Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

Chapter 185: The Sword of the West

POV: Jaime

In the middle of a double duel.

While a Knight of the Vale was being beaten to death...

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The third Gong had already sounded. This meant there were less than ten minutes to the end of the first half-hour. Not even two minutes had passed since the start of Jaime's duel, but it seemed like an eternity to the knight...

The Red Viper snapped again. The spear attempted a double lunge, Jaime deflected and flung aside and then attempted a counter-offensive, but the snake retreated too quickly, and Lion's claw did not have sufficient range to reach him.

Oberyn was damned quicker than he was. It wasn't just the difference in weight between the two suits of armour. That was the quickest and most responsive opponent Jaime had ever faced.

By now, it was already four consecutive assaults that the Young Lion was forced into an unanswerable defence. Oberyn was not out of breath and had not even been noticeably wounded by the other clashes. Jaime could not wait... In the long run, the spear would find an opening and leave a mark. So the Lion had to find a way to face his opponent briefly.

Less than twenty feet away from them, Ser Archibald and Ser Garth were clashing blow after blow at a hand-to-hand distance. Hammer Vs Bastard Sword. A tenacious and brutal fight based on strength and endurance.

Oberyn sprang forward for the fifth time, battering him with a series of less powerful but more precise lunges. Again, his opponent was aiming at the exposed joints of his armour.

*Sttiiing*, *Screethc!*, *Clang!* the spear's tip was not so 'blunt'. The cold iron left a groove on his breastplate... Some Lannister blood would have been spilt without the steel plate for protection.

"...A weapon not exactly for the Tournament, Prince Oberyn." Said Jaime in a voice held at the first opportunity for breath between the two. The Knight of the West would never have shouted "Irregularity!" to the four winds, stooping to piteous Braavosi scenes.

"I was not allowed to carry a sharp or pointed weapon inside the arena, Ser... But no regulation forbade me to carry a sharpening whetstone." Admitted the Dornian Prince with unashamed honesty. So, in that handful of minutes of waiting, he or one of his men had prepared to covertly and swiftly sharpen the spear's point.

"And I'm guessing that that reflection on the blade's edges is more than just your armourer's colourful creativity..." In direct contact with the sunlight, the metal of the spear glistened with a peculiar purple reflection. The tip had been soaked in poison.

"Uh, uh, uh... You imagine well, Kingslayer. Fear not. It is nothing incurable, but keep the blade away from your soft skin."

The Viper circled around him again and attempted another assault. This time, the spear opted for a feint followed by a diagonal spin to strike the left flank. Jaime intercepted the shaft with metal and attempted to trap the spear between blade and shield, but Oberyn reacted before his long wooden arm was even scratched.

The Dornish did not give him a moment's respite. Right side, left side, top, belly, legs... The spear came from all directions like an endless series of arrows shot by several platoons of archers. Jaime used to shield and armour to the best of his ability to cover the critical points.

'Fight back, or be done with it!' Jaime openly landed a full lunge to the side, but the spear deflected to the side, pushing the serpent a step too far forward, straight into Lion's jaws as he leapt at the opportunity, charging ahead. Luckily for him, the plates seemed to hold, although the twinge was felt. But the pain took its toll on what he had hoped for. Finally, Oberyn was within range of his blade.

Jaime did not hesitate and unleashed all his cards, swinging his sword in search of a double slash. Oberyn parried the first with his left arm in lacquered steel, taking a discreet recoil, than the blade deflected in search of the exposed neck.

*Fiuu! * The blade missed its target by less than a fingernail. Oberyn, in an unparalleled acrobatic manoeuvre, gave up his shield and used the momentum absorbed on his arm to sprint back, simultaneously spinning and kicking his own shaft with his right leg.

But Jaime would not allow him to retreat like that. The Kingslayer pursued the acrobat with a swinging sword in hand. The Kingslayer stormed the retreating man with slashes from all sides, advancing. None of the blows landed. The acrobat spun to the side, backwards, pirouetting in the most evasive ways possible while making the most of his pole as defence and support.

