Chapter 55 - Champion of the Archery Competitio. 

[Chapter Size: 2800 Words.] 

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Third Person POV 

Harrenhal, 101 AC. 

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The first match wasn't very difficult. 

Jon found his opponent at that moment, while the boy stared at him with cold eyes. 

"Hey, brat. Don't forget to pay me at the end, got it?" he said in a tone full of disdain, drawing the attention of several people nearby. 

Jon merely displayed a small smile and raised his voice, still carrying the youthful tone of late childhood, yet captivating nonetheless. "Don't celebrate your victory too soon, Lord Westerling. Maybe you'll be the one who ends up two hundred gold dragons poorer." 

The boy snorted. "Don't talk nonsense, you lowborn brat." 

Jon shrugged, not offended by the remark, offering only that indifferent response to a boy twice his age before returning to prepare himself alongside the others. 

Everyone waited as the Master of Games appeared once again to address the participants. Standing beside several organizers, he supervised the preparation of the targets. 

When he approached the crowd, he pointed toward the many targets spread across the field. "I want everyone's attention. Each group will eliminate as many participants as possible until only one competitor remains. Then we'll gather the best for the final round." 

The competitors were soon organized. 

Jon was placed in the group made up mostly of Northern lords and archers. The Riverlands were grouped with the Iron Islands, while the Westerlands, the Reach, the Vale, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands each formed their own groups. 

In any case, the first round began at thirty paces. The participants formed a line and started shooting one by one. 

Jon stood between a man from House Umber and another from the mountain clans. He felt small beside the two of them, since they were naturally larger than an ordinary man. 

As he looked up, he managed to spot Rickon in one of the stands cheering for him. Lyra was there as well, alongside the Manderly twins and other Northern children. Jon was the only Northern child competing... In fact, the closest competitor to his age was around twelve namedays old, from the Riverlands, along with a few others from the Vale, all children of nobles who could afford the entry fee. 

So he was the youngest competitor in the entire tournament. 

Rickon hadn't felt confident enough to enter the tournament and had chosen to simply watch instead, since it would be shameful for any noble who wasn't particularly skilled, while Jon only wanted to beat that Westerling and win his two hundred gold dragons. 

He wasn't expecting to win the one thousand gold dragons awarded to first place. 

Jon waited for his turn. Up to that point, no one from the North had missed a target. On the other hand, many participants, especially common men, left the field with their heads hanging low. 

Some even begged for a second chance. It was obvious they had spent all their savings on the entry fee, which cost ten silver stags, an amount far from easy for common folk to come by. And it was foolish money to spend on a competition against men who had trained their skills for decades... 

When his turn came, Jon gripped the bow under the watchful eyes of most of those present. He took a deep breath and released the string. 

The arrow flew across the thirty paces and struck the target. Satisfied, he simply stepped away from his position and returned to the end of the line. 

It was then that he noticed Westerling's gaze fixed on him. The boy snorted. When his turn came, he also loosed his arrow. 

It struck the target as well. Then he looked back at Jon with a gaze full of challenge. 

'So he really can shoot,' Jon thought. 'Much better than I imagined.' Even so, Jon remained confident, mainly because of his dream the previous night. 

So he didn't pay much attention to it. Soon afterward, the organizers moved the targets another ten paces farther away. 

Now the distance was forty paces. Jon watched two Northern men miss their shots. 

When his turn came again, he released another arrow. It struck the target once more. 

Meanwhile, eight other men also missed their shots. The spectators couldn't help but look at Jon with admiration. 

After all, he had hit a target at forty paces while many grown men had failed to do the same. 

The targets were moved once again. They now stood at fifty paces. 

Jon began to see nearly half of the Northern competitors miss their shots. 

When his turn came, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and ignored all the curious gazes directed at him. 

Then he released the arrow. It flew across the field and struck the target. The next moment, part of the stands began to applaud. 

Seeing a child hit a target at fifty paces was already worthy of another round of celebration. 

Jon also noticed that Lord Westerling seemed a little nervous now. 

When his turn came, the boy loosed his arrow. He barely avoided missing. 

The shot only clipped the edge of the target. When he looked back at Jon, his expression was anything but pleasant. 

He was clearly nervous. Jon merely shook his head. He already knew that would be the end of his rival. At the next distance, he would miss. 

The targets were moved once again. 

Now they stood at sixty paces. Only a third of the competitors remained, but there were still around sixty archers. 

