Chapter 2
Today, the streets were flocked with people, at least the main street near the center of the city. With the crowd pressing on all sides, it wasn't easy to see what was going on. But Locke didn't care; all that mattered to him was how he could use the commotion to his advantage.
It had been luck that brought him here. He had left the slums to search for a better source of water, not trusting the cheap and dirty taverns of Flea Bottom, as he knew well how dangerous it was to drink unclean water. On his way back, clutching a canteen he had spent all his coin to fill, he stumbled into the scene.
It seemed some lord was passing by. At first, it was hard to tell who, but the golden lion's banner soon rose above the crowd. A Lannister. Though curious, Locke was far more interested in loose pouches and unattended coins. Most purses were tied tightly to belts, but not all.
With so many people in one place, some were careless, and Locke took full advantage of it. He spotted a few pouches already dangling loose and snatched them quickly, disappearing to the other side of the crowd. He pocketed the copper and tucked the silver into his trousers.
He knew very well how easily it would be to steal from him. So, he made sure to hide anything too valuable to lose as he continued to look for easy targets before the commotion ended. He didn't know when such a chance would present him again.
Once people started to disperse, Locke didn't want to linger and give his victims a chance to start looking for him. So he scattered away as quickly as he could and was about to leave for the dark and dirty Flea Bottom before he was stopped in his tracks.
"Where do you think you're going?"
He had known this would happen sooner or later, though he had hoped for later. A group of boys, outside the sight of others, waited for him. They were at least five years older, far bigger, and stronger. There were three of them, and they surrounded him.
"I've never seen your face before," one boy said, shoving Locke with the casual ease of someone much stronger, showing off so Locke didn't even think of retaliating. "You're new, aren't you?"
"We saw you in the streets. Cough it up," Another boy said, extending his hand, not even waiting for Locke to reply.
"What?" Locke tried to look surprised and confused.
A mistake. A fist slammed into his face so hard he saw stars. He didn't even remember falling to the cobblestone, only the taste of blood and a sharp pain radiating from his jaw. A kick to the stomach followed, almost making him vomit the water he had just drunk.
"Coin. Give it to me."
Locke didn't resist. One of the boys grabbed him by the hair, and he quickly fished out the copper coins and handed them over. Today, he had learned never to question when someone stronger demanded something. People in this world were ruthless, and killing came easily to them.
"Good. You better pray I don't catch you in our territory again."
The bigger boy shoved him away effortlessly, laughing with his friends as they walked off. Locke immediately checked his trousers. The three silver coins were still there. He let out a slow, quiet breath. He would remember their faces. They would die at his hands one day.
...
The cloak he had hidden in a hole was gone. It wasn't safe to return. He couldn't explain it, but he trusted the feeling. If he wanted to survive, he couldn't stay in one place.
Still aching from the beating, Locke walked slowly, taking in the city's layout. He noticed the sharp change in atmosphere where the slums ended—Goldcloaks suddenly appeared in force. The difference between important streets and forgotten alleys was obvious.
That night, he ventured beyond the slums, creeping through richer neighborhoods, though keeping his distance. It didn't take long to realize something: no child walked alone in these streets. His presence was suspicious to everyone else.
That alone was enough reason to run. Not because someone would hurt him, but because if anything went missing, he would be the first to blame. The Goldcloaks would seize him. At best, he'd be sent to the Wall. And to Locke, that was worse than death.
Being stuck there would mean giving up any chance at revenge. And revenge was the only thing that kept him going. He dreamed of the day those bastards bled and begged under his feet. That was all he cared about.
Even the memories of his past life only mattered if they could help him now. Everything else was irrelevant. Because no matter what he had once been, he was now a man trapped in a child's weak, hungry, exhausted body.
But the body would grow. He would get stronger. For now, he would bide his time—surviving, getting smarter, looking for a path to destroy the Lannisters, the Baratheons, the Arryns. None of them were innocent. All had blood on their hands. Blood of his mother.
His father had forgotten them and dismissed them with a worthless pouch of coin. He would pay for that. The wretch of a father as well as have ordered the murder by letting his bitch of a wife to do as she wished. And the old Arryn has decided that they were worth no more than a score of gold coins.
The Lannister bitch who couldn't tolerate a whisper of shame and ordered their deaths—she would suffer more than anyone else. Locke would take everything from her and ensure she met the same end as his mother. By his hands, he could not accept anything less.
But first, he had to survive. Right now, he had nothing. Even silver was dangerous—worth more than his life. If the boys who beat him knew he had it, they would hunt him down. So, he kept the coins hidden in his clothes. For now, he had eaten and drunk enough to keep from starving. That was what mattered the most.
