Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Punishments and planning
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Third POV

It was a moonless night in Lannisport, the air thick with the smell of salt and ale. Gwent, a hedge knight of some repute, stumbled out of a tavern, his gait unsteady from drink. He fumbled with his trousers as he found a shadowed corner, relieving himself against a crumbling stone wall. His eyes were half-lidded, his mind dulled by the mead coursing through his veins.

As he finished, fumbling to lace up his breeches, a sudden sharp pain exploded at the back of his skull. A rock had struck him, and his head throbbed in fury. Gwent swore loudly, spinning around to find the culprit. His vision blurred for a moment before settling on a ragged teenage boy standing at the mouth of a narrow alley, grinning with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"You're a son of a whore!" the boy jeered, his voice echoing through the empty street. Without waiting for Gwent's reaction, the boy turned and sprinted down the alley.

Rage clouded Gwent's senses. With a snarl, he unsheathed his sword, the steel gleaming cold in the dim light. He gave chase, his boots slapping against the cobblestones as he thundered after the boy. "You'll pay for that, you little rat!" he growled, his voice filled with venom.

The boy led him deeper into the twisting, labyrinthine alleys of Lannisport, darting through narrow passageways like a shadow. Gwent struggled to keep up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the drink still slowing his reactions. Sweat dripped down his brow as they weaved through the maze of darkened streets, his anger burning hotter with every step.

At last, the boy turned sharply into a dead end. Trapped, the lad faced him, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Gwent's heart hammered in his chest, his rage reaching a fever pitch. He raised his sword, the metal whispering through the air as he stepped forward.

"You've nowhere to run now," Gwent snarled, advancing with murder in his eyes. "I'll gut you where you stand."

But the boy didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled—a slow, knowing grin that unsettled Gwent. The hedge knight hesitated, confusion flickering in his bloodshot eyes.

"What are you smiling at, you little fool?" Gwent barked, raising his sword to strike.

Before he could bring the blade down, a sharp blow struck the side of his head, faster than his drunken mind could register. His vision spun, and the world around him faded to black. He collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, his sword clattering from his hand.

Richard stood over the unconscious knight, his face expressionless as he wiped the blood from his knuckles with a slow, deliberate motion. His boot nudged the limp body, and he looked up, his gaze landing on Humphrey.

"Good work, Humphrey," Richard said, his voice low, almost approving. The boy had played his part well, leading Ser Gwent right into the trap.

Humphrey's face lit up with excitement. "Thank you, milord! How did I do?" he asked eagerly, his youthful enthusiasm clear in his voice.

Richard's eyes softened for a brief moment. Humphrey had come a long way from the streets, where he had once scrounged for scraps with his sister, Myrielle. That was before the family had been built, before the purge that had changed everything. Now the boy was well-fed, strong, and eager to prove himself.

"You did well," Richard replied calmly, his tone measured. "But the job isn't finished yet."

He held out a knife to Humphrey, its blade safely sheathed. Humphrey's breath caught as he accepted the weapon, his small fingers curling around the hilt. The weight of it felt heavier than he'd expected, though not because of the steel. He looked up at Richard, wide-eyed.