Chapter 42 — Say My Name!
Only a few short days had passed, and yet once again the woods of the Riverlands had descended into chaos.
Cries of battle, clashing steel, and dying screams rose from every direction. The camp had been torn apart completely—turned upside down as if the world itself had cracked.
At the heart of the turmoil, the fight between Stour and Halsen burned the fiercest.
Both were renowned warriors of Karhold. Their blades moved with terrifying speed and precision—so sharp and relentless that any soldier foolish enough to approach was cut down almost instantly. The rest quickly learned not to interfere.
They fought while moving, hatred and fury blinding them, until—without even realizing it—they had drifted far from the main battlefield.
Their duel carried them into a small clearing where the trees grew thinner, moonlight spilling onto open ground.
"Stop!" Halsen parried a heavy downward strike and tried to explain, voice urgent. "Listen to me—!"
"Shut up!" Stour roared, refusing to hear a single word.
His attacks only became more savage, his sword hissing through the air as he hacked again and again at Halsen's vital points.
"You filthy traitor!" Stour spat, rage dripping from every syllable. "How did I not see it sooner?!"
Seeing how impossible he was, Halsen's temper finally snapped as well.
No more restraint.
His blade speed doubled in an instant.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
A chain of brutal, crushing strikes slammed into Stour's guard like a storm. The impact rattled Stour's bones, numbing his arms and forcing him back—his steps stumbling as the pressure overwhelmed him.
Then Halsen spotted an opening.
He surged forward and drove a savage side kick straight into Stour's stomach.
"UGHH—!"
Stour's breath burst out of him. He stumbled backward and crashed hard onto the ground, his sword flying from his grip.
He stared at Halsen in disbelief.
Damn it… he's this strong?!
Still, Stour gritted his teeth and moved to scramble for his weapon—
But an icy sword point was already at his throat.
Stour's chest heaved. He glared up at Halsen with furious, bloodshot eyes.
"Go on!" he snarled. "Do it!"
"Kill me, you traitor!"
"I curse you—your soul will never return to the North! You'll never earn the weirwood's blessing!"
"You'll drift forever in the cold wind—lost and howling like a ghost!"
A flicker of anger flashed in Halsen's eyes.
He stared at Stour for several long seconds, jaw clenched—
Then, just as Stour shut his eyes and waited for death…
Halsen thrust downward.
But instead of piercing his throat—
The blade sliced past Stour's cheek and drove deep into the dirt beside his head.
Stour snapped his eyes open, stunned.
Under the moonlight, Halsen's face looked like stone—unyielding, unshakable.
"I'm not like you, Stour."
His voice was cold and steady, heavy with conviction.
"I do what I believe is right."
"And beneath the heart tree—there will always be a place for me."
He didn't spare Stour so much as another glance.
Halsen turned on his heel and sprinted toward the direction where Arya had been tied earlier, cloak snapping behind him as he disappeared into the trees.
Only after several long minutes of ragged breathing did Stour finally drag himself up.
He touched the cut on his cheek—still wet with blood—then glanced toward the path Halsen had taken, his expression tangled with something ugly and complicated.
In the end, he spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm into the dirt, picked up his sword, and ran toward the loudest clash of steel.
No matter what—
As captain, he had to stabilize the situation first.
But he'd barely taken a single step when he froze.
A figure in a dark cloak stood in his path, strolling forward at an unhurried pace. With each step, the faint outline of a longsword flickered beneath the cloak—cold and deliberate.
"Shit…"
Stour stopped, spat again, and let out a bitter laugh.
"I should've known. That bastard doctor was never anything good."
The cloaked man didn't answer.
He just kept walking forward.
"Putting on a show, are you?!"
Stour roared and charged, sword raised—
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Steel exploded into sparks as the two collided.
Only a few exchanges in, Stour felt something wrong.
His opponent was using his left hand—and the swordplay was awkward, clumsy, poorly coordinated. The strength behind each strike was light, almost weak.
This feels like fighting a woman.
If Stour were fresh, he would've finished this in two rounds.
But he'd just battled Halsen. His stamina was shredded, his arms still buzzing with numb pain.
And because of that, absurdly, he found himself locked in an even struggle with this frail stranger.
That alone made suspicion coil in his stomach.
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
Stour sprang back to widen the distance, barking the question—buying time, trying to force his lungs to refill.
The cloaked man didn't pursue.
Instead, almost obediently, he stopped… and slowly lifted his hood.
Stour's pupils constricted.
Cold moonlight poured down—
And illuminated a head of dazzling, unmistakable golden hair.
Jaime Lannister's mouth curled into a cruel, amused arc.
"You were pretty brave earlier today," he said softly. "Calling me names like that."
He tilted his head slightly.
"What's wrong? Now that I'm in front of you, you can't recognize me?"
Jaime raised his sword in his left hand and bellowed like a man demanding judgment from the gods themselves—
"Say my name, bastard!"
The moment he shouted it, Stour's eyes lit up.
His breathing deepened. His shoulders actually started to tremble.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
"The Kingslayer… hahahah—THE KINGSLAYER!"
"That's not my name, you bastard!"
The insult detonated something inside Jaime.
His eyes went bloodshot. His face twisted.
With a savage roar, he lunged—
His left-hand sword flailing wildly, hacking at Stour like an animal, as if the words themselves were a spell he couldn't stop chanting:
"Say my name… SAY MY NAME… SAY MY NAME!"
But the left hand was never his true hand.
That reckless, furious aggression widened his openings by the second—
And after one full-force clash, his grip finally failed.
The sword flew from his hand—
Spinning through the air before crashing into the dirt several paces away.
Stour's instincts snapped into place instantly.
He surged forward and slammed his forehead into Jaime's face—
BAM!
Jaime's nose burst. Blood sprayed out as he toppled backward, flat on his back.
Stour stepped in, laughing like a madman.
"Your name?!"
"JAIME LANNISTER! JAIME LANNISTER!"
"Remember it—because you're going to die by the hand of Rickard Karstark's sworn man…"
"Haragg Stour!"
He raised his sword high.
"DIE!"
The blade stabbed down—
But another sword struck faster.
A steel point drove into Stour's back with surgical precision, punching clean through his chest and bursting out the front—
THK.
Stour locked in place like he'd been turned to stone.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
His body swayed… then collapsed forward, crashing down beside Jaime.
His eyes stayed open—staring at Jaime as if the truth was too impossible to accept.
He'd been so close.
So close to revenge—
Jaime lifted his head, shaken, blood streaming down his face—
And the first thing he saw was Odin's harmless-looking expression.
Jaime clutched his ruined nose, wheezing as he forced himself into a sitting position, staring at Stour's corpse beside him… then up at Odin.
Odin didn't even look at him at first.
He crouched down immediately and began patting Stour's body like a man searching a coat for misplaced keys.
Then his brows lifted with delight.
He pulled out a money pouch—the pouch containing the hundred gold dragons—and tucked it neatly into his own clothes.
"What are you staring at?" Odin shot Jaime a sideways glance, pure annoyance and amusement mixed together. "I know you Lannisters love that whole 'A Lannister always pays his debts' thing…"
"But this bastard still owed me money."
He straightened and dusted his hands.
"Can't let you hog all the glory every time."
Then he pointed at Stour's corpse.
Then pointed at Jaime's miserable, blood-soaked face.
"And also—next time you plan to hand someone a free kill, can you at least give a signal?"
"If I hadn't just started getting the hang of swordplay, we'd be dragging your corpse back to King's Landing."
Odin sighed theatrically, like a teacher scolding a hopeless student.