Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 37: Melee Preliminary Rounds

…

Third POV

The clash of steel and the shouts of men filled the fenced field as the ten combatants engaged in the chaotic melee. Mud flew and blades clanged in an unrestrained dance of brutality and skill. 

This was no mere brawl but the preliminary round for the tourney's grand melee.

Over three hundred knights had entered, forcing the organizers to create thirty groups of a minimum of ten, each with a single objective—to emerge as one of the last two standing and move to the next round.

In the crowds, Galahad stood with Gerion, Oberyn, and Tygett, watching intently. Normally, such a free-for-all might have failed to hold their attention, but today was different.

Among the ten battling for dominance was Ser Barristan Selmy, a living legend, revered throughout the realm as one of the finest knights.

Ser Barristan Selmy, standing at 6'2" and clad in his white cloak, moved with a deadly precision that seemed almost effortless. 

Despite his age, he was still at the peak of his skill, facing off against three knights with a fluidity that defied his years.

Galahad observed him closely, studying the way Barristan used his shield to parry, turning his opponents' blows to his advantage. 

Every step, every motion, was controlled, economical, as he measured his foes' attacks before striking back with swift, calculated force.

Not far from him, another knight caught Galahad's eye—Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish. In the early moments of the melee, when most had charged at Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden had instead chosen to assist him.

The Blackfish's approach was markedly different from Selmy's; where Barristan's movements were refined and deliberate, Ser Brynden fought with a relentless, fierce intensity.

At 6'6" and in his early thirties, he was a formidable presence, his strikes brutal and his defenses strong.

Against two knights, he used his reach and raw strength to overpower them, his blade flashing with a punishing, almost feral intensity.

Galahad watched as Ser Barristan concluded his bout, dazing one knight with a well strike to the head before turning to the two remaining foes. 

They lunged in tandem, but Selmy, ever the tactician, sidestepped and struck swiftly.

His blade found the back of one knight, who dropped, dazed. The final opponent, sensing his disadvantage, scrambled to defend, but it was futile. Ser Barristan's strikes came at him from every angle, unyielding.

Within moments, the knight was unarmed, forced to yield to Selmy's superior skill.

Meanwhile, Ser Brynden had ended his own battle in brutal fashion. One knight lay on the ground, his weapon cast aside by the Blackfish's forceful strikes.

Another knight attempted to stand his ground but fell under Brynden's relentless assault, yielding before he could be struck down further.

With the dust settled and the field cleared, Galahad turned to his companions, his eyes bright with admiration.

"That's a great fight," he said, grinning. "The technique, speed, and experience from Ser Barristan—near perfect." Watching the legendary knight was like witnessing art in motion.

Gerion nodded, a note of awe in his voice. "Right? I don't think he took a single misstep." Barristan's calculated movements, his unwavering balance—he'd made no error, showing both supreme control and deadly precision.

Oberyn's eyes gleamed with his trademark confidence. "But even with all his experience, I think you could defeat him." His gaze was direct, assured. Oberyn's trust in Galahad's skill was unshakable.

"Nonsense," Tygett huffed, crossing his arms. "Do you truly think a mere knight has a chance against Ser Barristan the Bold?"

Gerion interjected, smirking. "Are you forgetting that mere knight, Galahad, has bested all of us, and made it look easy?"

Their voices grew louder, with each friend defending their view. An argument sparked to life over who would triumph: Galahad or Ser Barristan.

Galahad raised his hands, laughing. "Calm down, lads. It's really not that big of a deal," he said, his voice steady. "Anyway, we'll see if I even make it far enough to face him." His grin was genuine, humble yet excited at the thought of the challenge.

"I know you can beat him," Gerion said firmly, confident in his tone. Oberyn gave a nod of agreement, while Tygett only sighed, skeptical but supportive in his own way.

"Anyway," Galahad said, glancing towards the field, "my group's up next." He said with a confident tone.

Oberyn extended his hand, his grip firm. "I know you'll do well, but good luck, all the same."

"Good luck," Gerion echoed, clapping Galahad on the shoulder.

