Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 2: Revenge

…

Third Pov

A week later…

In a crumbling building deep in the poor district of Lannisport, a dimly lit room buzzed with tension. 

Rough, hard-eyed men filled the space, their uneasy murmurs mixing with the smells of damp wood and stale sweat. 

The flickering lantern on a crooked table cast shadows that danced across cracked stone walls, creating an atmosphere thick with dread.

At the center of the room stood Rodric, the gang's leader, pacing like a wolf watching over his pack.

He was in his mid-twenties, but the lines etched into his face suggested he had lived far longer. Greasy strands of jet-black hair fell over his forehead, framing a lean, scarred visage. 

His sharp brown eye glimmered with barely contained fury, while the other, clouded with cataracts, gave him an unsettling appearance. Tension twisted his lips into a thin line, revealing the hint of missing teeth as he spoke.

"Alright, lads," Rodric growled, his voice a low rumble. "This has gone on long enough. Our men have been picked off one by one over the past week. Nine of them, gone." His fists clenched tightly, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain.

"This isn't just bad luck. Someone's targeting us, and that's bad for business." His words sliced through the murmurs, and the atmosphere grew heavier. "So tell me—does anyone know who's responsible for this? Is it one of our rivals, or has the city guard turned on us?"

Silence fell, broken only by the occasional drip of water leaking from the ceiling. 

Twelve men sat in a circle around Rodric, casting furtive glances at one another. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on them like a leaden blanket.

One man, burly and with a crooked nose that had seen too many fights, finally spoke up. "No idea, boss," he said, his voice rough like gravel. "But if I get my hands on whoever's doing this, they won't live to regret it."

"What if it's the city guard?" asked another, his voice trembling slightly. He was a smaller man, with beady eyes that darted nervously around the room.

"We've paid them off!" snapped a third, a heavyset man with a patchy beard. His incredulity was evident, as if the thought of betrayal had only just occurred to him. "They wouldn't break their word, would they?"

The room erupted into nervous chatter as the men threw out wild theories about who could be behind the attacks. 

Some suggested rival gangs, while others whispered of treachery within their ranks. Fear crept into their voices, gnawing at their confidence, their camaraderie dissolving under the weight of uncertainty.

Rodric, growing impatient, slammed his fist onto the rickety table with a sharp thud. The sound reverberated through the room, silencing the group instantly. The lantern flickered in response, casting long shadows across their anxious faces.

"Enough!" Rodric barked, his voice firm and commanding. His mismatched eyes—one sharp as a blade, the other a pale specter—swept over the men, daring anyone to challenge him. 

"Whoever's behind this, find them. I don't care how long it takes or what it costs. We need to stop this before it gets worse. If we keep losing men like this, our business will fall apart, and I won't have that."

The men absorbed his words like a punch to the gut, the gravity of his command settling heavily upon them. Slowly, they nodded, understanding the stakes they faced. Despite their fear, they knew action was their only option.

The silence stretched on, the steady drip of water from above a haunting reminder of the danger lurking outside their door.

Then, a sharp knock echoed from the door.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

…

Richard POV

Moments before

I had finally found them—the men responsible for all the pain, the fear, and the bloodshed. A cold, grim smile tugged at my lips as I watched Rodric and his pack of thugs slink into an old, decaying building they now called their hideout. 

They thought they were untouchable. They thought they had won. How wrong they were.

The building itself, nestled deep within the slums of Lannisport, was crumbling. Its stone walls, long abandoned, were covered in moss and grime, the wooden beams sagging under years of neglect.

The shadows cast by the dim evening light clung to its corners, making the place seem almost forgotten by the world—except by those who used it as a den for their wicked deeds. A perfect hiding spot for men like Rodric. But not perfect enough.

For the past week, I had hunted them relentlessly. I tracked them through the labyrinth of the city's back alleys and forsaken streets, watching, waiting. 

One by one, I found them, dragging their secrets out of them like poison from a wound. I knew their faces by heart—their sneers, their smirks—etched into my memory like scars. 

When cornered, they put up pathetic fights, their bravado shattered by the time I got my hands on them. 

They always talked after some... *persuasion*. Every name, every hideout, they spilled it all before the light left their eyes.

By the end of each encounter, my hands would tremble—not with fear, but with the rush of power, the intoxicating surge of adrenaline. 

No longer was I the one cowering in the shadows. 

The tables had turned. After so long of being powerless, there was a bitter satisfaction in finally standing tall. It felt good to make them afraid, to give them a taste of the terror they'd once inflicted. 

