Early the next morning, Victoria Daniels, having absolutely no respect for privacy, shoved open Euron's door. The first thing she saw was Gwendolyn, wearing nothing but her long red hair as cover, still radiating the faint scent of last night's fire and passion.
Victoria didn't seem surprised in the slightest. She merely raised an eyebrow and exchanged a knowing look with Gwendolyn. The two women even shared a brief, oddly harmonious nod. Then, Victoria deftly tossed a dark gold shell with strange markings—one Euron had given her earlier—straight at him as he lay lazily in bed. With a cold hmph, she turned on her heel and left.
Lisa entered right after.
Her expression was professional as she reported the latest intel. "News from last night: hundreds of cavalry may arrive from King's Landing tomorrow. My Lord, you need to be wary of the Mad King's moves. Also, the merchant ship from Braavos has returned, and the one from Lys set sail three days ago..."
As she spoke, Lisa's gaze flicked quickly over Gwendolyn. She was used to the Red Priestess's presence, but seeing her and Lord Euron in this state still caused a tiny, indescribable ripple of discomfort in her chest.
She quickly composed herself and continued in a businesslike tone. "My Lord, today's schedule: jousting in the morning, you're up in the third round. In the afternoon, you have two matches in the melee. Tonight is the seven-sided team melee for the Iron Islands." She paused, a hint of teasing creeping into her voice. "Considering last night... My Lord, are your legs holding up okay?"
Euron caught the shell. With the competition starting soon, he had no time to check its contents, so he tucked it away carefully. He got up, dressed quickly, and prepared for the day ahead.
He glanced at Gwendolyn, his tone casual. "Since you're here, stay for a few days. When the tourney's over, we'll head back to the Iron Islands together."
Gwendolyn nodded gently. "Mm."
As Euron adjusted his armor, he asked offhandedly, "Do you want to come watch the tourney with me, or stay here?"
Gwendolyn shook her head, practical and clear-minded. "My red robes in the stands would only bring you unnecessary attention and trouble. It is better if I remain here."
Euron chuckled, a confident glint in his eye. "It's a pity to miss such a lively event, don't you think? Don't worry about trouble. Have you forgotten? Our dear King keeps a Red Priest of his own, Thoros of Myr, by his side. What harm is one more?"
Hearing this, Gwendolyn finally gave a small nod. "Alright."
---
As expected, the later stages of the tourney featured only the strongest competitors. Every match was a clash of titans.
Euron's opponent in the joust today was the head of House Mormont from Bear Island—Jorah Mormont.
Born in 254 AC, Jorah was in his prime, at the peak of his physical strength and martial skill. He stood like a mountain, a black bear clad in steel. His power and experience were not to be underestimated.
With a Strength stat of only 14, Euron was at a distinct disadvantage in a direct clash of brute force.
Facing a powerhouse like Jorah Mormont, every collision of lance against shield sent a terrifying shockwave through Euron's arm, numbing it and serving as a stark reminder of the physical gap between them.
His greatest asset was the unique "Super Armor" effect granted by [Skill: Pegasus Charge Lv1], a strange inheritance from the Sky Islands. This power didn't boost his attack, but it rooted him to his horse like an ancient tree. It made him incredibly difficult to dislodge by sheer impact, allowing him to hold his ground against superior strength and wait for an opening.
Before the match began, Euron wasn't particularly obsessed with winning. He had even mentally prepared himself for defeat.
Winning the joust wasn't part of his plan—in his view, letting Prince Rhaegar take the champion's crown, with all its symbolic weight, aligned best with his and the Iron Islands' long-term interests. Victory here was just a pawn in a larger game, one he could sacrifice or keep as he saw fit.
However, the inherent ferocity and pride of the Ironborn in his blood drove him. Even knowing the strategic landscape, he had to give this fight everything he had. Only by fighting with everything he had could he truly enjoy it, and do right by his opponent—and himself.
Besides—who was to say the loser had to be Euron Greyjoy?
On the field, the two horses charged past each other again and again! With every heavy impact, Jorah Mormont remained as immovable as a mountain. Euron, on the other hand, was rocked by the terrifying force, his lances shattering on impact time after time. Yet, thanks to the Super Armor of [Pegasus Charge] and his astonishing resilience, he forcefully absorbed the shock, refusing to be unhorsed!
Twelve full tilts! Euron was like an ironwood tree in a storm. No matter how fiercely the northern gale of Jorah blew, he clung stubbornly to his saddle, refusing to fall.
Behind this was the strange power of the Soul-Soul Fruit. He channeled soul energy into his damaged muscles and bones, instantly healing them and even temporarily pushing his limits. After every clash, the numbness and micro-fractures that would have crippled a normal man were swiftly smoothed over by the flow of soul power.
Twelve consecutive rounds of full-force attacks failed to dislodge him. Instead, Jorah Mormont's arm was screaming in pain, his stamina draining fast. He even began to feel a grudging admiration for this young opponent, amazed by the incredible toughness and endurance hidden within that frame.
The thirteenth tilt!
The trumpet sounded again. The entire crowd rose to their feet as the horses started their run, holding their breath, sensing the decisive moment was at hand.
At this moment, nourished by the Soul-Soul Fruit, Euron was still near his peak condition! Jorah Mormont, however, was running on fumes. Euron noted the heavy breathing beneath Jorah's helm and the slight tremor in the arm holding the lance—he was at his limit!