Credit where it's due... Oberyn Martell was performing an acrobatic show even more incredible than that of the now deceased Braavosi prodigal son. The crowd went wild at the astonishing twist. Waves of ovations accompanied each successful stunt.

However, the Prince's run had reached the end of the line. A human wall of steel-clad spectators awaited the Dornian at the end of the perimeter.

'You are mine!' This is what the Young Lion roared inwardly before a second twist caught him off guard. Oberyn took advantage of the short space he left to hurl his spear towards Jaime like a javelin, straight for the face.

'Shit!' Jaime barely had time to raise his shield and pray his grip on it was firm enough to absorb the impact... The iron collided with the oak, and the partially deflected shaft scratched the top of the helmet, passing the target behind him.

Jaime managed to escape a bleak and final end, but he had utterly lost sight of his opponent... A strong impact on the calf came, and Lion's stability collapsed to the ground, his back and butt on the sandy loam.

The Knight had difficulty getting up with the total weight of his armour. His cousin Daven came to the rescue to help him.

"No...! Don't you dare interfere, Daven! Take your fucking hand away now! This is a duel!" Roared Jaime with the urge to chop off that fucking limb. The recently knighted seventeen-year-old obeyed, intimidated, backing away without a breath.

It took Jaime another good four seconds to get to his feet. That damned white cape had twisted into one of his leggings, and the seventy pounds of steel plus padding certainly hadn't helped. In a real battlefield, an armoured knight on the ground was a man already half-doomed... If Martell had not sacrificed his only weapon to attempt that last manoeuvre, Jaime would already have been forced to surrender through a spear aimed at his throat.

The Dornian was thirty feet away, positioned in the centre, spear in hand again and waiting...

'I can't win like this...' Jaime realised after considering several futile alternatives. Oberyn would never fall for the same trap a second time, and he could not find a viable way to win a favourable position again...

In that dark, dead-end moment, a distant but pressing eye presence from the stands caught Jaime's attention.

The Watcher's gaze was upon him. And, as if sorcery allowed the old man to read his mind from that distance, the face of the elderly master-at-arms nodded, conveying a clear but silent message to the Young Lion.

{"No, you cannot. One missed parry or one misstep, and it will be the end of you... What will the Lion do on the edge of the precipice with the hunter's blade at his throat??"}

Was it a figment of his imagination? Or was it really witchcraft? But, at the moment, suppositions were of little interest, for a fierce and implacable wave of inspiration permeated inside Jaime.

The swordsman had yet to play his last cards... Instead, his mind was obsessed with the Red Knight and the coveted prize he would win if he proved himself worthy.

But if he couldn't face the Red Knight in this contest, what was stopping Jaime from proving to that old man, here and now, that this was not all he could do!

'I am not fighting to give my best but to win by risking as little as possible.' Realised Jaime inwardly with fervent conviction.

Now, the swordsman knew what had to be done.

Jaime advanced slowly and parried himself in front of his opponent ten feet away.

Oberyn stood waiting with one eye on the second duel about to conclude.

"It seems Ser Archibald is about to be defeated by the celebrated Greysteel... But no matter. Having defeated you, there will soon be a showdown with Soldier Hightower." Ser Garth prevailed against the now spent and wounded Knight of House Yronwood.

But Jaime had no interest in anything that happened outside his area. Westeros could have burned, earthquakes could have demolished his old home, tsunamis could have swallowed King's Landing... none of this would have interfered in his small world, inhabited by only two individuals and decorated only by sand, leather and steel. The only world that existed in the here and now.

The Lion planted the tip of his sword in the sand. The Dornian watched the scene with a frown of surprise and incomprehension.

"Am I to interpret this as a gesture of surrender, Kingslayer...?" Oberyn asked in a subtle tone of mockery.

