Author's Note:
I made a couple of more images:
(Ser Lucion Lannister --->)
(Ser Dorren Snow --->)
[The Riverlands, Before the Walls of Riverrun, 2nd Moon, 299 AC]
Steel rang as blade met blade.
The sound was sharp enough to cut through everything else, the shouting, the screams, the pounding of hooves and boots, and for a brief moment, it was the only thing Alaric Stark heard as Ice met Jaime Lannister's blade with a force that ran clean through his arms and into his shoulders.
He held the line of it, feet planted, weight settled, not leaning forward, not giving ground, and in that first contact alone, he understood something that no report or tale could have fully prepared him for.
Jaime was strong.
Their blades parted as Jaime stepped back, sizing him up and preparing for his new opponent. Lucion, to his credit, was about to stand with Alaric, but instead of risking another one of his friends, Alaric waved him away.
"Go, help organize the men and clear these bastards out, it's time the Kingslayer and I have a long-awaited dance," Alaric said, eyes never leaving the form of Jaime Lannister, one of the greatest knights of his time, or so they say.
Choosing to obey his lord rather than argue, Lucion charged toward the nearest Lannister soldier, leaving Alaric and Jaime to their duel.
Immediately, they both shifted, readying themselves for the clash, and soon it came. Ice swung low in a short arc, slashing up diagonally, only to be parried by Jaime's longsword, quickly sending a reposte back, thrusting his blade, only to be swatted away in kind by Alaric's gauntlet.
As they continued to fight, a thrust met a slash, and a wide swing responded; blades sparking and sliding off one another. That's when Alaric realized something else about Jaime.
Not only was he strong, but he had a quick sword arm too.
Not just quick in the way most training fighting men were, it wasn't the reckless speed of someone swinging too hard and too often, but a controlled, measured speed that wasted nothing and gave nothing away. Every strike that followed came almost immediately, not wild, not even committed, just a testing cut that slid toward his side, probing for a weakness before the first round of their clash had even truly ended.
Alaric turned it aside with the flat of Ice, not chasing the blade or answering in kind. He did not move more than he needed to. That much he had decided before they had ever crossed steel.
Jaime stepped back half a pace, just enough to reset, his eyes fixed, clear, not clouded by the chaos around them.
"You're not what I expected," Jaime said, his voice even despite the battle still raging all around them. "Most men your age try to prove something in the first exchange."
Alaric adjusted his grip on Ice, feeling the weight of it settle again into something familiar.
"I don't need to prove anything to you," he almost growled, feeling Tempest's and Cinder's emotions bleeding into him, making a conscious effort to subdue the feral rage that was building.
Jaime's mouth twitched faintly.
"No," he said. "I suppose you don't."
Then he moved again.
Faster this time.
The second exchange of blows came harder, Jaime stepping in with a cut that forced Alaric to shift his footing, not back, but slightly to the side, the blade sliding off Ice with a ringing scrape before turning again, aiming lower, toward the thigh. Alaric brought his knee back just enough, the edge missing by inches, and answered not with speed, but with weight.
Ice came down in a heavy arc, not meant to catch Jaime clean, but to force him to react, to move, to feel the presence of the weapon rather than simply test around it.
Jaime did not block it directly.
He slipped aside, the motion smooth, almost effortless, the greatsword biting into the ground where he had stood a heartbeat before.
"Your swings are too heavy," Jaime said as he moved again, his blade flicking toward Alaric's arm.
"And yet controlled enough to take on the likes of you," Alaric snarled, catching it this time and pushing it away.
They circled.
Not in a wide or dramatic way, but just enough to keep each other in front of them, feet shifting over ground that was already slick in places, bodies lying where they had fallen, broken spears and shields scattered underfoot.
A man rushed past them from the side, shouting something neither of them listened to.
He did not make it three steps.
Jaime's blade moved without thought, a short, clean cut that opened the man's throat as he passed, the motion so quick it barely seemed separate from the duel itself.
Alaric did not look at the body as it fell.
He stepped forward.
This time, he pushed first.
Ice drove forward, not a swing but a thrust, forcing Jaime to bring his blade up to meet it, the impact jarring, the difference in weight between their weapons clear in the way Jaime's arm shifted under the force.
Not true weight, for Valyrian steel was light as a feather, no, more so, it was the kind of weight felt between two men fighting for their lives, Alaric's blade just slightly heavier due to his will and conviction.
As they continued to exchange blow for blow, Jaime began to start giving ground.
Only a step.
But it was there.
"You've learned," Jaime said, adjusting his stance, his eyes never leaving Alaric's. "Most men with a blade like that rely on it to win the fight for them."
