Fall of the Kingslayer

The battlefield was a sea of blood and steel. The screams of dying men mixed with the desperate cries of those still fighting, their voices swallowed by the ringing clash of swords and the dull, meaty thuds of axes biting into flesh. The Whispering Wood had become a slaughterhouse. The once-verdant clearing was now soaked in mud and blood, bodies piled in broken heaps where men had fought and fallen, their lifeblood seeping into the earth.

Robb Stark sat atop his horse at the heart of the chaos, surveying the battlefield with sharp, calculating eyes. His armor was spattered with blood—some of it his, most of it not. His gloved fingers tightened around the reins as Grey Wind prowled beside him, his fur darkened with gore. The Direwolf moved like a ghost through the carnage, his snarls lost beneath the cacophony of war, his golden eyes glowing in the firelight of the torches scattered across the field.

The battle had reached its climax, and the Lannisters were fighting like caged beasts. No retreat. No surrender. No escape. That was the mistake Robb had made—he had trapped them too well. A cornered animal was the most dangerous of all, and now the Kingslayer's men were proving it.

Across the battlefield, pockets of Lannister soldiers still fought with the desperate fury of men who knew they were already dead. Some had cast aside their swords and grappled with their enemies like madmen, trying to drag them down to the grave with them. Others hacked at Northmen and Riverlanders with a savage abandon that sent men screaming to the ground, clutching their spilling entrails. It was a fight unlike any Robb had ever seen—pure, unfiltered desperation.

He shouted for reinforcements, his voice hoarse from battle. "Hold the lines! Shore up the flanks! No one gets out!"

His men were moving before he even finished speaking, breaking into groups to crush any surviving resistance. They had to end this here. If even one Lannister soldier escaped to warn Tywin, their entire plan would collapse before it could even begin.

Then, his eyes found the center of the carnage—the heart of the fire that still burned bright amid the wreckage of the battle.

Jaime Lannister.

The Kingslayer fought like a man possessed, his golden armor stained red, his blade dancing in the torchlight. He was a blur of motion, faster than any man Robb had ever seen. His sword wove a deadly arc through the battlefield, severing limbs and spilling guts with every masterful stroke. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. He moved as though battle was his second nature, as though he was born to it.

A Northman lunged at him, sword raised high. Jaime sidestepped, cutting through the tendons in the man's wrist before spinning and burying his blade in his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, and Jaime wrenched his sword free in a single smooth motion, already moving on to his next opponent.

Another man fell.

Then another.

Then another.

Even Robb, from his vantage point, could see the difference. Jaime Lannister was not like the other knights of the South. He was not some overfed lordling playing at war, nor a pompous fool weighed down by his golden armor. He was a killer. For the first time that night, Robb Stark felt something cold crawl up his spine.

He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the reins of his horse. If he crossed blades with Jaime, he would die. That much was certain. The skill Jaime was displaying, the sheer ferocity of his movements—it was something beyond Robb's ability. Beyond even the best swordsmen of the North.

His men were not faring any better. Every warrior who came at Jaime met the same fate. Some tried to engage him in groups, hoping to overwhelm him with numbers. It made no difference. Jaime cut them down like wheat before the scythe, his blade carving a bloody path toward Robb.

The realization struck him with the force of a hammer.

'He's coming for me.'

Robb exhaled, forcing himself to steady his nerves. He would not run. He could not. If he fled, his men would falter. If they faltered, the battle would turn. He had won too much, planned too carefully, fought too hard to let Jaime Lannister undo it all now.

He glanced down at Grey Wind, the Direwolf still prowling at his side, watching Jaime with unblinking golden eyes. Robb nodded slightly.

If Jaime wanted him—let him come.

But Jaime Lannister had never fought a wolf before.

-X-

The battle was a storm of chaos and blood. The din of clashing steel, the screams of the dying, and the war cries of the victors blended into a deafening roar. Smoke from burning torches curled through the trees, turning the Whispering Woods into a hellish abyss where only death thrived.

Theon Greyjoy, his body aching from exhaustion, struggled against the Lannister soldier before him. His arms felt leaden, his sword dragging against his opponent's as they locked in a desperate clash. His breath came in ragged gasps, his grip trembling, and for the first time in the battle, doubt crept into his mind.

Then his eyes flicked past his opponent— Jaime Lannister was closing in on Robb.

No.