"Good luck," Tygett muttered, his expression softening, the doubt replaced by a flicker of pride.

…

Tywin POV

I sat on the top rows of seats in the private box, overlooking the bustling melee below. Joanna sat to my right, with our twins on either side of her, eyes fixed on the field, watching with rapt attention. 

She cradled Tyrion, who lay sound asleep in her arms, oblivious to the world. 

On my left sat Prince Rhaegar and his Kingsguard, Ser Lewyn Martell. 

Rhaegar watched the melee intently, a faint smile on his face as Ser Barristan, the kingsguard, stood victorious, advancing to the next round.

"Has the tourney been enjoyable, Prince Rhaegar?" I inquired, keeping my tone measured, respectful. Winning the prince's favor was a subtle art, one that could prove most valuable.

"Yes, Lord Tywin, very much so. And the food here is… unique." Rhaegar replied, picking up a handful of golden fries from a bowl resting on his knee. It seemed the delicacies of Lannisport had already piqued his interest.

"It pleases me to hear that," I said, inclining my head slightly. "As you may have noticed, my city has undergone some remarkable changes in recent years." I continue with a mysterious tone.

Rhaegar's eyes moved from the field to meet mine, his brow furrowing slightly in curiosity. "And what is the cause of such changes?"

I glanced down at the field, my mind drifting momentarily over the transformations sweeping Lannisport. 

"A new merchant group," I began, "calling themselves the Lionheart family, has emerged within my lands. They've expanded quickly, establishing themselves in trade and commerce, altering the very landscape of Lannisport."

"The Lionheart family?" Rhaegar repeated, intrigued. "Do you know how they rose to such prominence?" He asked.

"We lack definitive information," Joanna spoke up, joining the conversation. "Some believe their rise began before the purge, others say afterward."

"The purge?" Rhaegar tilted his head, recalling. "Is that the incident that caused such chaos last year, the reason you couldn't come to court?"

"Yes," Joanna said, her expression darkening slightly. "More than five hundred perished in a couple weeks."

"But I heard from my father and others at court that it was a fabrication," Rhaegar murmured, puzzled.

Joanna's expression grew solemn. "Yes, Prince. It was no rumor. It happened."

Rhaegar's brow furrowed, uncomfortable. "And you allow the Lionhearts to continue? Such influence could be dangerous."

A pause hung between us, the weight of his question echoing in the din of the crowd. Finally, I spoke, careful to measure my words. 

"It's quite the opposite, Prince. The Lionhearts have brought much to Lannisport. The food you enjoy, the entertainment—it's their creation. And for their earnings, I collect a share in taxes."

Rhaegar arched a brow. "And how much is this share?"

"Twenty percent," I replied smoothly, watching his reaction.

He tilted his head, skeptical. "Only twenty percent? They seem successful enough to warrant more."

I allowed a rare, satisfied smile. "They are exceptionally profitable, Prince. That twenty percent will alone bring in over one hundred thousand gold dragons this year."

Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly as the realization settled. "That's… more than many noble houses bring in from all their holdings."

"Precisely," I said. "With them, we're no longer bound solely to the mines. Lannisport itself has become a source of wealth."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, comprehension and respect mingling in his gaze. He saw now what I had built—a subtle alliance, one that ensured Lannisport's prosperity and placed the Lannisters at its center.

…

Richard POV 

I stood in the arena, a circular field enclosed by fences. Smallfolk gathered around, eager for the spectacle, while nobles sat high above, watching from their lofty seats.

I was clad in new armor, commissioned and crafted by Corlos and his apprentices. It had been completed a week before the tourney. 

As I looked down, I took in the full majesty of Corlos's craftsmanship. The armor was dark, polished steel, gleaming faintly in the midday sun. Each plate was molded to my form, allowing me to move freely.

Over my shoulders lay a thick, dark fur mantle, lending weight and savage elegance to my silhouette. It cushioned my neck, and with each movement, it swayed in time with the breeze.

The helm crowned my head, topped with a plume of red that flickered like flames in the wind, a stark contrast against the shadowed metal of the visor.

