Tywin's aura was truly overwhelming.
The moment he stepped into the sept with his unsheathed sword, the air seemed to freeze.
The nobles lowered their heads automatically, and the women clutched their skirts until their knuckles turned white.
The High Septon instinctively took a step back, his plump body bumping against the edge of the altar.
Cersei was the first to react.
A reserved and disdainful smile had been playing on her lips, but it froze instantly when she saw the unsheathed sword in her father's hand.
Her fingers instinctively tightened on the hem of her crimson gown as her mind raced.
Why?
Why would her father enter the sept with a sword?
Did he know something and intend to...
At this thought, her gaze snapped toward Corleone in front of the altar.
The Farmer was still kneeling on one knee, his back ramrod straight.
Was her father really going to execute him in public?
The thought made Cersei's heart skip a beat, yet the smile gradually returned to her lips.
Excellent!
Although this Vito Corleone was very clever, he was difficult to control; if she spoke up to save him just as her father was about to strike, the man would surely be eternally grateful to her.
However, before her joy could last, the King beside her took a step forward.
"Lord Tywin!"
Joffrey said loudly, trying to make his voice sound like that of a majestic king: "Do you have some special arrangement, entering the sept with a sword?"
Tywin did not answer; he walked slowly and steadily.
The longsword in his hand hung slightly low, its blade shimmering with a cold luster in the light, the tip dragging across the smooth marble floor with a faint scraping sound that seemed to grate directly on everyone's hearts.
This attitude angered the King, who felt his authority was being challenged; he opened his mouth, wanting to say something more to assert his power.
But Cersei, beside him, quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him behind her, preventing her son from continuing his foolishness.
"Your Grace."
Seeing their small movements, Margaery, who was nearby, leaned over and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Would the Hand of the King's behavior be considered too great an offense against the Seven and the iron throne?"
"After all, this is an investiture ceremony; inside the sept, there should be...
"
"The Seven?"
Cersei interrupted her softly, her lips curling into a provocative arc: "No, the Seven dwell in power, and power is currently held in my father's hands."
Hearing this, Joffrey was still struggling to step forward and reprimand him, but Cersei held him firmly, refusing to let go.
Tyrion stood in the ranks of the nobility, looking up at his father's figure, his thoughts unknown.
He tugged at the trouser leg of Jaime beside him and whispered, "How long has it been since you saw Father hold a sword?"
Jaime's brow was furrowed, his eyes fixed on the sword in Tywin's hand. "At least twenty years."
"Why would he today...
?"
He knew his father had been an excellent swordsman in his youth.
It was known throughout The Seven Kingdoms that Tywin Lannister had performed great military feats in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, back before Jaime was even born.
But ever since becoming the Hand of the King to the Mad King Aerys Targaryen, Tywin had rarely touched a sword.
Power no longer needed to be fought for with steel, but with parchment, gold, and marriage alliances.
Now, he hadn't been seen carrying a sword at a formal occasion for decades.
Hearing Jaime's words, Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "I heard yesterday that Corleone plotted the King's rescue just to obtain a knighthood."
"Littlefinger went to Uncle Kevan to complain, telling a very detailed story. Could it all be true?"
"Impossible!"
Jaime retorted almost instinctively: "Corleone is an honest—
"
Mid-sentence, he suddenly paused.
He remembered their escape from the Brave Companions, how Corleone had dealt with Uswik, how he had sown discord among the members of the Brave Companions, how he had negotiated with Roose Bolton at Harrenhal, and how he had rescued Arya from the Karstark soldiers by the Gods Eye Lake...
Every scheme was ingenious, and every calculation was ruthless.
He... it seemed he had never been just an "honest doctor"!
Jaime's heart suddenly sank.
But a moment later, he shook his head again as if trying to convince himself: "Even if he did plot it, it's because he deserves to be a knight anyway!"
"If high-born nobles need to rely on intrigue to be promoted, why can't a commoner?"
