Chapter 9
Nothing good ever happened to people like them—not in any world and definitely not in this one. Locke could only look at the other kids with pity, with the same eyes he was now used to looking at himself. Because he knew luck wasn't on their side, and without it, they had nothing.
Weak, poor, and defenseless, they were put on the chopping block and told to survive the descending cleaver. But still, Locke had no intention of not doing just that. He would survive—the question was how.
"Is she alright?" Locke asked Arin as he checked on Klara.
It was already late, and the tavern had closed for the day, unsurprisingly. After today's events, the old woman decided to keep her doors closed for the night. Though Locke didn't think it would really matter.
Even though Klara had calmed down, she was still pale as snow and trembling slightly. It was clear she wasn't fine, but he still had to ask. Arin knew her better than he did, after all.
"She should be fine," Arin replied, though he didn't sound confident. It probably wasn't the first time something like that happened to her, so he could tell that she wouldn't be fine.
"What happened?" Locke pulled Arin a bit away from Klara, but not too far—he didn't want to lose sight of her. "This isn't the first time someone's been brought back in that kind of state, is it?"
"It's the worst I've seen," Arin admitted.
"Worse than what Klara has seen?"
"She only saw one like that before. Her brother. Real brother, a couple of years ago," Arin explained. "We were all pretty close, even back then, but not like Klara and him. He was older, stronger than any of us, so we always relied on him. That is, before…"
"Does this happen often?" Locke didn't need more detail. "Gang fights, murders, that kind of shit?"
"I don't know. Most of the time, the adults don't tell us anything. But even with protection, kids like us still get beaten and robbed more often than not. Still, not many dare to go further than that. It's only happened a couple of times since Klara's brother, but even then, no one was so…"
"I understand. Stay with Klara at all times. Don't leave her out of your sight—not even for a minute, at least for the next few days. She's not well. More than ever, she needs someone by her side."
Even if Locke wasn't really their friend, he couldn't just leave things as they were. For better or worse, he now belonged to this gang. And truth be told, he doubted he'd find any other gang like this one. For all their weirdness and annoyance, they weren't that bad.
Too bad, the timing couldn't be worse. He didn't want to get caught up in a gang war that had nothing to do with him. He'd only end up as collateral damage—discarded without a second thought. Or worse, used as a pawn by people who thought he was expendable.
Locke couldn't care less about the gang's goals. He didn't care what they did or what they were capable of. Nothing else mattered to him but survival. And the only way he knew how to survive was by using others. So, he knew that they would use him, given the chance.
He didn't know how gang fights played out, only imagined it. But he could guess that once the tavern's business started collapsing, they'd force the kids to pick up the slack, throwing them into the streets. If they died, it was one less mouth to feed. If they lived, they brought in coin.
Locke refused to be fooled by the adults' kindness. It wouldn't take much for them to decide that their lives were worth more than those of the street rats filling King's Landing's alleys. Locke couldn't deny that he, like the rest of the kids, was disposable and replaceable.
He couldn't allow himself to be taken advantage of. They would lie, using honeyed words to tell him that they would protect, feed, and shelter him. But Locke knew those words wouldn't matter the moment a knife was aimed at him.
No, he had to escape. There was no waiting for the perfect moment. It was now or never. Once they started fighting, it would be too late. Not only would this gang have a grudge against him, but their enemies would also not take chances if they met him on the streets. While the gang was distracted, he had to slip away.
It was the best time to go. Chances were, the people who had hurt that kid were hiding, not lurking in the streets. Before they poked their heads out again, Locke had to be gone.
…
Before sleeping that night, Locke drank as much water as he could. And when he woke up before dawn, it seemed his plan had worked. Quietly, before anyone else stirred, he left the attic of the tavern and climbed down.
There were two men in the tavern. One worked behind the bar, checking supplies and keeping an eye out for thieves, but mostly just lazed around. He only glanced at Locke for a second before returning to his task of doing nothing.
The second was the old man with the white hair. He watched Locke with quiet interest, eyes lingering on him as Locke made his way out to relieve himself. Going through the back, so his back wouldn't be seen.
It creeped him out a bit, the way the man stared. But Locke brushed it off and quietly snuck out through the backyard. Even then, he made sure no one in the tavern watched him as he washed himself by the trough. Then he just left.
The tavern was never a prison. Locke could've jumped out a window if he wanted. Nobody would have stopped him. It wasn't the walls that kept the kids in—it was what was outside them.
