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The battle dragged on, and the toll on their stamina began to show.
Ser Gerold Hightower's blade slowed—a fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but enough. A tiny gap appeared in his guard as he recovered from a parry. Ned didn't hesitate. This was likely the only chance he would get in this grueling duel. Ice became a streak of grey lightning, thrusting straight for that fleeting opening, aiming directly for the Lord Commander's heart.
In that split second, Ned saw it clearly. There was no fear in Ser Gerold's eyes. There was no resistance. Instead, there was a look of relief—almost gratitude. He even puffed out his chest slightly, moving to meet the deadly point.
Clang!
The heavy knightly longsword slipped from Gerold's fingers and hit the red sand. He abandoned all defense, spreading his arms wide. He wasn't facing death; he was embracing a long-awaited friend. He closed his eyes, his expression heartbreakingly peaceful.
He wanted to die!
Ned's pupils contracted in horror. The realization hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't a duel. It was a carefully orchestrated martyrdom. He desperately tried to pull back, but the massive inertia of the Valyrian steel greatsword could not be reversed in an instant.
Just as Ice was about to pierce the white breastplate, a black shadow materialized behind Ser Gerold like a phantom.
Euron Greyjoy had closed the distance. His hand shot out, lightning-fast, grabbing the back of Gerold's belt. With a violent heave, he yanked the massive knight backward.
Rrrrip—
The tip of Ice hissed past Gerold's ribs, slicing a long gash through the white wool cloak and drawing a bright line of blood across his side. The force of Euron's throw sent Gerold stumbling. He crashed to one knee, digging his gauntleted hands into the sand to keep from collapsing completely.
Euron stood between them now. His eyes were cold as daggers as he glared at Gerold, then swept his gaze over Arthur and Oswell.
His roar tore through the desert silence like a storm.
"You don't want a fight! You want to die by our hands! You want to use our swords to bury your hypocritical vows, don't you?!"
---
Moments earlier, amidst the flash of steel between Euron and Ser Arthur Dayne, a strange suspicion had taken root in the Ironborn's mind.
Ser Arthur's handling of Dawn was still flawless, his technique peering down from the summit of knighthood. Yet, Euron's instincts screamed that something was wrong. Beneath the dazzling display of skill, there was no bloodlust. There was no intent to kill.
What chilled him even more was that when Euron deliberately left fatal openings, Arthur's blade would merely graze him, never pursuing the advantage.
It culminated when Euron's twin blades slipped through Dawn's defensive net, thrusting straight for Arthur's exposed throat—a strike meant to end the duel.
In the fraction of a second before the steel kissed the gorget, Euron saw it. Arthur didn't block. He didn't dodge. He tilted his head back slightly, exposing his neck. The eyes behind the visor were dead calm. He had dropped his guard completely, welcoming the end.
Damn it!
Euron cursed internally. His combat instincts and a surge of inexplicable anger took over. With terrifying wrist control, he violently twisted his strike, forcing the twin blades off course. The steel shrieked against Arthur's pauldron, sending a shower of sparks into the air, but leaving the knight alive.
The two separated.
The residual lightning on the blades left Arthur momentarily paralyzed.
Euron stood there, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but from the adrenaline of a near-mistake and rising fury. He stared at the White Sword, finally understanding the source of the dissonance.
---
As soon as Euron flashed past Gerold to save the suicidal Lord Commander, his hawk-like gaze snapped to the duel between the Prince of Dorne and Ser Oswell.
He saw Oberyn's Red Viper spear strike like a cobra, aiming for Oswell's throat—a kill shot that was nearly impossible to defend against. But instead of raising his shield, Ser Oswell leaned his body forward, as if offering his neck to the spearpoint!
Such a subtle, resolved movement could not escape the eyes of the Red Viper.
Just as the spear was about to drink blood, Oberyn's wrist snapped down, arresting the weapon's momentum with unnatural force. The razor-sharp tip froze, hovering a mere inch from Ser Oswell's apple, trembling with the tension.
Oberyn withdrew the spear. The shock in his dark Dornish eyes was quickly replaced by a deep, sorrowful understanding mixed with anger. He looked at his old friend, who stood there with eyes closed, waiting for death. Then he looked at Euron, who was already shouting, and the other two white cloaks.
In an instant, the air beneath the Tower of Joy seemed to solidify.
The three victors stood on the red sand, looking at the three Kingsguard they had spared. The truth was blindingly bright now. This was no battle. It was a collective suicide pact, wrapped in the glory of combat.
Euron's voice rolled over the silent battlefield, every word a hammer blow against the knights' resolve.
He turned first to Gerold Hightower, who was still kneeling in the sand.
"Gerold Hightower! Do you think death is the end? Death is the coward's way out! It's easy to die—you just close your eyes and find eternal peace. Living is the hard part! Living means carrying the weight of shame, pain, and memory on your back!"
Euron stepped closer, looming over him. "You lost your King, yes. But you are still the Lord Commander, the paragon of knighthood for the Seven Kingdoms. Your end should come on a battlefield defending something precious, not like this... not in some carefully disguised suicide!"
Next, he turned his glare on Oswell Whent, who was leaning on his sword and shield, blood running down his leg. Euron's voice dropped, becoming heavy and specific.
"Oswell Whent! Your brother chose poison when Harrenhal fell. Your nephews were forced onto the battlefield by Aerys, who held their sister hostage, and they died one by one. The Whent line is all but extinguished! And your niece—Ariana Whent—she just lost her infant son. She was nearly ravaged by Lannister soldiers before I saved her. Do you intend to let her lose her last living uncle after she has lost everything else?"
Finally, Euron faced the silent figure holding Dawn, stabbing his words into Arthur Dayne's heart.
"Arthur Dayne! I am about to marry your sister, Ashara! Do you want me to kill you with these blades today? Do you want me to ride to Starfall with your blood as my bride price? Do you want her to hate her husband forever, cursing me on our wedding night because I butchered her beloved brother? Is that the 'blessing' you wish to leave her?"
Euron's interrogation hung in the hot air, like keys trying to force open three rusted locks that had only wanted to be broken.