Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 55

Chapter 55: The Slaughter
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Warning: Violence and Deaths, the title says it all.
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Third POV

A week later

In the northern border of House Neméos, the night air of the forest was crisp, carrying with it the sharp, clean scent of pine and damp earth.

Perched high in the branches of a towering pine, Richard crouched in silence, his right hand braced against the rough bark of the tree trunk.

Unlike his usual outing, Richard had foregone any disguise, Instead he wore simple dark tunic and trousers.

His golden hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

His piercing green eyes scanned the scene below—the bandit camp sprawled in a loose, chaotic circle.

Flickering campfires cast pools of orange light across the clearing, their flames gnawing at the darkness but failing to penetrate the surrounding forest's deep shadows.

The fires revealed a camp in disarray: tents pitched at uneven angles, gear strewn carelessly about, and men lounging in drunken stupor.

These were the men Richard had tracked down—the bandits who had turned the northern reaches of his territory into a killing field, disrupted trade, slaughtered innocents, and vanished into the woods after each raid.

Erwin had pointed him toward this forest just that afternoon, his voice grim as he described the path of destruction they had left behind.

Now, here they were, laughing and carousing as though the blood on their hands could be washed away with ale.

The camp was alive with noise. Crude laughter and slurred shouts rang out as men sprawled around the fires, mugs clutched in dirty hands.

Some leaned back against fallen logs, faces flushed and eyes half-lidded, while others gestured wildly as they regaled their companions with bawdy tales.

Richard counted over thirty of them, their forms sharp and distinct even in the dim firelight, his keen eyes piercing the darkness with ease.

Their attire matched the state of their camp—patched leathers, fraying cloaks, and grimy tunics stained with sweat and grime.

Nothing about their appearance hinted at an affiliation with the Westerling knight, Ser Jamond, who Richard suspected might be aiding them.

But appearances could be deceiving, and he had learned not to trust what he saw on the surface.

If these were simple bandits, they would all die tonight, every one of them paying in blood for the lives they had taken.

But if they were connected to Ser Jamond, Richard would need to deliver a message—a warning that actions toward House Neméos lands would not go unanswered, even if they were noblemen.

Richard's sharp gaze locked onto a particular man who stepped out of a tent near the center of the camp.

Unlike the others, this one carried himself with an air of authority. His armor, though lightly scuffed, was polished and painted—a clear mark status.

Colored in green and brown, it stood out starkly among the bandits' ragged attire.

Richard's suspicions peaked. This was most likely the man he had been waiting for—the leader, or at least someone important enough to interrogate.

The time for observation was over.

Richard released his grip on the tree trunk and straightened on the thick branch, his balance perfect as he adjusted his stance.