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American Fast & Furious NSFW
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Seven armies stood in the vast arena, each occupying a corner, the tension sharp enough to cut skin. The Ironborn and the Stormlanders stood shoulder to shoulder. The two Northern legions were packed tightly together, their trust absolute. The Golden Company, the Vale, and King's Landing were scattered, eyeing each other with wary distance.
Harry Strickland, the Captain-General of the Golden Company, broke the deadlock first. His voice was calm, pragmatic, and carried clearly across the field: "If you don't want to be the first eliminated, an alliance is the only rational choice. Look at those high lords... they will never truly see us as equals. But we need more than dignity—we need victory."
The leader of the Vale, Ser Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully, snorted. "Some things are far more important than winning a tourney. Ally with King's Landing? Never. But with you..." His sharp gaze swept over the Golden Company's ranks. "...that might be worth considering."
Hearing this, Janos Slynt, the commander from King's Landing, let out a scoff. "Alliance? Who wants to ally with traitors and bumpkins anyway!" He turned toward the Northern camp and shouted arrogantly, "Hey! Northmen! Why don't we join forces first, clear out all this trash, and then settle the winner between us properly?"
Janos's proposal was met with a wave of laughter.
Brandon Stark of the North, Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and Robert Baratheon of Storm's End exchanged a glance almost simultaneously. Robert's booming voice rang out first, thick with undisguised contempt:
"How about we all join hands and kick these Gold Cloaks out first? Just looking at them makes my hands itch. Besides..." He grinned savagely. "...they look like they'll break easy."
Euron nodded with a cold sneer. "Agreed. They are an eyesore."
Brandon Stark summarized it simply: "Done."
The Blackfish and Harry Strickland exchanged a look and shouted in unison: "Agreed!"
In the blink of an eye, the situation on the field became crystal clear. The "Army of Justice" from King's Landing, arrogant just moments ago, instantly became the target of a unified, tacit siege from every other faction.
"What are you waiting for?" someone roared. "KILL!"
Battle erupted! The Gold Cloaks were instantly thrown into a boiling cauldron, assaulted from all sides. Swords, axes, and spears rained down like a storm. They didn't even have time to form a defensive line.
In just a few dozen breaths, the once-proud City Watch was decimated, leaving half their number dead on the ground. The survivors, their fighting spirit shattered, dragged their wounded bodies and fled in panic across the boundary line, drawing a mix of jeers and sighs from the stands. Had they not been so close to the edge at the start, not a single one would have walked away.
High in the royal box, King Aerys II watched his "Army of Justice" collapse under the joint attack of the lords. His eyes instantly filled with bloodshot rage. His face darkened like a storm, turning a terrifying, sickly purple.
His withered fingers clawed at the armrests of his throne, his body trembling with extreme fury. He muttered incessantly, his voice low and hoarse: "Rebels... Rebels! All of them are rebels! Burn them all..."
The nobles, knights, and squires around him knew the King's madness well. They averted their gazes or feigned focus on the match, none daring to agree or even meet his insane eyes.
After all, this was a tourney governed by ancient tradition. Victory and defeat were common. Where was the "rebellion"? The King's mutterings were just another fit of uncontrolled madness.
---
With King's Landing gone, the six remaining teams settled into a new balance. The Vale and the Golden Company quickly merged into a coalition. The Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance and the two Northern legions held their ground. A tense three-way standoff formed.
"A three-way brawl! Fun, truly fun!" Robert Baratheon felt no fear; instead, his battle lust soared. Seeing blood, he roared like a wild bull, abandoning all strategic coordination to charge alone toward the Vale-Golden Company coalition, swinging his warhammer!
Seeing this reckless move, Euron growled, "That idiot!" His plan for a coordinated attack was instantly ruined.
In sharp contrast to Robert's hot-blooded charge, the Northern legions remained as immovable as mountains. Brandon and Ned exchanged a calm look, choosing to hold their ground and wait for the perfect moment to intervene.
Euron immediately issued orders to his own team: "Follow him! We are one unit. If Storm's End falls, we are the next to be isolated!"
Balon Greyjoy grinned a bloodthirsty smile. He didn't care who he fought or who won, as long as his axe drank its fill. "Kill!" he roared, leading the Ironborn charge.
