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Chapter 393
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 12:43:01 +0000 UTCThe entry fee for the tournament was a single copper coin—a purely symbolic amount that even the poorest new settlers in the Gift could afford. This ensured that the competition would have enough participants to proceed, and that skilled archers wouldn’t be excluded by financial barriers.
The downside? The skill levels of the participants ranged from decent to outright embarrassing.
The target distance was set at over seventy meters—challenging but manageable for a skilled archer by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms. However, many of the new settlers from beyond the Wall had brought their own bows and arrows. Without standard measurements in the wilderness, some couldn’t even estimate their effective range. While a few of them might have been the best archers in their tribes or villages, a small target seventy meters away was an entirely different challenge.
Crown’s Rest had no snow that day, but the cold winds blew as relentlessly as ever. In the open-air conditions, it was almost expected that some participants would have abysmal hit rates, with many missing the target entirely. The most comical moments came from contestants—either too young or too weak, or using bows too poor in quality—whose arrows didn’t even reach the target. After a few bewildered shots, they either left the field in embarrassment or switched to the standardized bows provided by the Night’s Watch. Naturally, expecting great performances with unfamiliar equipment and no practice was unrealistic.
While these mishaps added drama and levity to the event, no one dared to make a scene over a copper coin in front of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. In stark contrast to the chaos of the unskilled participants, the truly competent archers quickly stood out: Theon Greyjoy and “Deadeye” Anguy effortlessly advanced with perfect scores. Among Anguy’s companions, Beric Dondarrion’s skill was no surprise, given his noble background, but what caught Aegor off guard was Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest, who also proved adept with a bow.
The three marksmen from Castle Black sent by Jon Snow all advanced to the next round, and Ygritte—predictably—became one of the few new settlers to make it through. What did disappoint Aegor slightly was that his personal forces—the logistical troops he had trained himself—didn’t perform as well as he had hoped.
There was no helping it. Scientific systems, advanced theories, and rigorous training had allowed this predominantly commoner-based army to develop solid discipline and overall combat effectiveness.
But individual combat skill?
That couldn’t be bridged by just one or two years of training—not when competing against warriors and noblemen who had been handling bows since childhood.
Still, disappointing results were just that—disappointing.
Aegor was no longer just the overseer of the Night’s Watch economy or the head of its logistics division—he was also the Lord Commander.
As long as a few sworn brothers performed well enough to maintain the Night’s Watch’s honor, he had nothing to be embarrassed about.
What did worry him, however, was that Arya Stark had managed to advance alongside several of Winterfell’s guards. Aegor had hoped her lack of upper body strength would see her eliminated early, but it seemed she was stronger than he’d given her credit for. Seven save him: if Arya somehow made it into the top ten, would he really have to bring her to the front lines against the Others?
...
His concern faded when he reviewed Arya’s results: she had hit only half of her targets. While the talent pool at Crown’s Rest wasn’t exceptional, it wasn’t so shallow that a young girl could make it to the final round. Drawing and firing a bow wasn’t as effortless as it looked; after another two rounds, Aegor was confident Arya would be too fatigued to lift her arms.
During a break in the competition, Myrcella leaned closer and spoke softly. “Lord Aegor, don’t you think you’re being a bit... harsh with Lady Greyjoy?”
“I don’t have much choice,” Aegor sighed, glancing at Asha’s back a few meters away. He lowered his voice in response. “There are women in this world who think a bit of charm means men should orbit around them or treat them differently. If I don’t make my stance clear, she’ll only misinterpret my tolerance as interest and assume she can trade... certain favors for concessions.” Realizing this was an awkward topic to discuss with a young girl, Aegor quickly changed tack. “Being firm avoids unnecessary complications.”
“I’m not suggesting you accept her terms,” Myrcella replied, her cheeks flushing. As a young woman herself, she subconsciously relied on her appearance to approach Aegor. “I understand you’re giving her certain leeway for Theon’s sake, but you don’t want to entangle yourself with her... Still, don’t forget how she ‘sparred’ with Arya the other day. Sure, nothing serious happened, but what if Arya listens to you about not dueling but still interacts with her in other ways? Would she ignore Asha if called aside for a ‘girl-to-girl’ chat?”
Aegor raised an eyebrow.
Myrcella had just pointed out a blind spot in his thinking.
Asha Greyjoy—a nimble and skilled warrior—didn’t have to pick up a sword and duel someone in an open sparring match to be dangerous.
If she wanted to pull something, she had other ways.
