Chương 38

Robert Baratheon With his warhammer at his side and his antlered helmet making him unmistakable as the king, Robert stalked across the melee ground, feeling his heartbeat thunder inside his chest. Ahead, the Westerlanders were locked in battle with the Northmen, steel ringing against steel, men shouting and grunting with effort. From what Robert could see, the fight was even, the lions having better form and cleaner technique, while the wolves fought with a savagery that made up the difference.

His eyes found the two giants first. Impossible not to. Gregor Clegane stood head and shoulders above every other fighter on the field—every other except the Greatjon Umber. The two of them looked like massive piles of iron smacking against each other, each carrying greatswords that would have taken three normal men to lift, though their struggle looked more like wrestling than swordfighting. The two massive men grappled and hammered at each other in a raw contest of strength, neither willing to give an inch.

But they were not Robert's target. Jaime Lannister fought in glinting golden armor that caught the sun with every movement, making him look like some hero from a song. His white cloak swirled as he pressed an attack against Lord Jorah Mormont. The northern lord was struggling, his sword arm moved a fraction too slow, his shield positioned just slightly wrong with each defense. Barely holding off Jaime's strikes. And the Kingslayer was toying with him.

Robert could see it in the way Jaime held back after each exchange, in the little flourish of his blade between strikes, in how he could have ended it at any moment but chose to draw it out. The crowd gasped and cheered after every one of his moves, making the northern lord look like a fool. The fury that had been simmering in Robert's chest since Barristan's yielding flared white-hot.

He crossed the remaining distance at a dead run, his boots pounding hard at the churned earth, and brought his warhammer down in a savage overhead strike just as Jaime wound up for a cut that would have crippled Jorah's sword arm. Steel met iron with a tremendous clang that sent shock up both their arms. Jaime's blade stopped mid-swing, his whole body jolting from the impact of Robert's hammer catching it.

"Move, Mormont!" Robert roared. The northern lord scrambled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet, his eyes wide with shock at the king's sudden intervention. Turning the full force of his attention on Jaime Lannister, Robert shifted his grip on the warhammer.

"I've always wanted to hit you, Kingslayer. Now I've got the perfect excuse." He swung the hammer in a brutal horizontal arc aimed at Jaime's ribs. The Kingslayer brought his sword up just in time, catching the blow on his blade, but the sheer force of it drove him back two full steps, feet digging furrows in the mud. Robert didn't give him time to recover. He followed with an upward swing that would have shattered Jaime's jaw if it connected.

The golden knight twisted aside, the hammer's spike passing within inches of his helmet. Robert immediately reversed the weapon's direction, bringing it down in an overhead chop. Jaime blocked with his shield. The wood cracked from the impact, splinters flying. The Kingslayer stumbled back another step. For several exchanges, Jaime seemed thrown off-balance by the sheer fury and power behind Robert's assault. He gave ground, his perfect form disrupted by the need to simply survive. Block, parry, dodge.

Defense only, no counterattacks. Then Robert saw something change in Jaime's stance. His back foot planted more firmly. His sword grip adjusted. A glint came to those green eyes visible through his helmet's visor, like a man who suddenly just had a marvelous idea. Jaime exploded forward. His blade came in low, a thrust aimed at Robert's knee. Robert swept his hammer down to bat it aside, but Jaime had already redirected, the point rising toward the gap beneath Robert's arm.

The king twisted, metal scraping against metal as the blade skidded across his breastplate instead of punching through the mail underneath. Robert countered with an elbow strike that caught Jaime's shield, forcing him back. Then swung his hammer in a wide arc that Jaime ducked under, the weapon whistling through empty air where his head had been.

"Yes!" Robert exclaimed, grinning fiercely behind his helm.

"Yes, Kingslayer, that's it! That's the look I want!" He pressed forward, hammer raised.

"Fight me like you want to add a second royal to your list!" Surprisingly, Jaime didn't answer with words. The Kingslayer was usually the provoking type, always ready with some cutting remark or smug observation that made Robert want to tear out every single one of his seven-damned blonde hairs from his head. But now he fought in complete silence. Robert could see his jaw set tight beneath his helmet, sword flying in the place of taunts, his every movement precise with deadly intent.

Their weapons met in a rapid exchange. Robert swung high, Jaime blocked. Jaime thrust low, Robert deflected with the hammer's haft. Robert struck from the side, Jaime's shield caught it. Back and forth, neither giving ground now, trading blow for blow. When Robert swept his hammer in a horizontal arc aimed at Jaime's ribs, the Kingslayer brought his sword down to catch it, but instead of blocking directly, he angled the blade to redirect the hammer's momentum.