"Well, Kingslayer, I'm not most men now, am I?" Alaric replied, eyes narrowing as he felt a chilling calm wash over him, the weight of two lives experiences coming over him.
"No," Jaime agreed. "You sure as hell are not, Stark."
He moved again.
And this time, he drew blood.
The cut came from an angle Alaric had not fully tracked, a quick turn of the wrist, the blade slipping past his guard just enough to catch the side of his ribs, slicing into boiled leather, shallow but real, the bite of it sharp and immediate before the heat followed.
Alaric felt it, registered it, but did not react beyond tightening his stance.
Jaime saw it.
Of course he did.
"That's better," Jaime said. "Now I know you can bleed."
Alaric did not answer.
He stepped forward instead, closing the distance, bringing Ice into play in a way that forced Jaime to respond not just with speed, but with strength.
The next exchange was heavier.
Jaime blocked, but not cleanly, the force of the blow, pushing him back another half step, his boots sliding slightly on the blood-slick ground before he caught himself.
He answered with a quick series of strikes, not meant to kill, but to force Alaric to defend, to keep him from pressing that advantage further.
Alaric let him.
Not out of hesitation, but because he was adapting to his fighting style.
His rhythm.
Even his reach.
The way he shifted his weight just before committing to a strike.
The way he did not commit fully unless he believed it would land.
Another man stumbled into them from the side, a man of House Greenfield, swinging wildly, more panic than purpose in the movement.
Alaric turned just enough, catching the blade on Ice and driving forward, his shoulder slamming into the man's chest, sending him back before finishing it with a short, brutal cut that dropped him where he stood.
Jaime did not waste the moment.
His blade came in low, fast, aiming for the back of Alaric's knee.
Alaric twisted, the edge scraping along his armor instead of cutting through, and answered immediately, Ice coming across in a horizontal sweep that forced Jaime to duck under it, the wind of the blade passing just above his head.
They broke apart again.
Breathing heavier now.
Not exhausted.
But no longer fresh.
"You adapt quickly," Jaime said.
Alaric's voice was steady.
"I'm a Northerner, we don't like wasting our time."
Jaime gave a small nod.
"Well then, I guess I'd better make this worth your time, now, shall we continue?"
Not caring to wait for a reply from Alaric, he came forward again.
This time harder again, as if that were even a possibility, for they had both been giving it their all for a while now.
Despite his apparent fatigue, the strikes came fast, one after another, each one placed, deliberately, hoping to force Alaric to move more than he had before, to turn, to shift, to give ground not because he chose to, but because Jaime forced him to.
The second wound came then.
Deeper than the first.
Jaime's blade slipped through a gap in his defenses and caught his upper left arm, biting through leather and into flesh, the pain sharp enough to draw a brief tightening in Alaric's jaw before he pushed it aside.
Jaime saw that too.
"Feeling it now?" he asked, not in his usually mocking tone, but steady, even.
Alaric stepped in again.
"Enough of the banter, Lannister," he said.
Ice came down.
Jaime blocked, but the impact drove him back another step, his arm absorbing the force, his stance tightening to hold it.
This time, Alaric did not let him reset.
He pressed.
Not wildly, or in a careless manner, but with intent.
Each strike forced Jaime to respond, to move, to defend rather than attack, and for a few moments, the rhythm shifted.
Jaime was not dictating it anymore.
He was reacting.
But not for long.
He changed it again.
A sudden shift in angle, a step inside the reach of Ice, the blade coming in close, where the greatsword was harder to bring to bear.
Alaric felt it immediately.
The difference in space.
The danger.
Jaime's strike came fast, aimed high, then turned at the last moment, dropping toward his side.
Alaric caught it late, the edge scraping across his armor again, closer this time, the force of it enough to stagger him half a step before he drove forward, using his weight to push Jaime back out of that close range.
They locked for a moment.
Blade against blade.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Jaime was even stronger than he had expected.
"You fight like a wild beast, like one of those giant wolves of yours, I'll give you that," Jaime said, his voice lower now, more focused.
Alaric didn't respond this time, not giving him the dignity of a response to his prodding.
Jaime gave a short breath that might have been a laugh.
"What's wrong, Stark? Have you finally realized that I'm out of your skill reach?" He mocked, bracing himself for movement.
They soon broke apart again.
The battle around them surged.
Men clashed, fell, shouted, died.
Some noticed them.
Most did not.
Dorren stepped closer at one point, Shadow moving with him, the wolf's attention fixed on Jaime in a way that was not entirely natural.
Alaric did not look at him.
"Stay back, this one is mine," he said.
Dorren hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then nodded and pulled away.