Jon knew that most of them wouldn't make it past that distance. When his turn came, he took his position before the target. He took a deep breath and let his instincts guide the shot. 

His body naturally calculated the wind, the angle, and the force needed to draw the bow. Then he released the string, and the arrow soared high. Jon followed its trajectory with his eyes. 

A moment later... It struck the target. 

The entire grandstand immediately erupted into applause for him. Jon looked toward the stands. The Northern children were the ones celebrating the most. 

Rickon was practically shouting for him. Jon merely gestured with his hand, asking them to calm down. 

He also noticed a few lords exchanging coins among themselves. Even the king wore a slight smile after seeing him hit the target. Jon was surprised that the king was present as well. That must have been why the place was so crowded, since this tournament shouldn't have been any less tedious than lords sitting somewhere drinking wine while chatting. Not even the claimants to the throne were present. 

Jon then turned his attention to the group from the Westerlands, which occupied several seats. They were all watching the contest as well. After all, nearly everyone from that kingdom already knew about the wager between him and Westerling. 

As for his opponent, Jon could see he was trying to concentrate. He could even see his bow trembling. 

He loosed the arrow. But Jon didn't even need to follow the shot. 

A moment later, he heard a curse. The arrow had buried itself in the ground a few paces short of the target. When their eyes met again, Westerling was staring at him with pure frustration. 

Jon simply gave him a small smile. That boy had mocked him in front of everyone. Now he was the one embarrassing himself before several lords of the realm. 

"I'll send the money through someone later." That was the only thing Westerling said before leaving the field. 

If it weren't for the presence of so many lords, and especially the king, Jon believed the boy might very well have tried to back out of the wager. 

But that no longer mattered. He would receive his two hundred gold dragons later. Now, his attention was entirely focused on the rest of the competition. 

The target was moved to seventy paces. About twenty-five competitors remained. 

They were divided into groups of five, one group for each target, changing positions as the Master of Games organized everything at random. 

Jon, however, suspected that he had been placed at the target closest to the grandstands on purpose. 

Probably because of the king's presence. When his turn came, the two archers before him had already missed. 

Jon took a deep breath, recalled everything he had seen the previous night, raised the bow almost as if he had been born to wield it, took aim, and released the arrow. On one hand, he was no longer certain he could hit the target from that distance. On the other, he couldn't see anything he had done wrong before releasing that arrow... 

Even so... He heard the sound of the arrow striking wood. 

A small smile appeared on his face, and a moment later, the grandstands erupted into applause. It couldn't be as thunderous as a jousting competition, but he was quite satisfied. 

People continued exchanging coins among themselves. Many were already placing bets on him. 

Jon was the only competitor with less than two decades of life still in the contest. Everyone else was a grown man. Even all the teenagers had already been eliminated. 

That drew even more attention because of the rumors that he had killed a giant bear in the North using nothing but a bow, arrows, and his direwolf. It was only a story popular among Northerners, of course, but people would quickly make the connection. 

Out of the twenty-five competitors, only twelve advanced, and Jon was among them... Now the real contest began. 

Only one target was moved to eighty paces. There was only a single target left. 

The competitors formed a single line, with Jon standing in the middle of them. 

"Hey, brat. Looks like you're not half bad." Jon felt a hand ruffle his hair. 

When he looked back, he saw a lord from the Vale looking at him with interest. A member of House Melcolm, as he could tell. 

"Hey, Lord Melcolm, leave the boy alone. I heard he killed a giant bear by himself using nothing but a bow. Lord Stark confirmed that story just a few hours ago." 

The speaker was a man from House Yohn, also from the Vale. Jon's eyes widened ever so slightly. But he quickly recovered and gave a grateful nod, not really knowing how to respond. 

Shortly afterward, he turned his attention back to the competition. Four more participants were eliminated. 

Then it was his turn. 

Jon gripped his bow, took a deep breath, and fired. Even the competitors standing behind him followed the arrow's flight. 

It crossed the eighty paces... And struck the target. 

The reaction was immediate. Even the competitors themselves began applauding. 

"Look at this lad! Eighty paces! He has to be joking with us!" Jon didn't know whether that was good or bad, but he broke into a goofy smile. And the grandstands were loving it. 

"Well done, lad!" Jon even heard Kaio Tarly shout to him from his place among the Reachmen seated in the stands. 

But the North was, by far, the loudest group. At that moment, he was the only Northerner still in the competition. Even some competitors from other regions had started cheering for Jon. 