If Locke had been like any other kid, he might've stayed. Being alone in the streets was dangerous. And once they got used to the feeling of belonging somewhere, they didn't wish to leave anymore. They were bound, even if they didn't know it.
Still, he couldn't deny that there were benefits to staying, even if he was more patient, more careful than others, and was able to endure hunger and exhaustion. One mistake, one misstep, and he'd be devoured like the rest.
And yet he preferred that over being stuck behind those walls, waiting for others to decide his fate. No. He would choose for himself. He trusted himself far more than any gang member marching to war.
He already had a plan. First, he'd collect the coins he had hidden in Flea Bottom—before someone else found them. No matter how well he'd hidden them, he knew people with a nose for coin could sniff them out.
Then he'd leave the city. The thought terrified him—he'd grown used to the dark alleys and knew nothing of the world outside the walls. But he couldn't stay here. And he couldn't let those walls restrict him. He might be a rat, but he was a free rat.
For a year or two, he'd lie low. Maybe he could find his way into a farm or fishing crew. Say bandits had attacked his family on their way to the city, and all he had left were his parents' savings.
He'd buy his way into a household, then prove his usefulness. At least, that was the plan. A nagging voice reminded him they might just take his money and throw him out. After all, nothing ever good happened to people like him. But it still felt safer than staying here.
…
Just as expected, the first two caches were empty. The loss of ten silver and twenty-five copper stung badly. But the third and fourth caches were intact, which brought some relief. Only one remained—seven silver coins and a few pieces of jewelry.
Locke still didn't dare dig up the twenty gold coins he'd gotten from his father. Just thinking about them made him sick. For now, he'd leave them buried. They would only cause more trouble for him, and he didn't have time to circle for them.
By the time he reached the last cache, the sun had already risen high. He didn't have much time to disappear. He didn't know if anyone from the tavern would come looking for him, but the longer he stayed out, the more eyes would fall on him.
Even with his bruises now faded to black and blue, he was still too recognizable. And he didn't know how the guards at the gates would treat him. They'd let him and his mother in easily enough, but that had been during a festival, and they were part of a caravan.
They might not let a street rat out so easily. Not without checking his pockets first. Too many things could go wrong. And he didn't even have a knife anymore. Any illusion of safety was gone.
So, he rushed through the alleys to finish as quickly as possible. If he couldn't get through the gates, he'd have to return to the tavern. The streets were too dangerous with the gang aware of his disappearance.
As much as he liked to act tough, Locke feared another beating like the last. And he would get one if they caught him in their territory again. The pain had been too much. But he couldn't let them see that. He couldn't show weakness.
He had to act like he was strong—until he made that act real. That was the only way to survive among people like them. Fear and any other emotion would bring him his doom. A sign of weakness was all it needed for others to exploit it.
"Phew."
Locke let out a sigh of relief as he uncovered the last cache. He was tired of running, and the sun was already baking the streets. Now, he had to rush to the gates and scout the area. Still, now he had enough coin to survive.
The Lion's Gate and the Gate of the Gods were the busiest—and also the most secure. No way to sneak out through there. The River Gate was his only real option. He couldn't think of anything better.
Getting into the Fishmarket shouldn't be too hard. From there, maybe he could find a fishing boat or circle the city walls to find a nearby farm. That seemed like the best plan.
With a solid plan in mind, Locke wasted no more time. King's Landing was a massive city—it would take hours to reach the River Gate. And once there, he'd have to spend more time watching for an opening.
Rushing through the alleys of Flea Bottom, Locke had to admit it—he'd made a mistake. In his haste, he hadn't watched his back. He didn't notice he was being followed until it was too late. He shouldn't have known better.
A rough hand grabbed his hair and yanked him to the side.
"Where are you scurrying off to, little rat?"
Locke was thrown into a dark alley, with only one exit, now blocked by two men. They were lanky and filthy, showing their missing and crooked teeth as they smiled viciously at Locke.
"A little piggy running errands, aren't you?" one sneered. "And here I thought we'd have to wait a few more days before another showed up."
The pain of hitting the ground didn't register first—the smell did. Dried blood. Rotting flesh. The alley reeked of it. Locke lay on the ground, soaked in death. And soon, he would join it—if he did nothing.
"Should we cut this one apart? The last one didn't seem to scare them much."
Locke saw one of the men draw a sharp knife from his belt.
He looked around, desperate for a crack in the wall, a hole under the building. Nothing.
Then he searched for a weapon. A rock. A broken piece of wood. Anything.
There was nothing. Only the darkness of the shadows around him and the sound of footsteps closing in.
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.