Chapter 146: Old Friends Meet, Eyes Red with Enmity

In the luxury cabin of the Black Pearl, the three distinguished guests of this voyage sat on the floor playing Leaf-gami, a game similar to poker.

The atmosphere lingering in the room was a mix of uncertain anxiety about the future, a shared tacit understanding of being in the same boat, and a touch of schadenfreude.

Especially for Arien; the smile on his face had never faded since the negotiation on the deck, radiant enough to be blinding.

Throwing a joker onto the pile, Viktor glanced sideways at the young aristocrat. "Is it really that funny?"

"Would you like the truth or a lie?" he replied, wearing an affable smile. His handsome face, combining cunning and honesty in equal measure, was truly dazzling.

Before Viktor could answer, he continued, "My friend, please forgive me. Whenever I think of your comforting words these days, and how sincere you used to be, the funnier I find it now. Fortunately, the buyer is a big shot—King Bran of Skellige himself has offered a bounty. You will surely be treated as a guest of honor rather than a slave. I wonder if the Clan Tuirseach has any daughters. The fierce reputation of 'Shield Maidens' is known worldwide; perhaps they will marry one of you off. Once you become a prince, make sure you don't forget the friends you made in your humble days."

Arien grew increasingly absurd. Who said honest men didn't know how to pierce the heart? The beating-begging level of this guy's behavior at the moment was no less than Iorveth's, though of course, he still couldn't compare to Lambert or Dandelion.

The situation was quite simple now: Suclarius had transported the Dragonborn poet all the way from Novigrad to Skellige, preparing to sell him to the ruler of the islands, King Bran. Therefore, their current location was Uriala Harbor on Hindarsfjall, a place famous for its sophisticated shipbuilding craftsmanship.

And since the captain had never harbored any intention of harming the Phantom Troupe from the very beginning, Angoulême's hostility detector had never reacted. Once laid out in the open, the matter wasn't complicated at all.

Faced with Arien's teasing, Viktor remained calm and rational. Long before he knew Dandelion had come to Skellige, Viktor had a premonition that he would be summoned by the archipelago's nobility. "The Return of the Dragonborn" suited their tastes far too well, a point Dijkstra had also mentioned.

He just hadn't expected to be sold off the moment he arrived, which felt slightly depressing. Still, having experienced being "enthusiastically invited" back in Novigrad, everyone knew this kind of situation lacked any real danger. This was why Arien could treat it as a joke to poke fun at.

The cabin door was knocked upon, and Suclarius's voice rang out, "Mr. Viktor, the special envoy sent by King Bran has arrived. Please come out!"

Discarding the cards in his hand, the bard pinched the bridge of his nose and put on his sunglasses. Even if he were to be sold, he had to fetch a good price; a mysterious and dashing first impression was undoubtedly much better than being completely unremarkable.

"Come on, Arien! Let's see who King Bran sent as an envoy and help me estimate what kind of price I can command!"

The young aristocrat discarded his cards and stood up. "My friend, we part ways today, and who knows when we will meet again. In any case, I will wait for you at La Valette Castle. When you regain your freedom, please be sure to visit. Day and night, I look forward to it."

...

Stepping out of the sound-dampened room and onto the corridor, the three of them exchanged simultaneous glances. Using "The Return of the Dragonborn" as the welcoming music for the poet wasn't strange, but the composition of the "intro" was vastly different from the usual.

The peculiar thing was that they actually used human voices shouting in place of instruments. What's more, it wasn't just the cries of one or two people; it surely required the coordination of dozens to roar out such a layered, desolate, and wild sound.

Winking at Viktor, Arien conveyed a very clear meaning: "It seems you aren't just popular; you are very, very popular."

Viktor was left speechless. As they walked onward, the intro gradually faded until the exact moment they stepped onto the deck.

"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,
By his honor is sworn, to keep evil forever at bay!
And the fiercest foes rout when they hear triumphant shout,
Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!"

The bold, desolate singing was magnificent and heroic.

All three of them took a deep breath simultaneously, for the scene before their eyes comprised far more than a few dozen people—it was a chorus of over a hundred, each one a meticulously selected warrior of Clan Tuirseach.

To Viktor, their choral technique was merely average, but this form of chanting was entirely unprecedented in this era. Viktor remembered this arrangement; he had only ever discussed it with a certain unscrupulous bard.

The sky-splitting momentum of that day couldn't overwhelm Viktor, but overawing Angoulême and Arien was remarkably easy. Even Suclarius couldn't help turning around and respectfully bowing to the youth.

Amidst the surging praise of the song, Viktor strode proudly across the gangplank, stepped onto the soil of Uriala Harbor, and walked toward the special envoy at the front of the welcoming party.

The envoy wore the traditional attire of Clan Tuirseach, with a bear-fur vest wrapping around a physique as burly as a bear. With brown hair and blue eyes, his initial impression was one of dull clumsiness, calm and gentle.

