Vargo, who had originally held the upper hand, felt humiliated. He immediately roared and lunged forward, grabbing the heavy broadsword and gripping it with both hands.
Compared to Jaime, he had no chivalry to speak of. As soon as he got the blade, he attacked first.
Roaring, he swung the rounded broadsword and chopped down fiercely. This strike was heavy and powerful. If it hit, Jaime, relying solely on his left hand, would be absolutely unable to block it.
However, Vargo had lost an eye, and coupled with the dizziness from high fever, this strike was crooked and slanted, missing Jaime by a full half-foot.
Jaime reacted quickly. He sidestepped and slid, his movements simple and efficient, like the countless drills he had done over the years in Casterly Rock and the Red Keep.
He instinctively wanted to counterattack with his right hand, but immediately realized his situation and awkwardly thrust horizontally with his left hand.
But how could the strength of his left hand compare to his dominant right hand?
Without his dominant hand, Jaime's accuracy was also quite poor. The sword stabbed into Vargo's thick breastplate. Vargo swung his sword to parry, but having lost an eye, he couldn't accurately judge the sword's trajectory in combat, and the broadsword missed completely.
Clang!
The longsword struck the breastplate with a crisp impact. Jaime felt a sour numbness in his left wrist, and the blade vibrated violently, almost flying out of his hand.
He had undergone the strictest training since childhood. Yet, despite his extraordinary talent, he felt incredibly strained at this moment, as if he were holding not a sword, but an untamable iron rod.
Seeing his strike miss, Vargo roared again and swept horizontally.
Jaime leaped backward to avoid the edge, but his footing stumbled, and he nearly fell.
The broadsword whistled past his waist, tearing his clothes—a terrifyingly close call.
After several rounds of offense and defense, most of Vargo's chops missed or were barely parried by Jaime in extremely awkward and ungraceful postures.
Jaime's counterattacks were also soft and weak. Though the angles were tricky, they lacked power. Several thrusts that could have been fatal failed because his left hand couldn't exert force smoothly.
One Xiahou Dun, one Yang Guo—the two grappled together like this, the scene utterly unsightly.
"Such clumsy swordsmanship... far worse than even when I was a squire for Sumner Crakehall."
During a gap in parrying, this absurd thought flashed through Jaime's mind.
Back then, he was young and strong, with both hands intact. Every movement was natural, and even the Sword of the Morning had praised his talent in swordsmanship.
But now, two formerly outstanding swordsmen were messing around in the mud like children holding wooden sticks.
Truly ironic.
While his mind wandered, the movements of his hands and the steps under his feet gradually became more practiced.
Vargo, on the other hand, was constantly eroded by blood loss, high fever, and the imbalance caused by his single eye due to his severe injuries.
After another missed chop, he felt dizzy and his footing became unsteady. Jaime seized the opportunity and slashed directly at the wrist holding the sword!
Squelch!
Blood spurted, but the force wasn't enough to chop off that ugly right hand.
However, it wasn't completely useless.
"Argh!"
Vargo cried out in pain. The broadsword dropped from his hand. His right wrist was half severed, dangling by connected flesh.
He lost his balance and fell heavily into the mud, splashing filth everywhere.
Jaime glanced at the opponent's right hand, a trace of regret flashing through his mind.
If my right hand were still here, this strike would definitely have chopped that hand right off!
Panting heavily, he took a step forward, pointing the sword in his left hand at Vargo's throat.
The moment of revenge was right before him, but Jaime felt an incredible calm in his heart.
But just then, Vargo pointed behind Jaime and hissed, "That woman, she's dying!"
Jaime's heart tightened violently!
Brienne?
Reason told him the opponent was playing a trick, but instinct forced Jaime's body to honestly turn his head to look behind him, yet he saw nothing.
Fooled...
Sure enough, in the moment he was distracted, Vargo Hoat sprang up from the mud and slammed hard into Jaime's sword-wielding left hand!
Thud!