He turned and sliced a man down the chest, rushing once more into the fray, Shadow with him.
This was not a fight to be shared.
Around them, Tempest and Cinder acted in tandem, ripping apart any would-be saviors for the Kingslayer.
Turning his attention back, Alaric swung Ice, parrying a blow only for Jaime to come again.
Faster.
Harder.
There was no testing now.
No probing.
Just intent, their duel had finally reached the point where both had resigned themselves to one universal truth of battle, only one of them would walk away from this battle.
The flurry of strikes that followed forced Alaric onto the defensive in a way he had not been yet, each movement coming just quickly enough that he had to respond rather than anticipate, the edge of Jaime's blade finding gaps, not fully, not cleanly, but enough to remind him again and again how close this was.
One strike came through too cleanly.
Too fast.
Alaric saw it late.
Too late.
He brought Ice up, but not in time to fully stop it.
The blade slipped past, aimed for his throat.
He turned his head, the edge grazing along his neck instead of cutting through it, close enough that he felt the line of it, the heat, the threat of what it could have been.
Jaime stepped back, breathing harder now.
"That should have been it," he spat out, his breathing slow and heavy.
Alaric's voice was calm, a low laugh even escaping his mouth.
"And yet, it wasn't."
Jaime nodded, his stance tightening, sword rising again in defiance to his fatigue.
"No," he said. "It bloody well wasn't."
They circled again.
Slower now.
More deliberate.
Both of them feeling it.
The strain.
The weight.
The reality that this was not ending quickly.
Another man rushed in, slipping past his two direwolf companions as they were busy tearing apart another Lannister man-at-arms.
This newcomer, like the others, was desperate.
Bleeding and in a battle frenzy, not realizing the colossal fuck up that was coming near him at this moment.
Alaric did not even fully turn.
Ice moved.
The man dropped, his head rolling beside him.
Jaime used the distraction again, stepping inside his guard, blade flashing.
Alaric met it this time, not late, or reacting to a blow in a late manner, but ready.
Their blades clashed again.
Harder than before.
The sound rang out.
And this time, Alaric did not give ground.
He pushed, all of his strength and will rising within him, the experiences he lived coming to the surface, the cold resolve of a king first and foremost.
But most importantly, the relentless nature that the Kings of Winter were known for.
Each strike forcing Jaime to absorb the weight of it, to step back, to defend rather than attack.
Jaime adjusted.
He always did, fucking golden boy of the Lannisters.
Despite that, the space between them was different now.
The distance.
The control.
Alaric had seized total control of it.
For the first time in their duel, the lion was truly on the back foot.
Jaime must have realized it based on the strained look in his eyes.
"Fucking hell, Stark, you've grown stronger somehow," he said.
"Aye, a wolf learns the more he hunts," Alaric replied.
Jaime's grip tightened slightly.
"And yet, wolves are still no match for a roaring lion."
Alaric grinned at that, in his mind, Jaime was now resembling closer to that of a corned house cat rather than a lion.
Deciding to capitalize on his newfound advantage, he launched forward again.
Ice came down.
Jaime blocked.
But not cleanly.
The force drove him back another step.
Then another.
And then, foot sliding through the damp mud…
Jaime slipped.
Just slightly.
Yet it was just enough.
His foot caught on something unseen beneath the churned ground.
Alaric saw it.
And this time, he did not hesitate.
Ice came through in a full, committed arc.
Jaime, to his credit, tried his damnedest to recover.
Oh, how the Kingslayer tried, but not hard enough.
He brought his blade up, but he was unfortunately too late.
The valyrian steel greatsword struck.
The impact was final.
Jaime Lannister fell.
And for a moment, everything else seemed to fall with him.
Lying in the red and churned mud, the Kingslayer lay dead, his body almost sliced in half from his shoulder down to his opposite armpit.
One of the greatest knights of his time, and Tywin Lannister's golden son, now lay dead, eyes dull, blood pooling around him, dying his once golden armor crimson red.
Seizing the moment for what it was, Alaric summoned the rest of his strength, his body battered, bloody, and screaming, but despite that, he lifted the corpse of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and roared for all to hear, almost inhumanly.
"Jaime Lannister is dead! Alaric Stark has slain the Kingslayer, now kill the rest of these lion bastards!"
As if responding like wolves howling after a successful hunt, the northern hosts, all three, seemed to roar in unison, cutting through and devastating the remaining westerlanders.
The Battle was now almost at its end, and Alaric, not letting himself more than a moment to rest, despite the protests of his body, rushed back into the carnage, Tempest and Cinder at his side, his Winter Guard forming up around him.
It was time to end this damn battle.