The weapon slid along the steel and past Jaime's body, and suddenly Robert was overextended. Jaime's sword came up in a vicious thrust that swept past Robert's guard. The king threw himself backward, but not quite fast enough. The blade's edge caught him across the shoulder, finding the gap between his pauldron and gorget, piercing through the mail and padding beneath to score a small point of fire across his flesh. First blood to the Kingslayer. Glancing down at his wounded shoulder, Robert felt his blood run hot.

He roared and surged forward, feinting high with the hammer, only to then bring it around low in a sweeping strike. Jaime jumped back, but Robert was already following through, the weapon's momentum carrying it up and around in a figure-eight pattern. The hammer's spike lashed out toward Jaime's face. The golden knight jerked his head aside, the blunt iron passing so close it scraped across his helmet with a screech of metal on metal.

Robert pressed the attack, driving forward with a series of brutal overhead strikes. Hammer up, hammer down. Up, down. Each blow meant to shatter, to crush, to break. Jaime blocked with his shield, the wood splintering further with each impact. Crack. Crack. Crack. Then Jaime sidestepped the next strike instead of blocking. Robert's hammer slammed into the ground, throwing up a spray of mud and sand. Before the king could recover, Jaime's blade darted forward, its point seeking the gap beneath Robert's raised arm.

Robert twisted violently, but the blade still found flesh. Pain bloomed as the point punched through mail and drew blood from the soft tissue under his arm. Not deep—Robert had pulled back too quickly for a killing thrust—but deep enough. If there was one thing Robert knew about, it was fighting. And he knew, watching Jaime's eyes through that helmet slit, watching the way his blade kept seeking gaps in the armor, that the Kingslayer was trying to kill him.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Not just beat him. Not just knock him down or force a yield. Kill him. The realization should have made Robert cautious. Should have made him defensive, wary, for his own kingsguard to seek his death. Instead, it made him grin wider. This—this was real. Not some tourney farce where everyone pulled their blows and worried about honor. This was what Robert lived for. The possibility of death making every heartbeat sing.

Only the Kingslayer was faster. That was the problem. Robert was strong, the stronger of the two by far, but Jaime moved like lightning. His blade was always exactly where it needed to be, his feet carrying him out of danger with a grace that Robert had lost after years of neglect. There was nothing he could do to change that now. What he could do, however, was double down. Roaring once again, Robert threw himself forward with renewed fury, abandoning defense entirely. His warhammer became a blur of iron and death.

A diagonal strike that would cave in a skull. A thrust with the spike that would punch through a breastplate. A sweep that would shatter a knee. Jaime gave ground, his sword working frantically to deflect and redirect each strike. His footwork was perfect, each step measured, but Robert could see him starting to tire. The constant defense, the endless movement, the need to stay just ahead of that crushing hammer—it was wearing him down. Robert swung at Jaime's legs. The Kingslayer jumped back.

Robert immediately reversed, bringing the hammer up in an uppercut that would have broken Jaime's teeth if it connected. Jaime leaned back, the spike passing an inch from his chin, then lunged forward while Robert was extended. This time, he was ready. Instead of trying to dodge back, Robert leaned in, catching Jaime's strike on his breastplate, the blade scratching a line on the steel. But he was inside Jaime's guard, and even with little leverage, the hammer blow caught the knight on the side with a crack.

Jaime groaned as the air left him, slightly folding into himself, but he spun away in time to duck the second strike. Robert but didn't slow. He brought the hammer around in a backhand swing, catching a shield and finally shattering it completely. Wood exploded in splinters. The Kingslayer threw the ruined shield aside, now fighting with sword alone and likely a broken rib. They circled, both breathing hard. Blood ran down Robert's arm, dripped from the wound at his shoulder.

Jaime favored his left side, teeth ground together in pain after every inhale. Their eyes locked through their helmet slits. Robert had no more words for him. All there was between them was the sound of labored breathing and the distant roar of the crowd. They came together again. Jaime's blade wove patterns in the air—high, low, thrust, cut, feint. Robert's hammer met each attack, iron sparking against steel. The king swung for Jaime's head. The Kingslayer ducked and thrust toward Robert's thigh.

Robert knocked the blade aside and brought his hammer down where Jaime had been a heartbeat before. But the golden knight was already moving, already circling, his blade seeking another gap in the armor. The fight became beautiful in its violence, two masters who knew death intimately, testing each other with everything they had. Robert's raw power crashing against Jaime's speed and precision. The hammer against the sword. The king against the Kingslayer. The whole crowd was watching now.

Knights who had been locked in their own duels, or who had already lost and were leaving the field, stopped to gawk, lowering their weapons, not daring to interrupt this clash. The roar of the smallfolk intensified, awe mixed with bloodlust, the knowledge they were witnessing something that would be talked about for years. Robert found himself laughing between exchanges. Actually laughing, the sound booming inside his helmet. This was the most fun he'd had in years. Better than any feast, any woman, any wine.

