Chapter 130: A Duel of Generation Talents
Artos set down the twin short swords, and the yard went quiet with the change.
"I didn't know you do dual wielding," Jaime said, glancing toward the swords Artos was setting down.
Artos looked back at Jaime. "I always could use both my hands, but I did pick up using short swords in Braavos, with their technique, and mixed it up. I am not perfect, but good enough," he said.
One of the yard boys hurried over with a longsword, dulled but weighted true, and Artos took it with the easy familiarity of a man greeting an old friend rather than picking up a tool.
Jaime watched him with open curiosity. "No twin blades for me, Stark?" After all, he was also eager to fight someone dual-wielding. He still remembered Ser Arthur Dayne, who also did the same, and he admired the man the most.
"I am still rusty," Artos said. "And definitely not a fool to use my best against you if I am doing this."
That drew a short laugh from Jaime.
"Compliments from you? Do I earn the right to brag now?" The sarcasm in the Kingslayer's tone was clear.
"Aye. Hope your father is happy," Artos shot back.
Jaime's smile didn't fade, but something calculating entered his eyes. He reached up and began unbuckling the golden lion clasps of his armor, piece by piece, handing each to a nearby squire until he stood in nothing but a simple tunic and breeches, sword in hand.
Artos frowned. "You're removing your armor?"
Jaime smirked. "It's just a spar. No need for armor. It will just make me slower."
Artos inclined his head slightly.
Barristan, standing at the yard's edge with the rest of the Kingsguard, watched the exchange with quiet, focused interest, arms folded, saying nothing.
Artos stepped into the open center of the yard, testing the ground beneath his boots, weight settling into the familiar, half-forgotten rhythm of a real duel rather than a training drill. "Any rules?"
"None that matter," Jaime said, settling into a loose, confident stance. "First blood, first fall, or first man too proud to admit he's lost. Whichever comes first." Jaime just needed a real fight against someone who could give him some competition.
"Good," Artos said. "It would be worth my time then."
For a moment, neither man moved. The yard had gone utterly silent, every training partner, every idle guard now watching with the particular stillness reserved for moments everyone somehow already knew would be worth remembering.
Then Jaime struck first.
It was fast—faster than Artos had expected, faster than the golden, lazy charm usually let on. The blade came in at an angle meant to test rather than commit, and Artos turned it aside with a motion that gave away nothing about the effort it cost him. Steel rang once, sharp and bright in the morning air, and then both men were moving.
Artos felt refreshed, a feeling in him just got excited. Though he had a cold reaction on his face, internally he was smiling, like he had finally found himself after a while.
Jaime pressed forward with the fluid, almost arrogant grace that had made him famous across the Seven Kingdoms—quick footwork, blade work that flowed from one angle into the next without pause, testing high, then low, then high again, searching for the gap that most opponents eventually gave him out of simple exhaustion.
Artos gave him no such gap and countered Jaime every move, though he wasn't aggressive as was famed. But Artos was precise, not giving even an extra inch to Jaime.
Jaime was also enjoying Artos's skills. He didn't have many men who could counter him in the realm, and this man... no... this monster was doing it again and again. It felt exhilarating to spar like this.
"You're better than the stories," Jaime said, breathing a touch harder now, blade catching Artos's in a brief lock before both disengaged.
"I thought you wouldn't be a fool believing the bullshit others were spewing. Especially you. Did you forget our first meeting? The day I spared you?" Artos replied, quite mockingly, already moving again, blade sweeping low and forcing Jaime to retreat a step.
Jaime got a bit angry listening to that. He remembered that day quite well. He was at his lowest, and Artos brought that shame and trauma upon him. But he also saved his honor. That didn't stop him from attacking with the best of him.
They traded blows in bursts—three strikes, disengage, circle, four strikes, disengage again—each exchange faster than the last, sweat beginning to darken both their collars despite the cool morning air. Robb watched with his jaw tight, hands curled unconsciously at his sides. Loras leaned forward, breath held. Even Bjorn, usually unreadable, had gone rigid with focus.
Jaime found an opening first—a feint high that drew Artos's guard up a fraction too far, followed immediately by a real strike aimed low at his ribs. Artos twisted just enough to let the blade skim past cloth rather than skin, close enough that a collective breath caught around the yard's edge.
"Close," Jaime said, something sharp and delighted flickering in his eyes.
"In your dreams, Kingslayer," Artos said, and answered with a strike that forced Jaime backward three full steps, boots scraping hard against packed dirt.
Artos, after taking a taste of the battle once, started doing once again what he was famous for: the aggressive attacks, the savageness in him, and the demon in him.
Artos started slashing the Kingslayer with more pace than before, putting the Kingslayer on the back foot and forcing Jaime onto the defensive.
The fight stretched on longer than either man had likely expected—longer than most duels in that yard ever ran, two skilled swordsmen refusing to yield.
Jaime's golden hair had come loose from its usual careful arrangement, sticking damp against his forehead. Though he might be getting pushed back right now, he was holding on.
Artos's breathing had also grown heavier, old injuries and older rust making themselves known despite weeks of brutal training.
But he never showed signs of backing down even a bit. His men could see the relentlessness in Artos. Now they knew what he was trying to teach them: a spirit and a will to never fucking back down even if you are feeling your breath getting stopped. Just fight till the end.
For a long stretch, neither man could claim the clear advantage.
Then Jaime overextended.
It was small—the kind of mistake only a man fighting at the very edge of his skill would make, a strike thrown a fraction too far. It wasn't much to cry over, as it was just normal, but when fighting against a man people call Demon, it's a death wish. Of course, they weren't fighting to the death, just a spar, but that didn't mean Artos wouldn't punish him.
Artos saw it before Jaime fully realized his own error, and he didn't waste the moment on honor or hesitation.
His leg swept low and hard, catching Jaime's front foot mid-recovery, and the golden knight's balance broke all at once, the ground rushing up to meet him faster than his considerable skill could compensate for.
Jaime hit the dirt hard, breath driven from his lungs in a sharp grunt.
Artos was already moving, the hand pressing firm and slammed immediately against the exposed line of Jaime's throat before he'd even finished processing that he'd fallen.
Silence swallowed the yard whole.
"Yield," Artos said, though it wasn't needed—just a formality, a habit he picked up during his time as a Hand, to be formal.
Jaime lay still for a heartbeat, hand at his throat, something between disbelief and reluctant, genuine amusement crossing his features.
"That," he said hoarsely, "was not very knightly." Though he said it just for the sake of it, he didn't mean that.
"And? I am not fucking no knight. I am a fucking warrior from the North."
Jaime just sighed at that. "Ah Yes, the Demon of the North."
Around them, the yard exhaled all at once—Robb's shoulders dropping in obvious relief, Loras letting out a low whistle of appreciation, even a few of the watching Kingsguard exchanging quiet, impressed murmurs they clearly hadn't intended anyone to overhear.
Barristan, still standing at the yard's edge, allowed himself the smallest, knowing smile, saying nothing at all.
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