This would be the final pass. Soul-Soul Fruit—inject soul into the body, strengthen self. Injecting 500 Soul Points. Strength +5. Euron instantly felt surged with enough power to punch a bull dead.
In a flash of lightning speed, Euron's lance seized the critical split-second, striking Jorah Mormont's breastplate with pinpoint precision!
This time, the majestic power finally erupted.
Jorah Mormont grunted. He could no longer hold his balance. The massive impact lifted him clean out of his saddle, sending him tumbling heavily to the ground!
The crowd erupted into a tsunami of cheers! The roar almost lifted the stands of Harrenhal. No one expected an eleven-year-old boy from the Iron Islands to actually shake the renowned strength of Jorah Mormont.
Up in the royal box, even the favorites to win the joust—"The Bold" Barristan Selmy, "The Sword of the Morning" Arthur Dayne, and even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen himself—couldn't hide their shock. They knew Jorah's strength better than the common spectators, and they understood exactly what kind of terrifying endurance and will it took to go thirteen rounds with him and win.
What Euron Greyjoy displayed was far beyond his years. It was a resilience that bordered on frightening.
Even Aerys II stood up from his throne, shouting his approval, his shrill voice cutting through the cheers. "Euron Greyjoy! Come forward! Let me get a good look at this brave lad from the Iron Islands!"
Alarm bells rang in Euron's head. The memory of Jaime Lannister being publicly named to the Kingsguard yesterday was still fresh—was the Mad King planning to pull the same stunt on him?
But the King had summoned him. Under the eyes of the realm, protocol could not be ignored.
He rode forward as commanded, dismounting cleanly before the royal box. He removed his helmet and bowed slightly, his black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. "Your Grace is too kind."
Aerys II scrutinized him with eyes that flickered with unstable light. "Good, very good! You are King Quellon's second son, correct?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Euron answered concisely and cautiously.
"I've heard of your deeds," Aerys said, his voice carrying an exaggerated praise. "Brave in battle, clever, bold... Rumor has it you sailed the Narrow Sea alone at seven, and many call you the 'Son of the Drowned God.' And the trade in platinum sand, the Ice and Fire Company, and now that Kraken wine everyone is talking about... The Iron Islands will be great because of you!"
"Your Grace flatters me," Euron responded humbly again, his guard going up even higher.
Sure enough, Aerys II suddenly shifted his gaze, firing a sharp look at Lord Quellon in the stands. His voice rose, carrying a tone that brooked no argument. "Quellon! The way I see it, he is the one who should inherit the Iron Islands, even if he is the second son. I have decided to name Euron Greyjoy the rightful heir to the Iron Islands. What say you?"
Lord Quellon slammed his hand on the armrest and stood up abruptly, his voice as cold as the sea. "Impossible! Your Grace! The heir to the Iron Islands is my eldest son, Balon! This has been proclaimed to the Seven Kingdoms and is known to all!"
"Proclamations can be changed!" Aerys II waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting a fly.
"The heir to the Iron Islands is decided by the Ironborn!" Quellon refused to back down, his voice steel-hard. "This is a matter for House Greyjoy and the lords of the Iron Islands! Even as King, you have no right to interfere!"
Seeing Quellon's obstinance, Aerys turned his burning, temptation-filled gaze back to Euron, trying to find a crack in the armor. "Euron, speak for yourself! Do you think you have the ability to sit on the Seastone Chair and become King of the Iron Islands?"
Every eye instantly focused on Euron, fearing a repeat of the Jaime Lannister incident.
Euron remained as calm as still water. His voice was clear and firm, without a shred of hesitation. "Your Grace, this has nothing to do with ability! My brother, Balon Greyjoy, is the rightful heir to the Iron Islands. That is beyond question! His ability and talent are recognized by all of the Iron Islands and House Greyjoy."
Euron paused slightly, keeping his tone polite on the surface but absolutely resolute underneath. "However, I thank Your Grace for your favor. But the matter of succession is an internal affair of House Greyjoy, governed by the ancient laws and traditions of the Iron Islands. It allows no outside interference."
He paused again, a smile that bordered on provocative appearing on his face. He added slowly, "Just as no noble in the Seven Kingdoms has ever questioned that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne! That is a Targaryen family matter, just as this is a Greyjoy family matter."
The sentence was a dagger thrown with pinpoint accuracy, striking Aerys II's most sensitive, most insane nerve instantly. The King's face turned purple with rage, his eyes bulging. His withered fingers clawed at the armrests of the throne, his voice cracking into a shriek. "You... you dare—"
Euron ignored the monstrous anger. He simply bowed elegantly once more, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Just speaking the truth. If Your Grace has nothing else, I will take my leave."
Without waiting for another outburst, he turned on his heel and walked away in the dead silence and shock of the crowd.
Since Euron Greyjoy's match was over, the Ironborn contingent didn't linger. They packed up their kraken banners and gear silently and swiftly, leaving their seats like a receding tide.
They didn't want to look at the Mad King on the throne for a second longer. Every moment spent in his presence—witnessing that disgusting, insane face, his erratic decrees, and his clumsy attempts to sow discord that even a dog could see through—filled them with uncontrollable disgust and unease.