Chapter 28 : Duel

Ser Vardis was clad in a full suit of heavy armor—plate covering him from head to toe, gauntlets and iron gloves encasing his hands, a steel gorget protecting his neck, and a helmet fashioned like an eagle's beak, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes.

Cole, by contrast, wore patchwork armor. His chainmail was incomplete, his dented metal helmet ill-fitting, and his mask a borrowed piece from the armory. His arms were protected by mismatched plates, and his legs were covered only in crude greaves.

Standing beside the knight of the Vale, Cole looked almost laughable. Ser Vardis, with his pristine white armor, resembled a noble temple warrior, while Cole seemed more like a wildling from beyond the Wall.

Both knelt beneath the statue of Alyssa Arryn, with the Imp standing between them. A septon produced a many-faceted crystal, and as sunlight passed through it, refracted rainbows shimmered in the air. In a solemn voice, he invoked the gods to witness the trial, his words echoing through the chamber, lingering like a hymn.

As Tyrion was led away, Cole muttered under his breath, "He's wearing too much armor. He must be tired."

Then, he smiled knowingly.

Ser Vardis accepted the sword from his squire. It was a fine blade, adorned with silver filigree, its hilt shaped like a falcon's head, with guard wings spread wide like an eagle in flight. He tested its weight, giving it a few practice swings.

Cole, too, drew his sword. For a moment, the steel caught the light, gleaming cold as moonlit ice.

Lady Lysa, who had just been boasting about the craftsmanship of Ser Vardis's sword, abruptly fell silent.

A murmur spread through the gathered lords and ladies. How could a disgraced sellsword possess such a blade?

Ser Vardis raised his voice in salute. "For the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn!"

Cole considered shouting something in return but found himself at a loss. He couldn't very well cry out, For the Wall of Despair, could he?

Ser Vardis turned and took up his kite shield.

Cole, instead, reached for another sword.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"He fights with two swords?" someone marveled.

Catelyn Stark's thoughts drifted elsewhere. She remembered the quiet moments when Ned spoke of the past—when she had once asked him about the mother of his bastard son. Was it Ashara Dayne, as the rumors claimed?

Ned had not answered. Instead, he had told her never to ask again.

But later, perhaps out of guilt, he had spoken of another Dayne—the legendary knight, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He had wielded a greatsword in one hand and a longsword in the other, using the former for offense and the latter for defense.

Every time Ned recalled the man in white, there was reverence in his voice. It had been a battle of ten, and in the end, only two had survived.

When Catelyn returned her attention to the duel, the fight had already begun.

Cole met Ser Vardis's silvered sword with both of his own, the impact staggering the knight, forcing him to take several steps back.

There was no hesitation in Cole's movements. He did not defend—only attacked, striking with relentless force, his swords slashing like a storm.

Ser Vardis could do nothing but retreat, his shield raised high, absorbing blow after punishing blow.

Twice, he saw an opening and swung his sword, but Cole was too fast, dodging effortlessly. The knight in heavy armor looked sluggish in comparison, like a turtle besieged from all sides.

The watching nobles were stunned. Some of the highborn ladies even began to whisper among themselves, troubled by what they saw. Their gallant knight was losing.

Bronn, standing in the crowd, shook his head. This fool doesn't know how to fight properly, he thought. He can't pierce that armor, so he's wasting his energy swinging wildly. He'll wear himself out and lose in the end.

That was the plan Bronn himself would have chosen—to wear Vardis down. The knight was older, and the weight of his armor would soon become his greatest enemy.

Instead, Cole had chosen to match strength against strength—a losing strategy.

Or so it seemed.

Vardis continued to retreat, his confidence wavering. To the spectators, it looked as if he was holding firm, but only he knew the truth. Each of the boy's strikes was like a hammer blow. Every time he blocked, he felt his arms weaken.

Sweat dripped beneath his armor.

He had fought in many battles, but he had never encountered a fighting style like this. It was brutal, relentless. Worse still, the boy was growing faster, his strikes heavier with each passing moment. And he never defended.

Then, with a resounding crack, Cole's sword shattered the shield.

Splinters of wood and metal clattered to the ground.

Vardis gripped his sword with both hands, but a single-handed blade was never meant to withstand such force.

And Cole was far from finished.

Cole attacked from all directions—opening and closing his stance, striking up, down, left, and right with relentless force.

Ser Vardis had no choice but to absorb the blows with his armor. The once-pristine plate, which had looked so imposing at the start, was now battered and dented in every direction.

Catelyn couldn't help but wonder—what would happen if a man like this wore heavy armor on the battlefield?

A thought crept into the minds of several onlookers, unbidden. The Mountain.

What would happen if this man faced Ser Gregor Clegane in combat? Those who had seen the Mountain fight secretly compared Cole's stature to that of the monstrous knight. It was clear that the giant still had the advantage in sheer size.

Ser Vardis's hands trembled. Cracks had begun to form in his armor.

The battle had dragged on for nearly ten minutes when Cole's movements suddenly slowed.

"He's tiring," someone thought.

Seizing the moment, Ser Vardis thrust his sword forward, aiming for Cole's chest. The silver blade gleamed in the sunlight, and no one believed that Cole's worn black ringmail could withstand the blow.

Tyrion felt his heart lodge in his throat. He prayed silently, Little Ranger, Little Ranger, you've never let me down. Don't lose now.

At the last moment, Cole sidestepped. He flung one sword away, seized Vardis's wrist, and drove Winter's Night straight into his neck.

"You have lost, ser," he said softly.

Vardis tried to pull away, but Cole's grip was ironclad—his arm locked in place.

With a sharp twist, Cole snapped the knight's wrist. The sickening crack echoed through the hall. Vardis let out a scream, his silver sword clattering to the ground.

Sweat beaded on his brow. He braced himself, breathing hard. "I can still fight," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Cole struck him in the head with the flat of his sword. The force sent him staggering before he finally collapsed, the weight of his armor making it near impossible to rise.

Cole picked up the fallen silver sword and tossed it in front of him. "If you still wish to fight, then stand."

Vardis planted his hands on the ground, struggling to lift himself. But it felt as though a mountain pressed upon him. His eyes flickered with frustration as he stared up at the sky.

At last, he exhaled, using the last of his strength to say, "I have lost."

With a heavy breath, he pulled off his helmet and laid his sword down. "I have shamed Lord Jon."

"Mother, why aren't they fighting anymore?" Little Lord Robert asked, his voice tinged with disappointment.

"It's over, my sweetling." Lysa Arryn waved a hand. "Someone, help Ser Vardis remove his armor."

"Then can we watch the little bad man fly?" the boy asked eagerly.

Tyrion stepped forward with a smirk, placing a hand on Cole's shoulder. "The little scoundrel may not be taking flight today. He's planning to go down the mountain in a basket with Radish. But thank you for your concern."

"I thought—"

Before Lady Lysa could finish, the Imp cut her off. "I thought the Arryns still remembered their words—As High as Honor."

Lysa's face twisted with fury. "Guards! Remove Lord Lannister and his monster from my sight!"

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