Chapter 150: Women Only Affect My Sword-Drawing Speed
Women only affect my sword-drawing speed, but rich women will buy me the fastest and best swords. Ian inexplicably thought of this saying.
The daughter of Marian Fregar, the richest Keyholder of the Iron Bank, and the sister of Prince Hazan. Not to mention that his family's genes were indeed exceptional—the whole family's looks were off the charts.
Even if Celia were plain, could he really refuse such an opportunity to establish a direct and stable alliance with the Iron Bank?
The world may deceive you, but gold won't.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness, I didn't fully understand your meaning?" Ian needed to confirm that he wasn't just being presumptuous.
"Ian, your House Darry has a six-thousand-year-old bloodline, just as ancient and glorious as our Fregar family," Hazan didn't mention his father's surname, the Moharis family, "and you are now the Hand of the King to His Grace Viserys. In my opinion, you and my sister are a match made in heaven, so..."
"I would be honored, Your Highness," Ian said, not letting Hazan ask a second time, revealing a look of surprise and excitement—half genuine, but mostly just an act he was used to performing.
"To be honest," he glanced at Celia beside him and smoothly fabricated, "the moment I first saw your sister at Drogo's banquet, she captured my heart completely. I hereby request that you betroth your sister to me."
"Of course," Hazan laughed, delighted by Ian's quick thinking. "Then we'll be brothers from now on, and perhaps you can..."
"However," Ian interrupted Hazan, "I hope our betrothal, and even the news itself, will be announced after I've successfully persuaded Magister Illyrio. You know, Magister Illyrio hasn't agreed to join our side yet," Ian used the word "our," implying he was one of Hazan's allies,
"if news of my betrothal to your sister were to spread now, it might damage the 'objectivity' of my counsel in Magister Illyrio's eyes, and even affect Illyrio's trust in me. This would be very detrimental to my persuading Magister Illyrio."
After Ian finished speaking, he secretly observed Hazan's reaction.
This was Ian's biggest concern. He envisioned a break with Illyrio after the capture of Slaver's Bay, not now.
Even if a break were to occur sooner, it would have to wait until he left Pentos with the Horse King and the others; only then would he be truly free from Illyrio's influence.
Hazan hesitated visibly after hearing Ian's suggestion before nodding in agreement: "You're right, Ian. I overlooked this point. We really can't announce this now."
He has no intention of winning over Illyrio! Ian suddenly had this realization.
Hazan's hesitation just now, and his reaction that morning when I offered to help persuade Magister Illyrio to join his side, all pointed to this.
But how could that be possible?
"I will persuade His Excellency Illyrio as soon as possible," Ian probed again, assuring Hazan. "I believe it won't keep your sister waiting too long."
"That's your prerogative, Ian," Hazan agreed readily without objection.
He actually agreed? How could this be? Ian frowned.
Suddenly, he saw Jorah walk into the preparation area below the pit. "Look, Jorah's coming up. Enjoy his fight, Your Highness." He took the opportunity to temporarily end the conversation.
Hazan looked toward the pit. The previous battle had decided life and death; the victor secured his qualification to participate, while the challenger had left his life on the sands.
The pit slaves, as usual, went up, dragging away the corpse from the sand, cleaning up the scattered entrails and severed limbs, and then spreading a thick layer of yellow sand to cover the bloodstains.
With the referee's horn, Jorah and his opponent stepped onto the sands.
Jorah Mormont was now wearing his signature composite plate armor, holding his sword with both hands, the tip pointing at his opponent, his arms at shoulder height.
His opponent was a typical pit fighter, dark-skinned, short and fierce, only reaching Jorah's chest in height, but surprisingly agile, so much so that Jorah dared not attack him easily.
The pit fighter held a short steel axe in one hand and a wooden shield in the other, the two circling the edge of the pit, each trying to find an opening in their opponent's defenses.
Ian watched the match, pondering Hazan's unusual behavior.
On the sands, the two launched several tentative attacks, metal clashing, sparks flying, but after each exchange, they quickly disengaged, circling each other as before.
Ian counted; Jorah's sword had struck the wooden shield three times, leaving only shallow cuts and sending up a few splinters.
The pit fighter, on the other hand, launched six attacks, three of which missed, two striking Jorah's breastplate without breaking through, and one being blocked by Jorah's gauntlets.
This kind of contest where participants bring their own equipment is unfair; the side with better armor obviously has an advantage.
But it's not absolute, though. After all, Prince Hazan and Suthra Tetrus have ample funds to equip their respective champions with the best armor. If some fighters refuse, it only means that heavy armor would actually hinder their combat effectiveness.
A sudden cheer interrupted Ian's thoughts. The pit fighter had finally moved. He charged at Jorah, meeting Jorah's steel sword head-on, and then, just as their weapons were about to collide, he ducked and slid backward.
The pit fighter let out a low battle cry, dodging Jorah's sword aimed at his head, lowered his body, and slid across the yellow sand, his short axe slashing between Jorah's legs.
Jorah reacted with lightning speed. Just as his opponent slid down, Jorah raised his knee, using his steel greaves to strike his jaw. Upon impact, the pit fighter was sent flying, shattered teeth scattering across the ground, and thick streams of blood trickling from his mouth.
His vicious axe strike, deflected by the sudden impact, missed its target, striking Jorah's tassets instead, the axe becoming lodged in the ground.
The pit fighter had barely gotten to his feet, not even having time to brush the sand from his bloodied face, when Jorah's sword was already upon him. He could only grab a handful of sand and throw it at Jorah.
Taking advantage of Jorah's momentary dodge, the pit fighter sprang to his feet, grabbing Jorah's legs and pulling him down with all his might. The heavily armored Jorah crashed to the ground with a loud clang, sending a cloud of sand flying.
"A dirty tactic," Prince Hazan said to Ian, turning to him. "Many Westerosi knights would scoff at it, but it can bring victory."
"Well, Jorah isn't a knight either." Ian shook his head. Jorah's strength had surprised him; it seemed the scene at the Meereen fighting pit in the show wasn't just for dramatic effect.
Sure enough, just as the pit fighter, taking advantage of Jorah's fall, lunged at him, attempting to finish him off with a dagger through the gap between his gorget and pauldron, Jorah slammed his helmeted head into the pit fighter's face, instantly shattering his nose.
Then, taking advantage of the pit fighter's inability to see, Jorah kneed him in the groin, throwing him to the ground, and then brutally struck his face several times with his gauntlet-clad fist. Instantly, the pit fighter's face was a bloody mess, his features unrecognizable, dark red blood streaming down his cheeks.
Having confirmed that his opponent was temporarily incapacitated, Jorah stood up and stomped on the pit fighter's right hand, which held a dagger... A sound of cracking bones rang out, audible only to the pit fighter himself. Jorah then snatched the dagger from his hand and mercilessly slit his throat.
The pit erupted in cheers.
(End of Chapter)
[Chapter Rewards]
500 Power Stones unlock 2 chapters
10 Reviews unlock 1 chapter
Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
30+ chapters ahead on P2treon Soulforger