No, no, no.

His heart lurched in his chest. Robb sat atop his horse, still barking orders, oblivious to how close death was to claiming him. Jaime moved with deadly precision, cutting through men with an ease that turned Theon's stomach.

He was too close—too fast…

"Protect Robb!" Theon bellowed, his voice raw. "The Kingslayer is coming!" His warning rang across the battlefield. Panic surged through him as he wrenched his sword free, but his opponent lunged, forcing him back. He needed to get to Robb. Needed to stop Jaime before Jamie did.

Patrek Mallister, Eddard Karstark, and Torrhen Karstark were the first to intercept the Kingslayer.

Jaime barely broke stride as he met them.

Patrek lunged first, his sword flashing toward Jaime's ribs. The Kingslayer twisted at the last second, his blade flickering like lightning, slicing through Patrek's side. The young knight stumbled back, his free hand flying to his wound as blood welled between his fingers.

Eddard Karstark swung next, his strikes wild with fury. Jaime parried one-handed, his golden lion helm gleaming in the firelight. With a sharp growl, he stepped forward and smashed the pommel of his sword into Eddard's face. The crunch of breaking bone was sickening. Eddard reeled back, clutching his shattered nose, blood pouring down his chin.

Torrhen came last.

He was fast, but Jaime was faster.

In one smooth motion, Jaime sidestepped the swing and his blade flashed in a wicked arc and Torrhen Karstark's throat opened like a blossoming flower. The Karstark child gurgled, his hands flying to his neck in a desperate, instinctual attempt to hold his life inside him.

But it was too late.

He crumpled, his body spasming before going still in the mud.

Eddard roared in fury, his bloodied face twisted in rage. He came at Jaime again, his sword slashing wildly. Jaime caught the strike, twisted his wrist, and swinging his blade down onto Eddard's shoulder, the armour protecting Eddard from death, but not from injury.

Eddard staggered backward, eyes wide with shock, his sword slipping from his grasp as he collapsed, clutching at his shoulder, gasping in pain. Jamie raised his blade, ready to finish him off but before he could take another step, Grey Wind was upon him.

The Direwolf erupted from the side, a blur of snarling fur and bared fangs. Jaime barely had time to raise his sword before Grey Wind's claws raked across his breastplate, sending sparks flying. The impact staggered Jaime back, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp.

The beast circled, growling, its golden eyes locked onto him.

Jaime's grip tightened around his sword. The Direwolf lunged again—this time aiming for his throat. Jaime ducked at the last possible moment, swinging upward.

His blade sliced across Grey Wind's side.

The Direwolf yelped and skidded back, blood staining his dark fur. But he did not retreat.

Jaime gritted his teeth, turning back to Robb to see three figures blocked his path.

Theon Greyjoy.

Dacey Mormont.

Smalljon Umber.

Jaime cursed under his breath. He did not have time for this.

Theon struck first, his sword whistling through the air, fast and fluid. Jaime parried effortlessly, his counterstrike forcing Theon back. But then came Dacey, her axe and hammer swinging in a brutal arc. Jaime barely avoided the blow, stepping to the side as Smalljon came down with his greatsword, hammering at his guard with sheer brute force.

Jaime gritted his teeth. They weren't just trying to kill him—they were trying to overwhelm him.

He fought like a man possessed. His sword flashed, catching Theon across the arm, drawing a spray of blood. Theon hissed but did not fall back. Dacey feinted high before slamming her hammer into Jaime's ribs. The impact stole his breath, forcing him to stumble.

Then came Smalljon.

The massive Northman brought his greatsword down like a warhammer, battering Jaime's guard over and over. Jaime barely managed to deflect the first two strikes, but the third sent a shock of pain up his arms.

He was losing ground.

Another blow crashed against his guard. Jaime's knees buckled.

Smalljon grinned.

"You're good, Kingslayer. But not good enough."

Jaime gasped for breath, trying to recover and Theon lunged. Pain exploded in Jaime's leg as Theon's sword stabbed deep into his thigh. Jaime roared in agony, his sword slipping from his grip as his leg gave out beneath him.

He collapsed to his knees, pain burning through him. Blood poured from the wound, pooling in the mud. His body trembled, his golden armor now slick with his own blood. Theon ripped his sword free and kicked Jaime onto his back.

Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, lay sprawled in the dirt.

For the first time in his life, he had lost.