As he spoke, his voice even carried an irrepressible anger, and he blamed himself: "It's all my fault!"
"If it weren't for me bearing the name 'kingslayer,' I could have personally knighted him in my capacity as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, letting him share in my honor. There would have been no need for him to put on this performance—
",
Hearing this, Tyrion's eyes widened, looking at his brother in disbelief.
This Corleone... didn't he just save Jaime's life?
Why did Jaime trust him so unconditionally?
"Given Father's temperament," Tyrion reminded him in a low voice after a moment's thought, "he certainly won't let this fellow have his way. I'm afraid this investiture ceremony won't be able to continue, and he might even... put him on public trial!"
Hearing Tyrion say this, Jaime was suddenly startled.
He looked toward the altar; Corleone was still kneeling, his back straight.
Kevan stood to the side, his expression icy, clutching the ceremonial sword tightly.
Looking back at his father, who had already reached the middle of the sept, his steps were steady and his goal clear; it seemed he and Kevan had already planned everything.
This cannot happen.
Jaime instinctively stepped forward.
"Jaime!"
Not expecting him to be so impulsive, Tyrion cried out and tried to pull him back, but only caught a corner of his white cloak.
The silk slipped through his fingers, and Jaime had already stepped out of the line, blocking Tywin's path.
A chorus of gasps rang through the sept.
The King, who had been fuming, suddenly had his eyes light up.
Now this was going to be a good show.
Tywin stopped.
He looked up, his green eyes calmly regarding the son blocking his way. There was no surprise, no anger, not even a ripple of emotion in his gaze, as if he were looking at a stone in the road.
"Step aside, Ser Jaime," Tywin's voice was terrifyingly calm.
Jaime did not budge an inch, his back ramrod straight as he tried to make himself look more imposing.
"May I ask why you are entering the sept with a sword?"
He questioned stiffly: "This is a place watched over by the Seven; it is an investiture ceremony, not a battlefield."
Hearing this, Tywin stared at him as if sizing up a stranger and said deeply: "Even as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you have no right to question the hand of the king. Step aside."
"Corleone has done nothing wrong!"
Jaime's voice rose, sounding somewhat agitated: "Even if he has truly committed a crime, he should be tried through the proper procedures, not... not like this!"
"Walking in with a sword as if to execute a criminal, Father!"
"I must remind you, this is the Great Sept of Baelor, not the dungeons of your Casterly Rock!"
As he spoke, his left hand gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. The movement was so natural, so instinctive, as if the proud, golden-haired youth from twenty years ago had returned.
This movement did not escape Tywin's eyes. His gaze fell on Jaime's hand on the sword, then slowly rose to meet his son's eyes, and he said word by word: "You said you wanted to be in the Kingsguard, and I allowed it. You said you did not wish to inherit Casterly Rock, and I stopped pressuring you."
"But... what exactly have I done to make you disrespect me so, Ser Jaime Lannister?"
These words were like a slap in the face.
Jaime's face turned pale instantly, but he remained where he stood, refusing to leave.
The sept was deathly silent.
Everyone held their breath, watching the confrontation between the most famous father and son in all of The Seven Kingdoms.
The corners of Cersei's mouth curled up again.
Ever since Tywin had ordered her to marry Loras Tyrell, she had harbored a grudge against her cold and ruthless father.
Yes, just like that!
Go on, Jaime...
Continue to challenge Father's authority.
Let everyone see how the eldest son of House Lannister openly defies the proud Lord Tywin!
Beside her, Joffrey's eyes grew even brighter; he almost laughed out loud but managed to restrain himself.
This was a solemn occasion; he was the King and had to maintain his dignity.
But the excitement in his heart was almost overflowing.
Yes!
Argue!
Fight!
Let everyone see clearly that the King's authority is not to be trifled with!
Margaery's hands tightened on her skirt. She looked at Jaime, watching the knight with only one hand standing tall to block Tywin, and couldn't help but think of her brother Loras.