Simply forbidding Arya from sparring wasn’t enough to fully eliminate the risk.
"Ah, I phrased that all terribly. Just pretend you didn’t hear anything—I’ll reorganize my thoughts!"
Myrcella shook her head furiously.
"My advice is that you shouldn’t expect her to just ‘calm down’ and quietly accept being a prisoner. Not everyone is as rational and emotionless as you. If you just keep ignoring her, people with nothing left to lose… sometimes do reckless things."
"Either lock her up completely as a true prisoner, or throw her a bone—make some vague promises, like asking the Starks about her or saying you’ll consider giving her something to do.
"You don’t have to follow through right away. But if she has something to look forward to—at least when she’s about to lose her mind, you’ll see the signs coming."
Honestly, this wasn’t Myrcella’s sharpest suggestion, nor was it as insightful as her previous ones.
It was just reasonable advice.
Still, not wanting to dismiss her goodwill, Aegor nodded.
“I see your point,” Aegor admitted after some thought. “You’re suggesting I need to offer her some hope—just enough to keep her in line.”
“Exactly,” Myrcella nodded eagerly, though her cheeks reddened further. Her suggestion wasn’t entirely selfless. By testing how Aegor responded to Asha, she could gauge whether he was a rigid commander or someone she could rely on to change her own fate in the future.
Aegor had no idea what Myrcella was thinking. Even if he did, he would probably just laugh it off and ruffle her hair.
The tournament continued, and by midday, all thirty finalists had been determined. Arya Stark, as Aegor had hoped, had finally been eliminated, sparing him the internal struggle of whether to allow her to participate in the final battle.
During lunch, he had a brief talk with Asha Greyjoy and promised that after the war, he would "sound out the Starks" for her.
Then, a small logistical problem arose.
Since the archery tournament wasn’t being conducted in the modern competitive style—where each contestant took turns while cameras focused on them one by one—it had been running as a "continuous-fire" event, where multiple archers shot simultaneously, and results were determined by the total number of hits on target.
This sped up the pace significantly, to the point where, at the current rate, the entire tournament would be over in just one more hour—far too early.
A rare grand event like this should last the entire day, leading seamlessly into the evening’s festivities.
Aegor stroked his chin, quickly coming up with a solution:
A halftime event—a quick catapult accuracy competition.
Since actual cannons weren’t an option, Aegor had equipped every fortress along the Wall and at Crown’s Rest with small and medium-sized catapults, designed to launch wildfire incendiary bombs and dragonglass explosive rounds. He had also specifically ordered that these "artillery crews" prioritize accuracy in training.
He had already privately tested their performance—decent enough.
Now, as an impromptu halftime show, this demonstration would entertain the crowd while also showcasing the defensive capabilities of Crown’s Rest, boosting morale among both soldiers and civilians.
A win-win.
Ten artillery crews were selected for the event.
From 150 meters away, they would fire at a large circle drawn on the ground, sized according to the blast radius of a dragonglass bomb.
The rules were the same as the archery tournament: the team that landed the most hits with stone projectiles of equivalent weight would win.
Some spectators—those eager to see the archery finale—found the catapult event boring.
Most, however, watched with great interest.
After an hour, the intermission concluded, and the final stage of the archery tournament began.
To enhance viewing experience, the number of simultaneous competitors was reduced, making it easier to track each archer’s performance.
By this stage, only elite archers remained, so there were few surprises. Even a single stray arrow could determine whether a contestant advanced or was eliminated.
As the number of contestants dwindled, the crowd continued to grow.
Finally, the top twenty and then the top ten were decided.
The 10th and 8th place slots went to a new Gift settler and a hill clansman, neither of whom Aegor recognized.
9th place was taken by Beric Dondarrion—the Lord of Blackhaven, famous in the original timeline for being immortal under R’hllor’s blessing. Unexpectedly, his archery skills were also quite impressive.
6th place went to the famous "Kissed by Fire"—Ygritte, the only woman to make the top ten.
5th place was claimed by a Winterfell soldier.
Aegor mused that if Catelyn Stark returned to Winterfell, perhaps he should let this soldier stay, fulfilling the promised reward of wielding Lightbringer in the final battle.
7th, 4th, and 3rd place went to rangers from Castle Black—all of whom had once been Aegor’s brothers-in-arms.
The highest-ranking among them was Jeremy Rykker, the current First Ranger.
That left only two competitors for the championship match.
