Chapter 168: The Usurper vs. The Kingslayer
The Usurper and the Kingslayer, the two slayers of Targaryens, stood locked in a standoff.
Myrcella was still crying out and struggling loudly, trying to convince her father and uncle not to fight. Two white-cloaked knights loyal to the King followed Robert's orders—one pulling the Prince away and the other restraining the Princess—while keeping their hands on their sword hilts, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. To be a member of the Kingsguard yet ultimately face the object of one's oath with sword and hammer made Jaime's mouth turn bitter; the castle-forged steel in his hand felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.
Cersei hid behind a table, hissing like a mother cat whose tail had been stepped on: "Do it, Jaime! He's stalling for time until the City Watch arrives!"
"I'm stalling?" Robert laughed in a fit of rage. He knew Cersei was baiting him, but what if he let her succeed? "Bitch, once I've pounded your precious brother into a meat porridge, I'll deal with you properly!"
With that, he swung his warhammer, lunging at Jaime with an attack that fell like a plummeting star of fire.
For a fat man, that move was remarkably agile. No wonder he has the nerve to demand a duel, Jaime only had time for that single thought before hammer and sword collided again, producing a shrill, grinding roar. Based on the vibration traveling through his ears and hands, Jaime keenly and quickly judged two things: first, his sword had been notched by the hammer; second, despite being as round as a wine cask, Robert's strength—honed by a lifelong obsession with hunting and melées—remained terrifying. He could not meet him head-on!
Robert's strength and speed exceeded expectations, but they weren't so overwhelming as to crush him. Jaime judged his own chances of winning to be over eighty percent, but as he lunged backward a step, his mind raced; he did not immediately launch a counterattack.
A voice in the back of his mind kept questioning him: Do you truly want to commit regicide again? To become a double-oathbreaker in the eyes of the world?
If the battle had fully exploded the moment Robert swung at Cersei, both men would likely be dead by now—Robert run through by a maddened Jaime, and Jaime cut down by the two furious sworn brothers at his back. But as Cersei had dodged the hammer and remained unharmed, and Myrcella's scream had caused a brief distraction, those few seconds allowed Robert to fully enter a combat state and Jaime's rage to recede enough for his reason to function.
A trial by combat? If he won, it would prove his and Cersei's innocence? It sounded fine, but Jaime knew it was a mere pretext. In his extreme wrath, Robert's mind was filled only with thoughts of butchering the Queen's lover who had cuckolded him; he likely hadn't even considered the possibility of losing!
Robert was a man who always did what he said. If Jaime lost, he would surely be pounded into meat porridge. But what if he won? If he killed Robert, the remaining Kingsguard would never honor Robert's casual promise. The stigma of a second regicide would be inescapable. Even if he could escape the other White Cloaks... the City Watch was on its way. It would still be nearly impossible to get Cersei out of the Red Keep alive. And even if they left the Keep, they would still have to cross King's Landing, flee the Crownlands, and pass through the Riverlands or the Reach to return to the West!
The questioning voice in his heart caused the Kingslayer to hesitate, but his opponent possessed a mind free of distraction and a heart of pure killing intent. Robert truly hadn't considered losing—the last Dragon Prince who touched his woman had been handsomer and more skilled than Jaime, and today the trees growing over his grave were tall enough to provide shade!
"Lannister... son of... a bitch!"
Punctuating each word, before the sentence was even finished, the warhammer whistled through the air once more. The resulting wind stung Jaime's face. He dared not parry with the edge again and could only use the flat of the blade to deflect and parry... Damn it, Robert's strength was much greater than imagined. Was that belly made of muscle rather than fat?
Amidst the ear-piercing sound of clashing and scraping metal, the hammer was diverted from its original path, yet it still scraped across Jaime's breastplate. The friction left a deep dent in the metal. The spiked end caught his spaulder, and the silver-bright shoulder plate was ripped from its rivets, hanging loosely against Jaime's arm.
Jaime was privately alarmed. His reason told him not to be distracted, yet his subconscious couldn't help but recall details of the Battle of the Trident discussed during idle chats with Barristan Selmy. According to the Lord Commander, Rhaegar Targaryen and his royalist army should have won that battle. The beloved Dragon Prince's martial skill far exceeded Robert's; he had remained calm and unharmed throughout the one-on-one duel as Robert sought him out, even finding time to issue orders and call for his opponent's surrender during the gaps in combat... In contrast, Robert had been stabbed several times and was bleeding profusely, looking as if he had crawled out of a vat of red dye.
The outcome should have been certain, at least in Barristan's eyes... How did Robert win? Jaime remembered now: Barristan said Rhaegar's horse lost its footing in the river, causing the rider to take a hammer blow from Robert amidst the chaos.
The Young Dragon, who had held the upper hand from start to finish, was hit so hard by that single blow that the rubies on his breastplate shattered across the riverbank. He fell into the stream, horse and all, dying on the spot without time for last words. His last spoken sentence had actually been a promise to his enemy—that if Robert surrendered and ended the rebellion, he could keep his lands and his title as Lord.
According to the soldiers who collected the body, Rhaegar's breastplate had been crushed inward by a dent the size of a man's face, and not a single rib remained unbroken... Because Jon Arryn ordered a swift cremation according to Targaryen tradition, no autopsy was performed, leaving it unknown whether his heart and lungs were pulverized or if he had simply drowned in the river.
Robert was stronger than imagined. Seventy percent—at most, his win rate was seventy percent!