"No, Dornish Prince... A request for a momentary reprieve. With your permission, Ser, I would need a brief minute before resuming our duel." Promulgated Jaime of House Lannister.

"A minute's respite...? And do you think this minute will help reverse this duel's outcome with its already decided ending?" Replied the Dornish with an air of amusement and confidence in his impending victory.

"I am convinced of it. That minute will decree your defeat." Roared the Lion with equal confidence and little sly sincerity.

"...Uh, uh... Uh, uh, uh... Ahahaha! You are as stupid and naive as a mule, but you have two balls bigger than an elephant, Kingslayer! ...So be it. I'm not renowned for my chivalry, but you've whetted my curiosity." *Stump*, the base of the spear sank into the soft loam and stood straight and steady, with no hand wielding it. "You will have your minute."

Jaime bowed his head in thanks and swiftly made the preparations he needed.

First, the knight shed the heavy oak shield and tore off the clasps between the shoulder straps, stripping himself of his white cape and throwing it to the ground.

"Oh... You are seven years too late for that." Accompanied Oberyn's voice, along with some laughter from the witnesses. But Jaime didn't care and moved on to the shoulder straps, untying the knots without hesitation.

The heavy, thick breastplate fell to the ground... Then it was the turn of the helmet, the shoulder straps, the ruff, leggings, forearms, and even the padded jacket.

"To seduce me, you'll have to take off your shirt and breeches too." A wave of derision burst through the ranks. Only his comrades from the West held back.

Hundreds of spectators in the stands laughed and started hurling obscene jokes...

"Ser Jaime, the Naked Lion! Ahahah!", "Do you even keep your breeches on, Kingslayer! Puhahah!" In all likelihood, the spectator laughing the hardest was the King himself.

His father would have hated him for it. The Old Lion hated it when anyone mocked him or his family name. But Jaime didn't care; the whistling and laughter were just faint annoying ringing in his ears.

Finally, Jaime slipped off his studded leather gloves. The feel of his hand had to merge with the hilt.

The Lion grasped the hilt of the sword, the only tool he needed to fight, and drew it, slicing through the air with a single arm movement.

*Swiiinnn...* That was the sound that muffled everything. The clearest and most sublime sound of all.

"Forgive the wait, Prince Dornian... Now, I am ready." Each word spoken was a disturbing rumble in the symphony of his breath.

Oberyn abandoned the streak of hilarity. "Mmm... Giving up protection for speed. I respect your choice, Ser." It was the first time Oberyn Martell had referred to him as 'Ser'.

"However, I must warn you... The Poison imprinted in my blade is not lethal in itself, but it has a very potent immediate-acting laxative effect." Intimated the Viper.

"A single scratch will be enough to lord your breeches over everyone and prove to tens of thousands of spectators that 'A Lannister Doesn't Shit Gold'... Are you sure you want to continue, Ser Jaime?" Asked the Red Viper with an evil smile. A beaming smile that begged for his prey to answer, "Yes, I do."

"Then I shall emerge from this fight without a scratch, Prince Oberyn." Replied a proud and ravenous roar.

"So be it." The elated Dornian grabbed his staff with both hands, twirling it in the air to loosen his movements and prepare himself as best he could.

*Swoomm*, *Sfuu*, *Sfuuom* The air being cut by the wooden rod generated a different sound from his thin blade, but it was just as harmonious.

Finally, the Lion's body felt again that same feeling of power experienced at the battle of Pyke when Jaime was surrounded by danger on all fronts. A place and time in which no mistakes were allowed... A climax in which the Young Lion had indeed given his best.

Jaime threw himself into the danger first without hesitation, taking advantage of the far-swinging moment for an advance attack and vibrating his blade in search of a diagonal cut.

