Chapter 5: Changes
…
Richard POV
Several moons later
In the quiet scenery of my solar, I sat slumped in my chair, staring down at my hands. My thoughts wandered, restless, as I watched my claws retract and extend, glistening with my own blood.
The blades were sharp, deadly, but the sight of them didn't bother me—it was what they symbolized, the choices I had made, that weighed heavily on my mind.
I flexed my fingers, watching the blades disappear back into my skin, smooth as if they'd never been there at all. Then, with a quiet metallic sound, they emerged again, sharp and cold. I was lost in thought, questioning myself in a way I hadn't before.
The faces of those I had ended flashed in my mind. I couldn't remember how many now—a hundred, maybe more. They'd all been people who crossed the wrong line, who posed a threat. But recently, something had shifted. I found myself wondering, *should it bother me that I don't feel anything when I end a life?*
Sitting back, I forced myself to ask the question that had been circling in my head. "Did you care when you killed them?"
The answer came out easily, too easily. "No."
I frowned. "Why not?"
"Because they were bad people." It was a reflex, an excuse I'd told myself time and time again. But then, another question followed, one I hadn't considered before. *What if they weren't bad? What if they were innocent?*
I sat in silence, grappling with the thought. What would I do if I faced someone undeserving of the blade?
"Would you kill them?" I whispered, as though challenging myself to answer.
My chest tightened slightly. "No," I whispered again, but this time, the answer was different. "No, I wouldn't."
For the first time in a long while, I felt something—a flicker of humanity buried deep under layers of what I had become. I wasn't numb, not completely. There was a part of me that still knew right from wrong, that still cared, even if I didn't show it.
I shook myself out of the thought and slapped my cheeks lightly to focus. I couldn't dwell on this—not now. There were too many things that needed my attention.
I had responsibilities, a group of people to lead and take care. A mafia family I had made two moons ago.
The organization I'd built wasn't just some street gang; it was a structured, loyal family. Modeled after the Italian style of John Falcon's world, it was a model something that valued respect and loyalty. And I was in charge, the one they all looked to.
I couldn't lose focus now, not when so many were depending on me.
I wiped the blood from my hands and walked toward the door. As I opened it, I was greeted by a bustling scene: four children ran across the hallway, laughing as another child chased them in a game of tag. These were the children who had unknowingly become part of my family, my mafia. They were under my protection now.
When they saw me, they stopped playing at once. The boys bowed their heads, while the girls curtsied. I nodded in return, acknowledging their respect before continuing down the hallway.
As I walked, I admired the building. It was full of long corridors and many rooms. This place had once belonged to the Black Cat criminal group, one of the most notorious in the slums of Lannisport.
But it wasn't theirs anymore. I had dealt with them, taken what was once theirs, and made it my own. My family had renovated the space, transforming it from bleak and rundown to something far more vibrant and alive.
Along the way, people of all ages greeted me—some as young as one year, others in their twenties. I nodded back. There were seventeen made members in my family now, all chosen by me. This doesn't include the new recruits, who number five times as much as the made members. The made members were the older age group. The recruits were the younger ones who were still innocent and oblivious to the truth.
I had brought them in at their lowest points, offering them a place where they could belong, where they could be loyal. One-third of the family were older than me, mostly in their teens, while the other two-thirds were younger.
I was lenient with all of them, but I knew when to be firm. There had been a time when an older boy thought he could challenge my authority. He gathered a group of others, convinced they could overthrow me. It hadn't ended well for them.
I had called everyone to witness their punishment. It was harsh, perhaps too harsh. None of them have teeth or fingers anymore.
Finally, I arrived at my destination: a blue door with a painting of a book and a sewing needle on it. I had come here for a special reason. Alicent's namesday was in three days—she was turning eleven. She hadn't mentioned it, but I knew. She had told me about how her mother used to celebrate her birthdays when she was younger, and those memories were dear to her.
I smiled, thinking about her upcoming special day, but my smile faded as I thought about my own namesday. I had no idea when it was. No parents had ever been present in my life to tell me.
