Chapter 168

The usurper and the kingslayer—two Targaryen killers—faced each other.

Myrcella was still screaming and crying, struggling to persuade her “father” and “uncle” to stop fighting. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard, loyal to the king, obeyed Robert’s orders: one pulling back the prince and the other restraining the princess. Both had their hands on their sword hilts, ready to act at a moment’s notice.

As a member of the Kingsguard, Jaime felt a bitterness unlike any he had experienced before. His sacred vows now pitted him against the very man he was sworn to protect. The steel sword in his hand felt as heavy as a millstone.

Cersei cowered behind a table, screeching like a cornered cat. “Strike now, Jaime! He’s stalling for time until the City Watch arrives!”

“Stalling for time?” Robert let out a furious laugh, his anger boiling over. He knew Cersei was goading him, but even if she were right, he refused to let her win. “You bitch! Once I’ve smashed your precious brother into a bloody pulp, I’ll come for you next!”

With that, Robert raised his warhammer and charged at Jaime, the weapon crashing down with the speed and force of a falling star.

(For a fat man, he’s surprisingly agile. No wonder he dares to fight me head-on.) That thought barely crossed Jaime’s mind before sword and hammer clashed once more. The sharp, discordant sound of their collision echoed through the room.

In that brief moment, Jaime felt two things: first, his sword had been nicked by the hammer, leaving a jagged notch. Second, despite his barrel-shaped body, Robert’s strength was as formidable as ever. Jaime couldn’t afford to meet his blows head-on.

Robert’s strength and speed were unexpected, but they weren’t insurmountable. Jaime estimated his own chances of victory at around 80 percent. Yet, instead of retaliating, he took a step back, his thoughts swirling.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered relentlessly: Do you really want to kill a king again? To betray your vows a second time?
----


Had the fight truly erupted when Robert swung at Cersei earlier, both men might already be dead—Robert slain by a furious Jaime, and Jaime cut down by the enraged Kingsguard behind him. But because Cersei had dodged the hammer, and because Myrcella’s cries had briefly interrupted the fight, the momentary pause had allowed Robert to regain focus and Jaime to temper his anger with reason.

Trial by combat. If Jaime won, it would supposedly prove his and Cersei’s innocence. But Jaime knew better. This was no fair duel. Robert, consumed by rage, wasn’t thinking about losing—he only cared about killing the man he believed had cuckolded him. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of defeat.

If Jaime lost, Robert would undoubtedly carry out his threat to “smash him into a bloody pulp.” But if Jaime won? If he killed Robert? The rest of the Kingsguard would never honor Robert’s offhand promise of a trial by combat. Jaime would forever bear the title of “kingslayer” and be condemned for a second regicide. Even if he somehow escaped the Red Keep alive, with the City Watch closing in, he wouldn’t get far. To flee King’s Landing, cross the Crownlands, and return to Casterly Rock was a near-impossible feat.

The voice of doubt continued to plague Jaime, making him hesitate. But his opponent, driven by unadulterated rage, was wholly unburdened by such thoughts. Robert had never imagined he could lose. The last man who had dared to touch his woman—Rhaegar Targaryen—had been more handsome and more skilled than Jaime, and now that prince’s grave was marked by a tree large enough to offer shade.

“You filthy… Lannister… bastard!” Robert roared, spitting the words one by one. Before he finished his sentence, his warhammer whistled through the air once more, the force of its swing causing the air to whip painfully against Jaime’s face.

Jaime dared not parry with the blade’s edge and instead used the flat of his sword to deflect the blow. The hammer veered off course but still managed to scrape against Jaime’s breastplate, leaving a deep groove. The weapon’s spiked head caught on his shoulder guard, tearing the polished metal from its rivets. The dislodged piece dangled from Jaime’s arm, leaving him rattled.
----


Jaime’s heart raced. Logic told him to remain focused, but unbidden memories surfaced: a conversation he had once had with Barristan Selmy about the Battle of the Trident. Barristan had recounted how Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful prince, should have won that battle. By all accounts, Rhaegar’s martial skill far exceeded Robert’s. The prince had fought with poise and precision, emerging unscathed while directing his troops and even attempting to negotiate with his enemy during brief lulls in their duel.

