Euron turned, casting his cold gaze toward the other side where the battle was even fiercer—the clash between the Dornishmen and the Tyrells was still raging.
The Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, was undeniably ferocious, and his Dornish warriors had the upper hand thanks to their agile and ruthless tactics. But the Rose Knights of House Tyrell were resisting with extraordinary stubbornness. To crush them completely would clearly take more time and a heavier price.
The corner of Euron's mouth lifted. He shouted, his voice piercing through the din of the battlefield: "I told you we'd finish much earlier! Hold on, Oberyn! The Iron Islands are coming to support you!"
Oberyn had just dispatched a lunging Tyrell knight with a tricky thrust. Hearing this, he roared back without turning his head, "Then get your ass over here! These rose thorns actually sting!"
Euron laughed. "I thought you'd have the backbone to say—'Piss off, I don't need your help!'"
Oberyn threatened, "If you don't come now, I'll join forces with the Tyrells and kill you first!"
It was a joke, of course, but not an impossibility.
With the arrival of fresh forces—especially the Ironborn warriors whose morale was skyrocketing after slaughtering the Freys—the tide of battle shifted instantly.
The Tyrell defensive line crumbled in moments. Seeing that defeat was irreversible, the commander immediately issued an order. The remnants of the Tyrell forces abandoned the fight without hesitation, retreating from the battlefield as fast as they could to preserve their strength.
On the other end of the battlefield, the allied forces of the Vale and the Westerlands, who had treated the Second Sons as a "soft target," had kicked a genuine iron plate.
The mercenaries of the Second Sons displayed astonishing battlefield discipline and resilience. They quickly formed a tight circular formation, like a steel hedgehog curling up its spines, stubbornly resisting attacks from all sides.
These desperadoes who licked blood from their blades were experts in coordinated defense and counterattacks. Every strike was vicious and efficient. Almost every fallen Second Son dragged one or two allied soldiers down with him, exacting a price from the lords of the Vale and the Westerlands far heavier than they had anticipated.
A strange silence suddenly fell over the battlefield.
The thunderous cheers erupting from the direction of the Dornish-Ironborn alliance acted like an invisible wall, abruptly cutting off the slaughter between the Second Sons and the Vale-Westerlands alliance.
Soldiers from both sides—Second Sons, Vale, and Westerlands—panted heavily, their blood-streaked faces filled with confusion and wariness. By unspoken agreement, they ceased fighting and took a half-step back, creating distance, but their eyes turned in unison toward the fresh, victorious force whose morale was at its peak.
The commander of the Second Sons—a mercenary captain with a hideous scar across his face—spat a mouthful of bloody saliva. His gaze swept over the battle-ready remnants of the Tyrells and the menacing Ironborn-Dornish alliance, finally landing on the equally grim Vale lord and Westerlands representative opposite him. His raspy voice broke the silence, concise and sharp: "Well?" Every word sounded like it was scraped off a whetstone, carrying the cold hardness of metal and the cruelty of reality.
The knight from the Vale wiped the blood from his broadsword, and the representative from the Westerlands narrowed his eyes. The situation was instantly clear. Continuing to fight among themselves would only lead to them all being harvested by the third party waiting in the wings. In a flash, shared interests forged a pathetic yet laughable consensus.
"Alliance," the Westerlands representative said, his voice dry but exceptionally clear. "Three against two. Afterwards, if we're still alive... we settle the winner."
No hesitation. No nonsense.
In the face of survival, short-term hatred could be shelved.
The scarred commander's lips pulled into a nearly cruel smile. He nodded heavily. "Done!"
The moment the word fell, the fragile, temporary alliance was formed. The three forces adjusted their formations with tacit understanding. The wounded were helped to the inside, while the able-bodied soldiers gripped their weapons, turning to face the common, greater threat. The air was thick with killing intent again, more complex and desperate than before.
No unnecessary movements. This was a battlefield. The cold glint of blades and the dark red of blood were the only language.
The only difference was that this slaughter wasn't happening in a desolate wilderness, but in the center of a circular arena. The towering stands all around were packed.
Noble men and women in fine clothes leaned forward, their eyes shining with fanaticism and greed; commoners clutched crude betting slips, shouting or cursing themselves hoarse for the fighters they had wagered on. Their cheers and gasps were like invisible waves, battering every soul fighting to the death in the arena.
In the blink of an eye, the situation had evolved from a chaotic brawl into a brutal standoff: the fresh alliance of Dorne and the Iron Islands against the hastily formed triumvirate of the Second Sons, the Vale, and the Westerlands.
The air seemed to freeze for a second, then was torn apart by even fiercer killing intent. Neither side even had time to fully reform their lines before they crashed into each other again with a thunderous roar!