Now, it was Rodric's turn.

I moved swiftly across the rooftops, the dim light of dusk casting long shadows over the narrow, cobbled alleyways below. 

The city was alive with distant sounds—the chatter of taverns, the clatter of hooves on stone—but here, in the forgotten corners of Lannisport, it was silent. 

My boots made barely a sound as I dropped silently into a dark alley, just outside the building where Rodric and his men were holed up. 

The flickering light of a torch illuminated two young guards at the door—barely more than boys, laughing about their recent exploits in some filthy brothel. 

Their voices were cocky, dripping with arrogance as they boasted of their so-called conquests, swapping crude stories of women and drink.

Their laughter was short-lived.

Before they could even register my presence, two knives whistled through the air, sinking deep into their throats. 

They gurgled in shock, their hands instinctively clawing at the wounds as their eyes met mine—wide with fear, pleading for mercy they wouldn't receive. 

Their final sight was of a hooded figure stepping silently over their bodies, disappearing into the shadowed entrance of the hideout.

Inside, the stench of the place hit me like a wave—sweat, stale ale, and the unmistakable rot of a building long forsaken. 

The stone walls were cold and damp, slick with moisture. It was a warren of filth, a fitting home for men like Rodric. 

I moved cautiously down the narrow, dimly lit hallway, my steps silent as I approached the source of muffled voices echoing from deeper within. 

Laughter—raucous, carefree—drifted down the corridor. Rodric's men, unaware that their time was running out, reveling in their own depravity. I reached the door and paused, listening. 

Their guard was down, and they were oblivious to the danger creeping ever closer.

I pushed the door open just enough to glimpse inside, and what I saw made my blood run cold.

Five men, in varying states of undress, sat around a dingy wooden table, laughing and drinking. The air was thick with the sour scent of alcohol and stale smoke. 

In the far corner, two unconscious women lay discarded, their bodies lifeless and forgotten—broken dolls in a den of wolves. 

The men, monsters in human skin, roared with laughter as they passed a bottle between them, completely lost in their twisted revelry.

These were not just men—they were predators, feeding on the misery of the weak, taking pleasure in the suffering of others. But tonight, the roles had reversed. Tonight, I was the predator. And I had no regrets about what was coming next.

I stepped into the room, unnoticed at first, my eyes narrowing as I focused on my targets. My heartbeat quickened, but my hands were steady. 

The laughter continued, but not for long. Soon, they would know the meaning of fear. Soon, they would pay for everything they had done.

In a swift, silent motion, I unsheathed my claws—dark metal that gleamed ominously in the dim light. I moved quickly, efficiently. 

They were drunk and unarmed, and the outcome was inevitable. By the time they realized what was happening, it was already over. Their laughter turned to screams, then to silence, as one by one, they fell.

When it was done, the room was still. Blood dripped from my claws, staining the floor in dark crimson pools. My clothes were soaked, but I didn't care. 

I stepped over the bodies without a second glance, moving up the creaky wooden stairs to the upper floor. 

Rodric was up there. Waiting.

He thought he could escape justice, that his deeds would go unpunished. But tonight, karma had finally come for him and his men. And there would be no mercy.

…

Third POV 

The sharp knocking echoed through the dim room, causing Rodric and his men to tense at once. 

The atmosphere, once charged with the nervous energy of their murmurs, thickened into a heavy silence, the air pregnant with apprehension. 

Each man exchanged furtive glances, their unease now blossoming into a palpable tension that crackled like static before a storm. 

One of Rodric's henchmen, a burly brute marked by a jagged scar that traced down his cheek like a cruel reminder of past encounters, stepped forward. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, poised for action. 

"Who dares to knock?" he snarled, his voice cutting through the stillness, sharp and commanding as he glared toward the door. "Can't you see we're in the midst of a discussion with the boss?!"

The knocking stopped, replaced by a long, eerie silence. 

The henchman's sneer deepened, but before he could bark another order, there was a faint *click*. The door slowly creaked open.

A man in a dark hood stepped inside, his movements fluid and deliberate. He wore black from head to toe—his cloak, his boots, even the gloves on his hands, all blending into the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. 

His face was obscured by the hood, but there was no mistaking the cold, lethal intent radiating from his presence. 

Rodric's men instinctively reached for their weapons, the air thick with tension. Rodric himself, standing near the table, didn't move at first. 

His sharp eye narrowed, his gaze locked on the intruder. For a moment, there was only the sound of the door shutting behind the hooded figure.

