Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 68

Chapter 68: Water Garden
...
Richard POV

A moon and a half later

It was early morning in the woods of Neméos, a few miles east of Castamere. The forest was quiet, save for the soft rush of the nearby stream and the occasional chirp of birds waking with the sun.

I sat on a broad, flat rock by the water's edge, dressed in my usual black, simple clothes made for movement, loose at the shoulders and sleeves rolled up.

Across my lap rested a longsword, dark and patterned, its edge catching the pale morning light.

I worked it with a whetstone, slow and steady, each stroke producing a familiar shkkk sound as metal kissed stone.

The sound had a rhythm to it. Almost meditative.

I paused and turned the blade slightly, tilting it to catch the light better. The dark ripples along the steel shimmered faintly, layered lines of folded metal, dancing like waves.

On Earth, this would be called a Damascus steel sword. But in my world, most would mistake it for Valyrian steel.

But it wasn't.

After all, it lacked the true qualities and materials of Valyrian steel.

It was just normal steel, folded over and over again until it looked the part.

Still, it was mine. My fifth attempt at making Damascus steel, and finally, one I could be proud of.

I ran my fingers lightly along the flat of the blade. It was cool to the touch and solid in the grip.

It had been a month and a half since I started taking the forge seriously.

Before that, blacksmithing was a side pursuit, something I returned to between responsibilities, when I had a spare hour or needed to clear my mind.

"Hmm. Looks about right," I said to myself, turning the blade to check the edge one more time.

Both sides were even, clean, and sharp. I'd done well enough with the sharpening process.

I slipped the whetstone into my pocket and rose, brushing a bit of dust from my trousers. The sword rested comfortably in my right hand. It was finally time for me to test it.

One of the perks of working in the wilderness was that I had endless options for targets.

I scanned the treeline until one caught my eye.

A sturdy pine, trunk about a meter wide, roots half-cloaked in moss and early morning mist.

"That'll do," I muttered.

I made my way toward it, my boots crunching over twigs and leaves. I stopped a few paces from the tree, adjusted my grip on the hilt, and exhaled.

There was no need to hold back completely, but still I didn't want to shatter the blade on the first test either. So I decided to use an adequate amount of strength and speed.

I swung with a measured force, just enough to see how the steel held.

Swish.

The blade cut through the air with a sharp whisper. It bit into the trunk cleanly, driving deep on the first stroke.

But halfway through, something changed. I felt it.

The resistance shifted, the feedback in my arm grew uneven. I could hear the steel beginning to protest. A faint, splitting ping traveled down the blade, followed by visible cracks.

Two-thirds of the way in, the sword snapped.

Still, the tree groaned and began to fall, its balance broken.