Feeling the humiliation burn through him, Vargo Hoat let out a low snarl and lunged forward. He snatched up the heavy broadsword and gripped it with both hands.
Compared to Jaime, he had no trace of knightly restraint. The moment steel was in his grasp, he attacked first.
Roaring, Vargo swung the round-bladed broadsword in a brutal downward chop. The strike carried terrifying weight. If it landed cleanly, Jaime, relying only on his left hand, would never be able to block it.
But Vargo had lost an eye, and the dizziness from his fever twisted his sense of balance. The blow came down crooked and wide, missing Jaime by nearly half a foot.
Jaime reacted quickly. He turned his body and slid aside, the movement simple and efficient, like the countless drills he had practiced over the years at Casterly Rock and in the Red Keep.
By instinct, he tried to counter with his right hand, then caught himself and awkwardly thrust with his left instead.
But how could the strength of his left ever compare to his dominant right?
With his favored hand gone, Jaime's aim suffered badly. His sword stabbed into Vargo's thick chest armor. Vargo swung to parry, but with only one eye, he could not accurately judge the blade's path. His broadsword cut nothing but air.
Clang!
The longsword struck the armor with a crisp ring. Jaime's left wrist went numb as the blade shuddered violently, nearly slipping from his grip.
He had trained under the strictest discipline since childhood, and even with his natural talent, the strain was overwhelming. It felt less like wielding a sword and more like trying to control a wild iron bar.
Vargo saw his miss and bellowed again, sweeping sideways.
Jaime leapt back to avoid the edge, but his footing faltered and he nearly fell on his own.
The broadsword tore past his waist with a howl, ripping his clothes. It was a hair's breadth from disaster.
After several exchanges, most of Vargo's chops fell wide or were barely deflected by Jaime in stiff, graceless motions that held none of the beauty of proper swordplay.
Jaime's counters were just as weak. The angles were sharp, but the strikes lacked power. Several thrusts that should have been fatal failed simply because his left hand could not deliver force cleanly.
This miserable swordsmanship is worse than when I first served as a squire beside Sumner Crakehall.
The absurd thought flashed through Jaime's mind in the brief gaps between blocks.
Back then, he was young and strong, both hands whole. Every movement felt natural, effortless. Even the Sword of the Morning had praised his talent with the blade.
Now, two men who had once been exceptional swordsmen flailed like children swinging sticks in the mud.
What a cruel joke.
His thoughts wandered, yet his hands and footwork slowly began to adapt.
Vargo, meanwhile, was being eaten away by his wounds. Blood loss, fever, and the imbalance from losing an eye gnawed at him relentlessly.
After another wild chop missed, his vision swam and his footing went light. Jaime seized the opening and slashed straight down at Vargo's sword arm.
Slash!
Blood burst forth, though the blow was not strong enough to sever the ugly right hand.
Still, it was not without effect.
"Argh!"
Vargo howled in pain. The broadsword slipped from his grasp. His wrist was nearly cut through, the hand hanging by shreds of flesh.
He lost his balance and crashed into the mud, filth splashing everywhere.
Jaime glanced at the ruined wrist, a flicker of regret passing through him.
If my right hand were still here, that arm would be gone.
Panting, he stepped forward and leveled his sword at Vargo's throat.
Revenge stood right before him, yet Jaime felt only a deep, unsettling calm.
Then Vargo suddenly pointed behind him and screamed hoarsely, "That woman… she's about to die!"
Jaime's heart clenched.
Brienne?
Reason told him it was a trick, but instinct betrayed him. His body turned honestly toward the shout.
There was nothing there.
Damn it…
The moment his focus slipped, Vargo sprang up from the mud and slammed hard into Jaime's left arm.
Bang!
His grip was already unstable. Caught off guard by the impact, the longsword flew from his hand, arcing through the air before landing several steps away.
"Idiot! You'll be a fool your whole life!"
Vargo laughed wildly as he drew a dagger from his boot and slashed at Jaime again and again. Unarmed, Jaime could only rely on years of training, weaving and retreating with desperate footwork.
Even so, Vargo's left hand was frighteningly nimble. The dagger quickly carved several cuts across Jaime's body.
At this perilous moment, a calm voice, tinged with faint amusement, sounded nearby.
"I told you before, don't play the hero, Jaime Lannister."
Both men froze and turned their heads with effort.
Corleone stood there, having arrived at some point without a sound. At his side stood the silent Dothraki warrior, Iggo.
The sight of Iggo filled Vargo with sudden ecstasy.
"Iggo, my blood-sworn guard!" he screamed with everything he had left.
"Quick, help me kill this Kingslayer! I'll give you half of Harrenhal's wealth… no, all of it!"
But the man who had always been loyal did not respond.
Iggo stood half a step behind Corleone, silent and expressionless, as if he had not heard a single word.
The shouts of battle in the distance had mostly faded. Only the occasional clash of steel remained, along with a woman's powerful, lingering "Waaagh!!!"
The joy on Vargo's face froze solid. He sensed something was terribly wrong and began to curse.
"Iggo, you damned Dothraki mongrel! You dare betray me?"
"I gave you weapons. I treated you like a brother! You ungrateful bastard!"
Iggo did not answer.
He simply reached down and unfastened the fine steel longsword at his waist, the very blade Vargo had given him with his own hands.
With a flick of his arm, the sword fell freely through the air and stabbed into the ground right in front of the half-kneeling Jaime.
Jaime gripped the hilt and staggered to his feet.
Watching this, overwhelming shock and despair swallowed Vargo whole.
He struggled forward, trying to stop it, but his vision suddenly spun. The fever finally crushed the once formidable leader of the Brave Companions.
Jaime stepped up to him and looked at the enemy who could barely stand.
There was no flourish.
Relying purely on instinct honed over years, he pushed the blade forward in a clean, steady thrust.
The sword slid smoothly through Vargo Hoat's throat.
In that instant, ambition, brutality, and hatred all came to an abrupt end.
Vargo's remaining eye bulged wide, staring at Jaime until the light finally went out.
His body tipped backward and, once more, for the last time, slammed heavily into the mud.
Jaime released the hilt and let the sword remain lodged in Vargo's throat. He looked down at the corpse without any expression.
In the distance, Brienne's booming, manlier-than-most "Waaagh!!!" finally fell silent.
A deep weariness and a sense of release surfaced in Jaime's eyes. He reached up with his left hand and roughly tore down the severed hand that had hung around his neck, the symbol of his humiliation.
"I don't need it anymore."
He tossed it onto Vargo Hoat's corpse.
"Take it with you."
"Let's go to the seventh hell together."
With that, he did not spare the body another glance and turned away.
Corleone leaned quietly against a tree, like a spectator who had calmly watched the entire duel from beginning to end.
There was still little expression on his face. Only those unfathomably deep black eyes reflected an indescribable glimmer in the flickering firelight.
"That wasn't wise, Ser Jaime Lannister," Corleone said evenly. It was impossible to tell whether it was praise or criticism. "You had the chance to kill him outright, yet you chose a fair duel and took on unnecessary risk."
Jaime looked at him, the exhaustion in his heart easing slightly.
He raised his arm, wiped the blood spattered across his face with his sleeve, and grinned. The smile carried the pride and confidence unique to House Lannister, even a trace of the man he had been in his youth.
Just like the day he had dueled the Smiling Knight.
"I won't lose, Vito Corleone," he said with firm certainty.
"Don't forget, I still owe you a bathtub full of Golden Dragons."
"And a Lannister always pays his debts."