"Who the hell are you?" Rodric growled, his voice low and dangerous. His men, already on edge, fanned out slightly, their hands gripping swords and knives, ready for a fight.

The hooded man didn't respond. Instead, he took a slow step forward, his boots making the faintest sound on the stone floor. 

His silence was more unnerving than any threat he could have uttered.

The henchman, not one to be intimidated, took a step toward the stranger, his sword half-drawn. "I don't know who you think you are," he spat, "but you've just made the worst mistake of your life."

In a blur, the hooded figure moved.

The henchman didn't even have time to finish drawing his sword before a blade flashed in the dim light, and his throat was slit by three shiny metal knives protruding from the hooded figure. 

He gurgled in shock, blood spilling from the wound as he collapsed to the ground. The other men froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

What was that they just saw. How was it possible for a man to be so fast and how was it possible for a man to have long knives coming out their knuckle.

Rodric's mismatched eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing again, fury mixing with a growing sense of dread. 

This wasn't just some rival thug or city guard—this was something else. Something far worse.

"You bastard!" one of the remaining men shouted, rushing forward with his dagger drawn.

But the hooded man was faster.

Before the attacker could close the distance, the hooded figure sidestepped effortlessly, his own metal claws flashing once, twice—quick, precise strikes that left the man crumpling to the floor, gasping for breath as his lifeblood pooled beneath him.

Rodric finally stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword as he barked at the others. "Get him! Now!"

The remaining men hesitated, their courage faltering in the face of this shadowy killer. But loyalty—or perhaps fear of Rodric—drove them to act. With a collective roar, they charged at the intruder.

The hooded man met them head-on, his movements like water flowing between them, his blades flashing in the flickering lantern light. 

Every strike was lethal, every motion precise. Rodric's men, hardened by years of street fights and brutality, were cut down with terrifying efficiency. 

The metal claws cut through metal, flesh, and bone like butter.

The room, once filled with the sound of laughter and bravado, was now filled with the wet, sickening sounds of death.

Rodric stood frozen, his sword half-raised, as he watched his men fall one by one. His sharp eye flicked between the carnage and the figure in black, a cold knot of fear tightening in his gut.

Rodric trembled, his hands quaking with fear. Thirteen of his men, slain like it was nothing, left him grappling with disbelief. 

His gaze fixated on the hooded figure before him, where three sharp blades protruded from each knuckles like the talons of some monstrous beast. In that moment, Rodric understood that the man standing in front of him was no mere mortal; he was a nightmare given form.

"What is it that you want?" Rodric stammered, his voice quivering as he instinctively took a step back. The hooded man remained silent, his advance deliberate and unyielding.

"Is it coins?" Rodric blurted, desperation clawing at his throat. He gestured wildly toward a chest in the corner, heavy with gold dragons and silver coins. "There's a fortune in there—hundreds of coins!"

"Is it women? I have connections to many brothels, I can get you countless women." His voice shifted to a pleading whisper as he continued to retreat, each step bringing him closer to the wall.

"Is it power?" Rodric ventured, panic rising in his chest. "I can help you; I have ties to the city guards." But as he spoke, he felt the solid thud of the wall at his back, the last barrier between him and the unknown terror before him.

The hooded figure halted abruptly, and Rodric's eyes widened in horror as the glinting blades retracted into the man's flesh, vanishing as if they had never existed. 

Rodric could only watch in fear and confusion as the hooded man slowly drew back his hood. A familiar face emerged, one he had thought long buried.

"H…h.h.how is it possible you died?" Rodric stuttered, dread pooling in his stomach.

The familiar visage smiled—a smile that sent chills down Rodric's spine. It was Richard, how was it possible? He was supposed to be dead.

Richard closed the distance between them, swiping away Rodric's sword. Richard then grabbed Rodric's throat and raised him above the ground.

"Your end will be slower than mine." Richard said with a smile. With a flick of his wrist, his Adamantium claws glinted ominously in the dim light.

"I'll give the worst punishment for your deeds." Richard declared, his tone laced with dark intent.

"Your deeds against those innocents, your deeds against those women, and your deeds against me."

"Your punishment is being flayed alive."

When Rodric heard these words, he instinctively began to struggle against Richard's iron grip. Yet, it was a futile effort; Richard's strength was nothing short of superhuman, an unyielding force that rendered Rodric powerless in his grasp.

Tears flowed from Rodric's eyes as Richard began carving him.