His left hand's grip was already unstable. Coupled with being caught off guard, the fierce collision sent the longsword flying out of his hand, drawing an arc in the air and landing a few steps away.
"Stupid fool, a fool all your life!"
Vargo laughed loudly, pulling a dagger from his boot and waving it constantly at Jaime. Unarmed, Jaime could only rely on years of trained footwork to struggle against the opponent.
However, this guy's left hand was also quite agile. The dagger soon left quite a few cuts on Jaime's body.
In this perilous moment, a calm voice laced with a hint of teasing sounded not far away.
"I told you, don't be a hero, Jaime Lannister."
This voice made both entangled men pause simultaneously, turning their heads with difficulty to look.
Corleone was standing there at some point, and beside him stood the silent Dothraki warrior, Iggo.
Seeing Iggo, Vargo was instantly ecstatic, shouting hoarsely with all his might, "Iggo, my Bloodrider!"
"Quick! Help me kill this Kingslayer! I'll give you half of Harrenhal's wealth... no, all of it!"
However, facing his command, the always loyal Iggo acted as if he hadn't heard anything, just standing silently half a step behind Corleone, his face expressionless.
The shouts of killing in the distance had basically subsided, leaving only sporadic clashes of blades and a certain woman's full-throated "Waaagh!!!" continuing.
The ecstasy on Vargo's face froze instantly. He immediately sensed something was wrong and cursed loudly, "Iggo, you damn Dothraki dog, you dare betray me?"
"I gave you weapons, I treated you as a brother! You ungrateful bastard!"
Listening to Vargo's abuse, Iggo didn't refute a single word.
He just silently unbuckled the fine steel longsword at his waist, the one Vargo had personally gifted him.
With a toss of his arm, the sword fell freely in the air, landing precisely in front of the half-kneeling Jaime.
Jaime gripped the sword and stood up unsteadily.
Watching this scene, immense shock and despair overwhelmed Vargo.
He struggled to step forward to stop the opponent, but suddenly the world spun before his eyes. The high fever finally defeated this tough Commander of the Brave Companions.
Arriving in front of Vargo, Jaime looked at his nemesis who could barely stand and took a step forward.
Without any fancy moves, relying only on the instinct trained over many years, he thrust forward steadily. The blade pierced smoothly through Vargo Hoat's throat.
Everything—ambition, cruelty, hatred—came to an abrupt halt at this moment.
Vargo's single remaining eye stared wide, fixed on Jaime, until finally, the light faded completely.
His body fell backward, slamming heavily into the mud once again, and for the last time.
Jaime released the hilt, leaving the longsword stuck in Vargo's throat. Looking at the corpse at his feet, his face held no expression.
In the distance, Brienne's "Waaagh!!!" sound, more majestic than any man's, finally stopped as well.
A deep exhaustion and relief appeared in Jaime's eyes. Reaching out with his left hand, he roughly tore off the severed hand that had been hanging around his neck, symbolizing humiliation.
"I don't need it anymore."
Saying this, he threw it directly onto Vargo Hoat's corpse.
"Take it."
"Go to the Seven Hells together."
After saying this, he didn't look at the corpse again and turned around.
Corleone was leaning quietly against a tree trunk, like a detached spectator who had watched the entire duel.
There was still no expression on his face, only those bottomless black eyes shining with indescribable light under the flickering firelight.
"That wasn't wise, Ser Jaime Lannister."
Corleone's calm voice sounded, indistinguishable as praise or criticism. "You had the chance to kill him directly but chose a fair duel. This made you bear unnecessary risks."
Jaime looked at him, the exhaustion in his heart seemingly dispelled a little.
Raising his hand to wipe the blood splatter from his face with his sleeve, he grinned. That smile carried the pride and confidence unique to House Lannister, and even a few traces of his younger self.
Just like when he dueled the Smiling Knight.
"I won't lose, Vito Corleone."
His tone was resolute. "Don't forget, I still owe you a bathtub of Gold Dragons."
"And a Lannister... always pays his debts!"