The noise of the celebration seemed to be abruptly cut off at this moment.
Ashara Dayne stood with her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised high, her brilliant violet eyes burning with offended fire as she glared unceremoniously at Oberyn, who was leaning against a crate, looking rather worse for wear.
"Well?" Her voice was crisp and sharp, like a thin blade unsheathed. "Would marrying me, Ashara Dayne, be such a humiliation for you? Hmm?" She took a step closer, ignoring Oberyn's wince of pain and surprise, as well as Euron's stiffened back nearby. "To dare use my name in such a rude joke in front of thousands at the tourney... Oberyn Martell, I say you deserve every bruise you got! You're lucky you aren't dead!"
At this moment, the Dornish Princess Arianne Martell walked over with a smile. She linked her arm intimately with Ashara's and winked at her uncle, pouring oil on the fire. "Yes, yes, who doesn't know that our Lady Ashara has long had a fiancé whose name shakes the Seven Kingdoms? And that lord..." She dragged out her tone, her smile sly, "...is famously formidable and not to be trifled with. Next time, it might be more than just a few broken ribs, you know?"
Euron slowly turned around. The gloom on his face had been replaced by a complex expression, bordering on resignation.
He glanced at the angry Ashara, the amused Arianne, and the battered, wryly smiling Oberyn. He spoke in a low voice, tinged with an imperceptible exhaustion. "This... might be the best outcome. At least we're both still alive."
Oberyn fought through the pain to straighten up slightly. He looked at Euron, the earlier playfulness gone, replaced by the solemnity between warriors. "Yes, true enough. My fight... is over." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "But Euron, yours is not. You still have the final showdown."
He looked up, his eyes sharp and clear. "It will be more dangerous than what we experienced today. Listen, do not push your luck."
As his words fell, the feigned ferocity on Ashara's face vanished instantly, revealing genuine concern.
Princess Arianne's teasing smile froze on her lips. Both women turned their gaze to Euron, the festive atmosphere quietly fading, replaced by a heavy, silent worry.
Euron shrugged and laughed. "Tomorrow hasn't come yet; no use overthinking it. Today, we celebrate victory!"
Into this wild celebration of winners, two figures utterly out of place suddenly appeared: Tyrion Lannister and his sister, Cersei Lannister, stepped onto this famously raucous ground.
Tyrion carried a wineskin that looked a bit too large for his frame, a sincere smile on his face as his short legs carried him toward Euron at the center of the crowd.
"To victory!" Tyrion toasted loudly, raising the wineskin. "I have to admit, Euron, you always manage to create the most jaw-dropping, heart-stopping spectacles."
Euron took the wineskin, took a swig, and turned around. The dancing firelight reflected in his eyes as he looked at Tyrion, a meaningful smirk playing on his lips. "Ah, our little giant." His gaze drifted past Tyrion to the icy Cersei behind him, his tone becoming more playful. "Speaking of which, I haven't congratulated you yet. I don't know whether to say it's a pity or a joy—Jaime has become a Kingsguard. Which means... oh, my dear friend, in the blink of an eye, you have become the rightful heir to Casterly Rock, the future Warden of the West. Truly, congratulations."
The smile on Tyrion's face stiffened instantly, eventually twisting into something bitter. He took a large gulp of wine and didn't reply.
Beside him, Cersei let out a distinct, mocking laugh. Her long golden hair looked like a cold crown in the firelight. "He can dream." Cersei's words were like a snake hissing venom, every syllable dripping with unconcealed contempt.
Euron acted as if he had heard the funniest joke, raising his eyebrows dramatically and looking back and forth between the siblings. "Dream? But Jaime has sworn his vows. He is now a White Cloak, serving the King for life. From now on, he can take no wife, father no children, hold no lands. The white cloak is his destiny." He spread his hands in mock confusion. "Who else can Lord Tywin count on besides our clever Tyrion? Is it you? Or..." He dragged out his voice, teasing maliciously, "...is he expecting your father, at his age, to take another young wife and work hard to produce a new heir for us?"
"My father?" Cersei's face grew even paler in the firelight, as if Euron's words weren't a question but a key unlocking a floodgate of long-suppressed venom. Hatred burned in her green eyes, her voice trembling with extreme rage. "Don't speak of him! If not for him! If Father hadn't insisted on forcing Jaime to marry that stupid Tully girl, Lysa! If he hadn't pushed his cold political marriages! How would Jaime... how would he have been driven to become a Kingsguard?! How would he have left my side in such a way?!"
