Lo Quen didn't so much as glance at him. Seated calmly upon the throne, he raised a glass of pear brandy and took a slow, unhurried sip.
At his side, "Jorah" barked sharply, his voice echoing through the hall. "Lannister, shut your mouth—or I'll have you on the ground begging for mercy."
He stepped forward with ghostlike speed. With a crisp metallic hiss, the Valyrian steel blade at his waist—its surface rippling with dark, watery patterns—slid free of its sheath. The cold, gleaming tip leveled directly at Jaime's throat.
Startled by the lightning-fast draw, Jaime's pupils narrowed. Recognition flickered across his face before twisting into a mocking sneer.
"Ser Jorah. I almost forgot—the North's banished dog has found a new master. Do you remember the tourney at Lannisport years ago? You beat me then. How about a real contest this time—a duel of blades, man to man?"
"Jorah" turned to Lo Quen, who gave a slight nod.
Jaime drew his own finely crafted longsword, its steel gleaming with intricate ornamentation, and faced off against "Jorah" in the middle of the hall.
The two squared off in the center of the palace, tension thick as ice in the air.
At Stannis's side, Ser Davos frowned deeply, lowering his voice. "My lord, should we stop Ser Jaime?"
Stannis's expression did not waver. His thin lips parted, his tone cold and unyielding as forged iron. "He demanded a duel. The King of Tyrosh has sent his champion. Let them fight."
Ser Davos gave a small nod in acknowledgment.
Eddard Stark cast a glance toward Stannis. Seeing no objection, he too held his tongue.
It was an honorable duel—nothing worth interfering in.
And truth be told, his relationship with Jaime Lannister had never been warm. Watching him fall on his face would be a welcome sight.
...
Without warning, "Jorah" lunged.
No feints. No wasted motion.
He shot forward like a loosed bolt, a blur of lethal momentum that closed the distance in an instant.
Too fast!
Jaime barely registered the movement before a blast of cutting wind struck his face.
Every instinct screamed danger. In a rush, he switched from a one-handed grip to both hands, raising his sword to block.
"CLANG!"
The sound exploded through the hall, sparks spraying like stars.
An immense force slammed into Jaime's blade—like being struck by a battering ram. His arms shook violently; the skin between his thumb and forefinger split open, blood welling out. He stumbled back three steps, boots skidding across the floor before he steadied himself.
The color drained from his face.
He stared in disbelief.
"Jorah" was fighting one-handed.
Impossible.
His mind screamed denial. Jorah had never possessed such monstrous strength. No one could change so drastically in just a few short years.
But "Jorah" gave him no time to think.
The Valyrian steel blade cut through the air with a shrill whistle, raining down blow after blow like a storm unleashed.
Each strike was heavy, precise, merciless.
Jaime gritted his teeth, mustering every ounce of skill to block and evade.
Every clash rang with shrieking steel and sent fresh tremors up his arms.
His immaculate white enameled armor, once pristine, was now marred—wherever the Valyrian blade grazed, deep gouges tore through the glaze, exposing the metal beneath.
Cold sweat trickled down his temple. His breathing came fast and ragged.
His strength was fading with alarming speed. Each parry left his arms number, heavier.
Meanwhile, "Jorah" fought effortlessly—his off-hand tucked behind his back, steps steady, every motion smooth and composed, as if this were no battle but a training display.
Worse still, Jaime's ornate longsword, forged of fine steel, fared pitifully against Valyrian steel.
With every collision, new cracks splintered along the blade, its edge curling and breaking, emitting a tortured metallic whine.
"CLANG!"
Another brutal impact. Jaime poured all his strength into the block. His legs buckled under the shock, trembling uncontrollably as sweat poured down his face.
Then—just as his strength faltered—"Jorah" shifted his wrist, unleashing a sudden surge of power.
"Ugh—!"
Jaime's choked cry filled the air. His knees gave way, and he crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.
The ruined longsword in his hands gave a pitiful groan and snapped cleanly in two.
Before the shattered blade even hit the ground, "Jorah's" Valyrian steel sword descended like a flash of shadow.
The edge bit through the ornate porcelain-glazed shoulder plate with terrifying ease, cutting deep into flesh and bone.
"AAAH—!"
Jaime's scream tore through the hall, shattering the silence.
Blood burst forth in a crimson spray, soaking his white cloak and staining half his armor red.
Had "Jorah" not pulled back his strength at the final instant, that stroke would have cleaved Jaime from shoulder to hip in a single blow.
"Jorah" gave a cold snort and flicked his wrist, yanking the bloodied blade free from Jaime's shoulder.
Without hesitation, he lifted his boot and drove it mercilessly into Jaime's chest.
Thud!
Jaime flew backward like a hurled stone, the sheer force sending him crashing across the hall. He hit the hard stone floor ten feet away, rolling several times before coming to a stop. Dust clung to the once-pristine white of his cloak.
Pain and humiliation so intense it blurred his vision surged through him. Gasping, he struggled to rise, emerald eyes blazing with wild fury. Grabbing the broken sword from the ground, he roared and charged at "Jorah" again.
What greeted him was a faster, heavier kick.
Thump!
Jaime was launched once more—this time slamming hard into a marble pillar. He grunted, collapsing in a heap. Blood spilled from his mouth as he curled up on the ground, trembling, unable to rise. Only pained gasps and muffled groans escaped his lips.
The hall fell deathly silent. The entire delegation of the Seven Kingdoms could only stare in shock at the one-sided slaughter before them.
At fifteen, Jaime Lannister had been knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, for helping put down the Kingswood Brotherhood. Across the Seven Kingdoms, there were few who could best him in single combat.
Even Jorah Mormont, famed for his own formidable skill, had only managed to draw with Jaime during the tourney at Lannisport.
Even if Jorah had surpassed him, it shouldn't have been this effortless.
Yet before their eyes, "Jorah" was dismantling Jaime Lannister without even breaking a sweat.
Eddard Stark's expression grew colder still.
Ever since hearing from captured Westerosi nobles that Jorah Mormont harbored ambitions to replace House Stark as Warden of the North, he had come to loathe the man completely.
"Jorah" walked forward, his Valyrian steel blade dripping blood. He stopped before the fallen Jaime, the cold point of his sword nearly brushing the knight's nose.
His voice was filled with open contempt. "Do you want to keep going? No matter how many times we fight, you'll never be my equal. One hand is all I need to put you down."
The words pierced what little pride Jaime still had left.
Gritting his teeth against the stabbing pain from his shoulder, he lifted his head. His face—smeared with dust, sweat, and blood—twisted with humiliation and hate. His emerald eyes burned with venom as he glared at "Jorah," as if he could devour him whole.
The lion's pride refused to die. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his broken sword as though he still meant to strike.
"Enough!"
Stannis's voice cut through the tension like a blade of ice. "Ser Jaime, you are no match for him. Yield now, or I'll return to King's Landing with your head."
"Jorah" tilted his sword upward, the point leveling at Jaime once more. "And you'll apologize for insulting our king. If you refuse, you won't leave this hall alive."
Jaime's entire body trembled, the sheer weight of humiliation threatening to choke him.
He glared up at "Jorah," then glanced down at the broken sword in his hand. For a moment, Cersei's face flashed before his mind—waiting for him back in King's Landing.
His breathing steadied. His voice, though taut with anger, came out in a forced, gritted tone. "I yield. And to His Grace, the King of Tyrosh—I apologize. I should not have insulted you."
When he finished speaking, Stannis gestured for one of the Westerlands attendants to step forward and tend to Jaime's wounds.
...
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