Someone shouted first: "May you take the champion's crown at Harrenhal!"
"May your martial fortune flourish!"
These wishes quickly triggered resonance, converging into a wave of goodwill.
In this moment, they genuinely hoped that this young man, who had carved a name of invincibility upon the Dornish sands, could snatch the ultimate glory at that grander tourney for everyone who had witnessed his brilliance.
This unique Dornish "Crusade Against Euron Tourney" concluded in a way no one expected.
Just as the atmosphere was most heated, Prince Oberyn Martell waved his hand timely. Servants immediately brought out dozens of barrels of chilled Dornish vintage and wine from the Reach. Handmaidens flowed like water, presenting mountains of delicacies—fragrant, spicy lamb legs sizzling with oil, various dainties garnished with olives and lemons...
In an instant, the tense battlefield transformed into a grand carnival banquet.
People raised their cups one after another, paying tribute to Euron. At this point, Euron naturally couldn't refuse this enthusiasm that melted away past grudges. Laughing heartily, he accepted the cups and drank freely with everyone who approached.
Even more impressive was that, despite cup after cup of fine wine going down, Euron's shrewd merchant instinct, deeply rooted in his blood, never went offline. With a flushed face, his arm around a Dornish warrior's shoulder, he didn't forget to enthusiastically promote the Iron Islands' specialty: "Hey, brother! If you get the chance, you must try our House Greyjoy's 'Kraken' red wine! It's got way more kick than this Dornish sweet wine! I guarantee after you drink it, all other wine will taste as bland as seawater!"
"Dornishmen drink Dornish wine!"
"We only love Summerwine!"
"No sales pitches allowed here, thanks~~~"
The atmosphere of revelry lasted deep into the night. The clinking of cups and hearty laughter didn't cease for a long time.
In the end, Euron's memory became as blurry as a reef shrouded in sea fog—he completely forgot how he left that noisy sand arena, or how he stumbled all the way back, finally collapsing onto his bed...
Between haze and trance, Euron only felt a soft, warm body supporting him. A strand of elegant, unfamiliar fragrance lingered at the tip of his nose, like a night-blooming cereus under moonlight, tempting one to drown in it... The subsequent memories were like broken tides, blurry and intermittent.
He seemed to be helped into a room, the door closing gently behind him.
Then, fiery breaths intertwined, fingertips traced shivers across skin, indistinguishable whispers and gasps in the dark—what was bound to happen, happened inevitably like being pushed by the tide; and what shouldn't have happened, also quietly occurred in the entanglement of drunkenness and desire.
Early the next morning, sharp sunlight pierced the window lattice, nailing the headache of a hangover ruthlessly into Euron's mind.
Euron struggled to open his eyes. The first thing that came into view was his naked body and the messy bed beside him. The velvet sheets were crumpled into a ball, and most glaringly, several dried but still shocking dark red marks lay there, like red plum blossoms fallen in snow, silently telling of the madness that happened last night which he had forgotten.
Euron struggled awake from deep drunkenness, his head splitting with pain. The sunlight piercing through the window stung his eyes open.
The fragmented memories of last night rushed in chaotically like a tide: the noise of the carnival, the clinking of cups, and—
A warm, soft figure? He sat up abruptly, looking around, trying to piece together that blank space.
However, no matter how hard he tried, the woman's face, her voice—everything about her—was thoroughly swallowed by thick fog, vanishing without a trace.
"Who was it last night?" The first face that floated into his mind was naturally Ashara Dayne's clear, beautiful features.
However, this guess collapsed the moment he pushed open the door.
Ashara was standing under the corridor in crisp travel attire, sunlight plating her with a golden edge. Hearing movement, she turned her head. Those famous violet eyes were clear to the bottom, carrying a hint of urging smile. "Awake? Hurry and pack, we are leaving soon."
Her expression, movements, and tone were all natural and open, showing not a trace of the shyness or anomaly of having had intimate contact with him last night.
The itinerary had long been set.
Everyone would board ships at Sunspear's harbor, cross the vast blue Sea of Dorne, and land at Vulture's Roost
Then they would switch to land travel, heading north past Blackhaven, paying respects at the ruins of Summerhall—the former summer palace of House Targaryen—then crossing through Griffin's Roost (or similar route), arriving at Tumbleton in the Reach. From there, the group would step onto the blooming Roseroad. Finally, near the capital, King's Landing, they would switch to the Kingsroad and head straight north to reach the destination—Harrenhal.
According to this carefully planned route, traveling leisurely and unhurriedly, they expected to arrive at least seven days before the tourney officially began.
The lineup heading to Harrenhal this time was extremely massive. From Dorne alone, hundreds of lords, nobles, hedge knights, and sellswords eager to make a name for themselves joined the group. Riding sand steeds and flying various family banners, they formed a mighty, colorful procession. The sound of hooves and clamor shook the Dornish land as they marched north.
On the journey, amidst the chaotic sound of hooves, Euron seemed somewhat absent-minded, constantly trying to capture that blurry, warm figure from last night in his mind. Finding an opportunity, he asked Lisa privately, "What... happened to me later last night?"
Hearing this, a trace of helplessness appeared on Lisa's face. "You drank too much last night, My Lord. I advised you to go back and rest, but you insisted on drinking more. Prince Oberyn was there too; he laughed and said you'd be fine with him, telling me to rest assured and go back first. You also told me to leave, so I went back."
"And after that?" Euron pressed, trying to find a clue.
"After that?" Lisa shook her head, a slight blush of embarrassment appearing on her face. "I also drank some wine and fell asleep as soon as I returned to my room. My Lord, asking like this... did something special happen later last night?"
Euron rubbed his still-throbbing temples, muttering vaguely, "It seems... a woman entered my room in the middle of the night."
Lisa's eyes widened slightly, asking subconsciously, "And then?"
"And then?" Euron said with certainty. "Of course, find out who she is!"
Lisa was silent for a moment, then softly asked the most critical question. "After finding out, what then? What do you intend to do?"
This question made Euron freeze instantly.
Right, after finding out, what then? Is there anything more to do?
My betrothed is Ashara Dayne. What happened last night was just a drunken romantic accident. I am not someone stuck on worldly etiquette; there seems no need to entangle endlessly over this. Do I have to take responsibility for it?
Euron pondered for a moment, finally sighing deeply. The corner of his mouth pulled into a helpless arc as he said to Lisa, "You're right."
Euron seemed to temporarily put the mystery of last night behind him. Just then, Prince Oberyn Martell ran over excitedly, dragging him into the ship's cabin, mysteriously wanting to discuss a newly developed, supposedly "throat-sealing" strange poison.
The two hid in a cabin room, doors tightly shut. No movement was heard for a long time, only a few suppressed but thoroughly wicked chuckles leaking through the crack of the door occasionally, chilling anyone who heard.
At the other end of the deck, Princess Elia Martell walked slowly to Lisa, who was gazing at the sea.
The sea breeze brushed her slightly flushed cheeks. She hesitated for a moment, her voice so soft it almost melted into the sound of waves. "Thank you..."
Lisa didn't turn her head. Her gaze remained calmly on the distant horizon, her tone indifferent yet certain. "Nothing should have happened to begin with. So, last night... nothing ever happened. Isn't that right?"
Hearing this, Elia seemed to unload a heavy burden. She nodded gently, repeating, her voice soft but firm: "Yes, nothing ever happened."
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