On this day, the air during the training break was still thick with the smell of dust and sweat.
Ser Arthur Dayne stood at the edge of the field, a soft cloth slowly wiping the gilded hilt of the greatsword "Dawn" in his hands. Sunlight poured from the high windows onto his solemn profile, illuminating the rippling patterns on the blade.
He suddenly looked up, his hawk-like gaze piercing through the panting breaths and metallic clangs of the training ground, straight to Euron, who was adjusting his gauntlets.
"For this Tourney at Harrenhal," his deep voice was unusually clear amidst the noise, "which events did you sign up for?"
Euron loosened the straps of his breastplate, took a deep breath, and answered crisply, almost like a slash: "The Joust!"
The Joust—the battle for a knight's honor, the core event of the tourney, the battlefield almost inevitably chosen by all knights. But an Ironborn, who had barely touched a knight's lance before this, was now throwing himself into arduous training. The intention behind it was self-evident: either for the bountiful prize money or a thirst for instant fame.
Arthur's hand wiping the hilt paused almost imperceptibly. He didn't seem too surprised, but a glint of deep scrutiny flashed in his eyes. "Is that all?" he pressed, a hint of probing in his voice.
"The Iron Islands entered the Melee of the Seven," Euron added, his tone steady as if stating the rise and fall of tides. He mentioned his family, the collective, not himself.
Arthur's brow quirked ever so slightly, like a sword tassel moved by the wind. He took half a step forward, his voice lowered so only the two of them could hear clearly. "You yourself—didn't sign up for the Single Combat?" In his eyes, with the almost feral precision swordsmanship Euron displayed, giving up the single combat arena was simply a waste.
"No." Euron's answer remained concise, without hesitation, as if the question had long been washed away by the tide, unworthy of retrieval.
"Why?"
"Too young, strength insufficient, body not fully grown. High mortality rate; father wouldn't allow it." Every reason was thrown out calmly like smooth, hard pebbles.
Arthur stared at him, his gaze sharp enough to split a shield. "Your skill is by no means inferior. Even we..." He paused slightly, as if weighing his words. "...dare not say we could certainly defeat you. Especially your dodging movements; it's as if you can foresee where my next strike will land—that already puts you in an invincible position. And that fire magic you've never used in training... even if just used as a bluff on your blade, it's enough to terrify an opponent. Moreover, I can sense that the flame's temperature is extremely high; once touched, it would peel skin if not kill."
He stepped closer, his voice solid as rock. "Your only deficiency is raw strength. But in single combat, strength isn't everything. In ground combat, heavy armor becomes a burden; light armor and leather are the mainstream. With your speed and precision, one strike is enough to decide victory."
Euron finally looked up. His dark eyes reflected the sky and Arthur's determined face. "You think I can win the championship?"
"For the Joust, I, Rhaegar, and Barristan will all participate. Besides us, Willas Tyrell, Oberyn Martell, the wolves of the North, the Blackfish Brynden Tully... the field is full of strong contenders." Arthur shook his head gently, his tone undeniable. "Winning the championship there... is hard."
"I didn't plan to win," Euron's voice showed a hint of emotion for the first time, like an undercurrent beneath the sea surface. "I just want to measure the gap and show the world the spirit of the Iron Islands."
"But for the Single Combat," Arthur continued immediately, "none of us will participate. And your chance of winning... is very high."
A brief silence descended, broken only by the intermittent clang of weapons in the distance. Euron's gaze shifted to the legendary greatsword in Arthur's hand, then back to his face.
"You want me to enter the Single Combat?"
"Yes." Arthur's answer held no hesitation.
Euron pondered for a moment, as if weighing the direction of the tide against his father's prohibition. Finally, he lifted his head, a glint as sharp as a blade flashing in his eyes. "Alright then. I'll try."
The corner of Arthur Dayne's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. "Good." He sheathed Dawn crisply, his voice as firm as before. "From today, split half your jousting training time for foot combat single melee."
The news spread like wildfire through every corner of the training ground—Euron would not only participate in the joust but would also step into the arena for single combat.
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The first to react were Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower.
These two battle-hardened knights had previously sparred with Euron holding back about thirty percent of their strength and aggression, considering it guidance for a junior. Now, all gentle conventions were thoroughly broken.
When the next spar began, Euron felt the difference immediately.
Ser Oswell's two-handed greatsword was no longer a leisurely demonstration but transformed into a roaring storm. Every chop carried the force to split silk, numbing Euron's grip and forcing him back step by step, the sand beneath his feet splashing from heavy stomps.
Ser Gerold's thrusts became like a venomous snake striking from its hole—angles tricky, speed like lightning—forcing Euron to push his anticipation and dodging to the limit, leaving no room to breathe.
They no longer spoke. Only heavy breathing, the clang of armor, and the sharp whistle of blades cutting air remained. Every block was a solid impact. At the end of every training day, Euron felt his arms leaden, his body covered in bruises that would turn deep purple by morning.
