The two returned to the banquet hall together. The noisy wave of heat and joyful music continued; their brief departure hadn't interrupted the feast in the slightest.
Euron and Ashara danced another song together.
After the song ended, the Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell, approached with his niece Arianne, who was as bright as the sun.
Wearing his signature cynical smile, Oberyn bowed slightly to Ashara, his words carrying the unique passion and playfulness of Dorne. "Oh, before me is the existence from Starfall, brighter than the brightest star in the night sky. I wonder if I have the honor of inviting you for a dance?"
Ashara covered her mouth and chuckled at his words. She first looked up at Euron beside her, inquiry in her eyes. Euron just chuckled and nodded generously.
Meanwhile, Arianne Martell's beautiful and bold eyes looked straight at Euron, a challenging smile in her tone. "As a gentleman, do you intend to stand here forever, waiting for me to voice the invitation?"
Facing this direct invitation, Euron could only smile helplessly. He extended his hand cooperatively, took the hand of the Dornish Princess, and stepped onto the dance floor together.
As the music flowed, Arianne looked up at Euron and suddenly said, "This is our second dance."
"..."
Euron nodded, his memory clear. "The first time was at the banquet in Lannisport. I remember."
An elusive emotion flashed in Arianne's eyes. She asked softly, as if just mentioning it casually, "Tell me... if I had nodded and agreed to the marriage proposal your father made back then, what would it be like now?"
Euron's steps didn't pause. His tone was calm, betraying no ripples, yet carried a clear boundary. "How could an Ironborn of the Iron Islands be worthy of the future ruler of Dorne, the heir to Sunspear?"
Hearing this, Arianne suddenly laughed. The smile was as bright and dazzling as the Dornish sun, thoroughly concealing that fleeting subtle emotion. Following Euron's words, she declared with incomparable pride, "That's right. The man worthy of me... has probably not been born yet!"
After one song, Arianne smiled, turned, and vanished without a trace.
Euron's gaze swept over the corner of the noisy banquet hall and suddenly froze on a petite figure burying her head in frantic eating—it was his subordinate, the "Sorrowful Man" Victoria Daniels. She almost buried herself in a pile of exquisite pastry towers, using both hands to quickly stuff honey cakes, grape tarts, and meat pies into her mouth, cheeks bulging like a hamster.
Euron walked silently to her side and sighed. "Stop eating. Get up, do something for me."
Victoria's movements paused. She lifted her frosting-stained face, mouth full, looking at him with round, confused eyes. "——?"
Euron took something from his chest—it was not an ordinary shell. Its surface presented a peculiar dark golden texture, glowing faintly under the lights, and its shape was even stranger, like some creation of the deep sea. He stuffed it into Victoria's greasy hand.
"Take this," he lowered his voice, his tone unquestionable, "and place it where the King is staying. Put it where it won't be easily discovered, but must be able to observe him."
Victoria stared at the strange shell in her hand, then looked at the half-finished plate of lemon cakes on the table. She shook her head like a rattle-drum, then reached out to grab more cake.
Euron held down her wrist and smiled fakely. "You are a subordinate I feed. Believe it or not, I'll sell you to a Lysene pirate ship as a cook tomorrow?"
Hearing this, Victoria jerked her head up and glared at him fiercely, her eyes mixing anger, grievance, and infinite longing for the pastries. But in the end, she angrily grabbed the dark golden shell. Chewing the food in her mouth, she disappeared swiftly into the shadows of the crowd like a gust of wind.
---
The tourney entered its second day.
In the morning, before the cool air was fully dispelled by the sun, crisp horn blasts broke the tranquility of Harrenhal again, announcing the continuation of the Joust.
The stands were already filled with expectant spectators. Dust kicked up by hooves mixed with the scent of grass permeated the air above the grounds.
The first match unfolded between Kingsguard Ser Oswell Whent and Gyles Rosby. Wearing the white cloak, Ser Oswell displayed the steadiness and sophistication of a King's guard. After probing in the first round, he found the right moment in the second. With a precise and powerful thrust, he knocked his opponent cleanly off his horse, winning the opening cheer.
Following closely was the Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell, facing Benjen Stark of the North. Oberyn's lance work was as agile and aggressive as his personality; his attacks were tricky and swift, hard to predict. After three rounds of intense exchange, he finally succeeded in breaking Benjen's defense and defeating him.
Subsequently, young Ser Jaime Lannister appeared. His golden hair and white armor shone in the morning light like a legendary hero. His opponent was Janos Slynt. Jaime's lance skills were gorgeous and full of confidence. Also using three rounds, he easily unhorsed his opponent, drawing cheers from the stands, especially warm applause from the Westerlands nobles.
Matches proceeded one after another. The sounds of hooves, cheers, and breaking lances rose and fell.
