A Lannister Always Pays His Debts

Vargo, who had been acting the superior, felt humiliated. With a low growl, he lunged forward, snatched up the heavy broadsword, and gripped it in both hands.

Compared to Jaime, he had little chivalry to speak of. The moment he had a blade, he struck first.

Roaring, he swung the broadsword in an arc and brought it crashing down. The blow carried tremendous force; if it landed squarely, Jaime could never block it with his left hand alone.

But Vargo had lost an eye, and the dizziness from his high fever sent the blow askew, missing Jaime by a full half foot.

Jaime reacted quickly, too. He turned sideways and slid a step, his movements simple and efficient, just as they had been through countless drills over the years at Casterly Rock and the Red Keep.

Instinctively, he tried to counter with his right hand, then immediately caught himself and awkwardly brought his sword across to thrust with his left.

But how could the strength of his left hand compare to that of his dominant right?

Without his dominant hand, Jaime's aim was poor as well. His thrust struck Vargo's thick breastplate. Vargo swung to parry, but with one eye gone, he could no longer accurately judge a blade's path in combat either, and his broadsword caught nothing.

Clang!

The longsword struck the breastplate with a clear ring. Jaime felt his left wrist go numb and sore as the blade shuddered violently, nearly flying from his grip.

He had received the strictest training since childhood, yet even with his exceptional talent, he found this immensely difficult, as though he held not a sword but an iron rod he could not control.

Seeing his blow miss, Vargo roared again and swept his sword sideways.

Jaime leaped back out of its path, but stumbled and nearly fell on his own.

The broadsword whistled past his waist, tearing his clothes in a perilously close pass.

They exchanged several rounds of attacks and defenses. Most of Vargo's slashes missed or were barely knocked aside by Jaime in exceedingly awkward, utterly graceless positions.

Jaime's counterattacks were weak as well. Their angles were tricky, but they lacked strength. Several thrusts that could have been fatal failed because he could not properly exert force with his left hand.

One a Xiahou Dun, the other a Yang Guo, the two fought on, an utterly ugly spectacle.

Such wretched swordsmanship. It was far worse than even my own back when I was a squire to Sumner Crakehall.

Absurdly, the thought flashed through Jaime's mind between parries.

Back then, he had been young and strong, with both hands intact. Every movement had come naturally, and even the Sword of the Morning had praised his talent with a sword.

Now, two once-excellent swordsmen were making a mess in the mud like children wielding wooden sticks.

What an irony.

As these stray thoughts ran through his head, his hand movements and footwork gradually began to grow more practiced.

Vargo, however, was too badly wounded. Blood loss, high fever, and the imbalance caused by his missing eye steadily wore him down.

After another missed slash, his head spun and his footing faltered. Jaime seized the opening and swung straight at his sword wrist!

Slash!

Blood spurted, but the blow lacked the strength to sever that ugly right hand.

Still, it had not been entirely useless.

"Aargh!"

Vargo cried out in pain, dropping his broadsword. His right wrist had been cut halfway through, leaving his hand dangling by flesh.

He lost his balance as well and fell heavily into the mud, splashing filth everywhere.

Jaime glanced at the other man's right hand with a flicker of regret.

If he still had his right hand, that blow would surely have severed Vargo's!

Panting, he stepped forward and pointed the sword in his left hand at Vargo's throat.

The moment of revenge was before him, yet Jaime felt utterly calm inside.

Just then, however, Vargo pointed behind Jaime and bellowed hoarsely, "That woman! She's going to die!"

Jaime's heart clenched!

Brienne?

Reason warned him that this was a trick, yet instinct forced his body to turn obediently and look behind him. He saw nothing.

I'd fallen for it...

Sure enough, the instant he was distracted, Vargo Hoat sprang from the mud and slammed into Jaime's sword-bearing left hand!

Thump!

His left-hand grip was already unsteady. Caught off guard by the heavy impact, he lost the longsword at once. It spun through an arc and landed several paces away.

"Fool! You'll be a fool all your life!"

Laughing, Vargo drew a dagger from his boot and slashed at Jaime again and again. Unarmed, Jaime could only rely on footwork honed over years of training to hold him off with difficulty.

But the man's left hand was quite nimble as well, and soon the dagger had left numerous wounds on Jaime.

At this perilous moment, a calm voice with a hint of teasing rang out nearby.

"I told you before, don't be a hero, Jaime Lannister."

The voice made both struggling men pause, and they turned their heads with difficulty.

Corleone had appeared there at some point, with the silent Dothraki warrior Yego standing beside him.

At the sight of Yego, Vargo was ecstatic. He shouted himself hoarse, "Yego, my Bloodrider!"

"Quick! Help me kill this Kingslayer, and I'll give you half the wealth of Harrenhal... no, all of it!"

Yet in the face of his commands, the ever-loyal Yego seemed not to hear him at all. He merely stood silently half a step behind Corleone, his face expressionless.

The distant shouts of battle had largely subsided. Only scattered clashes of weapons and a certain woman's vigorous "Waaagh!!!" continued.

The ecstasy on Vargo's face instantly froze. He immediately realized something was wrong and burst into curses. "Yego, you damned Dothraki dog! You dare betray me?"

"I gave you weapons! I treated you as a brother! You ungrateful bastard!"

Listening to Vargo's abuse, Yego did not offer a single word in reply.

He merely unfastened the steel longsword at his waist, the one Vargo had personally given him.

With a toss of his arm, the sword fell freely through the air and planted itself precisely before the half-kneeling Jaime.

Jaime gripped the sword and rose unsteadily.

At the sight, overwhelming shock and despair engulfed Vargo.

He struggled to move forward and stop Jaime, but suddenly everything spun before his eyes. The high fever had finally overcome the formidable commander of the Brave Companions.

Reaching Vargo, Jaime looked at the enemy who could barely stand before him and took a step forward.

There was no flourish. He simply thrust steadily forward on instincts honed by years of training, and the blade slid cleanly through Vargo Hoat's throat.

Everything-ambition, brutality, hatred-came to an abrupt end at that moment.

Vargo's remaining eye opened wide, staring fixedly at Jaime. At last, its light faded completely.

His body toppled backward and crashed heavily into the mud once more, for the last time.

Jaime released the hilt, leaving the longsword in Vargo's throat, and looked expressionlessly at the corpse at his feet.

In the distance, Brienne's "Waaagh!!!", more powerful than a man's, finally stopped as well.

A trace of profound exhaustion and relief showed in Jaime's eyes. Reaching up with his left hand, he roughly tore away the severed hand that had hung around his neck all this time as a symbol of humiliation.

"I don't need it anymore."

With that, he tossed it directly onto Vargo Hoat's corpse.

"Take it with you."

"To the Seven Hells."

Having said this, he turned away without another glance at the body.

Corleone was leaning quietly against a tree trunk, like an uninvolved spectator who had watched the entire duel.

His face remained largely expressionless. Only his fathomless black eyes glimmered with an indescribable light in the flickering firelight.

"That was not wise, Ser Jaime Lannister."

Corleone's voice was calm, impossible to read as praise or criticism. "You had the chance to kill him outright, but chose a fair duel instead. You took an unnecessary risk."

Jaime looked at him, and some of the weariness in his heart seemed to lift.

He raised his arm to wipe the flecks of blood from his face with his sleeve, then grinned. His smile held the pride and confidence peculiar to House Lannister, and even a few traces of his younger self.

Just as he had been when he dueled the Smiling Knight.

"I wouldn't lose, Vito Corleone."

His tone was unequivocal. "Don't forget, I still owe you a bathtub full of gold dragons."

"And a Lannister... always pays his debts!"