Facing the burning challenges in the gazes of Robert, Brandon, and others, Euron Greyjoy only bowed elegantly, a trace of fatigue appropriately showing on his face.
"Lord Baratheon, Lord Stark," Euron's voice carried just the right amount of regret, "Competing with an outstanding opponent like Ser Jaime has exhausted the meager stamina of this humble islander. Please allow me to save a little face, lest I make a fool of myself before true sword masters like you." He cleverly placed himself in a lower position, declining subsequent matches with humble words and a slightly pale (feigned) complexion, saving face for the others while avoiding revealing all his cards or truly exhausting himself.
Although everyone felt it was a pity, seeing his fierce battle with Jaime was indeed thrilling, so they didn't insist.
The next day, the sky over Lannisport was as blue as if washed, and the sunlight illuminated Casterly Rock brilliantly.
Inside the Sept, the atmosphere was solemn. The cold colored marble floor reflected the sacred glory cast from the dome.
Sunlight filtered through high windows was dyed in seven colors, falling quietly like the gods' pitying gaze. A faint incense permeated the air, suppressing all whispers, leaving only the slight crackling of flames flickering on candle stands.
Jaime Lannister knelt on one knee. His polished armor flowed with platinum-like brilliance under the light and shadow, echoing his brilliant golden hair. His head was slightly bowed; the usual arrogance and unruliness on his handsome face were all restrained, leaving only a near-pious concentration. His young back was straight as a ramrod, like the longsword he was about to hold.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning," stood before him. Dressed in a pure white knight's tunic, he appeared even more sacred and inviolable than Jaime in armor. In his hand was not a practice blunt sword, but the ancestral heirloom of House Dayne—the legendary greatsword "Dawn." The blade was broad, glinting with cold light, seeming to condense the brilliance of stars and the weight of all chivalry.
Arthur Dayne's low and clear voice echoed in the silent Sept, every word striking people's hearts:
"Jaime Lannister!"
Jaime raised his head, scorching flames burning in his azure eyes, responding firmly and without hesitation:
"I am!"
Arthur Dayne looked solemn, gently placing the blade containing supreme glory flat on Jaime's right shoulder. The cold metal touched the skin of his neck, bringing a shudder of awe.
"In the name of the Warrior," Arthur's voice was like a great bell, containing power, "I charge you to be brave."
"I will!" Jaime's answer was swift and impassioned, as if these words were already carved into his soul.
The gleaming blade drew a precise arc, moving to the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father," Arthur continued, injecting judgment-like majesty into his voice, "I charge you to be just."
"I will!" The vow was resounding, stirring faint echoes under the dome.
The longsword returned to the right shoulder, movement smooth and sacred.
"In the name of the Mother," Arthur's tone softened but remained firm, "I charge you to defend the young and innocent."
"I will!" Jaime's gaze deepened, as if he had already shouldered this heavy responsibility.
The sword tip moved for the last time, landing steadily on the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Maiden," Arthur's voice carried a pure expectation, "I charge you to protect all women."
"I will!" Jaime's final answer carried all his enthusiasm and young ideals, completing this sacred vow.
Ser Arthur Dayne held the sword with both hands, tapping the blade gently on Jaime's shoulder, pausing slightly to let the power of all vows settle there. Then, he steadily withdrew the longsword, pointing the tip diagonally to the sky.
"Arise, Ser Jaime Lannister. Welcome to the brotherhood of knights."
The resonance of the loud dubbing words seemed to still vibrate in the air, blending with the candlelight and colorful sunlight, eternally branding this moment in the hearts of all witnesses. Jaime slowly rose, armor making slight clinking sounds. His face glowed with unparalleled radiance—a young knight granted the highest honor and dream was born.
In that moment, Jaime Lannister's golden hair and bright armor seemed to absorb all light, becoming the absolute focus.
After the ceremony, the crowd slowly dispersed, leaving a lingering scent of holiness and solemnity in the air. Only Jaime Lannister remained; he would keep vigil in the Sept and be anointed with seven holy oils by the septons.
Euron watched the new knight bathed in holy light, sighing inwardly: Future Jaime Lannister, when recalling today, will you feel shame...
Quellon Greyjoy paced to his son, who was watching Ser Jaime intently. His gaze swept over the Dornish Princess Arianne Martell, who was chatting and laughing with female companions not far away. She was indeed dazzling—smooth skin, curvy figure, bold and infectious smile, like a passionate gem born of the Dornish desert.
"That Martell," Quellon's voice was low, carrying consideration, "Heir to Dorne. Status high enough, appearance impeccable. What do you think?" His meaning was clear: marriage alliance was the most direct way to consolidate power, and the heir to Dorne was a truly tempting identity.
Euron's eyes glanced indifferently over Arianne, like assessing a commodity, without ripples. "She is a thorny sand rose, Father. Beautiful, passionate, but also dangerous." His voice was steady and calm. "She knows what she wants and will seize it at all costs, believing she deserves it all. Such a woman is wildfire that can burn enemies but might also incinerate one's own home."
Quellon frowned slightly, seeming to think his son was too picky.
Euron said calmly: "Not that I'm picky, but I have self-knowledge. Prince Doran of Dorne won't marry his heir to me. And Arianne Martell... I only shared one dance with her. That night, she danced with over ten people. Finally, with her personality, if she fancied me, she would tell me directly. But she didn't, so she doesn't fancy me."
Quellon thought briefly, then nodded, agreeing with his son's view.
Euron's gaze passed over the noise, landing on Ashara Dayne standing quietly a little further away. She was looking at her brother Arthur, a gentle and demure smile on her lips. Her violet eyes were like the twilight of Starfall, carrying a trace of faint melancholy and unspeakable nobility.
"In comparison," Euron's voice was injected with a trace of imperceptible, genuine warmth, "I favor that lady from Starfall more."