Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Day 12 at sea.

The midday sun baked the deck of the "Drinking Spree" until it was scorching hot, and the tar between the planks sizzled. Euron was crouching at the bow, observing the cloud formations using the method Dagmore had taught him, when suddenly the lookout's cawing came from the lookout tower: "Sails! Thirty degrees to port!"

Euron looked up sharply and saw the gilded figurehead of the Silver Swan gleaming blindingly in the sunlight on the distant sea. He narrowed his heterochromatic eyes, the pitch black of his left eye and the ice blue of his right eye simultaneously catching something unusual: the waterline of this Braavos merchant ship was abnormally deep, and the chaos on the deck was too deliberate.

"Prepare for boarding!" Baron roared, his voice laced with bloodlust. He ripped open his leather armor, revealing a scarred chest, his longsword gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The surrounding Ironborn grabbed their weapons, axes and harpoons striking the deck in a chilling rhythm.

Euron suddenly felt a sharp pain in his fingertips. His blood boiled instantly, and memories of the original story flooded back. He remembered the traps the Braavos often used—warships disguised as merchant ships.

"Wait!" Euron grabbed Baron's wrist. The five-year-old's hand was less than half the size of an adult's, yet surprisingly strong. "This isn't right! The Braavos people never..."

Before he finished speaking, the side planks of the "merchant ship" opposite him crashed down, revealing ten crossbows gleaming with a cold light. In Euron's vision, time seemed to stretch out—he saw the crossbowmen drawing their bows, saw the cold light reflecting off the steel arrows in the sunlight, and even saw the fletching of the arrows tremble slightly in the air.

"hidden!"

Dagmo's roar rang out simultaneously with the whooshing sound of the first volley. A three-foot-long steel arrow pierced the chest of the oarsman beside Euron, pinning him to the mainmast with flesh and blood. The man was still alive, his hands futilely clutching the arrow shaft in his chest, pinkish blood spurting from his mouth and splashing onto Euron's face.

Euron's mind went blank. Warm blood streamed down his cheeks, the salty, metallic taste filling his nostrils. His legs trembled uncontrollably, but some more primal instinct took over. By the time the second volley of arrows came, his body had already rolled behind the pile of cables.

"Baron! Engage the enemy on starboard!" Dagmo's roar came from afar.

Euron peeked through the gaps in the ropes and saw his brother leap onto the enemy ship like a beast. Baron's longsword drew a deadly arc, and a Braavos mercenary wearing a bronze mask had just raised his scimitar when half his head was cleaved off. Brain matter arced through the air, splattering onto the gilded hull and gleaming eerily in the sunlight.

"Little sea monster! To the left!"

Old Wick's shout made Euron turn his head sharply. A captain with a silver nose ring was charging towards the barrel with a torch, a sinister grin clearly visible on his face. In Euron's vision, the cluster of leaping flames was magnified infinitely, and the trajectory of the flames licking the air was clearly discernible.

Time seemed to stand still. Euron felt his heart pounding loudly, the sound of his blood surging through his veins like a tsunami. His right hand automatically reached for his waist, drawing the dagger Dagmo had given him—a weapon longer than his forearm, yet now felt as light as a feather.

"Die, you Ironborn bastard!" came the roar of the silver-nosed man.

Euron's body reacted before his mind. He ducked and rolled to avoid the flying torch, while his right hand thrust out with the dagger like a venomous snake. The sharp blade precisely sliced ​​into the tendon gap of his opponent's knee, and the scream of the man with the silver nose ring rang out at the same time as the torch fell into the sea.

"Ugh! You little brat..."

Euron didn't give him a chance to finish. Using the momentum of his roll, he got up, grabbed the harpoon on the deck with his left hand, and plunged it into the other man's throat with his full weight. The sound of the harpoon piercing his throat was dull and wet, and the silver-nosed man's eyes widened, blood gushing from the corner of his mouth.

This was Euron's first murder.