Finding an opening, Jaime thrust his sword with lightning speed, aiming at a tricky angle toward Robert's massive target of a belly. But his opponent made no move to defend, instead letting out a roar and executing a wild horizontal sweep. Meeting attack with attack, Robert forced Jaime to withdraw his hand to dodge before the strike landed. The blade, which could have pierced the armor, drew a trail of sparks and retracted in disappointment.
In terms of martial skill, Jaime surpassed Robert. But even if he struck Robert a hundred times, if Robert hit him just once, he was dead. He had to be incredibly careful!
Seeing her supposedly invincible brother falling into a disadvantage, Cersei grew frantic. Holding onto the table to steady herself, she screamed: "Jaime, circle him! He's slower than you!"
Circle? How do I circle in this place? Jaime nearly got grazed by the hammer as he momentarily lost focus. He gave a bitter smile; Dear sister, you don't need to teach a member of the Kingsguard how to fight!
Sword-light and hammer-shadow blurred. Joffrey and Tommen were both paralyzed with fear. The movements of both grown men were so swift and ferocious, and the noise of their clashing so deafening, that every strike seemed as if it might kill the opponent in the next instant. Yet, after a dozen exchanges, no winner had emerged... With their father on one side and their close uncle on the other, the three children had no idea who to pray for.
"Father, Uncle, please stop! I beg you!" Myrcella tried desperately to rush into the center of the room to break up the fight with her own body, but she was held back by a White Cloak and couldn't break free no matter how hard she tried.
This was a bedroom, not a tourney ground. Furniture, tables, chairs, cabinets, and wardrobes were everywhere. They were obstacles, yet not tall or sturdy enough to be used for circling. Jaime dodged past a table, watching Robert smash it into two pieces and kick it aside. The movements of the two men quickly turned the room into a chaotic mess; the sounds of furniture toppling and objects falling, breaking, or rolling drowned out Myrcella's faint cries.
"Ha! What are you doing? Haven't you eaten? Strike back! I thought you were going to show me what it means to be a Kingslayer!" Robert taunted loudly. He paused for a few seconds to catch his breath before charging fiercely at Jaime again.
Jaime actually hadn't eaten today, but that wasn't the main reason he couldn't exert his full strength. He had to think not just of how to win, but how to get Cersei safely back to Casterly Rock. Whether he won or lost, this matter was destined to end badly today. The only chance was to defeat Robert without killing him, force him to admit their innocence, and then use him as a hostage to flee King's Landing.
As a golden son of the West, Jaime rarely had to use his brain; in his haste, this was the only plan he could devise. But facing a man as savage as a giant bear... killing him was easy, but defeating and capturing him? How was he to manage that?
He soon spotted an opportunity: though Robert's attacks were fierce, they were not continuous. After every two or three swings of the hammer, he was forced to stop and pant... drink, women, and fat had finally taken their toll. If he could hold out and wear the fat man down, an opportunity for capture would arise. With the hundred family guards outside the door, he still had a chance to help Cersei escape!
Blade and hammer continued to whirl. Jaime kept leaping, retreating and pivoting in a zigzag pattern to the left, right, left, and right. Although he tried his best to avoid a head-on collision between his steel and the hammer, the room still echoed with the sickening clang of metal on metal. This was a bedroom, not a list; the confined space amplified the advantages of a pure strength-based warrior. As the duel progressed, the floor became littered with debris and shards of broken bottles. To avoid a direct confrontation, Jaime kept backing away... and in such circumstances, being unable to check the floor behind him put him at a disadvantage.
Jaime stepped on something. His reflexes were lightning-fast; he kicked the obstacle away even as he began to stumble, swaying his body and waving his arms to maintain his balance. But Robert's next hammer blow was instantly before him. There was no other way... one shouldn't parry a warhammer with a longsword, but regardless, one more layer of defense was better than catching it with his chest like Rhaegar.
With a loud CLANG, amidst the screams of Cersei and Myrcella, Jaime felt as if he had been struck by a battering ram. The steel sword braced between the hammer and his armor held for only a fraction of a second before being forced back against his body. Jaime staggered back several steps, his weapon nearly flying from his hand. He forced himself through the chest-tightening pain to raise his sword again, only to find the blade was now bent.
"Haha! Kingslayer, it seems you're missing a Valyrian steel sword." Robert was drenched in sweat from the exertion, but he had finally achieved a result. His eyes gleamed with a murderous light, yet he was forced to stop and catch his breath, though he didn't forget to get a taunt in: "Oh, I forgot. Your foolish ancestor lost the Lannister family blade! Hahaha—"
After a loud laugh, Robert raised his hammer to continue the attack. Jaime had no time to consider how many ribs he had broken or if his internal organs were injured. He raised the bent sword to continue his defense, but the change in shape shifted the weapon's center of gravity, warping his swordsmanship. For an experienced warrior, this was a hurdle easily overcome, but in a fight of this caliber, his enemy would not give him the chance to readjust!
The hammer continued to swing. Jaime parried left and right, but the warping of his movements was quickly noticed by Robert. Robert suppressed his physical fatigue and pressed the attack relentlessly. After several parries and blocks where he failed to perfectly deflect the force, cracks inevitably formed at the spot where the steel sword had first been notched. Under the stress of multiple impacts from different directions, the cracks spread rapidly... Finally, the beautiful steel weapon abandoned its master and declared its resignation, snapping in half during a final block. The front half went flying—pinning itself into the wall several meters away.
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