The youth was wearing sturdy leather armor styled similarly to Clan an Craite—a design Yuna had specially crafted under the assumption that they would head straight to Kaer Trolde. His blonde hair and sunglasses fit him impeccably. At first glance, his build wasn't particularly imposing, which somewhat failed to match his thunderous reputation.

Entering social distance, the envoy took the lead in nodding a greeting. "Svenrige an Tuirseach, representing my father, the King of the Isles of Great Skellige, Spikeroog, Undvik, Faroe, and An Skellig—Bran an Tuirseach. Welcome, Dragonborn Viktor Corleone, to Skellige."

In the envoy's formal speech, the youth noticed the absence of the word "poet" after Dragonborn, but he simply assumed the speaker's Common Speech wasn't entirely fluent.

With his left palm facing upward and his right hand pressed against his chest, Viktor introduced himself and his companion. "Viktor from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, and Angoulême of Cintra. We are honored to accept King Bran's invitation." Viktor introduced himself without servility or arrogance, while also acknowledging his partner.

Svenrige kept a poker face and nodded woodenly, "Welcome, both of you."

Actually, at this moment, had Viktor also introduced Arien, he could have taken him along as well. However, the young aristocrat was unwilling to do so, because that would violate the agreement he originally negotiated with Suclarius, an act of breaking faith.

The envoy gestured, and a servant dragged over an extremely majestic horse that was struggling violently. They barely managed to tie it to a wooden post beside the pier, and the guards quickly retreated to maintain a safe distance.

Then Svenrige spoke in an unhurried tone, "Please mount. This is a riding beast specially prepared for you. It's called Black King. Be careful, as this fellow is extremely fierce and has already thrown several brave warriors to their deaths."

Viktor's complexion turned entirely grim. No matter how foolish someone might be, they could now sense that something was definitely amiss. No matter how thick-skinned the people of Skellige were, they couldn't possibly treat a poet this way, and the crown prince's attitude—polite yet aloof—made this horse seem more like a test.

Not only was Svenrige watching, but the guards he brought, the hundred-man choir, and the surrounding curious onlookers were all watching the development of the situation with varied expressions.

Their expectant gazes—their anticipation of the youth subduing the fierce steed—looked less like they were watching a "poet" and much more like they were watching a "Dragonborn."

When this thought flashed through his mind, Viktor instantly turned hard as iron. That bastard had gone way too far this time.

If anyone else faced this situation, they would undoubtedly be at their wit's end, forced to jump onto the horse and begin an involuntary high-frequency up-and-down shaking routine.

Fortunately, this sort of thing couldn't stump Viktor of Bell Town. As he walked toward Black King, he nonchalantly reached into his herbal pouch, retrieved a sugar ball, and crushed it in his hand, releasing a sweet fragrance.

Approaching the horse, the youth spread his hands. He wasn't certain he could break a wild beast, but he was certain he could make it harbor no hostility. He looked at it, and it looked at it. It looked at the hand emitting the alluring scent. After a standoff of barely a few seconds, the horse lowered its neck and began to lick Viktor's hand.

Thanks to his grandmother's love, manifested as an eighth birthday gift to her grandson: the "Pony Ball." According to her, this sugar ball emitted a sweet scent no horse could resist, and after eating it, the horse would become docile and obedient for a short time, ensuring her grandson could safely ride horses and play—when he was eight years old.

Viktor was quite certain she didn't even understand the mechanics—that horses didn't actually like eating carrots so much as they liked sweet flavors—but this didn't stop her from using carrots combined with incredible alchemy to round out the lore.

As for the effect of this sugar ball... Once Black King finished licking, it docilely and gently rubbed its cheek against Viktor's hand. To the Skelligers, this looked simply miraculous: the youth merely walked up, spread his hands, and the steed that had previously left many experts helpless submitted right then and there.

Smoothing its mane, the Dragonborn poet swung himself onto the horse's back, sitting firmly and securely. Witnessing this miracle, the crowd burst into simultaneous applause and cheers.

Even Arien was shocked by Viktor's performance. As a scion of a noble family, he couldn't afford to not understand horses, and that fellow at first glance looked exceptionally unruly!

Yet after just that brief contact, it docilely allowed the youth to ride astride it, as if they had been companions for years.

Svenrige broke into a smile, appearing much more sincere this time. He leaped onto his own mount and lightly pulled the reins. "An astonishing display. Please follow me; King Bran is waiting for you."

With the clatter of hooves, the travelers moved on. The envoy took the lead to guide the way, and Viktor's party set off toward the royal palace.

The clamor of Uriala Harbor finally faded back into peace, and the legend of the stranger taming a fierce beast with a glance began to spread.

...

