Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 34: Axe throwing event

…

Third POV

In the open field of the tourney grounds, the air buzzed with anticipation as the final two contestants squared off.

On one side stood an Ironborn, a grizzled, sea-weathered man with a look of grim determination.

Opposite him was a young knight, Galahad, whose meteoric rise through the contest had caught everyone by surprise.

More than a hundred men had entered the axe-throwing event, but now only these two remained.

The stands were filled with spectators, nobles lounging beneath their banners and smallfolk crowded together, eager for the spectacle.

The rules were simple: five axes per man, ten paces from a marked wooden dummy. A hit to the body earned a single point, while a strike to the head was worth three.

For the final, though, the stakes had been raised, ten axes each, and the distance doubled to twenty paces.

Galahad stood in the marked circle, his gaze fixed on the targets.

The crowd had taken to calling him "Ser Axehead," a nickname born from his flawless record in the earlier rounds. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, never missed, and his throws always found their mark.

The chants echoed from the crowd: "Ser Axehead! Ser Axehead!" Even some of the nobles joined in, intrigued by the young knight's skill.

"Come on now, boy, throw ye shits already!" The Ironborn's rough voice carried across the field. Five paces away, he was glaring at Galahad, hoping to shake his focus.

But Galahad's expression remained calm as he ignored the taunt, his attention locked on the dummy.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the first axe in his hand. With a smooth, practiced motion, he let it fly. The blade spun end over end before burying itself squarely in the dummy's head.

"Three points!" the herald announced, his voice carrying over the cheers of the crowd.

A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of Galahad's lips. He glanced over at the Ironborn, who was now preparing for his own throw.

Galahad saw an opportunity, his opponent had tried to rattle him, so he decided to return the favor.

As the Ironborn raised his arm to throw, Galahad seized the moment. "Yer mum's a smelly whore!" he called out, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd.

The taunt hit its mark just as well as any axe, his opponent flinched, throwing off his aim. The axe veered off course, barely grazing the edge of the dummy.

"1 point!" the herald announced, his tone flat.

The Ironborn's face twisted with fury. "The fuck you say, you brat?" he spat, his anger barely contained. The crowd murmured, a few gasps and laughs rippling through them.

Galahad just smiled and ignored the man. Without looking at him, he reached for another axe, tossing it with a casual flick of his wrist. The blade soared straight, embedding itself dead-center in the dummy's head.

"3 points!" the herald declared, and a cheer rose from the onlookers.

The back-and-forth banter continued as the competition went on. Each time the Ironborn threw, Galahad needled him with another taunt, jibes about his aim, his looks, even his manhood. 

The crowd roared with laughter at each exchange, while the Ironborn's face grew redder, his movements more frantic.

Through it all, Galahad's throws remained effortless and precise. With each toss, he could hear the Ironborn's heartbeat quicken, the erratic thud-thud of rising frustration and fury. He knew he had the man rattled, and that was all he needed.

Each axe Galahad released found its mark on the dummy's head, solid, certain, and without hesitation. The Ironborn, by contrast, was falling apart.

His throws were inconsistent; he overcompensated in one round, barely hit the dummy in another. His face flushed with each failure, and his breath came in angry huffs.

There was no chance for the man, not from the beginning. 

Galahad's Wolverine-honed reflexes and razor-sharp eyesight made him nearly unbeatable.

The competition was already over before it had truly begun, but Galahad enjoyed toying with his opponent, savoring each throw.

By the time the final round arrived, the Ironborn's fury had turned to despair. He had given it his all, but Galahad had been perfect, every single axe a flawless hit.

The crowd knew it too, their cheers growing louder with every one of Galahad's throws. He had doused the man's anger with each successful strike, leaving only the cold, undeniable truth of defeat hanging in the air.

"The winner of the axe events, winning by 30 to 18, representing House Lannister, is Ser Galahad!" the herald announced.

The crowd erupted in applause, their cheers echoing across the field as Galahad stood victorious, the name "Ser Axehead" on every tongue.

After the victory, Galahad approached the Ironborn man, extending his hand. 

Though he'd taunted the man mercilessly during the contest, it had all been in good spirits. To his surprise, the Ironborn didn't hold a grudge. Instead, he offered a hearty laugh, acknowledging the young knight's remarkable skill.

"The name's Ragnar," the Ironborn said, shaking Galahad's hand with a firm grip. "Yer quite a shit talker. Too bad my words didn't rattle ya."

