Vargo Hoat, who only moments ago believed himself the superior, now tasted humiliation like rusted iron in his mouth. Rage surged through him. With a guttural snarl, he lurched forward, seizing his heavy broadsword with both hands. Unlike Jaime Lannister, Vargo possessed no sense of honor, no restraint, no knightly refinement. The instant his fingers curled around the hilt, he launched into a savage attack.
Roaring, he lifted the broadsword high and brought it crashing down with brutal force.
Had the blow landed, Jaime—forced to wield a sword with his weaker left hand—would have stood no chance of blocking it. But Vargo's missing eye and the fever blazing through his skull distorted his depth perception. The enormous blade tore through the air and slammed into the mud half a foot away from Jaime.
Jaime reacted instinctively, gliding sideways, his posture economical and grounded. His movements retained the memory of years of disciplined training—Casterly Rock's polished practice halls, the Red Keep's sparring courtyards, the confident swagger of a golden young prodigy destined for legend.
His body attempted to counter with his right hand—only to find emptiness where a sword once belonged. He corrected instantly, awkwardly thrusting with his left. But his left hand had never been meant for mastery. His aim faltered. The tip of his blade struck uselessly against Vargo's plated breastplate.
Vargo jerked the broadsword up to parry, but with only one functioning eye, he failed to track the attack. His block missed entirely.
Clang!
The jarring collision reverberated through Jaime's wrist. Pain lanced up his arm, and the sword quivered violently, nearly leaping from his fingers. He clenched his jaw. He, Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer, prodigy of the sword, darling of the realm's bards—reduced to gripping a weapon like a clumsy boy.
Vargo roared again and swept the broadsword horizontally. Jaime sprang back, but his foot slipped slightly in the mud, and he nearly fell. The blade whistled past his waist, shredding his coat and grazing skin.
The duel that followed was a grotesque parody of skill. Vargo's hacks were wide, slow, and inaccurate—often missing entirely or glancing awkwardly off Jaime's blade. Jaime's responses were nimble in angle but weak in force; blows that should have pierced flesh merely scraped armor.
A one-eyed brute.
A one-handed knight.
What might have been an elegant display of deadly mastery became instead a miserable struggle—mud, sweat, clumsy swings, and the mockery of fate.
This swordsmanship is worse than when I was a squire under Sumner Crakehall, Jaime thought bitterly during a brief moment of disengagement.
Back then, he'd possessed two perfect hands, boundless strength, and the admiration of knights. Even Ser Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning himself—had once praised his talent.
Now, both men, once considered formidable warriors, looked like children thrashing with sticks.
The irony stung.
Yet as his mind wandered, his body began to adapt. His stance stabilized. His timing sharpened. His left-hand grip grew surer.
Vargo, meanwhile, deteriorated. Blood loss, fever, dizziness, and the imbalance of his single eye began to overwhelm him. Another clumsy chop sent him swaying. His breath came ragged. His vision swam.
Jaime seized the opening.
With a sudden surge of instinct, he aimed a precise cut at Vargo's sword-hand wrist.
Psh!
Blood spurted, though the strike lacked the strength to sever the hand completely.
Vargo screamed. His grip released. The broadsword fell. His wrist hung grotesquely—half-severed, attached only by ragged flesh and sinew. He staggered and collapsed into the mud with a wet, filthy splash.
Jaime glanced down at the mutilated hand, a flash of regret passing through him.
If he still had his right hand, the strike would have taken the entire limb clean off.
Breathing hard, he stepped forward and leveled his sword at Vargo's throat. The moment he had imagined—the moment of vengeance—stood before him. Yet Jaime felt no triumph, only a cold and steady calm.
Then Vargo suddenly pointed behind him and shrieked:
"THE WOMAN! SHE'S GOING TO DIE!"
Jaime's heart clenched—Brienne.
Logic whispered that this was a trick.
Instinct forced him to turn.
He saw nothing.
In that split second, Vargo lunged up from the mud and slammed into Jaime's weakened left hand.
Thud!
His grip failed. The longsword spun through the air and landed several paces away.
"You stupid fool! Always a fool!" Vargo spat, triumph flooding his eyes. He yanked a dagger from his boot and slashed wildly.
Unarmed, Jaime was forced to rely solely on footwork—years of dance-like sparring guiding him backward, sideways, around, avoiding death by inches. But Vargo's remaining hand moved with surprising speed, and shallow cuts began to bloom across Jaime's torso and arms.
Just as Vargo raised the dagger for a killing strike, a calm voice drifted through the night—smooth, composed, faintly amused.
"I told you not to play the hero, Jaime Lannister."
Both men froze and turned.
Vito Corleone stood a short distance away, silent as a shadow, watching them with unreadable eyes. Beside him towered Qhogo, the Dothraki warrior—expressionless, motionless, loyal.
Vargo's face filled with sudden crazed relief.
"Qhogo! My bloodrider!" he howled. "Help me kill the Kingslayer! I'll give you half of Harrenhal—NO, TAKE IT ALL!"
But Qhogo did not move. Did not blink. Did not acknowledge him.
The remaining battle sounds in the distance faded—only scattered clashing, and Brienne's fierce "WAAAGH!" still echoing like thunder.
Slowly, Qhogo unbuckled the fine steel longsword at his waist—the very gift Vargo had once bestowed—and let it slide forward through the air. It planted itself upright in the ground before the kneeling Jaime.
Jaime grasped it and rose.
Vargo's face collapsed into horror.
He stumbled forward, trying to stop him, but dizziness overtook him. His fever finally broke him. Jaime stepped close, lifted the sword, and drove it forward in a smooth, unembellished thrust—the movement of a man shaped by instinct, not strength.
The blade slid through Vargo Hoat's throat.
His ambition, cruelty, and hatred ended in one silent, final breath. His remaining eye glared fiercely at Jaime—then dimmed forever. His body dropped to the mud, lifeless.
Jaime released the hilt, leaving the sword embedded in Vargo's neck. His face was expressionless as he looked down at the corpse.
Brienne's distant battle cry finally ceased.
Exhaustion washed through him—relief, release, and something like mourning for the man he once was.
Slowly, he pulled from around his neck the severed hand he had been forced to wear—the symbol of mockery, shame, and lost identity. He stared at it, then spoke in a raw whisper:
"I don't need it anymore."
He tossed it onto Vargo's corpse.
"Take it with you," he said softly. "Go to the seven hells together."
He turned away.
Vito Corleone stood beneath a tree, watching like a quiet judge. His expression remained unreadable, but something—sharp and calculating—flickered behind his eyes in the shifting firelight.
"That was not wise, Ser Jaime Lannister," Corleone said evenly. "You could have killed him outright. Instead, you chose a fair duel—and nearly died for it."
Jaime looked at him. Some ember of pride rekindled. He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and smiled—a smile belonging to the golden boy of old, the prodigy who once dueled the Smiling Knight and laughed afterward.
"I would not have lost, Vito Corleone," he said firmly.
Then, with the deep pride of his house, he added:
"Do not forget—I still owe yo
u a bathtub full of gold dragons."
He straightened, eyes bright with renewed confidence.
"And a Lannister… always pays his debts."