The stench of blood was overwhelming. He looked down at his blood-stained hands, and strangely, he didn't feel nauseous; instead, he felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction. The darkness in his left eye seemed to deepen, as if it could absorb all the light around it.

Watch out behind you!

Dagmer's warning made Euron turn around abruptly. A bald, giant man was charging at him, wielding a chain mace, the mace still covered in brains and bone fragments. Euron instinctively leaned back, the chain mace whistling past his nose, the force of the wind stinging his cheek.

Euron's gaze automatically locked onto the other man's slightly stiff left leg. He grabbed a handful of scattered salt grains from the ground and flung them at the giant's face. In the instant the giant closed his eyes, the dagger precisely pierced the old wound on his left knee.

"Ah!" The giant fell to his knees, and the chain hammer flew out of his hand.

Euron didn't hesitate. He stepped on the man's back, gripped the dagger hilt with both hands, and thrust downwards with his full weight. The blade pierced through the leather armor and embedded itself in the spine. The giant's scream abruptly stopped; his body convulsed violently a few times like a fish pulled from the water, then remained still.

The battle on deck had reached a fever pitch. Baron and a red-bearded mercenary were wrestling in a pool of blood, both their weapons knocked away, now reduced to a brutal, bestial struggle. Dagmore was surrounded by three mercenaries; his battle axe had chipped, but with each swing, a limb flew off.

In the bloody boarding action, the Iron Islands warriors displayed their unique fighting style. Euron, leaning against the wrecked side of the ship, watched this savage yet efficient art of killing, panting.

"Ironmen! Let them taste the Old Way!" Dagmore roared like thunder. This old pirate fought in the quintessential Ironmen style—he wielded a short-handled battle axe with spikes forged into its back in his left hand, and a serrated dagger in his right. Each attack was like a relentless tide, devoid of fancy moves, only the most direct and deadly slashes. When the first Braavos mercenary raised his shield to block, Dagmore's axe slammed into the shield, numbing the enemy's arm, and then his dagger plunged into the enemy's abdomen from beneath the shield.

"Watch closely, kid!" Wick didn't forget to teach Euron amidst the melee, "Ironmen don't use knightly tricks!" He dodged a thrust to the side and slammed his shoulder into his opponent's chest, sending both of them crashing onto the deck. In the instant they fell, Wick's headbutt shattered his opponent's nose, followed by biting down on his ear and tearing off a chunk of flesh.

Euron was both shocked and fascinated by this brutal fighting style. He noticed that the Ironborn generally used short weapons—battle axes, scimitars, and harpoons—and almost no longswords. These weapons were more maneuverable on the narrow decks. During his time at sea, the sailors had taught Euron how to fight, and he had a general understanding, but none of it could be equated with real killing.

"A longsword is a hindrance on a ship!" Balon's voice came from the midst of the fighting, confirming Euron's observation. His brother was fighting with a scimitar, shorter and thicker than the ones commonly found in Westeros, with a serrated back. Each of Balon's swings had a rhythmic quality like ocean waves, his body naturally adjusting its center of gravity with the ship's swaying. When a mercenary thrust his sword, Balon didn't retreat; instead, he stepped forward to meet the blade, parrying with his scimitar while simultaneously drawing a skinning dagger from his waist with his left hand and plunging it upwards into the man's chin.

The Ironborn were masters of close-quarters combat. Euron saw old Wick even throw away his weapon and start punching his enemy with his fists adorned with brass knuckles. This old sailor, missing two fingers, aimed every punch at the eyes, throat, and groin. "There are no rules in sea fighting! Only life and death!" he shouted, spitting out a broken tooth and laughing.

What struck Euron most was the Ironborn's fighting spirit. A sailor with a harpoon piercing his chest lunged at his enemy before dying, biting through his throat with his teeth. Another warrior, his abdomen slashed open, knelt on the ground, still wielding his axe until his last drop of blood was drawn. They were like reefs in the sea, relentlessly battering against you, no matter how fierce the wind and waves.