And he needed to find another place to sleep. Nowhere was safe; he needed to find a hole where nobody would find him. As the nights were far more dangerous, and he was still aching. It would be a fool's game to try to steal in this condition. He needed to rest and be in top condition before he did something risky.
...
Though he swore not to spend his silver, the smell of cheese and roasted meat the next day tested him sorely. The stall owners, however, were formidable—tall, muscled, and clearly used to swatting away slum rats like him. Nobody would bat an eye if they took his silver.
And even approaching them could get him accused of theft. And it wouldn't be far from the truth, as they would surely find the silver on him. But being caught would cost him not just his coin, but possibly his fingers—or worse. There was no mercy for children when it came to the law.
Only those of noble blood escaped such justice. Locke didn't think that would matter to him once he became fast and strong enough to escape. Theft or murder—it didn't matter. He would do whatever it took to survive as long as he could escape the consequences.
And in less than ten years, war would ravage the realm far worse than he ever could. The whims of the court would destroy lives on a scale he could only dream of. But Locke knew that if he wanted to succeed in his plans, he would need to use the war; it would be his only chance.
Robert would die on his own. Arryn would already be gone. And that would leave the Lannisters. If he could get to Stannis' side, it would help him greatly; if not, there will be other ways. He would get what was his due.
Still, he knew well: man plans, and the gods dispose. Before revenge, he had to live long enough to see the war begin—and become someone who could strike at the heads of court. A child who couldn't defend his coin wasn't ready for that.
So now he sat on one of the richer streets, begging for pennies. An hour passed. His knees ached. His throat was dry. And he wasn't any richer than he was an hour ago. But it was better than doing nothing. He'd wait for night before stealing.
"You're new, kiddo. Never seen you before."
A disabled man with one leg spoke from a few paces away. He looked filthy and dangerous, but his tone held no malice. He leaned against the wall as if enjoying the scenery, not begging. If he weren't acting so relaxed, Locke wouldn't even be so close to him.
"As of three days ago, I'm homeless and an orphan," Locke replied.
"Tough luck," the man laughed. "These days, more runts like you show up every week. Damn war. Took my leg, and now send more kids to steal my coins."
"You're not angry with me for stealing your coin?"
"Of course, I am. If I had two legs, I'd have chased you off already. Hell, if I still had both legs, I wouldn't be here at all. But what can I do? Tough luck for a bastard like me. Doesn't really matter, though. If someone's stupid enough to toss you a coin, they'll toss me one too. People like that don't value what they have."
"Who did you fight?" Locke asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
"The Ironborn," the man answered. "Didn't even manage to kill any of them. One of the wretches took my leg. I guess I should be grateful the lords brought me back to King's Landing and gave me a few gold dragons to live off."
"Someone stole it?"
"Aye. Whores and ale." The man chuckled. "Figured I'd drink and screw myself to death. Didn't happen. And when I tried the knife, I couldn't push deep enough out of fear of pain and death. So, here I am."
"I could kill you if you wanted," Locke offered, a flicker of hunger in his voice at the thought of a knife, of having a weapon to defend himself.
"Haha!" The man laughed loudly, scaring off a few passersby. "You're one of the crazy ones, aren't you? You'll fit in just fine here, kiddo."
Locke waited for more, but the man went quiet. He never answered whether he truly wanted to die. Maybe he thought about it. But every man feared death. No matter how badly they wanted it one moment, the next they would run from it with all they might.
Locke earned five copper coins by day's end. Two women had taken pity on him. The rest of the world had ignored him. Maybe it was enough for a loaf of bread and a flagon of water—if the sellers were generous.
But he knew he would need to try his luck at night. Maybe he'd find a drunk. If not, he'd have to take a riskier target. The disabled beggar might be one, too. Though Locke was fairly certain the man had a knife on him, and that was why he wouldn't try it right now.
Cripple or not, the man was once a soldier. And he looked tough, someone who would not have any qualms about killing anyone. Locke might be able to run away from him, but what if those big hands caught him?
A single cut—no matter how shallow—in this filthy city could lead to infection. And a slow, painful death was not how he planned to go.
A.N. Damn the heat is killing me. Could barely sleep in it, and toady is even worse. Anyway, enough of my complaining.
However, I would like you, who live in Europe and the UK, to sign the Stopkillinggames petition if you care about games and the gaming industry. Even though it seems that we have reached our goal, who knows how many petitioners will be dismissed for one reason or another? If you still haven't, please support the movement; it means a lot to me.
As always, thanks for reading and supporting me, so I can continue writing without any concerns, and if you want more, up to seven more chapters, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.