Chapter 10
He was born to die.
Locke remembered those words, for they were the first he had heard after regaining the memories of his past life. He remembered the pain and the fever that followed soon after.
He was four years old at the time. The herbalist woman, his mother, had begged for help told her that Locke was going to die. No boy could survive a fever so severe, she said. Making his mother cry.
She said that it would burn his insides out, that he was going to die. That my mother should have known that Locke was born to die. That he was not for this world. That her son was already dead.
But everyone was born to die—from starvation or sickness, from childish glory or with old bones. It didn't matter. Death came for all. What mattered was how one reacted in the face of it.
Some cried. Some accepted it. But some screamed, filled with rage.
Today, he could say he had done all of it.
He remembered his first death—the cruelest, most painful end. He cried for help, begged for mercy. Then he looked down and saw what was left of his lower half: nothing but mangled flesh. He accepted it then. He begged for it to end quickly.
It didn't.
It was slow. It was painful.
Now, as a knife dug into his skin and dragged slowly from his collarbone to his navel, he felt no fear. Fear was what had brought him here—fear of everything, for everything, ever since he opened his eyes in this new world. Only now did he realize it.
And so, he could do nothing but replace fear with rage. To chase it away from him. He has nothing to fear and nothing to fear for. But he had the whole world to hate; he had all the rage of the storms.
He cried—as one of the butchers held his arms while the other sat on his waist and, after cutting his skin, dug in his fingers into his flesh and peeled it off—slowly, painfully. Enjoying every moment of his act.
But he didn't cry out of pain or fear. He cried out in fury. He screamed at the butchers, cursed them, spat at them, made their work harder and rougher than it ought to be. Made it more painful for him.
"Shut your shit-eating mouth," said the one sitting on Locke's waist. He had to stop his work to punch Locke in the jaw.
"I am Locke Rivers, and I am going to gouge your eyes out!"
He had no hope of escaping. No hope of fighting his way out. These men, lanky as they were, were still twice as tall and twice as heavy. He was a child—a poor, weak child—with nothing left but rage in his blood. And that blood was pouring freely as the butcher continued to skin him alive.
"I am Locke Rivers, and I am going to gouge your eyes out!"
"I heard you the first time, you filthy rat."
"And so did I."
A knife appeared under the neck of the butcher holding Locke's arms, and then there was a shower of blood, falling across Locke's face. The warmth of it washed over Locke as rage boiled his blood.
"Who—?"
The other man stumbled back, seeing his partner bleeding so quickly that not even the gods could save him. Locke's body moved on its own. There was no thought—just instinct—as he leapt onto the butcher, who sat on the ground in shock.
There was no pain as Locke sat on the butcher's chest and jammed his thumbs into his eye sockets. All that mattered was that the man screamed in pain, while Locke didn't. All that mattered was burying his thumbs as deep as they could go.
The butcher didn't die. Locke's thumbs were too short. Or maybe he was too weak to push them further. Soon, he fell to the side, unable to move. Darkness clouded his vision, and sound became muffled. But he still saw Wren checking if he was alive, and then Hal stepping in.
"What a mess. Shit—is he still alive?"
Locke was alive, but he suspected it wasn't him they had come for, as Hal threw the alive butcher over his shoulder. For a moment, Locke thought he'd be left to die. But then, he felt hands lifting his limbs, even if he couldn't see anything anymore.
…
Locke's mother had loved to sing. She had never been good at it. She'd stumble over the words, and her voice wasn't sweet enough to mask the broken tune. But she always sang to Locke, even though he had hated it, for he lived when he should have died.
Now, he wished he could remember those songs. He wished the words would come back to him. But they never did. Just a memory buried under countless other things he needed to know. Things far more important than a silly song.
And yet, as Alice cleaned his wound—and it burned like the Seven Hells themselves—all he wanted was to hear those songs. They were suddenly the most important thing. But each time the lyrics rose to the tip of his tongue, they vanished. So, he could only grunt and moan in pain.
The sewing was the worst. Alice was no healer; her hands trembled, her mind scattered, even as she tried her best to focus. She was such a feeble woman. Locke could not understand her. Could not understand why she was afraid for him.
She didn't know him. Nor did he know her. All he had done to her was insult her to her face and behind her back. And yet, as he grunted and tried to suppress sobs, she looked terrified. Terrified for him.
"Drink," said Tavish, the priest who followed too many gods. He pushed a mug of bitter wine to Locke's lips.
Locke drank, but it didn't help. The pain wouldn't pass. He didn't know if he would like it to end. The pain told him that he was alive. And in the end, the pain didn't matter to him. He felt it before, and he will feel it in the future.
But what mattered was that he didn't let the rage pass. Because now he understood—it was the only weapon he had. The only one no one could ever take.
And if he let it go, he'd never get to gut that Queen bitch. Never ruin those proud Lannisters.