Euron advanced rapidly, closing in on Robert, who was wreaking havoc in the enemy lines. The Lord of Storm's End fought like a god of war, his hammer crushing everything in its path. Euron seized a moment to shout at him:
"Fight and retreat! The North is watching the show, waiting to pick the bones. We must drag them into the fight!"
Robert was not a man without wits. He understood instantly. Smashing an enemy aside, he bellowed over the din of battle:
"Did you hear that?! The North is watching us bleed! Golden Company! Vale! Two choices: Turn around and help us kill those watchers first! Or..." He pointed his hammer at the coalition in front of him. "...we finish you right now, then go deal with them!"
The warriors of the Iron Islands and Storm's End began a fighting retreat, splitting to the sides like a receding tide to open a central path—exposing the Vale-Golden Company coalition directly to the waiting Northern legions.
The Blackfish saw through the ploy instantly and cursed, "Damn it, these madmen!"
Harry Strickland's face was grim, but he weighed the options quickly. "Better a chaotic brawl than letting the North sit comfortably and reap the victory."
The Northern alliance, which had been waiting to strike the exhausted victors, now looked grim. Their strategy of patience was shattered.
The battlefield situation reversed instantly. The Northern legions, intending to watch, were suddenly pinched between the Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance and the Vale-Golden Company coalition.
Facing this, Domeric Bolton of the Dreadfort shouted calmly, "All units back! Tighten formation! Let them crash into each other too!"
The disciplined Northern soldiers contracted inward, transforming their defensive arc into a resilient, deep wedge formation.
The tactic worked. The flanks of the charging Vale-Golden Company coalition inevitably collided with the pursuing Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance!
The center of the field became a meat grinder.
The three forces—the Northern wedge, the Vale-Golden Company coalition, and the Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance—became hopelessly entangled. A true, chaotic three-way melee erupted.
Euron maintained an unusual calm amidst the chaos. Unlike Balon, who was lost in the thrill of slaughter, Euron moved like a firefighter on the edge of the fray, observing the whole board, ready to plug gaps or support critical points.
While the Ironborn maintained their pact with Storm's End, they attacked everyone else indiscriminately.
Once Robert "The Madman" Baratheon broke the tactical layout, a frenzy seemed to infect the arena. More and more warriors fell into bloodlust, forgetting defense, forgetting retreat. They forgot this was a tourney—albeit a dangerous one—and fought as if it were a battle for survival.
In this deafening chaos, Euron moved like a cold, precise ghost. Abandoning the frontal assault of a warrior, he became an assassin. The cruel teachings of the Sorrowful Men guided him to seize fleeting, fatal opportunities.
His first target: The brain of the Northern forces, Domeric Bolton.
Euron weaved through the gaps in the fighting like a phantom. The intense combat drew everyone's attention, leaving him seemingly invisible. He closed in on his target silently. Only when the blade tore the air did Domeric feel the fatal chill!
He couldn't raise his weapon in time, instinctively throwing up his unarmed left arm to block.
Slash!
A scream tore from Domeric's throat as his left arm was severed cleanly below the elbow.
Nearby, Eddard Stark roared in fury, trying to intercept, but the cunning assailant had already struck and retreated, vanishing back into the chaotic crowd without a trace.
Bleeding and in despair, Domeric Bolton was dragged out of the bloody arena by desperate Northern guards.
Euron didn't pause. Like a hunter in the shadows, he found his next target: Harry Strickland.
The soul and pillar of the Golden Company. He was heavily protected in the center of his formation, barely needing to dirty his sword.
Euron activated [Paper Art (Kami-e)]!
His body seemed to lose all weight, twisting like a distortion of light. With impossible flexibility, he weaved through the impenetrable wall of blades, getting terrifyingly close to the protected commander.
Like the silent descent of the Reaper, a cold light flashed—
In the next second, the head of Harry Strickland left his shoulders.
Euron vanished into the melee again as if he had never been there.
The sudden death of their Captain-General gutted the Golden Company. They were here for his dream of return; with him dead, the reason to fight in this meat grinder evaporated.
The surviving captains signaled the retreat. The mercenaries formed a tight defensive shell and backed out of the chaos, leaving the tourney field behind.
---
With Domeric maimed, Brandon and Ned Stark were forced to split their attention, wary of another assassination from Euron.