"And you're quite the axe thrower," Galahad replied, genuine respect in his voice. "If it had been anyone else, you would've won today."

"Aye," Ragnar chuckled, his eyes crinkling with good humor. "Well then, Ser Axehead, I think I'll drown my defeat in ale tonight. Good fight."

They shook hands once more, parting with smiles, and Galahad made his way toward the herald to claim his prize. 

But before he could reach the stand, two figures tackled him playfully from behind—Gerion and Oberyn, both grinning ear to ear. 

They had been Galahad's staunchest supporters throughout the tournament, spreading his nickname like wildfire among the crowd.

Laughing, the three friends made their way out of the tourney grounds, the name "Ser Axehead" ringing triumphantly in the air behind them.

…

Richard POV

I had separated from Gerion and Oberyn. They were off to the brothels now, their cheers and laughter still echoing in my ears as they went to celebrate my victory in their own way. 

They'd promised they'd return in time to support me in the archery tournament, and I knew they would, they never missed a chance to cheer me on.

I now strolled through the lively tourney grounds, my mood lifted after winning the first event of the day. 

The morning had begun with the axe-throwing contest, and my victory had been swift and decisive. Each step I took felt lighter, the thrill of competition still coursing through my veins.

Only the most rewarding events caught my interest, and the 2,000 gold dragons I secured with my win were proof enough that my approach was the right one.

I'd had the official document signed to confirm my prize and pocketed 100 gold dragons for immediate use. The rest would wait until the tourney's end, too much gold on hand was an invitation for trouble.

The second challenge I'd chosen was the archery contest, and to prepare, I made my way toward the blacksmith's area, where the air was thick with the scent of hot iron and the din of clashing metal. 

I knew precisely where I needed to go.

As I approached, my eyes locked onto a familiar figure, the old blacksmith, Corlos, issuing orders to his apprentices while hammering at a heated piece of iron. 

Corlos was no ordinary smith; he was a made man in the family, someone I had helped many moons ago when he sought justice for his daughter. He was a man who owed me a favor, a favor he repaid through loyalty.

"Hello there, Corlos," I called out, my voice carrying above the clamor.

He looked up, and a broad smile split his soot-streaked face. His laughter was warm and genuine. 

"Hoho! Ser Galahad! What an honor to have you here," he said, putting down his hammer and offering me a firm handshake.

Corlos was one of the few who knew the truth behind my disguise as Galahad. I had positioned him at the tourney to set up a forge, not only to earn profits but to act as eyes and ears amidst the throng of visitors.

Behind Corlos, five of his apprentices labored at their stations. Associates in the family, they greeted me with respectful nods.

"I'm in need of a bow," I told Corlos. "The one I commissioned—have you completed it?"

"Aye, my lord. It's ready," he confirmed, his tone suddenly all business. "Follow me."

We stepped inside the tented forge, moving past the noise and into a smaller, more secure space. There, two young men stood guard—associates tasked with protecting the valuable items inside. 

They straightened immediately upon seeing me, bowing as I approached. Both were well-armed, their armor of decent quality, and swords sheathed at their sides.

"Step aside, lads," Corlos said with a chuckle, his confidence evident. He led me to a chest at the far end of the room, its polished wood glinting in the filtered light. "Here it is," he said, opening the lid to reveal the bow.

It was a longbow, simple and unadorned, but with an elegance that spoke of quality. Crafted from the wood of a weirwood tree, its pale, almost ghostly color gave it a distinct look. The hemp bowstring felt sturdy under my fingers, it promised durability and strength.

I took the weapon from Corlos, testing its weight. It was heavier than most bows, designed to handle a draw weight that exceeded two hundred pounds, something that would test the strength of any normal man. 

I pulled back the string with ease, feeling the power humming beneath the tension before releasing it gently. The force was impressive; this was a weapon meant for accuracy and lethality.

"It's perfect," I said, allowing a rare smile to slip across my face.

"Glad to hear it, my lord," Corlos said, clearly pleased. "I did my best to match your specifications."

"You did well," I replied, turning toward the exit with the bow still in hand. 

"Stay vigilant. I expect any useful news to find its way to me quickly. And also, I'll be back for my armor and weapons for the melee and joust on the morrow," I finished, my tone firm.

Corlos nodded. I then left the tent and the forge. The roar of the tourney grounds washed over me again as I stepped into the sunlight, the new longbow resting comfortably at my side.

The archery contest was drawing closer, and I was ready. Armed with a powerful new weapon, confidence surged through me. Victory seemed assured.