Oberyn retreated a step, dodging the first slash, then counter-attacked with the same spear strike aimed at his left shoulder. Jaime brandished his sword with both hands and intercepted the shaft, deflecting it with a silky smooth movement, accompanying the force of the shaft over his scalp until it drove the poisoned point into the ground.

The snake was momentarily surprised by the unexpected and difficult manoeuvre that had succeeded and retreated backwards in less than a blink. Still, the lion's claw was already vibrating in pursuit. The noise was inaudible, but the touch confirmed the successful, if minimal, cross-blow. The Viper's chin had been grazed by the metal.

Oberyn pivoted with his torso to attempt a sweeping blow, and the lion redirected in turn, playing anticipation to intercept him. *Claang!* The contrast sang a rough metallic melody.

Blow after blow, melody after melody, the two opponents continued to play without a moment's respite. The Red Viper gave full rein to all his physical acrobatics to counter Lion's unstoppable assault. Still, what the beast could not replicate with his more rigid and massive body, he made up for with the fluidity and technique of his claw.

Jaime's sword vibrated and danced in strenuous contact with the wood and metal of the spear. His breath became regular and harmonised with the orchestra's melody, generating a song that Jaime hoped would never end.

The warm air in his lungs, the instinct moving his body like a puppet, the danger gently caressing his skin, his eyes and ears attentive in capturing every detail of the spectacle... A sublime moment. A stage on which he felt alive, for which Jaime had been born.

The dancer had no idea how much time had passed. But he did know that the melody was slowing down more and more and that the sound of his counterpart's breathing was no longer in time with the orchestra. Oberyn's blows became more and more predictable, slower and less powerful. 'No... Please. Don't stop playing. Keep singing with me!' Jaime's sword could have pierced through the musician's defence at least a dozen times, but the Lion held back his claws and focused on the metal singing. The target was no longer the body but the tip of the spear...

*Stiiinng*, *Claaang*, *Sdiing* magical sparks accompanied the symphony orchestra, like those fireworks that pyromantic alchemists used to embellish the celebration of the first year of King Robert's reign. Everything remained so fascinating, magical and wonderful.

However, the opera still needed to be completed. Something was missing from that symphony of instruments: a voice, a song, or a climax to reach sublimation.

Hidden within him, Jaime sensed a strong desire, a compelling need, to reach the summit, to stand up and 'Roar'.

But then, before the culminating point could be reached, suddenly... *Craaack!* a malignant, harassing noise, accompanied by a burst of splinters, suddenly intruded into the melody, extinguishing the great symphony altogether.

Jaime's heart wept a bitter tear as he saw that his companion's instrument had broken in half...

The bubble burst, and the world returned to empty, silent and sad... Oberyn stepped back to catch his breath, barely wielding the two useless pieces of wood.

"Anf... Anf... Sword! Anf! Anf...! Quickly! Give me a sword! " Commanded the Prince, drenched in sweat, staggering and with his lungs on the verge of collapse, towards the few remaining Dornish comrades.

Now that the harsh, real-world was upon him again, Jaime realised that perhaps the song had lasted much longer than he had perceived. How much time had passed in that series of exchanges...?

The knight turned around as he granted his opponent the same favour he had shown in what seemed like minutes ago. But it could not have been only two or three minutes ago...

The arena was abnormally silent, and every gaze was turned towards that pole. The spectator competitors who bounded the perimeter for the duel were no longer dozens but hundreds. His confreres Ser Barristan, Ser Preston, Ser Mandon Moore, Thoros of Myr, Ser Amon Fury and his loyal knights, foreign competitors from other cities, hedge knight, Bloody Snow and the entire northern party, and even that second monstrous anomaly of The Reach... all those who still could, wounded or not, had approached the centre of the arena to watch the duel more closely.

The contest's concentration pointed towards the duel between the Red Viper and the Young Lion... The Reach had already earned the Dornish flag and passed the test. No one was fighting anymore... The handful of men from Dorne and the almost-integral unit of the West was the last factions still in the race.