Only a narrow slit allowed me sight, rimmed with jagged edges that lent my gaze a sharp, merciless look.

In my gauntleted hands, I gripped the hilts of my twin swords, feeling the weight and readiness for the combat ahead. 

After the herald announced the names of all competing knights and surprisingly a lord, the melee began.

I took a steadying breath, my gaze sweeping over the nine combatants who stood across the field. 

Unlike Ser Brynden Tully and Ser Barristan Selmy, who had partnered up to increase their odds, I would rely on no one.

A knight from the Vale, his helm adorned with a falcon's crest, squared off with me first. I gave him no time to prepare, no respect in my approach. 

With a feint with my left sword, I drew his attention with one blade, while my right sword swung low and fast, smashing against his right rib with precise force. 

Though the sword was blunted for the melee, the impact made him groan and crumple, clutching his side. His pained expression spoke volumes as he yielded, allowing the marshals to drag him away.

Without hesitation, I turned to the other knights, noting how they were still tangled in battles with their chosen foes. 

I went to my next target. I barged into two knights locked in combat, catching one with a swift kick to the back, which sent him stumbling forward into his opponent. 

Both tumbled to the ground, and I struck each one sharply. They groaned and signaled their surrender. Another two down.

Normally, these group melees lasted close to twenty minutes, but at this rate, I would secure my victory in record time.

Spotting two knights locked in a fierce duel, I strode between them, drawing their attention with a taunting gesture, my swords pointed at both. 

The crowd roared, anticipating a more drawn-out spectacle. I decided to indulge them, deflecting their attacks with fluid movements, allowing them to tire themselves out as I danced between their strikes, evading as though this were a mere warm-up.

When they began to slow, their breaths labored, I moved in for the finish. I feinted towards one, making him flinch and step back, then pivoted to the other. 

A quick strike to his helm left him dazed, and he crumpled to the ground, stunned unconscious. Turning back to the other knight, I could see the terror in his eyes. He was backing away, trembling.

The remaining knight was familiar—a Lord, who I've seen at the feast. He was none other than the Lord Paramount of the Reach.

During the announcement I had been surprised by the name Mace Tyrell being called.

Now he was in front of me.

I approached him slowly, each step measured and deliberate, savoring the tension that coiled between us. I could sense his fear rising, his heart thundering in his chest with an erratic rhythm that seemed to reverberate through the very air around us.

Moments later I sensed movements behind me, two knights who had bested their own opponents closing in, ready to strike the back of my head.

I ducked smoothly under their swings, letting their momentum carry them forward. With a swift pivot, I ended up behind them, and with each of my swords, I struck their ribs, a calculated force that cracked bone without killing. 

They crumpled, clutching their sides, and yielded under the press of my blades at their throats.

The round was over.

I planted my swords in the ground and lifted my helmet, allowing the cheers of the crowd to wash over me. 

I turned, glancing at the last man standing—Lord Mace Tyrell himself, who looked at me with an expression torn between awe and terror. 

His heart still raced as he struggled to process what had happened.

"It seems it's your lucky day, Lord Mace Tyrell," I said with a grin, my voice carrying a confident edge. 

Mace pulled off his own helmet, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His eyes darted nervously, as though expecting to be struck down at any moment.

The herald's voice rang out over the field, "The winners of this round, Ser Galahad and Lord Mace Tyrell!"

As I turned to leave, the rush of victory still coursing through my veins, I felt a presence step into my path. 

It was Mace Tyrell, his face flushed with excitement yet shadowed with lingering fear. He looked as if he'd witnessed something unnatural, something he couldn't quite believe.

"Ser Galahad, wait up," he called, his voice wavering. "What you did there was… legendary. I know you're sworn to House Lannister, but if you're willing… I'd be honored to have you serve me instead."

His words stumbled over each other, like a man grappling with the audacity of his own offer. 

He hadn't expected to survive the round without beating any opponent, and the weight of that realization showed in his eyes.

I met his gaze, a small smile tugging at my lips. "I'll think about it," I said, clapping him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, though the touch likely held more weight for him than I intended.

With that, I strode away, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears. Just like that, another connection was forged.