In this renewed vortex of blood, Euron Greyjoy and Oberyn Martell were like two complementary whirlwinds of death, displaying shocking coordination. They ignored the common soldiers, their hawk-like gazes locking onto the three cores of the opposing side—the scarred commander of the Second Sons, the knight lord of the Vale, and the representative of the Westerlands.
The two of them became a ruthless dagger, plunging straight into the heart of the alliance!
Oberyn's spear struck first. The tip darted out like a viper, creating countless dazzling afterimages that enveloped all three opponents simultaneously, forcing them to block and retreat, their attention completely captured. In that split-second gap, Euron let out a roar that seemed to come from the deep sea. He actually stepped onto the Red Viper's shoulder, which had suddenly tensed like iron, using it as a springboard to launch himself into the air!
His black leather armor unfurled in the air like the wings of a reaper. The twin blades in his hands carved a terrifying arc capable of splitting sunlight, carrying his full weight and the momentum of his fall in the most primal, violent way—
Straight for the head of the Second Sons' commander!
[Dragon Cleaver!]
CRACK!
After a sickening, muffled sound, all noise seemed to vanish.
The head flew into the air, its expression frozen in shock. Blood erupted like a fountain from the neck of the still-standing body.
Euron landed heavily, kicking up a cloud of dust. He lifted his face, looking for the next target.
The line of the three-party alliance collapsed the moment the commander's head flew, like a tower whose foundation had been yanked away.
The mercenaries of the Second Sons reacted first.
These desperadoes who fought for money might lack honor, but they certainly didn't lack the shrewdness to stay alive. With their leader dead, they didn't hesitate for a moment. Their formation shrank instantly, and with a few short, sharp whistles, the entire group retreated as decisively as the tide, using the bodies of their comrades and discarded shields to build a temporary barrier, trying to isolate themselves from the two reapers of death.
The warriors of the Westerlands showed some of the discipline of a great house's army. Mixed with unconcealed wretchedness, they retreated in squads, longswords and spears still facing outward, stepping back in an organized, overlapping withdrawal. They tried to maintain the last shred of dignity in desperation, but their quickening steps and panicked eyes betrayed their inner collapse.
The soldiers of the Vale, however, lost all will to fight under the domination of fear. No one knew who shouted first, but the entire right flank collapsed instantly. Surviving knights and soldiers threw down their heavy shields and honor, turning without hesitation, shoving and crying, wanting only to run faster than their companions, exposing their backs completely to the enemy.
"Chase them! Slaughter them!" The red-eyed Ironborn and Dornish warriors roared, waving dripping blades, ready to charge forward, eager to water this victory with more blood.
But two figures stood like reefs before the surging tide.
Euron held his twin blades at his sides, his cold gaze sweeping over the fleeing enemy before returning to his restless men. The cruel curve of his mouth hadn't changed, but he shook his head slowly.
Beside him, Oberyn slammed the butt of his spear onto the ground with a thud. Though the Red Viper was panting slightly, his chest heaving, his eyes were clear and sharp. He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva, his voice hoarse but carrying an unquestionable command: "Enough! Let them run!"
In the center of the smoky battlefield, the warriors of Dorne and the Iron Islands stopped in unison.
They stood about ten paces apart. The brief camaraderie of fighting side-by-side cooled rapidly, replaced by wary scrutiny and reignited battle lust.
The air was thick with blood and dust, and a tacit tension—the common enemy was gone. Now, it was their turn.
Euron and Oberyn exchanged a glance. No words were needed. Both raised their hands almost simultaneously, signaling a retreat. Their warriors obeyed, dragging tired bodies, stepping over the corpses of friends and foes, slowly opening up the distance for a duel.
Inside the circular arena, the noisy melee abruptly quieted, leaving only heavy breathing and the clinking of weapons against armor.
Now, only two houses remained on the field.
The Ironborn had seventy-two warriors left, most covered in blood, their eyes as cold and hard as the axes in their hands. The Dornishmen had sixty-eight, tired but with that agile, vicious energy still coiled in every tense muscle.
The numbers were close. Both sides were elites who had crawled out of blood and fire. The outcome was impossible to predict.
The Red Viper, Oberyn, suddenly took a step forward. He slammed his bloodied spear onto the ground again, breaking the suffocating silence. His gaze cut through the crowd, shooting straight at Euron. "Euron!" His voice was loud, carrying a trace of post-battle huskiness, but it rang clearly across the field. "Let's settle this one-on-one!"
Euron let out a low laugh. "One-on-one?" He tilted his head, his crimson cape fluttering in the breeze. "Red Viper, look clearly. This is a seven-sided team melee. You want to break the rules?"