*Gong!* The fourth signal came... It sounded strange. In less than half an hour, all fourteen competing factions had already fought and determined losers and winners?

"Ser Jaime! Commander! Can you hear me...!" Jaime turned to Ser Addam Marbrant, his childhood friend and loyal bannerman of House Lannister.

The Knight nodded in reply after looking at Addam in a crooked and confused manner for a moment. Jaime had stabbed a king in the back, but the gods had not yet punished him by depriving him of his hearing.

"You only have ten minutes left, Ser!!! If you do not end this duel in less than ten minutes, there will be no winner! Both factions would be disqualified from the competition!"

'Only Ten Minutes?!... And when the fuck were the two missing rings?' It didn't seem possible to him. So that Ser Addam had gone mad? Was that last chime really the sixth Gong! Had Jaime and Oberyn really danced at the tip of their swords for over twenty minutes, non-stop?!

As the adrenaline ceased to circulate, Jaime began to feel the pangs of over-exertion throughout his body. His throat was parched and begging for fresh water, all the muscles in his body were burning like furnaces ready for the crucible, the joints in his shoulders were creaking like rusty hinges, and his sword hand was dripping blood; soon new calluses would be added to the collection... And the sword itself, at first as light as a twig, now seemed to weigh as much as an oak log. But no cuts or scratches stained his robe; the poisoned spear had failed to touch his body. Jaime had kept his promise.

A shinier, though much shorter-ranged tusk was soon given to the Dornish prince. Oberyn Nymeros Martell was also suffering the tremendous blows of an effort that his more agile but less robust physique could no longer withstand... The Dornish could barely stand. He needed both arms to support that trembling curved sword.

Jaime had already won this duel... Oberyn was visibly no longer able to fight. As was only to be expected. The valiant Dornishman had wielded a weapon heavier than his own with an extra thirty pounds of leather, metal and padding... The Prince of Dorne must have been exhausted, to say the least. But the Knight would not bring that formidable warrior dishonour.

Jaime advanced swiftly to end the suffering of the warrior who still wished to leave that arena with his head held high.

A single exchange was enough to disarm the man and point the blade's tip at his throat.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the last spark of that fighting candle went out. Oberyn reluctantly but loudly spat out the aforementioned words:

"You have won this battle, Kingslayer... I declare my surrender." The last words were spat reluctantly, "The flag belongs to you... Knight." Jaime nodded and withdrew his sword, resting the point on the ground.

The judge of the contest did not miss the opportunity to approach, raise Jaime's arm of the blade upwards and pronounce in a thunderous voice:

"Ladies and gentlemen! Our final winners of this first round...! A big cheer for Ser Jaime Lannister and all the contestants of the West!!!"

Finally came the second and most gargantuan anomaly of all... "WHOOOOOOAAA!!!" *Clap! Clap! Clap!* "YEEEESSSS!!!"

A deafening roar, consisting of thousands of voices shouting in unison, topped with roaring applause, flooded the amphitheatre...

"Kingslayer!!!" shrieked a few, "Ser Jaime Lannister!!!" chanted others, "The Young Lion!!!" called in part and many others, with its more recent namesake "The Lion Keeper!!!". There was a cacophony of names, ovations and applause, all directed at him.

Then thundered another name near the royal stands: "The Sword of the West!" the latter took root, prevailing over the others, and spread like a wave.

"The Sword of the West!!!"... "The Sword of the WEST!"

... "The Sword OF THE WEST!"... "The SwoRD OF THE WEST!"

No one was laughing more than he was... No one seemed to remember the stain of the infamy of the Kingslayer, the Man Without Honour... anymore.

Thousands, whether commoners or nobles, from the north, the south or foreign lands, all the enraptured witnesses of that spectacle of arms, which was soon to be enshrined in legend, shouted in chorus and unison:

"THE SWORD OF THE WEST!!!"

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End Chapter.

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