Her words were like wildfire out of control, scorching everyone present.
Finally, her voice dropped very low, carrying a terrifying, frozen resolve as she sneered, "As for inheritance? Hmph. Father would burn Casterly Rock to ash before he let it fall into the hands of a dwarf!"
The air solidified instantly. Only the popping of the bonfire could be heard, as if even the fire was holding its breath at this cruel declaration.
Tyrion's face flushed red in the dancing light. Alcohol and public humiliation ignited his anger.
Especially here, in front of Euron—a friend he had specifically come to congratulate—being trampled so thoroughly by his own sister.
"Don't think I didn't see it, Cersei!" He stepped forward, his voice shrill with emotion. "Don't put it all on Father! If you hadn't given the signal, Jaime wouldn't have agreed so decisively! I saw it—he looked at you before he nodded! Just moments before he decided to don that white cloak! You nodded!"
Cersei lifted her chin higher, armoring herself in cold superiority. "Evidence, dwarf? Is what your deformed eyes see considered evidence?"
"I don't have evidence!" Tyrion growled, forcing every word through his teeth. "But I know you! I know you too well! You always opposed Jaime's marriage, not because you love him, not because he's your brother, but because of your sick possessiveness! You want to own everything—brothers, father, power! And when you can't own it completely, you'd rather destroy it with your own hands!"
His words were like a precision dagger, piercing through all her pretenses.
Cersei's reaction was as fast as a viper strike.
SLAP!
She raised her hand and, with all her strength, slapped Tyrion viciously across the face. The sheer force made the dwarf stagger, nearly falling to the ground.
"Remember your place, monster," Cersei hissed through clenched teeth. Then she spun around, her golden gown carving a sharp arc like a thoroughly enraged lioness, and stormed off into the dim shadows of the camp.
Her retreating figure and cold words were like invisible frost, instantly freezing the boisterous air. Euron leaned down and steadied the stumbling Tyrion. Seeing the red swelling on the dwarf's cheek and the trace of blood at the corner of his mouth, a complex emotion flitted through Euron's eyes, and he sighed deeply.
"I had thought," Euron's voice cut through the distant revelry, carrying a tone of almost mocking contemplation, "that Jaime taking off the gold cloak, going to King's Landing, and putting on the white one would be a turning point for your fate. That you would naturally become the heir to Casterly Rock, with a bright path ahead." He shook his head, looking sharply at Tyrion. "Now it seems I was wrong. Your days ahead won't be easier; they're going to be even harder."
Tyrion wiped the blood from his lip with his sleeve. It stung, but it was nothing compared to the cold pain in his heart. He let out a short, bitter chuckle, his eyes mixing helplessness with a weary clarity. "Expected it, didn't I? Since the day I was born, since he knew I was a dwarf, since my mother died birthing me... my days were never destined to be easy." He shrugged, a gesture that looked incredibly tired. "But it is what it is. What can I do? Except drink wine and read books."
Euron's lips curled into a cold smile. He leaned in closer, the scent of sea salt and blood washing over Tyrion. His voice was low and certain, like an undertow. "One word—Endure!"
Tyrion blinked, then chuckled as if he'd heard a brilliant joke. "Endure? Right, truly words of wisdom." His laughter grew louder but held no warmth, full of absurdity. "Endure until my dear sister marries off to the ends of the earth? Endure until my noble father finally returns to the embrace of the Seven? Haha... I just wonder, how many years will that take? Ten? Twenty? Hopefully, I'll still be alive then, and remember what exactly I'm waiting for."
Ashara approached quietly, silently dusting the dirt and grass from Tyrion's back. She looked at his lonely silhouette and sighed softly, her voice gentle yet carrying a distant temptation. "If it is so suffocating here, why not sail with us when the time comes?" She turned to Euron, a small smile on her lips. "This one says that after we wed, we will build the greatest treasure ship and sail east from the Summer Sea. Perhaps to explore Sothoryos, or perhaps... straight to Asshai by the Shadow."
Her voice seemed to hold magic, painting a picture of the unknown. "He says that is where the true magic flows. Ancient, mysterious, far beyond anything recorded by the Maesters of the Citadel... a world never before seen."