Only five competitors remained. The next target would be placed at ninety paces. 

Not even Jon had expected to make it this far. He was starting to feel quite nervous. Even so, he took a deep breath and tried to focus. The memories from the previous night resurfaced, and he let them guide him... 

'Come on, Jon... You're better than this.' He remembered what he had seen in his dreams. In truth, he had never really hoped to make it this far. 

All he had truly wanted was to defeat Westerling. He knew he could do that... but reaching this point, he had never imagined going beyond seventy paces, the distance he had always believed to be his limit. 

However, that night he had dreamed of himself firing arrows from two hundred... three hundred paces away, accomplishing things that should have been impossible by common standards. 

In the vision, he wielded a reinforced bow made from far sturdier wood and a bowstring crafted from spider silk, vastly superior to the simple heart tree branch he now held. 

Not to mention the strength he possessed in that dream. Jon didn't understand why, but he was able to absorb everything he learned and witnessed during those strange visions. 

When his turn came, he focused. He raised a moistened finger to feel the wind's direction before positioning his bow. 

He didn't always aim directly at the target. Like the more experienced archers, he naturally compensated for the wind's direction. 

Some of the competitors beside him noticed that and exchanged discreet glances before nodding in approval. They even whispered among themselves that the boy was exceptional for his age. 

Jon released the string, and the arrow soared high. Then it slowly began to descend... Until it struck the exact center of the target, ninety paces away. 

The grandstands erupted into applause once again. 

"Damn! He's going to win this, Father! He's going to win!" Rickon shouted. 

Lord Stark merely nodded, equally astonished as he watched Jon. 

"Go, Jon!" Lyra shouted. Even Lyarra had joined in cheering. 

"And they said he was only the North's sword prodigy. Look at this boy!" some people murmured. 

It was unbelievable that a child had made it this far. At that moment, only Jon and three other competitors had hit the target. 

Only four archers remained, a clear demonstration of the elite level of archery present at the tournament. 

The next target was placed at one hundred paces. Jon took a deep breath. He aimed. He fired. 

The arrow flew across the field and struck the target once again. The crowd immediately rose to its feet in another thunderous round of applause. 

Two more competitors missed. Now only Jon and a man from the Vale remained. It was Lord Melcolm. He had to be at least thirty namedays old, and Jon could see the physique of someone accustomed to drawing a bow. 

The archer smiled at the boy. "Damn... To think I'd end up competing against a child. Come on, lad. I want to see what you're really capable of." 

Jon simply returned the smile. The next target was placed at one hundred and five paces. 

The distance could no longer increase by so much each round. 

Jon fired. He hit the target again. 

The man from the Vale hit it as well. 

The Vale supporters began applauding and shouting for their representative, trying to compete with the roar coming from the Northern grandstands. 

The target was moved to one hundred and ten paces. 

Once again... Jon and his opponent both hit their targets. 

Then it was moved to one hundred and twelve paces. 

Then one hundred and fourteen. 

One hundred and sixteen. 

One hundred and eighteen. 

Until they reached one hundred and twenty paces. 

Neither of them had missed a single target. 

By that point, even people who hadn't been watching the competition began gathering to witness the outcome, astonished to see a boy competing on equal footing with a grown man at a distance of one hundred and twenty paces. 

Jon nocked his arrow. One hundred and twenty paces was madness. Even so... Somehow, he felt an overwhelming confidence that he would hit the target. 

He took a deep breath, let his memories make everything work in his favor, and then... Released the string. 

The arrow flew across the field. A few moments later... It struck the target. 

The crowd went wild, wondering how a child with only ten namedays could possess such strength. Jon's arms ached, but he broke into a wide smile anyway... 

The man from the Vale, on the other hand, forced a smile. Jon could already tell that his confidence had vanished over the last three targets. 

The archer took a deep breath and fired. The arrow flew... But it passed just a few inches from the target. He had misjudged the wind and the angle. 1

The shot landed several paces beyond it. The man lowered his bow, his shoulders slumping, clearly exhausted. 

"Damn, kid... You're a monster." That was all he could manage to say. 

The very next instant, the crowd erupted into cheers louder than at any other moment, and everyone began chanting Jon's name. 

The boy couldn't hide his smile as he heard so many people cheering for him. Even the king broke into a broad smile, clearly pleased and surprised by the outcome. 

"I... I really won..." Jon murmured, barely able to believe it. 

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