1. Anguy, the King’s Landing tournament champion, known as "Deadeye", had entered the competition fully expecting to win.
2. Theon Greyjoy, younger and less experienced, had the advantage of having lived in the North for ten years, making him more accustomed to its humidity and freezing winds.
From the moment the final two entered the field, neither had missed a single shot.
Since this was a hit-based tournament rather than a points-based one, neither could claim an advantage—they were dead even.
When Yarm ran to ask Aegor how to proceed, he announced an extra round.
After five more arrows, they were still tied—every arrow hit the target.
Now genuinely intrigued, Aegor personally declared new rules:
1. "Three arrows per round. Each contestant shoots in turn. If they are still tied at the end of a round, the target will be moved back thirty feet.
2. This will continue until a winner is determined."
Unlike firearms, the power of a bow comes entirely from the archer’s muscles.
Every shot drains stamina.
As the distance increases, that strain only intensifies.
At this rapid pace, even if both were the best archers in the world, one of them would eventually tire out and falter.
....
With only two contestants left, the atmosphere in the arena exploded.
Most new Gift settlers had never witnessed such a duel before.
Much like a penalty shootout in football, the final showdown had become a simple and brutal contest of endurance.
Even those who weren’t supporting either archer—or even interested in archery—were captivated by the tension.
Three arrows. Both hit.
Target moved back thirty feet.
Three more arrows. Both hit.
Another thirty feet.
Three more arrows. Both hit.
By the time the target had been moved three times, the distance had reached nearly 100 meters.
For many of the hill folk and Free Folk spectators, this was beyond belief.
They knew how to shoot, of course—Ygritte and one of the other settlers had made the top ten.
But the reason they hadn’t placed higher was not due to a lack of skill—but because their handmade bows were simply too weak.
At 100 meters, Ygritte’s weirwood shortbow could barely reach, let alone maintain accuracy.
Yet here, these two men were still hitting every shot.
One arrow. Both hit.
Two arrows. Both hit.
Three arrows. Both hit.
Still tied.
....
At this moment, everyone forgot their differences in culture and faith, forgot that they had once hated and fought each other.
The cheers, shouts, and excited chatter around the arena roared like a boiling cauldron, so loud it seemed to tear apart the overcast sky.
The heavy atmosphere of Crown’s Rest’s prolonged wartime preparations was completely swept away!
Up ahead, the staff rushed onto the field with boundless energy, moving the target back.
Meanwhile, at the shooting line, Crown’s Rest’s archery instructor could only turn helplessly toward the grandstand and shrug.
Theon Greyjoy’s bow was an exquisite purpleheart longbow, a gift from his foster father, Duke Eddard Stark, when he turned sixteen.
For him, a 100-meter shot was nothing—even at 150 meters, he would have dared to try.
However…
Daring to try under normal circumstances was one thing.
Right now, after firing dozens of arrows, he could feel a deep ache spreading across his shoulders and back.
That last arrow had already trembled when he loosed it.
In contrast, the so-called "Deadeye" Anguy, the man who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, a man without even a proper surname, still looked completely at ease, as if he could keep shooting for another hundred arrows.
Even if Theon suspected it was just an act, his lack of experience and battlefield savvy meant he couldn’t help but feel his confidence waver.
But then, seeing the Lord Commander nod in encouragement, Theon turned back toward the target, gritted his teeth, and focused on the field.
The staff, having finished moving the target, ran back to clear the danger zone.
On the other side, Anguy nocked an arrow, drew his bow, and, without so much as a pause to adjust for the new distance or wind speed, casually "aimed" before loosing his shot.
The arrow traced a perfect arc, soaring over the 100-meter distance.
Sidewinds pushed it a few degrees off course—but as if guided by an unseen hand, the shift brought it right back onto target.
A barely audible impact.
Bullseye!
The arena erupted.
A deafening cheer, like a tidal wave, rolled through the crowd.
Theon clenched his teeth, grasped an arrow, and nocked it onto his bowstring.
He set his stance, forced his aching shoulders to cooperate, and steeled himself for one last attempt.
His form was no longer perfect—the proper technique would have been relaxed arms and full-back engagement.
But in his current state, he couldn’t draw the bow to the required power level without relying on his upper arms for extra strength.
Holding his breath, he adjusted for wind speed and direction, carefully setting his aiming point.
Maintaining the drawn position was exhausting—he had to loose now.
But just as Theon released the arrow—
The watchtower of Crown’s Rest suddenly blared with both horn and alarm bell at the same time