"Remember, kid," Dagmo said, panting between battles, "the Ironborn are not afraid to die, for the Drowned God will bring us back to life!" He spat out a mouthful of blood, "but make the enemy afraid to die!" With that, he grabbed a wounded mercenary and, amidst the man's agonizing screams, gouged out an eyeball and shoved it into the man's mouth.

This cruelty wasn't just about killing; it was also a psychological tactic. Euron noticed that the mercenaries who witnessed this scene were visibly shrinking back, while the Ironborn became even more frenzied. They let out shrill cries like seagulls, swarming like a school of bloodthirsty piranhas towards their prey, fully embodying the Ironborn's fighting code: I may not live, but you must die!

As a mercenary turned to flee, Euron instinctively grabbed a fishing net from the deck and threw it. The instant the net caught his target, he pounced and stabbed him repeatedly with his dagger until the man stopped struggling. As he stood up, he realized he was letting out the same seabird-like triumphant scream as the other Ironborn.

After the battle, Euron looked at his bloodied hands and gained a deeper understanding of the Iron Islands' philosophy of survival—at sea, elegant swordsmanship is meaningless. Only the most savage, direct, and fearless warriors survive. Like waves crashing against rocks, either the rocks are worn down, or the waves are shattered.

Euron suddenly noticed something amiss in the cabin—the cold glint of chains peeking out from the gaps in the jewelry chests that had been carelessly discarded. He risked approaching, pried open one chest with his dagger, and gasped: it was filled with shackles and chains. He could vaguely hear heavy breathing coming from below the cabin, and the blood on the deck had seeped in. Euron tapped the deck, making a crisp sound, and lifted a blood-stained carpet. After pulling up a rusty iron ring, he saw more than a dozen pairs of terrified eyes and many black rocks below the cabin.

"A slave ship! This is a merchant ship disguised as a slave ship!" Euron's shout pierced the battlefield, his tone tinged with disappointment and anger: "The lower decks are filled with stones, and more than a dozen slaves!"

This news enraged the already bloodthirsty Ironborn, who brandished their swords and axes without pause, spewing insults that could drown the mercenaries. By the time the last mercenary's neck was snapped by Baron, the setting sun had already dyed the sea blood-red. Euron slumped onto the deck, only then realizing that his clothes were already soaked with sweat and blood. He had a deep, bone-revealing wound on his left arm, but strangely, he felt almost no pain.

The still-alive and energetic Iron People searched everywhere for gold and silver treasures. Baron dragged his injured left leg over and looked at his brother with respect for the first time: "You saved my life." He grinned, his missing front tooth making his smile look particularly sinister in the setting sun.

After the battle, Euron had used up almost all his strength in those few short moves. He leaned against the cabin, panting heavily, and casually waved his hand at his brother's thanks.

Dagmore, enraged, swung his sword wildly in the captain's cabin of the Silver Swan: "You sons of bitches! Eight brothers' lives for this piece of junk!" The spoils, aside from a dozen or so trembling slaves—all male—contained no gold or silver. It was a failed raid; if he returned with a ship full of sand, "Cracked-Thorn" Dagmore's reputation would become a joke, and all the Ironborn of the Iron Islands would laugh at him until the Drowned God took him away.

Euron wasn't surprised that the battle had been fruitless. He struggled to his feet and walked to the bow of the ship. The sea breeze stung his wounds. He gazed at the distant horizon and suddenly smiled.

"Have you considered this?" Euron's voice wasn't loud, but it silenced the restless sailors. "Why send an armed ship to patrol this area?" He pointed to the captured nautical chart. "Look here, they just resupplyed three days ago. Over thirty fully armed mercenaries, just to escort a few dozen slaves?"

Dagmo's one eye lit up: "Kid, you mean...?"

"There must be even bigger prey ahead," Euron's heterochromatic eyes gleamed in the twilight. "Merchant ships laden with gold, spices... and women."

"Leave a few alive!" Dagmore roared, his voice echoing across the deck. "I'll interrogate them myself!"

[Ding! First naval battle completed. Pirate King System activation increased by 5%, currently at 85%]