Robert Baratheon lost, and he lost decisively. He threw his terrifying warhammer onto the sand with a heavy clatter, signaling his complete surrender.
He wiped the sweat and blood from his face, turned to Euron, and grinned. There was no resentment in his booming voice, only the hearty satisfaction of a man who had given his all.
"Damn it, well fought! When we celebrate later, make sure there's enough wine for my brothers from Storm's End!"
Euron sheathed his blades and let out a burst of laughter. "Don't worry! There will be enough wine to drown a kraken. It won't end until we're all under the table!"
Led by Robert, the warriors of Storm's End exited the arena in good order. Though defeated, they held their heads high, earning the respect of the crowd.
When only the Ironborn remained on the field, the judge—Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull—strode to the center. He took a deep breath and announced with a voice that cut through the noise:
"The winners are—The Iron Islands—The Iron Legion of the Seven Islands!"
As the declaration fell, the Harrenhal arena erupted into a sea of celebration. The cheers for the unexpected yet deserving champions shook the very earth.
The Seven-Sided Melee had come to an end, and the revelry began instantly.
Servants of House Whent streamed out like water, rolling out barrels of ale and fine wine, carrying whole roasted oxen and sheep, and mountains of bread. A lavish feast was spread right there in the broad arena, the aroma of meat and alcohol filling the air.
At the center of this ocean of joy was the triumph of the Iron Islands.
Euron Greyjoy was surrounded by a throng of well-wishers.
Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, strode over with a goblet in hand and his trademark mocking smile. Ashara Dayne's violet eyes shone with undisguised joy and pride. Her brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, offered his solemn congratulations. Princesses Arianne and Elia of Dorne arrived hand-in-hand, beaming with smiles. Brienne of Tarth, though her voice was hoarse from cheering, tried her best to express her excitement. Even Tyrion Lannister, holding a goblet comically large for his size, squeezed through the crowd to offer his witty and sincere blessings.
Everyone gathered to share in the glory of Euron and the Iron Islands.
But Euron slipped away for a moment. Carrying precious medicines for burns and trauma, he personally went to the tent of House Bolton to visit the man whose arm he had severed—Domeric Bolton.
The Bolton guards outside glared at him, the air thick with hostility. They firmly blocked his path, refusing him entry. Just as the atmosphere grew tense, a voice, calm to the point of being cold, drifted from inside:
"Let him in."
Roose Bolton—Domeric's father, the Lord of the Dreadfort, known as the Leech Lord—walked out slowly. He signaled the guards to stand down. His gaze landed on Euron, and he spoke softly, yet his volume forced everyone to strain their ears to listen: "The contest is over. House Bolton will not refuse a friend who comes with goodwill."
Roose was of average build and appearance, yet time seemed to have left no mark on his face. He was clean-shaven, but his most striking feature was his eyes—paler than milk, yet darker than stone, like a frozen swamp that chilled anyone who looked into them. His face held a depth and calm that transcended time; whether in anger or joy, he seemed only capable of showing the same indifferent mask. Many whispered that he was born without love or hate, and knew nothing of sorrow.
Domeric Bolton was reclining on a makeshift cot. The wound on his severed arm had been properly bandaged. Though pale, his spirits were surprisingly stable. His eyes were calm, holding a faint smile as he spoke to Euron: "You should be celebrating your victory out there, not here."
Euron placed the medicine aside and spoke frankly. "In the arena, it's life or death; we rely on skill, and mercy is a luxury. Please forgive the heavy hand."
Domeric nodded slightly, his tone free of resentment. "It is as it should be. Since I chose to enter the lists, I accepted the risk of injury or death." He paused, a look of cool appreciation in his eyes. "If I possessed such unpredictable and deadly skills as you, I wouldn't have hesitated to eliminate you first."
Euron glanced at the bandaged left shoulder, his tone turning serious. "Be that as it may... your arm..."
Domeric raised his intact right hand, his voice still calm. "It matters not. This is my sword hand."
Euron couldn't help but smile. "A pity, though. I fear playing the high harp will be difficult with one hand."
