Chapter 16 — A Lannister Always Pays His Debts
Shame seared through Vargo Hoat's pride the instant Jaime stepped back.
With a guttural snarl he lunged, snatching up the greatsword with both hands.
Unlike the Kingslayer, Vargo had no concept of honor—the moment steel touched his palms, he struck first.
He roared and chopped downward with all the strength of a maddened ox. Had that blow landed, Jaime's feeble left-handed guard would never have held.
But fever blurred Vargo's vision, his missing eye destroyed his depth perception, and his swing came down crooked—missing Jaime by half a foot.
Jaime moved on instinct.
A shift of the hips, a small step sideways—nothing graceful, yet precise, the ghosts of a thousand drills at Casterly Rock guiding his body.
His right hand twitched to counterattack, only for the phantom limb to remind him again of what he'd lost.
He grimaced and thrust awkwardly with the left instead.
But what was once his blade now felt like a stubborn iron bar.
The thrust hit, but harmlessly—clang!
His sword scraped Vargo's thick breastplate, sending a painful shock up Jaime's arm. His wrist spasmed; the blade nearly slipped free.
Vargo snarled and swung again, a wild sideways sweep.
Jaime hopped back—nearly tripping—and the greatsword whooshed past his waist, shredding his tunic.
They clashed like this for several breaths:
Vargo's slashes wide and furious, often missing;
Jaime's counters sharp in angle, but weak in power.
One blinded berserker.
One maimed prodigy.
Both reduced to clumsy shadows of who they had once been.
Gods, Jaime thought bitterly, my sword-work is worse than when I was a page at Sumner Crakehall's side.
Back then his movements had been instinct, fluid as water and twice as deadly. Even Ser Arthur Dayne had once remarked on the boy's talent.
Now?
Two former masters of the blade resembled boys flailing with sticks in the mud.
The thought stung him to the core—
—but somehow, it also cleared his mind.
Breath by breath, his footwork adjusted, his balance returned—
his body remembering what his pride had forgotten.
Vargo, meanwhile, staggered under fever and blood loss.
Every failed swing drained him further; every missed step fed his desperation.
Then came Jaime's moment.
Vargo overextended—
Jaime struck.
Steel flashed.
Squelch.
Blood erupted from Vargo's wrist as Jaime's sword bit deep.
Not enough to sever the hand cleanly—his left arm could not deliver such force—
but enough to send the greatsword crashing into the mud.
Vargo collapsed with it, howling, his half-severed hand dangling by sinew.
Jaime glanced at the mangled limb, and a spark of regret flickered behind his eyes.
If I still had my right hand…
—that would have come off entirely.
Breathing hard, he advanced, sword leveled once more at Vargo's throat.
Revenge—finally—within reach.
But then—
"That woman—she's dying!"
Vargo's scream tore across the clearing.
Jaime's heart clenched.
Brienne?
Every instinct screamed lie,
but his body turned anyway, head snapping toward the battlefield—
—there was nothing.
Idiot…
He realized the deceit a heartbeat too late.
Vargo surged upward from the mud like a wounded boar, slamming into Jaime's left arm.
CRACK!
The sword flew from Jaime's hand, spinning through the air before vanishing into the shadows.
Vargo staggered upright, cackling through blood and broken teeth.
With his remaining hand he drew a skinning dagger from his boot, madness burning in his lone eye.
"Stupid fool!" he spat.
"Always were, always will be!"
Jaime was unarmed.
Vargo pressed forward like a rabid dog, copper blade flicking again and again.
Jaime danced back on raw instinct alone—but the dagger was fast, and Vargo's remaining hand maddeningly precise.
Thin crimson lines bloomed across Jaime's ribs and shoulder.
Left-handed. Exhausted. Bleeding.
The Kingslayer gritted his teeth.
Just when the blade in Vargo Hoat's hand was inches from Jaime's flesh,
a calm voice—dry, almost amused—cut through the night:
"I warned you, Jaime Lannister—don't play the hero."
Both men froze mid-movement, breath ragged, torsos heaving, and turned toward the source of the voice.
There stood Odin, as if he had been there all along.
At his side was Iggo, the silent Dothraki—hovering half a step behind the doctor like a shadow carved from iron.
The moment Vargo saw him, hope flared wildly in his bloodshot eye.
He strained his ruined throat and screamed:
"Iggo! My blood-sworn brother!"
"Kill the Kingslayer—now!
Harrenhal's wealth, I'll split it with you—no—take all of it!"
But Iggo did not move.
Did not blink.
Did not even acknowledge the bribe or the desperation bleeding through Vargo's voice.
The battlefield behind them had nearly fallen silent—
only a few distant metal clashes remained, and somewhere in the dark a woman was still howling a barbaric "WAAAGH!" with terrifying endurance.
The triumph on Vargo's face curdled into dread.
He spat venom:
"You ungrateful Dothraki cur—how dare you betray me?"
"I armed you! I called you brother! You thank me with treachery?"
Iggo still said nothing.
Instead, he slowly unfastened the steel longsword Vargo had once gifted him, lifted it—
and in one smooth motion let it drop.
Thud.
The sword embedded itself point-first into the mud—
right in front of Jaime Lannister.
Jaime's fingers tightened around the hilt.
He pushed himself upright—unsteady, but resolute.
Vargo's eye widened.
Horror flooded him.
He tried to surge forward—
tried to stop this—
tried to deny the future barreling toward him—
—but fever finally crushed what remained of his strength.
His vision swam, the world tilted, and his knees buckled beneath him.
Jaime stepped once, twice—
and faced the man who had taken his sword hand.
No flourish.
No flourish was needed.
Just a clean thrust—decades of training condensed into a single motion—
the blade slid through Vargo Hoat's throat as easily as a needle passing silk.
For Vargo, all things ended in that moment—
ambition, cruelty, grudges, triumphs, nightmares—
everything snuffed out like a guttering candle.
His lone eye bulged wide, locked on Jaime's face.
Then the light left it.
The body toppled backward into the mud—
the same mud that had swallowed his carriage, his pride, and finally his life.
Jaime released the sword and let it stand upright in Vargo's throat like a headstone.
In the distance, Brienne's final, thunderous "WAAAGH!" faded into silence.
Jaime exhaled—long, weary, almost relieved.
With his left hand, he tore from his neck the token of humiliation he'd been forced to wear—
his severed right hand.
"I don't need it anymore."
He dropped the grisly trophy atop Vargo's corpse.
"Take it with you."
"Go share your grave in the Seventh Hell."
He turned away without another glance.
Behind him, Odin leaned against a twisted tree, the firelight flickering across his features like shifting masks.
His expression was unreadable—but his dark eyes gleamed with something sharp and calculating.
"Not a wise choice, Ser Jaime."
"You could have ended him quickly, yet chose a fair duel instead."
"You risked your life for honor."
Jaime stopped—
looked back over his shoulder, blood and exhaustion fading beneath a thin smile that carried the old glint, the spark of the golden lion he once was.
The same glint he had back when he crossed blades
with the Smiling Knight.
"I don't lose duels, Odin."
He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, raised his chin, and declared—voice steady as steel:
"And don't you forget—"
"I still owe you a bathtub full of gold."
His eyes gleamed.
"A Lannister…"
"…always pays his debts."