Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Axe throwing event
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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.