I sighed, pushing the thought aside, and knocked on the door. When I entered the room, I was greeted by a familiar sight: Alicent and two other girls were teaching sewing and reading to a group of about ten girls, all around Alicent's age or in their teens.
When they saw me, the girls rushed over, bombarding me with questions—simple greetings, asking how I was doing, and thanking me for helping them. Alicent, noticing my predicament, took my hand and led me out of the room.
"Back to your studies, girls. I'll be with Richard for a while," she said, as Sharra and Rose resumed teaching the class. These two girls were helping Alicent teach the sewing and reading class.
Sharra, a 17-year-old former merchant's daughter, had worked in a brothel under the Black Cat's control before I rescued her. She was skilled with numbers and letters.
Rose, on the other hand, was 14. She came from a family of seamstresses, but they had lost everything due to a bad loan. Her parents were killed, and she had been scarred by the loan sharks. I had saved her too.
"So, Richard, what's up? Did something happen? Are the kids causing trouble again?" Alicent asked, smiling.
"No, they've been fine. Let them play," I replied, smiling back. Our group had grown large, and the children, who had once known nothing but hunger and hardship, were now bonding, playing games like tag and hide-and-seek in the building.
"Is it about my namesday?" Alicent smirked, already guessing why I had come. She was right.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say now that she had figured it out.
"Don't you remember? Over the past four years, we promised to celebrate this namesday together. It's not just mine—it's yours too," she reminded me with a smile. She was right. Back then, she had noticed how upset I'd been about not having a namesday of my own, so she decided to share hers with me. It was a childish gesture at the time, but it meant a lot to me.
Thinking about it, I realized I was probably around thirteen now.
"Is there anything you want for your namesday?" I asked, curious about her wish.
"Nothing much," she replied, "but I was thinking we could have a small feast. I want to celebrate with the whole family." She wanted to share the moment with our group, the children, and her friends.
"Why do you want that?" I asked, intrigued by her reasoning. I would grant her wish regardless, but I wanted to understand.
"My mother, Maria… even though we didn't have much, she always invited her friends to celebrate my namesday," Alicent said softly. It was a tradition she wanted to carry on in memory of her mother.
I could see the longing in her eyes as she spoke, and in that moment, something clicked in my mind. Her mother, Maria, had been a courtesan at a high-end brothel in Lannisport. Alicent hadn't remembered much from her early years, but she had mentioned the establishment had a sign—a red cat with black stripes.
I decided I would send Humphrey and the boys to scout the city, see if they could find any trace of that place.
"Richard… what do you want for namesday?" Alicent asked, pulling me from my thoughts. She didn't want to interrupt, but she was curious.
"Hmmm, how about a handkerchief?" I replied, patting her on the head. "I want to see the skills you've learned from Tya and Rose."
We both smiled as we continued walking through the building, talking about trivial things. As we reached the second floor, we looked down at the courtyard below, watching as the children laughed and played together, their happiness filling the air.
…
Third POV
The slums of Lannisport had undergone a transformation that few would have believed possible. Once a festering haven for thieves, cutthroats, and smugglers, where every cobblestone whispered secrets of blood and treachery, the streets now thrummed with the hum of honest trade.
Gone were the half-starved beggars clutching rags to their skeletal frames. In their place stood healthy men and women, their hands rough with honest toil, selling goods and services that ranged from fresh bread to simple tools.
The scent of rot and decay, once so thick in the air it clung to the skin, had been replaced by the enticing aromas of roasted meats and fresh-baked loaves. Even the sky, so often choked with the haze of crime and neglect, seemed brighter, as if the city itself had been reborn.
Where shadowy alleyways had echoed with the clash of steel and the hissed bargains of smugglers, now the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang out, accompanied by the busy chatter of merchants hawking their wares.
Makeshift stalls lined the streets, once narrow passageways of vice, now widened by the absence of filth. They were stocked with food, clothing, and trinkets—simple things, but more precious now for the peace they represented.
The change had been swift and absolute, as if the city had been scrubbed clean overnight.