If the proud Knight of Flowers were here, he would probably be just as heroic.
"How ironic...
"
Watching this grand drama unfold, Petyr offered a timely, soft mockery: "The father holds the sword, while the son has lost the hand that holds it."
"Power and impotence, control and rebellion—this is far more exciting than any stage play."
Upon hearing this, Varys simply shook his head. "I suggest we merely watch, Lord Petyr. Do not..."
"...jump to conclusions too early."
As soon as those words were spoken, Petyr cast a sinister glance toward Varys.
He always felt as though The Spider knew something...
"Don't be impulsive, Jaime!"
Amidst the tension, Tyrion finally squeezed through the crowd and hurried to Jaime's side.
He was too short and could only tug at his brother's trouser leg, like a child trying to dissuade an angry adult.
"This is Father! And this is the Great Sept of Baelor!"
"Are you going to draw your sword against Father in front of the Seven and all the nobility? It will bring shame upon House Lannister!"
He was consumed by anxiety.
Just what kind of spell had that Corleone cast on Jaime to make him openly defy Tywin in front of the nobles of The Seven Kingdoms?
Jaime looked down at his younger brother but still did not move.
He looked up again, staring fixedly at his father, his emerald-green eyes swirling with complex emotions.
Anger, unwillingness, resentment...
And even a certain deep-seated longing that he himself was reluctant to admit.
Longing for what?
Longing for his father's approval?
Longing for the man who, many years ago, had patted him on the shoulder and said, "You will become a great knight"?
Just then, a voice rang out.
"Ser Jaime."
It was Corleone who spoke.
He remained kneeling before the altar without turning back, but his voice carried clearly: "No matter what the Hand of the King decides, my conscience is clear."
Jaime whipped his head around.
He saw Corleone's back—the simple, dark gray armor and the straight spine.
He offered no defense, no pleas, and didn't even try to fight for himself.
He just knelt there like a man calmly accepting his fate.
"Corleone..." Jaime's voice choked up.
He must be doing this for my sake, to prevent me from breaking with my father!
As if sensing Jaime's gaze, Corleone finally turned his head slightly. His profile looked exceptionally resolute in the light, and his dark eyes were filled with determination. "Please step back, Ser. This is my own path, and I should be the one to finish it."
"You... have already done enough for me."
Jaime looked into those eyes.
He remembered Corleone's focus while treating his severed wrist on the muddy roads of the The Riverlands.
He remembered Corleone falling and climbing back up again and again while sparring with Brienne on the training grounds of Harrenhal.
He remembered Corleone's calculated calm when he rescued Arya from the Karstark soldiers by the shores of the Gods Eye Lake.
This man had saved his life more than once; he had given him the courage to hold a sword again and a reason to strive.
And yet... I can do nothing!
Jaime gritted his teeth, his gaze moving back and forth between his father and Corleone. Finally, he took a deep breath and, with extreme reluctance, stepped aside.
"Thank you, Ser."
Seeing this, Tywin nodded slightly, his gesture as polite as if he were addressing a stranger.
Ever since Jaime had stated he was unwilling to remove his white cloak to inherit the family estate, Tywin had not spoken to his eldest son for a long time.
At this moment, that "thank you" sounded more like "you've finally learned your place."
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the Hand of the King continued forward.
His boots clicked rhythmically against the marble floor.
He walked past Jaime, past Tyrion, past Cersei, and Joffrey.
At that moment, Joffrey suddenly broke free from his mother's restraint and pointed at Tywin, shouting angrily, "Lord Tywin Lannister, I promised that Uncle Kevan would knight Vito Corleone. A king should keep his word!"
Tywin stopped and turned his head to look at his grandson.
That lion-like gaze made Joffrey instinctively shrink back, but he quickly puffed out his chest again.
As if to emphasize that he was the King and could not show weakness.
"A king should keep his word," Tywin repeated calmly, then looked at Kevan. "But this knighthood is indeed inappropriate."