Roose Bolton stood silently by the side like a shadow. Perhaps deep down he felt a trace of pain for his son's loss, but his face betrayed nothing. He did not direct any anger at Euron. His tone was as flat as if discussing the weather: "I warned him solemnly. The arena is no place for children; blades have no eyes. Since he decided to fight, he must bear the consequences."
Domeric lowered his head. "Yes, Father. I have disappointed you."
Roose merely shook his head slightly, saying no more. His pale eyes offered no comfort.
Euron smiled and placed the precious Braavosi healing salve on the table. "This medicine works wonders for healing wounds. I wish you a speedy recovery."
Domeric nodded. "Thank you."
Once Euron left and the tent flap fell, Roose Bolton reached out expressionlessly. He picked up the exquisite medicine bottle and, without even looking at it, tossed it directly into the waste bucket in the corner.
Domeric looked surprised. "Father, why? Euron Greyjoy... surely he wouldn't poison the medicine."
Roose turned, speaking in that eternal, whisper-soft voice that chilled the bone: "I do not know him, nor do I need to. I only know that at all times, in all places, and facing anyone... only by maintaining suspicion can you live longer."
---
Euron was unaware that Roose Bolton had discarded his gift the moment he left. Even if he knew, he wouldn't have felt insulted or angry—he knew the Boltons were as suspicious and cold as the north wind. It was to be expected.
Euron's visit was not born of fear of Bolton retaliation, but of a warrior's genuine respect for a worthy opponent.
From the first time he saw Domeric, Euron felt a familiar aura—traces of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Or rather, Rhaegar was clearly the idol Domeric admired and strove to emulate. He not only studied swordplay but also mastered the high harp, possessing a gentle and quiet temperament distinct from the typical Northern roughness.
In Euron's view, Domeric Bolton should have become an excellent leader, wise and charismatic. If not for the tragic fate that awaited him in the original timeline—poisoned by the bastard Ramsay Snow—he might have truly left a heavy mark on the history of Westeros.
When Euron strolled back to the main arena, the scene was vastly different. The venue was packed with people. Cheers, laughter, and the clinking of cups surged like the tide. The grand celebration had begun.
Victoria Daniels—the Sorrowful Man assassin—stopped Euron with a rare initiative. She looked at him with complex eyes. "How many Gold Dragons did you pay my brother, that bastard? You used our assassination techniques so proficiently."
Euron blinked. "A lot. Enough for him to sell his life to me."
Victoria's voice held a suppressed annoyance. "No wonder you seemed to predict my every move back then... I blame that bastard. If not for him, I would never have missed." She was still bitter about failing to assassinate Euron.
Balon, Baelor, and Victarion saw Euron and immediately roared, pulling him into the circle of Ironborn to dance the traditional Victory Axe Dance.
After finishing the dance with a hearty laugh, Euron found that many more people had joined the feast.
Robert Baratheon had arrived as promised. He had changed out of his bloodied armor into a fine doublet of deep blue and crimson, symbolizing Storm's End. Though dressed formally, his wild, heroic aura hadn't diminished in the slightest. He was laughing and drinking with those around him, already one of the centers of the party.
Brandon and Ned Stark, along with the Blackfish from the Vale, though defeated, held no grudges and were immersed in the festive noise.
Euron naturally went to greet them one by one, clinking cups.
When Brandon learned that Euron had just visited Domeric Bolton, he couldn't help but snort coldly. Clearly, he still held a grudge over the Boltons' retreat. "If the Boltons hadn't scattered on their own, who knows to whom victory would belong!"
Hearing this, Robert widened his eyes and bellowed, "Victory unknown?! What? Are you unconvinced? After this feast, let's find a place and fight with real steel to see who the winner should be!"
Seeing the tension rise, Ned stepped forward calmly, deftly turning a potential conflict into a banquet contest. He placed a hand on Brandon's shoulder and spoke peacefully but firmly:
"If we must compete, why use swords? Let us compete with wine—see who falls under the table first."
His words instantly turned the hostility into a boisterous drinking challenge.
Robert laughed loudly and accepted immediately. Brandon snorted again but said no more, acquiescing. The atmosphere instantly shifted to a heated "drink until you drop" contest.