The reason for this sudden shift lay in the whispers that passed from mouth to mouth, slipping through windows and alleyways like the wind. A moon and a half ago, a purge had swept through the slums like a vengeful storm, sparing neither the highborn son who dabbled in illegal pleasures nor the lowest criminal scums.
The once-feared kings and queens of Lannisport's underbelly—merciless thugs who had ruled with an iron fist, demanding tribute and silence—had been erased. Their bodies had not been found; only the bloodstains remained. The underworld was now a ghost story, its power extinguished in a single, merciless night.
Few knew the truth of what had happened, but rumors were enough to chill the spine of even the hardest men. It was said a stranger had appeared, cloaked in darkness, his hood drawn low over his face, moving like a shadow through the filth-ridden streets.
Some claimed he was an agent of the Stranger himself, a herald of death come to claim the souls of the wicked. Others whispered of a lone avenger, a ghost with cold, merciless eyes who fought with the speed and precision of a master swordsman. There were those who spoke of a man whose hands bore the marks of some ancient curse, claws of unbreakable metal extending from his fingers, leaving no survivors in his wake.
The people of Lannisport feared the unknown figure, but they also revered him. His vengeance had brought order where chaos had thrived for generations.
Now, under the noon sun, the slums bustled with the sound of coin exchanging hands, children playing in the alleys, and families gathering for their evening meal. But when the sun dipped below the horizon and the long shadows of the city crept out, the whispers would begin again—the story of the hooded man who had purged the streets, and whether his wrath would one day return.
The event that happened a moon and a half ago that change the landscape of Lannisport came to be known as the Purge of the Slums. During that time fear had spread like wildfire through Lannisport, and rumors ran rampant. Word of a mysterious figure in a black hood swept the city, leaving both the innocent and the guilty on edge.
In response, Lady Joanna Lannister dispatched extra men from Casterly Rock to support the city guard. But their efforts were futile. Each night, the stranger appeared and disappeared as if by magic, evading the Lannister soldiers with ease.
With every dawn, a new body was found in the slums—crouched, lifeless, and unrecognizable, as though they had been claimed by some unknown force. The sight was unsettling enough, but what truly chilled the soul were the words, scrawled in blood on the walls nearby: "Those who have sinned, repent and cease your doings. The Stranger shall spare you."
At first, these warnings were ignored, dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. But as more bodies appeared with each passing morning, fear began to take hold. The gangs, criminals, and even corrupt city guards who had once ruled the slums found themselves targeted. None were safe.
Slowly but surely, the criminal groups that had plagued the area for so long began to flee. Strange happenings in the night were impossible to ignore, and the warning signs were clear to those who knew how to read them. The slums, once controlled by thieves and cutthroats, were emptied of their presence.
Then, almost as if in answer to the prayers of the downtrodden, a miracle followed. One morning, many of the local shopkeepers, innkeepers, and food stall owners awoke to find small pouches of coins left by their windows.
The sums were modest but enough to restart their businesses and restore their livelihoods. It was as though the stranger had not only purged the wicked but offered a chance of rebirth to the deserving.
At first, fear lingered in the hearts of the people, even during daylight. But as the nights passed without further incidents, life began to return to normal.
Slowly, cautiously, the people of the slums stepped out from the shadows. The criminals were gone, the streets were safer, and, for the first time in a long while, the slum-dwellers felt hope.
The economy of the slums flourished. With the threat of crime diminished, merchants could sell their goods without fear of theft, families could walk the streets without looking over their shoulders, and children could play without the shadow of danger looming over them.
Life remained difficult for some—homelessness persisted, orphans still wandered the streets, and petty theft was not entirely eradicated.
Yet, amidst the struggles, there was now a glimmer of hope, a fragile promise of peace and security. The heavy weight of fear that had once suffocated the slums was lifted, allowing the people to face their hardships with newfound resilience.
Though far from perfect, it was a life where one could sleep a little easier, where children could laugh without the constant shadow of danger, and where the honest had a chance to thrive. In a place long forgotten by the rest of the world, even the smallest light was a blessing.