"Are you going to defy your King!" Joffrey gritted his teeth, his voice trembling slightly with agitation.
As a king, he felt his authority was practically non-existent in the face of the Hand.
Thus, he wanted to oppose Tywin at every turn; whatever Tywin opposed, he supported, and whatever Tywin supported, he opposed.
It was a childish rebellion, the only method his smooth-brained mind could devise.
Tywin did not answer.
He didn't even look at Joffrey again, as if he hadn't heard the words at all.
This kind of disregard was more hurtful than a direct confrontation.
Joffrey's face flushed red, and he wanted to say more, but Cersei quickly grabbed his arm.
Then, Tywin continued toward the altar, coming before Corleone.
The man remained on one knee, his back straight as a rod, his head slightly bowed.
From Tywin's perspective, he could only see the meticulously combed hair and the simple yet exquisite armor. Then, under the gaze of everyone present, Tywin slowly raised his longsword.
Petyr's heart quickened.
Yes... just like that...
Strike him down...
Given Tywin's personality and the methods of the Lord of Casterly Rock, exposing this fraud in public and punishing this Farmer who dared to fool the royal family was the only logical conclusion!
Strike him down!
Petyr almost laughed out loud.
But in the next second, his smile froze on his face.
Because before everyone's eyes, the blade traced an arc through the air.
And then.
*Ding~*
The tip of the sword lightly touched Corleone's right shoulder.
The moment the iron sword touched the armor, it made a crisp metallic clink.
Tywin spoke, his voice echoing through the entire Sept: "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
Then, the sword moved to the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
The sword returned to the right shoulder.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the weak and the innocent."
"I, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West..."
Tywin's voice reached its peak, like a lion's roar: "Do hereby dub thee, Vito Corleone, as a..."
"...Knight of The Seven Kingdoms!"
The words fell.
The Sept was plunged into dead silence.
Then, Tywin withdrew his sword and turned to look at the High Septon.
The chubby fellow was completely stunned, standing there in a daze.
"Give him the cloak," Tywin commanded.
The High Septon hurried forward, his hands trembling as he handed the cloak to Tywin, not daring to drape it over Corleone himself.
Tywin took the cloak.
White silk, with gold thread embroidered along the edges, and a simple sigil on the front—a Black Hand with five fingers spread wide.
He personally draped the cloak over Corleone's shoulders. He fastened the clasp at the collar and adjusted the cloak's position with precise, meticulous movements, as if completing an important military deployment.
He took a step back.
"Rise, Sir Corleone."
Upon hearing this, Corleone finally raised his head and slowly stood up.
His dark eyes were incredibly calm, and his face showed no expression of excitement, gratitude, or triumph.
He turned to Tywin and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Lord Hand. I shall carry your honor as I move forward."
Tywin looked at him for a long time before nodding.
Then, he turned to face the nobles of the entire Sept. His gaze swept over a relieved Jaime and finally rested on Petyr's bewildered face. His voice rang out once more: "In King's Landing, under my rule..."
"Loyalty will be rewarded, and contributions will be recognized."
Having said that, he looked at no one else.
Tywin picked up the sword that was still unsheathed and walked straight toward the Sept's entrance.
The crowd parted once again.
With even more reverence and fear than before.
He walked down the long nave. He did not pause as he passed Jaime, did not look down as he passed Tyrion, and did not even glance aside as he passed Cersei and Joffrey.
Finally, he walked out of the Sept and disappeared into the morning light.
Only then did Corleone slowly turn around to face everyone. Watching the old lion's departing figure, he couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration in his heart.
Truly cool.
If he were a native, he might have been moved to tears of gratitude by Tywin's gesture, wishing to dedicate his life and loyalty to him.
Unfortunately...
The morning breeze blew through the main doors into the Sept, fluttering Corleone's cloak. The Black Hand sigil flew high.
From this day on, The Seven Kingdoms had gained one more true knight.
Ser Vito Corleone.
>