mercy.

Euron, who had come upon hearing the news, stood quietly at the door, watching the appalling scene before him, his face expressionless, showing neither anger nor contempt.

As if grasping at a last straw, Tolkien crawled forward on his knees, trying to grab Euron's legs and continue pleading.

Euron didn't even let him touch the hem of his clothes.

He merely tilted his head slightly and uttered a single word to the soldier beside him: "Kill."

A flash of light appeared.

Tolkien's pleas for mercy came to an abrupt halt, and his head, filled with calculation, numbness, and ultimately, fear, rolled onto the dusty ground.

Until his death, his face remained frozen with that pitiful expression of humility and begging for life.

Euron turned and left without even glancing back. He spared no attention or emotion for traitors and cowards.

The once somber and imposing hall at the deepest part of the castle has been replaced by ruins and firelight.

Maurice, the "Weeping Lord," had his deep purple cloak stained with blood and ashes. His few remaining confidants stood in a circle around him, back to back, like trapped beasts in a desperate situation.

They all knew the outcome was inevitable; defeat was only a matter of time. But Maurice's pale face showed no pleading or fear, only an almost obsessive resolve. He rejected all offers of retreat or surrender, determined to fight to his last breath at the heart of this fortress that symbolized his power.

As Euron Greyjoy appeared at the broken gate entrance, slowly walking through the rubble and corpses, Maurice gripped the rapier adorned with teardrop gems.

"Come on!" he roared with his last ounce of strength, his voice unusually shrill in the empty hall, "Let me die in battle like a true pirate!"

Euron did not answer, nor did he draw his chilling sword. He simply walked forward calmly, locking his gaze on Maurice.

Maurice swung his sword with a desperate swiftness. Euron merely sidestepped, letting the blade graz his clothes. In that instant as they passed each other, Euron's right hand, like a venomous snake, precisely gripped Maurice's sword-wielding wrist, the sound of bones shattering clearly audible.

The rapier slipped from his hand and fell to the ground.

The next second, a flash of light appeared.

There was no unnecessary fighting, no flashy moves. Morris felt a chill on his neck, and then his vision began to spin. The last thing he saw was his headless body slowly kneeling down, and Euron's cold, indifferent figure as he sheathed his sword.

His head was cleanly severed, his face frozen in the expression of a final, desperate charge. Euron had "granted" him his wish, giving him the death a warrior craved in battle, nothing more.