Chapter 11
After the first days of pure hell, Locke started to heal quite quickly. There were no infections or any other complications. As much as Alice was clumsy, she knew what she was doing and kept his wound clean. And the stitches were still good enough for him to heal.
The first week was the worst. He could feel the cut pulsating as it swelled up. If Alice hadn't cleaned him regularly and given him the medicine, Locke didn't think he could have avoided infection or worse.
From then on, it took weeks for Locke to get any better. Because of the stitches, he couldn't move much—just enough to clean and help around. It was quite a peaceful and quiet time, at least for Locke.
But Locke wasn't a fool, nor blind. He could see that the kids weren't moving around as often as they did when he first arrived. And more and more adults were coming in, bloodied—either with their blood or that of others.
There were also fewer customers each day. Even those who did come had tense looks on their faces. Something was clearly happening, but nobody spoke of it. It probably wasn't a full-blown war with another gang—at least not yet. But whatever that butcher who carved Locke had said, it had led to more than a few fights.
It didn't concern him much—at least, he wished it didn't. But he had learned his lesson. And though he still believed he could handle things on his own, he wasn't so delusional anymore.
On his own, Locke was nothing. On its own, this gang was nothing. But perhaps, together, they could become something greater—a faction that could rise within the city. He needed this gang. And he needed it to be far stronger and bigger than it was now.
He had barely ten years left. In some ways, it was a long time. In others, not at all. He needed to establish himself in the city and use the coming war to its full potential. Chaos was a ladder, and he intended to climb to the top.
To do that, he would have to use everything and everyone. And he would start with this little gang—making it his own, then spreading its influence until he could take control of Flea Bottom. And that was just the beginning.
"Hal," Locke finally felt well enough to seek out the man in the fourth week of his recovery, "I want you to teach me how to fight."
"About time," Hal replied, like he had been waiting. But before answering, he gave Locke a good, slow look to make sure he was well enough. "I won't be teaching you how to fight, though. I'll teach you how to kill."
Hal motioned for Locke to follow him into the basement. It was spacious, with barrels of wine and ale pushed against the walls, leaving the center clear. It was dimly lit, with only a few candles and narrow windows.
"Fighting is for the strong," Hal explained. "You're just a stray. If you get into a fight, you'll die. So, lower your expectations."
The blood on the floor hadn't fully dried. Even though it had been washed, a dark stain remained. This was the same place Hal had beaten him for information. Probably the same place he got whatever the butcher had told him.
"First, I should give you this back," Hal said, handing Locke the same knife he'd gotten from the cripple called Henry. "Take this sheath, too. Don't want you cutting yourself."
Locke caught the low-quality, pigskin sheath and covered the blade. Hal picked up a pair of iron tongs and swung them a few times to get a feel for them. Then he smiled—and if Locke had been a second slower, he'd have been struck on the head.
"Good. You've got the knack for knowing when you're in danger. Not everyone has it," Hal said. "We'll start with your posture. First thing, if you want to survive: make yourself small. Turn sideways, bend your knees slightly. If you're not using your other hand, hide it behind your back."
Locke followed the instructions, holding the knife out. Hal watched him for a second—then suddenly swung the tongs again. Locke had to step back quickly to avoid the blow.
"Stupid," Hal laughed. "Told you—you'll die in a fight."
He stepped forward in a single, big stride. Struck Locke's hand. Then his leg. Then kicked him in the head. It wasn't too bad, but it was enough to send Locke to the ground groaning.
"Even if I wasn't stronger than you, I'm still bigger, taller, and my limbs are longer," Hal said. "It's easy for adults to kick around kids like you. So, the moment you get into a fight with one, don't stand your ground—turn and run. That's the only way to survive. Now, since you know how to fight, let's get into how to kill."
Hal went to the other side of the basement and dragged over a poorly made straw dummy, hacked and stabbed hundreds of times already. He placed it in the middle of the room. It was barely standing.
"The first thing about killing is knowing where to stab or cut. If you're behind them, stab the lower back—off-center, either right or left. Don't slash. You have to stab." He showed Locke the spot. "If you're in front, go for the belly. Slice deep as you can and then run."
"Come on, try it."
Locke obeyed silently, stabbing the back a few times, then slashing the front. Hal guided his hands at first but said little. When Locke seemed to get it, he looked to Hal for more.
"There's nothing more," Hal shrugged, reading Locke's expression. "If I were a knight or a water dancer from Braavos, maybe I'd have more to teach. But I'm neither. I just know what works. If you can't pull your knife out, abandon it. If someone's wearing even a bit of armor—just run. Your little blade won't get through chainmail or gambeson. And if they've got plate… you're fucked."
"That's all?" Locke asked. The advice was useful, sure—but underwhelming.
