In the deep hall of the Seastone Chair at Pyke, the discussion about the massive prize of two hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons temporarily subsided, but the scorching heat brought by that number still lingered in the air.
King Quellon's gaze swept over his sons and his loyal captain, speaking slowly, his voice low and pragmatic.
"Two hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons..." He repeated, as if tasting the weight of the number. "The total population of Pyke is barely twenty thousand. If we calculate one gold dragon per person per year, this money is enough to feed and clothe the entire island for eleven years." He paused, shaking his head. "But this money is split among the champions of six events. No single house is arrogant enough to think they can sweep all the laurels."
Balf scratched his cheek, roughened by the sea wind. "My King, are we Ironborn going to join this celebration of the greenlanders?"
"Of course we are!" Quellon's answer was decisive. "Such a grand event, such huge prizes... the money alone is an irresistible temptation. Secondly, it is the perfect opportunity for the Iron Islands to flex our muscles before the Seven Kingdoms and declare that we are no longer just 'bandits of the sea'! We should let those southern lordlings taste our axes!"
Before his voice faded, his two sons spoke almost simultaneously.
Euron's voice was calm but held unquestionable firmness: "I enter—the Joust."
Balon roared louder, filled with a thirst for battle: "I enter—the Single Combat!"
Euron's choice made Quellon frown slightly. Jousting was a game for southern knights, emphasizing etiquette, technique, and horsemanship. The entire Iron Islands was incompatible with that style, and no one had ever used a knight's lance as a primary weapon—except for Euron, the anomaly who had indeed been training hard in secret for a long time.
But he was only eleven years old. Compared to the champion knights renowned across Westeros—like Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, Arthur Dayne "The Sword of the Morning", and Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—the gap was immense. In recent years, the jousting champion had almost exclusively rotated among these three.
"The Joust," Quellon looked at his second son directly. "Your chance of winning the championship is slim to none."
"Father," Euron met his gaze. There was no fanaticism in his eyes, only calm calculation. "Victory isn't defined solely by taking the crown. I just want to personally measure... exactly how far the distance is between myself and the top experts of this continent."
Facing his father's questioning gaze, Euron didn't argue directly. Instead, he chose a legendary story known to everyone in Westeros.
"Father," he began, his voice exceptionally clear in the stone hall. "Do you remember the story of Barristan 'The Bold'?" He continued without waiting for an answer, stating it as an established fact.
"Years ago, at the tourney at Blackhaven, Barristan Selmy was only ten years old. He couldn't even scrape together a decent suit of armor. He relied on donations from others to don his gear and enter the lists as a mystery knight." Euron's eyes flickered with reflection and assessment of that history. "He didn't win the championship. In fact, he was unhorsed early by a true master."
He paused slightly, letting the weight of the story settle. "But what he won was far more precious than a fleeting trophy—he won glory that would be passed down through generations. It was that brave appearance, that fearless charge against a strong enemy, that earned him the title that accompanied him for life—Barristan 'The Bold'."
Euron's voice wasn't loud, but every word struck King Quellon's heart. He wasn't asking for permission; he was stating a fact: Glory sometimes doesn't depend on the final victory, but on the courage to step onto the field.
King Quellon looked at his son, touched by this boldness that belied his age. He felt Euron would certainly be no worse than the young Barristan, and besides, he was a year older. Jousting rarely carried fatal risks; even if he lost, it wouldn't matter much. He finally nodded slowly.
However, when his gaze turned to Balon, it instantly became incredibly stern. "Single combat? Absolutely not! That is a killing field with real steel. When strength is matched, it's impossible to hold back. The death rate historically exceeds half! You are the future heir to the Iron Islands; I will not allow you to take that risk!"
Balon's face flushed red with anger and defiance. He growled, "Then I don't want to be heir! Give it to Euron, give it to Victarion, or give it to Aeron! Anyone who wants it can have it!"
King Quellon stood up in fury and gave his eldest son a sharp rap on the forehead. "Idiot! Is the position of heir a child's game? Do you think you can push it to me today and give it to him tomorrow?!" He panted, suppressing his rage, and pointed at Balon. "I remember your 'Finger Dance' is the best in the Iron Islands. Axe-throwing is where you belong! Go show everyone what Ironborn strength and accuracy look like!"
Balon wanted to argue, but King Quellon glared with wide eyes, shouting undeniably, "One more word of nonsense, and you won't even go to the axe-throwing! You'll stay right here on Pyke and guard the house!"
Balon's defiance was thoroughly crushed by this roar. He shut his mouth angrily, forced to channel all his resentment into an infinite desire for the axe-throwing competition.
King Quellon drummed his rough fingers on the table, turning his gaze to his loyal captain Balf. His voice was low and direct. "Balf, how much do you know about the specific rules of this 'Melee of the Seven'? Southerners always have so many tricks."
Balf stepped forward. His years of traveling abroad came in handy now. He organized his thoughts and answered clearly. "Brother, the rules sound simple, but they are extremely brutal. Regardless of where the participants come from—Westeros or Braavos—what their status is—King or slave, man or woman—as long as any party gathers one hundred capable fighters, gives themselves a loud name, and raises a banner, they are eligible to enter. There are almost no restrictions on the participants themselves—they can be knights, mercenaries, or Ironborn like us."
He paused, a look of appreciation, perhaps even craving, for this chaotic rule appearing on his face. "Once the competition starts, the seven registered teams, totaling seven hundred men, will be herded into a huge, designated arena simultaneously. There is no gradual elimination, no fair one-on-one duels. From the very start, it is a chaotic, rule-free brawl!"
His voice unconsciously took on the harshness of the battlefield. "Alliances between the seven teams are permitted at any time, and betrayal is encouraged. A friend one second could be an enemy the next; everything is for the sake of remaining on the field at the end. The only rule is: either die fighting or voluntarily flee the designated boundary line—either counts as elimination. Until only the last team is left standing in the entire arena... they are the sole victors. This is... a war strictly controlled in scale, cloaked as a competition."
King Quellon listened, silent for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. "Heh, that sounds interesting. Compared to those pretentious knightly duels, this sounds more like a game prepared for us Ironborn." He stood up and announced: "Gather the men. We are entering—the Melee of the Seven!"
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