The Ironborn reinforcements certainly didn't arrive for no reason; they were called by Tyrion and Ashara.
The moment Euron walked alone toward the Brave Companions, Tyrion yanked Ashara's sleeve hard.
"Quick!" he whispered urgently, his gaze scanning several familiar banners in the distance. "We need to find help, or the Little Kraken, your fiancé, will end here today!"
Without hesitation, the two turned and sprinted toward the Ironborn camp.
When passing through the camp earlier, they had clearly seen the Bone Hand banner of House Drumm of Old Wyk, the Hydra banner of House Saltcliffe of Saltcliffe , and the Pelt pattern banner of House Blacktyde of Blacktyde.
Tyrion panted as he briefly explained the situation to Dunstan Drumm, who was initially skeptical—No way? Euron started a war with the notoriously fierce Brave Companions over a wine-promoting girl? Fighting a hundred alone?
But the pride of Ironborn unity ultimately outweighed the doubts.
They arrived just in time.
In the blink of an eye, hundreds lay dead on the spot.
Euron started it, but the Iron Islands finished it.
Although friction was constant and casualties common at the tourney recently, those were usually minor skirmishes. But a bloodbath so swift and brutal, slaughtering an entire mercenary company of nearly two hundred men without leaving a single survivor, was a first.
When the guards of House Whent finally arrived upon hearing the news, only the thick, undeniable scent of blood and deathly silence remained in the air. The battle was long over; their task was no longer to quell a dispute, but to clean up the messy corpses covering the ground.
Minutes later, before the bodies were buried or the blood had coagulated, a group of trembling musicians arrived at this blood-red sandy ground and began to play: "The Flames of the Arbor."
> Listen, listen to the Kraken's horn echoing in the deep mist,
> It is a summons, a death knell, for that arrogant King of Grapes!
> Flames burn through the anvil, blood-fire licks the mast,
> Their golden fleet once looked down on the seas,
> Now only the Overlord of the North Sea, the Monarch of the Deep,
> Their story spreads with strong wine and fear!
> If you hear that deep horn sound by the shore,
> Kneel and pray quickly, or prepare to perish!
> The sunset of the Arbor dyes the pirate flag red,
> The Great King in the flames raises his trident,
> Fire consumes the idols of the Old Gods, Ironborn shout the New King's name!
> Now there is only Greyjoy! Only the Iron Islands!
> Eternal Victor, Monarch of the Waves!
This song, which had long spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, sounded particularly flavorful at this moment.
Torrhen Karstark, among the onlookers, trembled inwardly, secretly rejoicing that he hadn't drawn his sword then, otherwise...
The dead were merely a group of notorious mercenaries. Coupled with the fact that the Brave Companions provoked first and humiliated a woman first, this bloody massacre ultimately did not stir any waves of accountability.
When Lord Whent heard the news, he broke into a cold sweat over this sudden large-scale firefight.
Since then, Lord Whent ordered the tourney patrols tripled. Fully armed soldiers shuttled between camps day and night, their sharp eyes scanning every corner, striving to prevent another such horrific incident.
When Euron, bathed in blood and still radiating killing intent, returned to the Iron Islands camp, a reprimand was naturally waiting for him.
King Quellon stared at his unruly son, his gaze as complex as the gloomy seas of the Iron Islands. "They are tiles, and you are Greyjoy jade." His voice was deep, carrying a trace of unconcealed disappointment. "I thought... you wouldn't be as reckless as your impulsive brother."
Balon beside him suddenly flew into a rage. He stomped forward, almost pointing at Euron's nose and roaring, "Such a satisfying thing—you went alone?! Didn't know to call me?!"
King Quellon glared fiercely at Balon, who feared the world would not be chaotic enough. The latter just grinned with an expression of unsatisfied desire.
Euron wrung out his inner shirt, blood dripping down. His tone was as flat as if talking about a trivial matter. "Ran into them, couldn't be helped."
"Couldn't be helped? You say it lightly!" King Quellon's voice suddenly grew heavier, carrying unquestionable majesty. "From today on, you are not allowed to wander out alone. You stay by my side, nowhere else."
A hard-to-grasp arc curled on Euron's lips. He chuckled lightly, answering exceptionally crisply, "Hehe, fine."
King Quellon wrinkled his nose and waved his hand in disgust, as if to disperse the nauseatingly thick scent of blood. "Go wash off that smell of blood! There's an important reception later, all the families will be present. Don't embarrass me."
With three days left until the tourney's unveiling, Harrenhal had welcomed dignitaries from all directions.
This colossal city, standing by the Gods Eye since the era of Harren the Black, witnessed the arrival of almost all important families in Westeros.
To attend this unprecedented grand event, nobles and knights set off early; no one wanted to miss any ripples in the undercurrents before the martial contest.
---
As the host, Lord Whent displayed luxury befitting his status. For ten consecutive days, banquets were held every night in the Great Hall, rumored to be aided by magic (or just impossibly huge). However, attendance varied; never once had all attending nobles gathered together.
The Great Hall was built of massive black stones. The vaulted ceiling was so high it was invisible, hidden in eternal shadows. The ancient tapestries hanging on the cold walls had their brightness faded by time; patterns of heroes and beasts on the brocade were barely discernible.
Inside the gigantic fireplaces, fierce fires burned ceaselessly. Dancing firelight cast twisted, swaying shadows on the stone walls, yet was powerless to dispel the cold and dampness deeply rooted in the stone cracks.
Tonight's banquet was the grandest.
Invitations had long been sent to every prominent noble and knight, explicitly requesting that "everyone" must attend.
Discerning people knew clearly that amidst the undercurrents before swords clashed in the tourney, such a banquet was undoubtedly the best social stage—an excellent place to forge alliances, probe for weaknesses, and show off strength.
When twilight thoroughly swallowed the five hideous, twisted high towers of Harrenhal, the grand reception finally began.
Thousands of candles filled heavy silver candelabras and brass lamp stands lining the walls, interweaving with blazing torches into a blinding sea of light, illuminating the entire hall as bright as day.
Candlelight danced and flickered on exquisite silver-plated tableware, carved goblets, and colored glass windows, flowing with brilliance.
Nobles walked into the hall in winding lines, skirts rustling, jewelry clinking lightly.
Ladies wore silk from the East and velvet from the Summer Isles, their long gowns embroidered with intricate family sigils in gold and silver thread. Gems and pearls shone on their necks and in their hair, every step wafting a faint fragrance.
Lords and knights wore beautifully embroidered doublets, soft boots under leather breeches, sword belts at their waists inlaid with dull gems, sharp blades hidden within gorgeous scabbards.
The air was interwoven with the rich aroma of roasted meats, the intoxicating fragrance of wine, the fresh scent of burning beeswax, and something more subtle—low laughter, weighing words, probing gazes, and tacit wits, brewing a silent contest together.
In the splendid night before real steel clashed, the true confrontation had already quietly unfolded amidst toasting cups and elegant chatter.
Having washed away the blood and donned formal attire emblazoned with the Golden Kraken, Euron stepped into the hall.
---