This sudden, all-out pressure was like a cold whetstone, fiercely honing Euron's edge.
On the other side, Prince Rhaegar's worry almost materialized. He often stood quietly by the field. Those famous violet eyes, always holding some melody and sorrow, were now clouded with a heavy shadow. His gaze followed Euron tightly, especially when Euron took a heavy blow or stumbled back; the sorrow in his eyes was thick enough to drown a man.
Once, Euron collapsed on the ground exhausted, looking up to meet Rhaegar's staring eyes. The heaviness and concern in that gaze were so naked that it inexplicably sent a chill through the fearless Ironborn's heart, as if touched by some ominous omen.
However, Rhaegar didn't stop at worrying. The next day, he personally donned his armor.
"Up, Euron," his voice was still gentle but carried unquestionable firmness. "Your footwork can be more agile, your swordplay swifter."
The Prince personally joined the sparring. His swordsmanship was completely different from the two knights known for strength; it was an elegant and deadly art. His slender sword was like flowing moonlight—fluid, sharp, pervasive—weaving a dense and dangerous web. He forced Euron to stop relying solely on prediction and tanking hits, compelling him to find rhythm in high-speed offense and defense transitions, using every ounce of strength more delicately and economically.
The main force training Euron was naturally his future brother-in-law—Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning."
Before the dust of the training ground had settled from yesterday's fatigue, new tempering arrived. Ser Arthur Dayne stood opposite Euron. He wore no full armor today, but the greatsword "Dawn" gripped in his hands, even in its unsharpened training state, emitted a palpitating majesty. Sunlight on the pale, reddish blade seemed to condense the cold light of countless dawns.
"Single-handed swordplay excels in versatility and speed, but on a true battlefield, or facing heavy armor, the two-handed greatsword is the decisive force." Arthur's voice was steady, stating an eternal truth. "It can block, suppress, and end a fight in one blow. Today, feel it."
Without unnecessary words, training began.
Arthur started with a seemingly plain mid-guard stance, but Euron immediately felt an invisible pressure. Dawn was light as nothing in Arthur's hands, yet heavy as a mountain. In the first exchange, Euron tried to use his habitual agile side-step to avoid the edge and find an opening to counter. But Arthur's tip followed like a shadow. With a flick of his wrist, the blade traced a fluid arc—not a direct chop, but a clever diagonal sweep—slapping precisely against Euron's attempting block.
"CLANG!"
A dull, heavy sound. Euron felt a majestic force travel from the hilt, numbing his forearm and nearly disarming him. He stumbled back involuntarily. Arthur's offensive flowed like a tide, steps steadily pressing forward. The second strike followed closely—an upward slash aiming straight for Euron's lower opening, forcing him to jump back in a wretched dodge.
"Your anticipation sees the intent, but after seeing it, can your body and sword keep up and make the most effective response?" Arthur's voice rang out between movements, calm as if analyzing a chess game. "A two-handed sword has greater range and more variations. Don't just use your eyes; use your whole body to feel the flow of the sword wind!"
The time that followed was like a dance in a storm for Euron, with Arthur Dayne and Dawn at the center. Arthur used no flashy moves. He unleashed the most basic yet powerful techniques of the greatsword—chop, slash, sweep, lift, thrust, block, press—to their fullest potential.
He would force Euron to block a heavy downward chop, only to use the rebound force to instantly switch to a horizontal cut at Euron's ribs. He would block powerfully with the flat of his blade, then use the centrifugal force of the spin to return a fierce counterattack. His footwork and sword techniques were perfectly synchronized; every move accumulated power for the next strike. The entire offensive was like a rhythmic movement filled with destructive power.
Euron sweated like rain, breathing rapidly. His proud predictive ability faced a massive test before Ser Arthur's zero-redundancy, extremely efficient swordsmanship. He could see the trajectory, but his body's reaction was always half a beat slow, or his balance was disrupted by the heavy force after blocking.
After a violent collision, Euron's sword was finally knocked wide, leaving his center open. The unsharpened tip of Dawn stopped an inch from his breastplate, steady as a rock.
Arthur withdrew his sword, looking at the nearly exhausted Euron. There was no triumph in his eyes, only the same calmness and focus.
"Remember this feeling," he said. "Strength, timing, distance, and never-ending thought. A duel of two-handed swords is never about who is faster, but who is more correct. Continue tomorrow."
Euron leaned on his sword, gasping for air, every breath tasting of rust.
The skills granted by the One Piece System gave Euron growth speed beyond ordinary men, but the training from the three Kingsguard and Prince Rhaegar was what truly allowed Euron to absorb and convert the system's gifts into his own.
Under Arthur's dedicated, unreserved teaching, Rhaegar's art-like polishing, and the stormy tempering of the other two knights, Euron Greyjoy, this piece of hard iron from the Iron Islands, was being forged into steel through a hundred trials.
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