Parking Black King in the stable to be properly tended to by the grooms, the crown prince and the three members of the Phantom Troupe walked toward the banquet hall. In the distance, they could see a noble lady impatiently walking out from within.

They met narrow paths. She wore light blue queenly attire, exuding an arrogant, confident, and aggressive demeanor. That haughtiness was directed not only at Viktor but equally at Svenrige.

The crown prince of King Bran bowed to her. "Mother, Viktor Corleone, the legendary Dragonborn."

Then he turned to the youth. "Birna, Queen of the Isles, my mother."

The lady offered a faint smile to the youth. "I trust you are quite satisfied with Black King. It was worth my special provision of such a steed."

Then she turned to her son: "Don't get drunk, rest early." The tone was an absolute command.

The three of them made way, nodded in greeting, and watched the Queen depart.

...

Stepping into the bustling, lively hall, Clan Tuirseach was partaking in a feast of large chunks of roasted meat and massive flagons of strong liquor.

A young member of the clan caught sight of the crown prince leading the newly arrived trio and shouted loudly, "Sven, did your mom give you permission to come in and drink?"

His words provoked a roar of laughter throughout the hall.

Svenrige cast a silent glance at the speaker, walked straight to the head seat, and bowed to the white-haired, bulky figure of his father, Bran an Tuirseach. Viktor and Angoulême mirrored the gesture.

Everyone in the hall instantly sensed something amiss. The two strangers following behind the king's son, despite wearing attire similar to Clan an Craite's, possessed a completely different aura—at a glance, they were clearly outsiders.

And for outsiders to be brought into this occasion, admitted into this venue... could they be the focal point of recent heated discussions, the epochal hero praised in the Dragonborn songs—Dovahkiin?! Could he actually exist?!

Many held this question, causing the clamorous banquet hall to quiet down considerably as everyone stared at the head seat.

Yet Viktor, executing his bows by the book, paid no attention to the friendly, unfriendly, curious, or skeptical gazes of the others. From the moment he stepped into the hall, his eyes focused on only one person.

That person sat not far from King Bran, looking even more handsome than an elf, and was chatting merrily with a Skellige matron. The youth sincerely hoped the matron's husband was not present at this banquet; otherwise, before he could administer punishment himself, the bard might well be hacked to death by a furious husband.

"Your Majesty Bran, King of the Isles, Viktor of Bell Town greets you." His etiquette was flawless.

King Bran, nicknamed "the Conqueror," sported white hair, a white beard, blue eyes, and a sturdy, imposing physique that fully attested to the saying "like father, like son."

He stepped down from his seat, casually scooped up a large tankard of mead from the table, shoved it into Viktor's hands, and spoke in a generous, booming voice: "Dovahkiin, Dragonborn, legendary warrior—Viktor Corleone, you don't seem quite as mighty as the songs make you out to be?"

Raising his cup in salute to the king, Viktor tilted his head back and gulped down the entire tankard of mead in one continuous breath. "Respected Majesty, I have the exact same question for you. So before answering it, I request to have a 'private' conversation with the poet Dandelion first."

King Bran laughed heartily, placing his hands on his hips. "Ha! For the sake of your drinking capacity alone—Dandelion is right over there. Svenrige will lead you to a quiet room."

...

When the door closed, the greatest bard of the North was grabbed by the collar and hoisted high into the air, his feet leaving the floor as he gasped for breath.

"You bastard, are you trying to get me killed?!" Viktor gritted his teeth.

"Uh... choke... oh—"

The bard looked extremely distressed, though Angoulême showed no intention of dissuading him. He had borrowed her amber without asking, so suffering a bit was no more than he deserved.

"You're making my name famous everywhere. Having the bard identity be a mixed bag is one thing, but you straight-up promoted me to Dragonborn! Are you complaining that I'm not dying fast enough? You know the lyrics yourself, don't you know that Dovahkiin isn't something just anyone can play?"

The girl couldn't help covering her mouth to suppress a giggle. The boy loved playing the role of Batman or Van Helsing walking in the shadows in weird outfits all day, but when it actually came to playing a hero, he was throwing a furious fit.

"Ngh... ah... mm—"

"Speak! Why aren't you answering me? Why are you trying to harm me, talk!" The youth shook him violently with both hands.

"Gasp... wheeze... gasp..."

It seemed time to step in and stop him. Angoulême folded her arms, leaning against a decorative suit of armor. "I think he's currently incapable of answering your questions, and he's on the verge of expiring. Vic, are you sure you want him to be your very first?"

Having confirmed that she would follow the troupe, the leader naturally informed them that he was looking for a worthy sparring partner, and this precious quota shouldn't be wasted indiscriminately.

"Thud!" The bard landed smoothly on the floor.

Having vented his temper, Viktor let out a helpless sigh, helped Dandelion back into his seat, patted down his trousers, and smoothed out his clothes. "All right, you bastard, talk to me properly now. What on earth is going on here?!"