Tyrion looked up, the gloom in his eyes dispelled slightly by curiosity. "You're going to sea again?"
Euron laughed loudly, wrapping an arm around Ashara's shoulder, wild light dancing in his eyes. "Not yet! We have to have the wedding first. Two years from now, Ashara and I will marry. After that... the sky is high and the ocean wide, ours to roam!" He nudged Tyrion playfully. "See? That's the benefit of being a second son. No castle to guard, no ancestry to carry. Go wherever you want!"
"Then you must take me!" Tyrion blurted out. The passion ignited by alcohol and dreams made him temporarily forget his pain. "Asshai by the Shadow... I've read about it. Everyone says it's a sinister place, that the Asshai'i have skin like charcoal, wear masks all day, act in secret, and that curses and magic are everywhere... Is it true?"
Euron didn't answer directly. Instead, he suddenly reached out and pulled the Red Priestess Gwendolyn, who had been standing quietly in the shadows, into the firelight. "Come, come, look at her," he teased, pointing to her delicate features and milk-white skin. "Look. Is her skin charcoal black? Does she act sneaky?"
Gwendolyn shot Euron an annoyed glance but didn't pull away.
She turned to Tyrion, her voice calm as a deep pool, yet carrying a natural authority. "Rumors always favor the most terrifying versions, Lord Lannister. The people of Asshai are indeed different from those of Westeros, but they are not the demons the songs make them out to be." She paused, her red robes fluttering in the night breeze. "Though one thing is true—Asshai is very far from Westeros."
Tyrion's ocean-deep curiosity about the unknown world was thoroughly ignited. He forgot the humiliation from moments ago, grabbing the sleeve of Gwendolyn's red robe and firing off question after question. The Red Priestess, usually accustomed to sitting in corners and hiding in shadows, could no longer remain silent and had to patiently answer his bizarre queries in a low voice.
Just then, Robert Baratheon rolled in like a storm. His massive hand slapped heavily onto Euron's back, his voice booming like a bell. "Good lad! Those punches and kicks of yours, especially that clean headbutt at the end—damn, that was beautiful!"
Nearby, the Red Viper, looking wretched with a poultice on his nose, rolled his eyes and pointed irritably at his flattened nose bridge. "He gets all the glory, and I get the misery!"
Robert didn't care, chugging down ale until froth wet his thick black beard. He laughed heartily. "Limbs attached, still breathing—Oberyn, you count yourself lucky!" He turned to Euron, his tone becoming eager. "The finals for the melee are in a few days. How about it? We team up?"
A playful glint flashed in Euron's eyes. "Deciding so early? There might be trickier bastards hiding in the later groups. Aren't you afraid of losing your bet by staking it on me now?"
"Even if there are, I won't regret it, and I won't be afraid!" Robert roared without hesitation, his chest heaving with bravado. "Only by fighting the strongest opponents can a warrior show his glory! It's settled then!" He seemed to suddenly remember something, flashing a grin every man understood and winking at Euron. "I've got a... date. Heh heh... I'm off!" With that, he turned and stormed away as quickly as he came.
After the crowd thinned out slightly, the last person to appear before Euron was Brienne of Tarth.
She stood straight as a ramrod, like a sword about to be drawn, but her cheeks were flushed. Her voice was nervous but incredibly sincere. "Congratulations on your victory, Lord Euron. You... you were very impressive today."
Euron looked at her awkward demeanor and couldn't help but smile. "What, only impressive today?"
"No! No!" Brienne waved her hands frantically, speaking faster. "Always... you are always impressive."
"I'm joking with you," Euron softened his tone. "I haven't seen you around these past few days. Did you watch the matches?"
"Of course," she answered almost immediately, her blue eyes shining with determination. "I haven't missed a single one of your matches, Lord Euron. They were magnificent."
This small banquet for victory didn't last deep into the night, but everyone left satisfied. The noise faded, leaving only the sea breeze and silence.
Tomorrow brought the challenge of the joust, but the "ritual" due after victory was indispensable.
Euron took Gwendolyn's hand and led her toward his room—not merely for pleasure, but yearning to hear once again the whispers and teachings of fate that the Lord of Light offered from the flames.
The fire burned... snap, crackle...