Even taking Pyke hadn't been as satisfying as trading blows with the prancing fool that was Jaime Lannister. Every strike, every parry, every desperate dodge. It all sang in his blood. This was what he was made for. Then something flashed in Robert's peripheral vision. A blade coming from the wrong direction. A desperate thrust from behind Jaime, aimed at the Kingslayer's unprotected back. Jorah Mormont, his face twisted with rage, attacking from behind while Jaime was focused on Robert.

The Kingslayer caught the movement at the last instant. He spun, his blade coming up to meet Jorah's in a desperate parry that turned the thrust aside. The swords locked together for a heartbeat. Which meant Jaime wasn't looking at Robert. Which meant he couldn't defend against the hammer already in motion. Robert's weapon crunched into the side of Jaime's leg with a sound like a tree branch snapping. The golden armor around his thigh crumpled inward, the metal folding like parchment. Bone broke beneath.

Jaime Lannister's scream cut through the noise of the melee like a butcher's knife. He collapsed, his ruined leg unable to support him, hitting the ground hard. Gasps rippled through the noble stands. A collective intake of breath from thousands of watching souls. But Robert wasn't looking at Jaime. He rounded on Jorah Mormont, fury blazing hotter than it had even during the fight. The northern lord stood there with his sword still raised, his chest heaving, seeming to realize too late what he'd done.

"You fucking coward!" Robert's voice carried across the entire melee ground. Every remaining fighter could hear him. He swung the haft of his warhammer in a horizontal arc before Jorah could respond. The wood caught the northern lord across the side of his helmet with a ringing impact. Jorah Mormont dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the mud. Robert stood over him, chest heaving with rage and exertion. The disappointment burned worse than his wounds.

He'd given the man a knighthood at Pyke for his service during the siege. And this was how Mormont repaid that honor? Attacking from behind like some common brigand? Clearly the northern lord didn't have the heart of a true knight, whatever his title said.

"Someone get the Kingslayer to a maester!" Robert shouted, turning away from Jorah in disgust.

"Now!" Ser Addam Marbrand rushed forward along with two other Lannister knights, already eliminated from the melee by their northern opponents. They lifted Jaime as carefully as they could, the golden knight's face twisted in agony, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His white cloak dragged in the mud as they carried him from the field. Robert didn't even want to think about the fuss Tywin Lannister would make because of this. He looked around at the carnage instead.

The Northmen had taken their beating, and worse. All of them were down, scattered across the churned earth. One was clearly dead, his helmet stoved in, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. The Greatjon was groggily getting to his feet with help from Ser Rodrik Cassel, who himself limped badly, one arm hanging useless at his side. Robert was surprised Gregor Clegane hadn't killed the Greatjon outright. The Mountain certainly had the reputation for it.

Scanning the rest of the battlefield, very few knights were still standing. The Crownlanders and his own Stormlanders had exhausted each other in brutal fighting. Only the giant form of Selwyn Tarth remained, still trading blows with Ser Mandon Moore. Both men were clearly tired, their movements slower, but the Evenstar seemed to be winning. No Valemen or Rivermen remained in the fight.

They littered the ground in various states of defeat and injury, helpers coming into the field to carry some of them in stretchers. The last men standing, Robert saw, were two Reachmen, which were now coming face to face against three Westerlanders—the hulking Mountain-that-Rides, Ser Lyle Crakehall, and one of the yellow-haired Lannisters Robert couldn't recognize beneath the armor. Even as he watched, Lord Selwyn landed a final crushing blow that sent Ser Mandon to his back.

Then, with his final victory secured, the Evenstar immediately raised his own hand and removed his helmet, formally retiring from the melee, likely too tired to continue. That meant the confrontation between the Westerlanders and Reachmen would decide it all. Robert recognized Lord Randyll Tarly immediately. He could pick out those huntsmen on the Tarly surcoat anywhere after Ashford. But it took him a moment to place the second man. Purple eyes. The kind that brought back memories Robert would rather forget.

Then it clicked. Ser Galad of Dunstonbury. The lad who had unhorsed Jaime in some of the finest riding Robert had ever witnessed. Who, he had heard, had split arrows at eighty paces like it was nothing. And who now wielded a Valyrian steel sword that caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in ripples of light. Robert's grin returned, wider than before despite the pain in his shoulder and the blood running down his arm. Now that would be a battle worth watching.

Two Valyrian steel wielders—Tarly with Heartsbane and this woodsman knight with his Nightfall—against three Lannister knights including the Mountain himself. And Robert would be the one to fight whoever won. He found a clear spot near the edge of the melee ground and planted his warhammer in the earth. His breathing was still heavy, his wounds bleeding beneath his armor, his muscles singing with exertion and the ache that came after hard fighting. But gods, he felt alive.