The forests of the Riverlands were once again plunged into chaos only a few days later. What had begun as a quiet night quickly turned into a battlefield. Shouts of killing echoed through the trees, overlapping with the ring of clashing steel and the agonized cries of the wounded. The once-organized camp dissolved into disorder, men running in every direction as shadows lunged and steel flashed beneath the pale moonlight.
At the very center of the turmoil, the duel between Stao and Halson raged with a ferocity that surpassed all other fights around them. Both men were renowned throughout Caho City, known for their sharp reflexes and mastery of the blade. Soldiers who dared approach were struck down instantly, their bodies hitting the dirt before they understood what had happened. The sight alone was enough to keep others away, forcing the surrounding fighters to circle at a distance, unsure whether to intervene or flee.
The two battled fiercely, trading blows while stumbling back through the trees, their vision narrowed by anger and adrenaline. Without realizing it, they drifted away from the main camp, their boots trampling fallen leaves as they entered a clearing where the treetops parted and moonlight poured freely.
"Stop!" Halson barked as he turned aside a powerful downward strike, taking a half step back.
"Listen to me!"
But Stao only snarled in response.
"Shut up!"
His fury poured into his sword arm. His blade whistled ruthlessly through the air, each strike aimed at a vital point. He cursed between swings, his voice hoarse with rage:
"Traitor! I should've seen through you sooner!"
Halson's patience finally snapped. His expression hardened, and he shifted his stance. When he struck again, his sword moved with sudden, startling speed—faster than before.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Three relentless, heavy blows hammered against Stao's guard, numbing his arms and driving him backward. Before he could recover, Halson pivoted and delivered a brutal side kick straight into his abdomen.
"Ugh!"
The air exploded out of Stao's lungs as he stumbled and crashed onto the ground. His sword flew from his grasp and slid across the dirt. Wide-eyed, he stared at Halson in disbelief.
Damn it… he's this strong?!
He scrambled to rise, reaching for his fallen weapon, but a cold blade pressed against his throat before he could grasp it. Chest heaving, Stao glared up at Halson, eyes burning with hatred.
"Go on then!" he spat. "Kill me, you traitor!"
His voice rose into a furious curse, raw and venomous:
"I curse you! Your soul will never return to the North! You'll never receive the Heart Tree's protection! You'll wander forever in the cold winds!"
The words struck something deep within Halson. Anger flickered across his eyes, sharp and momentary. He stared silently at Stao for several tense seconds. Finally, just as Stao squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for death, Halson drove the sword downward.
But it did not pierce flesh.
The blade only grazed Stao's cheek, carving a thin line before embedding itself deep into the mud beside his head.
Stao's eyes snapped open.
Halson stood above him, his face set like carved stone beneath the moonlight. His voice was steady, firm, and cold.
"I am not like you, Stao."
"I act with a clear conscience. Under the Heart Tree, there will always be a place for me."
He turned away without another glance and strode off toward the direction Arya had been taken.
Stao lay still for several moments, stunned and breathing hard. Finally, he pushed himself up, touching the warm blood trickling down his cheek. His expression shifted between confusion, frustration, and something unspoken. Then he spat a thick mouthful of blood onto the ground, snatched up his fallen sword, and turned back toward the heart of the battle.
Whatever had just happened, he was still the captain. He had to regain control of the situation.
But he only managed a single step before noticing a figure blocking his path—a cloaked silhouette standing silently beneath the moonlight.
The figure approached slowly, a longsword glinting faintly beneath the folds of the cloak.
"Shit…" Stao muttered, spitting blood again. His shoulders sagged slightly as he chuckled at his own misfortune. "I should've known that damn doctor was trouble."
The cloaked figure gave no reply and continued forward in silence.
"Pretending bastard!" Stao roared, rage flaring anew. He tightened his grip and charged, swinging his sword with all the force he had left.
Cling! Cling! Cling! Clang!!!
Steel clashed in a flurry of sparks. But something felt wrong almost immediately. Stao narrowed his eyes.
His opponent was using the sword with his left hand—awkwardly, untrained, lacking strength. The movements were sloppy, the footing unsteady. Under any other circumstances, Stao could have ended the fight in moments.
But his arms still trembled from the earlier duel. His muscles burned, and fatigue dulled his reactions. Blow after blow rang out, and despite the weakness of his opponent, he found himself struggling.
Suspicion clawed at him.
"Who are you?!" Stao barked, leaping backward to gain distance. He sucked in air, stalling for time, hoping to recover a shred of stamina.
The cloaked figure lowered his weapon slightly, then reached up and slowly pulled back his hood.
Stao's pupils shrank.
Golden hair gleamed beneath the moonlight.
Jaime smirked, his eyes mocking.
"You cursed me loudly enough earlier today," he said. "What's wrong? Can't recognize me now that I'm standing in front of you?"
He raised his sword with his left hand, voice turning into a furious roar:
"Say my name, you bastard!"
Stao's breath quickened. His shoulders shook—not with fear, but exhilaration.
"Kingslayer…" he rasped. Then louder—laughing wildly—
"Kingslayer! Hahaha! Kingslayer!"
"That is not my name, you bastard!"
Jaime's fury exploded. His eyes reddened, and he lunged forward recklessly. His blade slashed violently, his voice rising in a fevered chant:
"Say my name! Say my name!"
But the left hand, no matter how determined, was still not his dominant one. His strikes grew sloppy, his grip weakening. After one desperate clash, his sword flew from his hand and clattered onto the dirt.
Stao reacted instantly.
He lunged forward and delivered a brutal headbutt.
Bang!
Blood burst from Jaime's nose as he toppled backward, sprawling helplessly.
Stao loomed over him, laughing wildly.
"Your name?" he taunted. "Jaime Lannister! Jaime Lannister!"
He raised his sword high.
"Remember this—you'll die by the hand of Earl Rickard Karstark's personal guard—Harag Stao!"
"Die!!!"
But before the sword could fall, another blade pierced Stao clean through the back. The steel burst out through his chest, slick with blood.
Thwack!
Stao froze, eyes wide and emptying of life. He toppled forward, collapsing beside Jaime, staring blankly as if refusing to believe what had happened.
He had been so close.
Jaime blinked through blood and dizziness, lifting his head to see Corleone standing above him, expression mild and almost harmless.
Holding his bleeding nose, Jaime struggled upright and stared at Stao's lifeless body—then back at Corleone.
But Corleone ignored him and knelt beside the corpse, rummaging through pockets. A moment later, he grinned in satisfaction and pocketed a pouch.
"What are you staring at?" Corleone muttered, rolling his eyes. "I know Lannisters always pay their debts, but this guy still owed me money."
He stood, dusting off his hands.
"It's not like I can let you take all the glory every time."
Then he pointed—first at the corpse, then at Jaime's sorry state.
"And next time you decide to offer your head on a platter, at least signal me first. If my swordsmanship hadn't reached minor mastery, we'd be dragging your body back to King's Landing."
He smirked.
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
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