"The rule is the winner stays in the circle!" Oberyn didn't back down. He waved his hand at the battered warriors behind him and opposite him. "If we throw everyone into a chaotic brawl, at least half of our men will die! Is it worth it? Why not just you and me? We decide the final victor in the oldest way!"
His words were meant not just for Euron, but for everyone who could hear. A slight commotion rippled through the warriors on both sides. Many looked at the wounds of their comrades, complex emotions flashing in their eyes.
Calculating light flickered in Euron's eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly, amusement in his voice. "Interesting... The winner of the duel keeps their entire team in the circle to enjoy the final glory. And the loser..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Dornish warriors. "...withdraws all their men from the circle voluntarily, admitting defeat. Is that what you mean?"
"Exactly!" Oberyn grinned, sweat sliding down his temple, his eyes surprisingly bright. "How about it, Euron? Dare to stake the fate of everyone on just the two of us?"
Euron didn't answer immediately. He turned slowly to face the silent, fervent Ironborn behind him.
His gaze swept over each face, written with violence and loyalty. Then, he raised his voice, sounding like cold iron clashing. "Did you hear that? My warriors!" He spread his arms. "Our Dornish friend wants to bet the qualification you won with your blood and lives on the outcome between him and me! Tell me—" His voice suddenly became sharp and oppressive. "Are you willing to bet everything... on me?"
Balon stepped forward, thumped his brother's chest hard, raised his battle axe, and shouted, "Euron!"
The Ironborn formation was silent for a split second, then erupted into a wild roar and the thunder of weapons banging against shields: "Euron! Euron! Euron!"
That roar was the best answer.
The focus of the battlefield narrowed instantly.
From a chaotic team slaughter to a final duel between two men. This shift surprised everyone, yet no one questioned it—on this battlefield surrounded by fanatical cheers, strength and will were the only rules.
Euron Greyjoy and Oberyn Martell faced each other from ten paces away.
They were old acquaintances, friends even, but at this moment, they carried something far heavier than personal friendship on their shoulders: the expectations of those who lived and died with them, the honor of their banners, and the restless spirits of their fallen brothers.
Holding back even a little would be a betrayal to everyone.
Euron slowly drew his twin blades. The edges glinted coldly in the blood-red sunset. His low voice carried a cruel teasing. "Oberyn, if you die, I will personally send your body back to Dorne, to your brother Doran. I'll even take your bastards as my godchildren... promise to show them what a real sea breeze feels like."
Oberyn still wore that trademark cynical grin, as if what was about to happen wasn't a fight to the death. He twirled his spear deftly, the tip slicing the air with a hiss like a viper. "If you die, Euron, I'll finish your unfinished business for you. Like marrying Lady Ashara in grand style... since you won't have the chance anymore."
The moment the words fell, all fake smiles vanished from their faces.
"Fight!"
Oberyn struck first. His spear lunged like a poison dragon leaving its cave, carrying points of cold light, stabbing straight for Euron's vitals.
Euron crossed his twin swords, his body moving like a phantom, precisely parrying the relentless thrusts. The sound of metal clashing was as dense as rain. The two moved at high speed across the field, dodging and weaving, sword light and spear shadows dazzling the eye. They exchanged dozens of blows in moments!
Euron caught a tiny opening. His left sword knocked outward violently, while his right sword clung to the spear shaft like a maggot on bone, slicing like lightning toward Oberyn's hands gripping the spear!
If this strike landed, Oberyn would lose his fingers!
The Red Viper reacted fast! He released the spear without hesitation, as if the deadly weapon was a toy to be discarded. In the same instant he let go, using the torque of his waist, he delivered a vicious side kick, slamming hard into the butt of the spear!
HUM!
The spear shot out as if from a heavy crossbow, turning into a black bolt of lightning tearing through the air, blasting straight toward Euron's chest with speed far exceeding before!
Euron's pupils contracted. Abandoning his swords was the only choice! He dropped his twin blades, the muscles in his arms bulging like knotted roots, and caught the spear shaft with both palms clapped together in the nick of time!
But the force was too wild!
The spear carried him sliding backward, his boots carving two deep furrows in the sand. The moment he gripped the shaft, a strange power surged into his hands!
[Marine Six Styles: Iron Body!]
An invisible toughness covered his palms and forearms. His skin instantly took on the cold, hard texture of metal, forcefully withstanding the terrifying impact that would have torn flesh and bone! If not for this, his hands would have been mangled.
The dust settled slightly.
The two stood facing each other from a distance. Oberyn had lost his spear and was unarmed. Euron's twin blades lay far away, but he firmly gripped the weapon that had belonged to his opponent.