"What else did you expect?" Hal laughed. "It's that simple to kill someone. No tricks. No magic. Just a good stab in the right place. Now all you need is practice. So come at me."
Locke frowned, knowing he stood no chance. If he tried, Hal would only beat him again. He turned to leave. Hal laughed, seemingly amused that Locke got the right idea. But Locke wasn't so amused; he was still weak and didn't think he would soon be any better.
"Leaving already?" a girl said from the stairwell. She had short black hair and hazel eyes, watching Locke closely.
Hal patted Locke's shoulder as he walked past him. Nodding to Wren as he was leaving them alone.
"Since you're smart enough to know you can't touch me, I'll leave Wren to teach you the rest. You've got ten days to prepare. And don't reopen your wounds again; you've already wasted a lot of our resources and time as it is. Anything more won't be tolerated."
Locke didn't like the tone Hal used. But the meaning was clear: he needed Locke to be able to kill someone in ten days. This was all the training he'd get. After that, it was up to him to survive. And he couldn't do it; he was useless to the gang.
…
Darren helped Klara patch up Locke. Just bruises, but the stitches from his earlier wound had flared up. Luckily, it wasn't enough for them to reopen. Still, he could barely move and needed help cleaning up.
Since he'd decided to stick around, Darren was a bit annoyed to be the one helping Locke. Most of the time, he kept to himself, even with Arin and Klara nearby. His dirty blond hair flopped as he leaned over, changing bandages with a sigh. He clearly wanted to be done with it fast.
"Has anything unusual happened lately?" Locke asked.
Over the past two weeks, he'd mostly rested and occasionally helped around during the day. He hadn't seen or heard much. But he knew something was coming. And he didn't want to be left in the dark.
"The adults don't say much," Darren muttered, glancing around. "We've got a curfew. Only allowed out during the day. Mostly we're stuck inside, working."
"Did you hear anything?" Locke pressed.
"I heard Hal's gathering as many people as he can. Old friends, anyone he can buy," Klara said, brushing her brown hair away from her eyes. "And Alice said there'll be less food for a while."
So, it was a war—or close to one. Once Hal gathered everyone and prepared, he'd strike. Locke doubted it would last long. One hit, and the winner would be decided. That's all it took in these streets.
One night could decide the lives of dozens of people, and with the sun rising, they would be forgotten. Only corpses and blood stains were left to be clean off before they started to rot in the streets.
"Did anyone else get hurt after me?" Locke asked.
"Not that I have seen," Klara replied with a bit of tremble in her voice. "At least not any of us. I think a few adults visited Alice for help, but it didn't look any serious."
Locke would be lying if he said he wasn't worried. But Hal knew what he was doing. If the enemy were strong enough to crush this gang, they'd have done it already. And now that Hal was gathering his forces, it seemed unlikely he'd lose.
But how many would survive? Klara looked terrified. She was smart enough to know what was happening and too kindhearted to be able to handle watching any more of her friends dying before her eyes. She really didn't belong in a place like this.
And in ten days, Locke—and probably others like Wren—would be sent to kill or die. It would be to kick off a full-blown assault. And even though Locke was relieved to see Hal leaving nothing to chance. He still didn't think everything would go as they had planned.
But this was Locke's chance to establish himself. The gang knew he was familiar with violence. He might not be able to fight—or win—but they knew he was willing to act.
If he could succeed in this mission, he could start building his reputation. And in a place like Flea Bottom, that meant everything. It was worth far more than gold or name. Reputation was what people respected and feared.
And he needed it if he planned to take over this gang in five years.
And even that was cutting it close. The gang was just a starting point. Once he got bigger, strong enough to face anyone, Locke would need more. Flea Bottom would be the first step.
"Do you know who Hal's fighting?" he asked.
Darren and Klara both shook their heads.
Smart. Everything was kept quiet. Locke guessed Hal wanted to keep the enemy guessing. Surprise would be key. And that also meant Locke hadn't earned the right to know anything about the gang's real plans.
He really couldn't afford to screw this up. He had to build his name fast. To earn his place here and then rise in the ranks. To be respected among peers and feared by anyone else. He only had one opportunity.
But that wasn't enough, not nearly enough. To take over the city, he would need a fortune. Bribes, weapons, informants—everything had a price. And he'd need everything.
Still, he had no choice but to take it step by step; he couldn't rush. He had a long way to go from a stray getting his ass kicked by a little girl.
And knowing he would face the Lannisters one day… he couldn't afford any mistakes.
Locke remembered the lifeless eyes of his mother. He would do anything to bring the Queen down—to make the prideful lion kneel. He wouldn't rest until he burned and slaughtered every last one of them. He cared for nothing else.
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 of his story and 28 chapters in total with all my other stories combined, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.