The sudden retreat of the Golden Company shifted the pressure instantly. The Blackfish felt the threat double. He ordered the Vale warriors to contract into a defensive shell.
Euron, no longer hiding, saw the opening. He shouted to his allies: "Focus fire on the Vale! Crush them now!"
Robert Baratheon heard the call. Without hesitation, he roared and spun his warhammer like a storm, charging straight for the Blackfish!
The Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance adjusted instantly: holding a defensive line against the North while pouring all offensive power into the Vale.
Outnumbered two to one and without the Golden Company, the Vale's line shattered.
Seeing defeat was inevitable, the Blackfish gritted his teeth and squeezed out a command: "Retreat!"
The Vale withdrew.
The battlefield cleared, leaving only two sides: The Iron Islands-Storm's End alliance versus the two Northern legions.
Robert shook the blood from his hammer, grinning with white teeth. "Now it's simple! Come on! Let's settle this!"
It looked like an even two-on-two fight. But Euron smiled with certainty. Victory was already theirs.
Domeric Bolton was gone, and his legion—The Glory of the Old Gods—was built around House Bolton. Without their leader, their morale was broken. Euron could see them hesitating between fighting and fleeing.
"Attack! Don't give them time to regroup!" Euron ordered.
Tactics were secondary now. A full-scale, berserk charge was the specialty of Robert Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy!
At the command, the steel flood surged forward.
As expected, while the Starks held firm, the Bolton-Umber legion collapsed under the pressure. They broke and fled the ring.
Brandon Stark, seeing this, ground his teeth in fury. But the battle was lost. Spitting bloody saliva, he gave the order: "Retreat! We yield!"
---
The dust settled.
The alliance watched the Northmen leave. Now, the situation shifted again—
Iron Islands vs. Storm's End.
The former allies separated slowly. The warriors of the Iron Islands gathered behind Euron; the men of Storm's End flocked to Robert.
There were 42 Ironborn left against 36 Stormlanders. Both sides were elite, exhausted but high on adrenaline.
Euron looked at Robert and smiled. "Here we are again."
Robert laughed loudly, a sound that banished the tension. "Hahahaha! Right you are! No more talk—let's settle it here!"
Euron held his blades calm. "How? One on one, or a team brawl?"
Robert raised an eyebrow. "You're letting me choose?"
Euron's confident voice rang out: "Whatever you choose, the advantage is mine. One on one? I am the Single Combat Champion; killing you is easy. Team brawl? We have more men, and fewer injuries. The crown belongs to the Iron Islands!"
"HO! HO! HO!" The Ironborn behind him cheered wildly, banging their weapons.
Robert raised his terrifying hammer high. "Single Combat Champion? You think a crown makes you invincible?! Ridiculous!" His eyes burned with fire. "You killed a brute with no technique and think you're the best? Have you forgotten Arthur Dayne? Barristan Selmy?"
He slammed his hammer into the ground.
"—And ME! Robert Baratheon!"
He turned to his men. "Brothers! I'm going to teach him right now who is truly the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms! Alright?!"
"YEAH!!" The Stormlanders roared.
"Ha~~~Ha~~~Ha~~~!"
What they didn't know was that Euron had already used his Soul-Soul Fruit to fully restore his stamina and heal his minor wounds. He was back at his peak. Robert, though brave, was running on fumes and willpower.
From the moment Robert accepted the duel, the scales had tipped.
Euron crossed his blades. FWOOSH! Blazing fire erupted along the edges, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Robert laughed. "Hah! Parlor tricks! My fool at Storm's End does better tricks than that!"
Before the words landed, Euron attacked! No probing this time—just a storm of offense! His dual blades became fire dragons, weaving a lethal net of light.
Robert's power was immense, his hammer swings terrifying. But Euron's agility was ghostly. He dodged the hammer by hairsbreadths, while every few breaths, his burning blades left scorched wounds on Robert's body.
Finally, as Robert's stamina faltered and his swing slowed for a split second, Euron's eyes flashed—
[Soru!]
He vanished, reappearing instantly behind Robert. His burning blades crossed, resting steadily against Robert's neck. Cold steel and hot fire touched his skin simultaneously.
The Stormlanders gasped, ready to rush forward.
But the duel was over.
The Winner: Euron Greyjoy!