He would live. Now more than ever, he would live. So, he endured as Alice tried to sew his skin together. Tavish was no better—his hands didn't tremble, but he couldn't control them. So, he could only clean the wound and pour wine into Locke like he was watering a dying tree.
"I will live," Locke said, his voice a husk of what it had once been.
Even with all the wine, his throat was dry. The words came as a whisper. But Alice heard. She paused for a moment, then her hands steadied.
…
Locke didn't remember how long he slept. He would wake, groan, feel lightheaded, then be forced to drink thin soup. Then darkness again.
He felt them clean him, small hands, weak hands. Felt the cloth against his skin. But he didn't react. He had no strength, not even to groan. He knew he'd lost too much blood. For a child like him, any loss was too much.
The wound wasn't deep—he remembered the knife, how it slid just beneath the skin, professionally. But his movement, being carried, had made things worse.
He wondered how long it took for them to carry him here. How many streets were colored with his blood? How long would it take for the sun to dry it out? And how long would it take for the rest of the city to forget it?
Still, it was fine. He would rest. He wasn't worried they'd neglect him. Surely, they'd found the coins and jewelry he had. That alone was enough to pay for his life. And maybe they thought he had more.
He did.
Twenty gold coins, buried under the hills of Rhaenys. Covered under the hard dirt and stone, hidden from dogs and men alike. But that gold wasn't for them. It wasn't even for him.
That gold would be given back to the Lannisters, from where it came.
And with the gold would come the iron. Then blood. A tide to wash away his rage. His vengeance. For his mother, whose awful songs he now wished he could remember.
"Water," Locke rasped, finding strength even if he couldn't open his eyes.
A cup was pressed to his lips. He drank greedily. It was sweet, but not enough. He wanted more; it was never enough. He wanted to speak, to demand more, but his voice was lost. Sleep took him again.
…
"They've done quite a rough job on you," Hal said, stepping into the room.
Locke stared at the ceiling. Tired of sleep. Tired of lying still. Not even able to stand and take a piss. He turned his eyes toward Hal, but not his head—it hurt too much. He was burning with fever. A fever that might kill him, if he couldn't outlast it.
"You're lucky," Hal said. "As lucky as you can be, that is. You probably don't realize how much blood there was. You were soaked in red, head to toe. I couldn't believe what kind of monster you were, trying to kill that scum."
Locke tried to speak, but found no reason to. He just watched Hal, waiting.
"Good thing you didn't kill him," Hal added. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have known who hired him. Wren—she's too quick to kill. The faster the better. Not that I can complain—I taught her that way."
He sighed as Locke remained silent. Hal approached, touched Locke's sweat-soaked body. His hands were like ice. Meaning Locke's body was like fire. Hal pulled away his hand and looked at Locke with surprise and pity.
"I will live," Locke said, knowing what Hal was thinking.
He would endure the pain, the weakness. And once he did, he would get strong. Strong enough to kill anyone. Strong enough to never fall again. To never be pushed again. To never be held against his will again.
"I will kill them all."
The Lannisters, whose pride could not be hurt. Who were blind to everyone but their kin. The same Lannisters whose gold blinded everyone else to their actions and thoughts.
His father, if the oaf doesn't die before he is ready to take him down. His father, who smiled so sweetly at his mother, was probably remembering the better days when he could fuck and drink without anyone saying a word. Locke wondered if his father had forgotten him as quickly as smiles came to him.
The Hand, who gave his mother the gold and sent her to her death. The old and tired man, who did not want Locke's mother to complicate the delicate court he had built. The man, who will die at the hands of his closest people, if not from his old bones.
And everyone who followed the orders. The ones who thought they could get a nice pouch of gold out of his mother's blood. Lorch and his bunch will die by Locke's hands, the same way his mother dead by theirs.
"Is that all?" Hal asked, peering into Locke's eyes. "Is that all you want?"
"I want everything."
Now he understood. It wasn't enough to kill them. He would take everything. That was the only path left. He would play their games. And he would be the one sitting on the Iron Throne.
First, he'd take this city. Then the Baratheon name. Then Storm's End. Then all the kingdoms. And finally—the Iron Throne.
He would take everything.
"Good," Hal smiled—more wickedly than Locke had ever seen anyone smile. "Then get better. We've got many people to kill. And many things to take. Get better, and I'll make you a butcher of Flea Bottom."
Locke wondered how Hal would react if he truly understood. That was what he promised was only the beginning. What he wanted from Locke was only a grain of sand.
Locke wondered how he would react when he realized what he would unleash upon this city. How will he react to all the blood he will spill and all the ashes he will create? Will he regret it, or will he be proud of it?
A.N. As always, thanks for reading and supporting me, so I can continue writing without any concerns, and if you want more, up to 7 more chapters and 28 chapters in total with all my other stories, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.