Euron rotated his wrists, which had just withstood the heavy impact. The joints clicked softly. He stared at the unarmed Oberyn, a savage grin slowly spreading across his face. His voice was cold and oppressive: "Heh heh... Without your spear, Red Viper, in unarmed combat... you are far from enough."
Oberyn's expression finally changed. The usual relaxed grin vanished. His greatest asset was that elusive spear. Now unarmed, facing a brutal opponent like Euron, the situation was instantly critical.
And Euron would give him no chance to breathe!
[Marine Six Styles: Shave!]
A soft pop sounded from the ground beneath his feet. Euron's figure seemed to vanish into thin air. In the next instant, he appeared like a ghost right in front of Oberyn, moving so fast he left an afterimage!
Before Oberyn could retreat, Euron's heavy fist, wrapped in immense force, blasted out.
[Fish-Man Karate] — 4000 Tile True Punch!
The fist didn't seem to hit just the air; it churned invisible tides, carrying a terrifying force heavy as a roaring ocean wave. Every blow was heavy enough to crush a reef, smashing ruthlessly into Oberyn's defensive stance.
Oberyn relied on his supernatural agility to barely block, his arms going numb from the shock. But Euron's offense was like a violent storm, relentless.
[Leg Style: Aerial Triple Kick!]
Euron leaped up, his legs turning into three blurred whips tearing through the air, each kick higher than the last, suffocatingly fast. Oberyn barely blocked the first two, but the third kick landed solidly on his chest. He grunted, his body knocked backward uncontrollably, leaving his center wide open!
The opening appeared, the killing move followed instantly!
[Marine Six Styles: Tempest Kick!]
Using the momentum of his spinning landing, Euron swept out a vicious leg strike. The muscles in his leg exploded with terrifying power, creating a visible vacuum slash! This kick was like a steel battle axe, chopping ruthlessly into the unprotected side of Oberyn's ribs.
The clear sound of cracking bone reached both their ears. Under the excruciating pain, Oberyn lost his balance completely.
Euron's final attack struck like a viper!
[Drill Dragon: Green Pepper Iron Head!]
Euron suddenly bowed his head and arched his back, then launched a headbutt forward with the force of a thunderbolt. His incredibly hard forehead, like a battering ram fired from a cannon, smashed precisely and ruthlessly into the bridge of Oberyn's nose!
CRACK!
Another tooth-aching snap.
Oberyn felt his vision go black instantly. Thousands of stars exploded in his sight. Intense soreness and indescribable pain washed away his consciousness in a flash. Warm noseblood sprayed out. He didn't even have time to cry out in pain before he fell backward stiffly like a puppet with cut strings, smashing heavily onto the cold sand, completely unconscious.
Dust rose gently. Euron slowly straightened up, wiping the blood from his forehead, looking down at the Red Viper lying motionless at his feet.
Until the judge shouted loudly: "The Winner, The Iron Islands!"
Thunderous cheers erupted simultaneously from inside and outside the arena!
The noise of victory replaced the deathly silence of the battlefield.
---
Huge bonfires were lit by the field. Grease from roasting meat dripped into the fire, sizzling. Casks of ale and wine were pried open. The strong smell of alcohol mixed with the scent of blood filled the frenzied air.
Ironborn and Dornishmen temporarily set aside their differences, mingling together, soothing their exhausted bodies and excited minds with alcohol and food.
Euron Greyjoy, carrying a wineskin, walked over to Oberyn, who had been simply bandaged and was leaning against a supply crate. He tossed the wineskin over, wearing his trademark smile, laced with coarse irony like sea salt.
"Drink up, Red Viper." Euron's voice was huskier than usual. "You didn't die. That's just fantastic. Saved me a hell of a lot of trouble—think about it, shipping your corpse, hacked into three pieces, back to the scorching sun of Dorne intact... think of how much of my precious time and expensive spices it would have cost to keep you from rotting."
Oberyn caught the wineskin. Enduring the sharp pain in his ribs, he tilted his head back and took a difficult, large gulp. The spicy liquid made him cough, but it also brought a trace of warmth. He wiped the wine stains and dried blood from his mouth. His black eyes, even after injury, still twinkled with mischief.
"Hah!" Oberyn panted and laughed. "You were worried about that? Do you know what I was worried about? When I was lying on the ground, my only worry was... what if you had actually died? Then wouldn't I have to force myself to marry Lady Ashara for you?" He shook his head in mock horror, then winced as the movement pulled at his wounds. "Damn it... You have to know, I swore a solemn oath to the gods never to take a wife in this life. Making me break my vow would have been far worse than you breaking a few of my ribs."
Oberyn was a prince. Though unmarried, he had many lovers.
Euron scoffed. Just as he was trying to wash down the lingering adrenaline with strong wine, a slender but fury-filled figure suddenly darted out from the shadows behind him.