Robert, on the other hand, had been a bloodied mess, his body pierced by several sword strikes, his armor soaked in crimson. Yet, despite the odds, Robert had emerged victorious—not through skill, but through sheer brutality. Rhaegar’s horse had stumbled midstream, throwing its rider into chaos. Robert had seized the moment, delivering a single devastating blow with his warhammer that shattered the ruby on Rhaegar’s chestplate and caved in his ribcage. The dragon prince had died instantly, his final words an offer of mercy to the man who killed him.

Robert was stronger than Jaime had expected. His odds of victory dropped to 70 percent.

Spotting an opening, Jaime lunged forward with a calculated thrust aimed at Robert’s protruding belly. But Robert didn’t bother to defend. Instead, he roared and swung his hammer in a wild arc. Jaime was forced to abandon his strike and leap back to avoid the blow. His blade, which might have pierced Robert’s armor, sparked harmlessly as it was withdrawn.

Jaime was technically superior to Robert, but in this fight, technicality mattered little. He could land a hundred strikes, but all it would take was one of Robert’s hammer blows to end him. Caution was paramount.

Cersei, watching her brother falter, grew increasingly frantic. Gripping the edge of the table, she shouted, “Jaime, circle him! He’s slower than you!”

“Circle him?” Jaime muttered under his breath, sidestepping another swing. “Dear sister, you don’t need to teach a Kingsguard how to fight.”

The room was no tourney ground. It was a bedchamber cluttered with furniture—tables, chairs, bookcases, and racks—all of which served as obstacles but weren’t sturdy or large enough to truly provide cover. Jaime darted around a table, only to watch Robert smash it to splinters with a single swing. The room quickly devolved into chaos, with shattered furniture, fallen objects, and the sound of crashing debris drowning out Myrcella’s cries.

“Hah! What’s wrong, kingslayer? Too tired to fight back?” Robert taunted, his voice booming. He paused to catch his breath before charging forward again, hammer raised high.
----


Jaime truly hadn’t eaten that day, but his lack of energy wasn’t the issue. His mind was consumed with questions. How could he win and still protect Cersei? Today’s events were destined to end badly, no matter the outcome. His only hope was to defeat Robert without killing him, forcing him to concede Jaime and Cersei’s innocence, and then using the leverage to escape King’s Landing with Cersei.

But how could he subdue a rampaging bear like Robert? Killing him would be easy. Capturing him alive was another matter entirely.

Jaime noticed a pattern: Robert’s attacks, though ferocious, came in bursts. After two or three swings, he would need to pause and recover. Years of wine and gluttony had taken their toll. If Jaime could endure, he might have a chance to wear Robert down and take him alive.

The clash of steel and hammer continued, Jaime dodging and weaving in a zigzag pattern to avoid direct confrontation. But the room’s confined space amplified Robert’s brute strength, leaving Jaime with little room to maneuver. His constant retreat forced him to step blindly over the scattered debris.

His foot caught on something, and though he managed to kick it away and regain his balance, the momentary stumble gave Robert the opening he needed.

The warhammer came crashing down. Jaime raised his sword to block, knowing full well that a longsword was no match for a warhammer.

With a deafening clang, the hammer struck. The blade buckled under the force, bending grotesquely before the impact drove it against Jaime’s chest. He staggered back, nearly losing his grip on the weapon. His chest burned with pain, but he gritted his teeth and raised the now-bent sword.

Robert laughed, his chest heaving. “Kingslayer, looks like you could use a Valyrian steel sword! Oh, that’s right—you don’t have one. Your idiot ancestor lost it!”

Still laughing, Robert raised his hammer for another strike. Jaime, his weapon damaged and his body aching, braced himself for what would come next.