Chapter 15: Pick Up the Sword!
At the edge of the chaotic battlefield, Jaime Lannister and Brienne stood back to back.
Jaime's left hand clenched the dagger tightly. With a sharp twist, the tough rope binding them snapped apart. Brienne wrenched free as well, finally regaining her freedom.
But the sight before them left both momentarily at a loss.
The camp had completely devolved into a slaughterhouse.
Members of the Brave Companions were hacking at one another in scattered clusters, utterly indiscriminate, no longer able—or willing—to tell friend from foe.
Firelight leapt wildly, illuminating twisted, feral faces. Blood sprayed freely, severed limbs littered the ground.
"Which side do we help?"
Brienne's blue eyes were filled with confusion.
Even with her formidable strength, the sheer scale and randomness of the chaos left her unsure where to begin.
Jaime flexed his newly freed left hand, his green eyes sweeping across the battlefield as he let out a snort.
"Who cares?" he said lightly. "Kill whoever's in front of you."
"They're all bandits who deserve the seventh hell anyway. Clean them out, and the Riverlands might finally breathe a little easier."
Brienne nodded in firm agreement.
Before being captured, she had fought—and killed—her share of brigands and outlaws. But never had she encountered a group as utterly repugnant as this one.
The Brave Companions felt like a living concentration of all the world's filth.
Just as she was about to step into the fray, a burly figure stumbled amid the melee and crashed straight to the ground at Brienne's feet.
She looked down—
And the two locked eyes.
"WAAAAGH!!!"
"WAAAAGH!!!"
Both roared at the same time.
But Brienne's shout was louder, deeper, and far more terrifying.
She reacted instantly, throwing her powerful arms around the man's neck and locking him into a rear chokehold.
The man was no weakling. He struggled violently—then froze in shock.
He couldn't break free.
This woman's strength was monstrous.
Modern medicine says it takes thirty to forty seconds to choke someone unconscious—but this was a battlefield, where every heartbeat mattered.
As the two struggled—
Shhk!
A dagger slipped effortlessly through the gap in the man's leather armor and plunged straight into his heart.
The fight ended instantly.
Jaime pulled the blade free, wiped it on the dead man's clothes, and raised an eyebrow at Brienne, who was still catching her breath.
"Killing requires weapons, my lady."
He smirked faintly.
"Your method is… far too inefficient."
Yet instead of gratitude, Brienne stared at the corpse on the ground, then at the dagger in Jaime's hand. Her brow furrowed, disapproval written plainly across her face.
"That wasn't knightly," she said flatly.
"Kingslayer."
She pursed her lips, bent down, and picked up the longsword the dead man had dropped.
Before Jaime could retort, she let out a thunderous roar—
"WAAAAGH!!!"
—and charged straight into the battlefield.
Clearly, being bound and helpless for so many days had nearly driven her mad.
"Tch."
Jaime spat in irritation at being called Kingslayer. He watched her retreating back but didn't immediately follow.
Did this woman's head contain nothing but honor and duty?
Chivalry—here, of all places, among this rabble?
What a joke.
Just then, a calm voice spoke from above.
"Don't try to be a hero. Just survive."
Jaime jerked his head up.
Odin had somehow climbed onto a nearby tree, crouched among the branches, looking down at the carnage below.
Firelight cast broken shadows across his face, obscuring his expression, but those deep, unfathomable black eyes remained perfectly clear—cold, composed.
"After time passes," Odin continued softly, "heroes tend to look a little… foolish, don't they?"
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried a strange authority, as though he were stating an obvious truth.
Jaime paused—then snorted, turning his gaze back toward the darkness ahead.
"I can't agree with you, Lord Odin," he said firmly.
"Some things are worth doing even when you know they're foolish. Even when you know they're impossible. Even when you know they'll cost you everything."
---
Beneath the oak tree, the struggle had ended.
Vargo Hoat spat out a chunk of flesh and sucked in ragged breaths. Where his left eye had been was now a ruined, bloody hollow.
He had won.
He'd killed the traitor—torn out his throat like a beast—but the price had been an eye.
He staggered upright from Urswyck's corpse. Fever, blood loss, and pain sent waves of dizziness crashing through him; standing alone took everything he had.
Ahead, the camp was still a howling inferno of slaughter. Men hacked at one another like mad dogs, striking anything that moved.
Watching the Brave Companions—his creation—tear itself apart, Vargo didn't try to stop it.
He couldn't.
He barely had the strength to save himself.
Turning away, he staggered toward the edge of the woods. His gaze dropped—and there it was.
His greatsword.
Instinctively, he bent to retrieve it.
Just as his fingers neared the hilt—
A mud-caked boot slammed down on the blade.
Cold steel kissed his throat, lifting his chin.
Vargo raised his head.
Standing before him was the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.
Somehow, Jaime had acquired a longsword. His remaining left hand gripped it tightly, the blade pressed against Vargo's neck. Filthy golden hair clung to his brow, and his green eyes—hard, empty—held no warmth at all.
Though thinner from captivity and wounds, he stood like an immovable wall.
Vargo froze.
Then he grinned, blood staining his teeth.
"Well, well," he rasped mockingly. "If it isn't the noble Ser Jaime Lannister."
"What's wrong—don't want to lose the other hand too?"
His gaze flicked to Jaime's empty right sleeve. Vargo tried to straighten, to summon his old authority, but his swaying body betrayed his weakness.
Jaime saw it.
He also saw the flicker of fear in Vargo's remaining eye.
"I've never met anyone as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat," Jaime said evenly, as if delivering a sentence.
"People curse others to the Seven Hells. Honestly? I think that place suits you perfectly."
Vargo spat bloody saliva and snarled, venom blazing in his eye.
"You're no better than me, Kingslayer!"
"You're a traitor too—your hands are stained with a king's blood! We're the same!"
"Go on—stab me! I'll be waiting in hell for you. There's probably already a place saved for you!"
He roared, trying to cloak his terror in bravado.
But Jaime saw through it instantly.
"What a pity."
The heir of Casterly Rock slowly shook his head, his voice carrying a grave, almost merciful resolve.
"I'm not like you, Vargo Hoat."
"Even for someone as vile as you, I'm willing to grant a fair duel."
Then—before Vargo's disbelieving eye—
Jaime stepped back.
He lifted his foot from the greatsword.
"Pick it up," Jaime commanded sharply.
"I said—pick up the sword."