Euron Greyjoy's turn was relatively late. When the herald's booming voice finally rang through the grounds, reading his name, he lightly spurred his horse, guiding Faruru slowly into the field. Sunlight shone on his cold, hard armor, reflecting the dull luster unique to the Iron Islands. His opponent for this battle was Emmon Frey of House Frey of the Crossing.
Like yesterday's ritual, Euron first rode to the front of the stands and tilted his lance toward his fiancée. Ashara Dayne rose with a smile, carefully and gently tying a blue ribbon symbolizing blessing and good luck around the lance shaft.
The two arrived at the center of the field, lance tips touching lightly in etiquette. In this brief moment, through the slit of his visor, Emmon Frey cast a venomous look. He growled in a voice only the two could hear: "Little Kraken, the blood House Frey shed at the Crossroads will be repaid by me today!"
Euron's face was hidden under his helm, only a cold voice emerging. "Then try it."
The horn tore through the air!
Two warhorses galloped toward each other wildly. In the first round, their lances struck each other's shields almost simultaneously, making heavy, muffled thuds. The strength was surprisingly equal; the huge impact shook both violently in their saddles, and the lances snapped simultaneously at the sound.
Squires quickly handed over new lances. Round two began! Emmon Frey's lance tip hit the center of Euron's shield again, but Euron's lance struck with a trickier angle, precisely hitting the joint of Emmon's lance-arm armor! Emmon grimaced in pain, his figure swaying, but the force of this blow failed to completely collapse his balance. Once again, two lances shattered under the immense force.
The crucial third round arrived.
The horses charged at each other again. In the split second before they crossed, Emmon's lance tip raised slightly and extremely covertly—actually violating tourney rules to stab directly at Euron's unprotected neck vital!
This was absolutely no mistake, but premeditated murder!
Euron's eyes became incredibly sharp instantly; he had long seen through the opponent's intent. The moment the horses crossed and the lance was about to reach his body, Euron's wrist flicked violently. His originally level lance tip also rose subtly... Emmon Frey's pupils dilated suddenly in horror; he hadn't expected the opponent to respond with the same ruthlessness!
"CRACK!"
A tooth-aching sound of breaking rang out!
The horses passed each other. Euron reined in steadily. Behind him came the heavy thud of a heavy object hitting the ground.
Emmon Frey lay on his back in the dust. A sharp, broken lance shaft was inserted unbiasedly into his throat.
Joust: Euron Greyjoy vs. Emmon Frey.
Emmon Frey, DEFEATED! Euron Greyjoy, VICTORIOUS!
As soon as the judge's shout fell, Euron removed his helm. Instead of looking at the cheering audience, he first glanced coldly at Emmon Frey lying in the dust with his throat pierced by wood splinters. Then he looked up, his gaze cutting through the crowd, locking precisely onto Old Walder Frey on the stands, whose face was so gloomy it looked ready to drip water. That look held not a shred of joy of victory, only cold warning.
Emmon Frey's fatal little move at the last moment might have deceived ordinary spectators, but it could hardly escape the eyes of the top experts present. The "Sword of the Morning" Arthur Dayne and "The Bold" Barristan Selmy tensed their bodies almost simultaneously at that moment. Their hands had already touched their sword hilts, muscles under white cloaks ready to intervene and stop this despicable murder.
Only when they saw Euron counter-kill the opponent with even more ruthless precision, thoroughly ending the threat, did they slowly relax their grip on their swords, but the chill in their eyes did not dissipate.
After the match, Ser Barristan Selmy walked straight to Old Frey's seat. The old knight's posture remained upright, his eyes, which had weathered countless storms, were sharp as hawk's, carrying unquestionable majesty as he looked directly at the Lord of the Crossing.
His voice wasn't loud, but it was heavy as clashing steel, clearly reaching the ears of Old Frey and those around him. "The tourney is a sacred arena for knights, Lord Frey! If I learn of anyone secretly violating rules with the intent to take a life, no matter who it is, I will not be polite."
This was not a suggestion, but an ultimatum from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Lord Walder Frey's face twisted with anger and the pain of losing a son. He stood up abruptly, his voice hoarse and sharp, shouting at Barristan's back, "My son is dead now! 'The Bold' Barristan! Didn't you see that?!"
Barristan Selmy's steps paused. He didn't turn around completely, only turning his face sideways. His weathered face was hard as stone carving under the torchlight. His gaze swept over Old Frey like a cold blade edge. His voice, low but carrying unquestionable weight, overpowered the noise of the scene. "You know in your heart what your son tried to do. I know in my heart too. That is enough."
He paused slightly, letting the weight of this sentence sink thoroughly into the other's heart. "As long as you understand yourself," he said finally, his tone a near-cruel calm. "But I do not wish to see... a second time from House Frey."
With that, he lingered no more, leaving directly to return to the King's side.
Old Frey stood alone on the spot, his face changing uncertainly under the flickering firelight. That anger seemed to be doused suddenly by a basin of ice water, leaving only bone-piercing chill and shame he dared not voice.
---