"These little bastards hit hard," Tony thought to himself, holding his still-bleeding mouth, his body covered in bruises.
His resolution from the night before had quickly collided with the reality on the ground. Like any slum of this magnitude, Flea Bottom was infested with criminal gangs. They ran rackets, did odd jobs, offered protection services, committed theft, and more. Being an outsider, he couldn't possibly thrive if he went it alone, especially in the aftermath of a civil war.
Whatever he undertook, the minute a coin entered his hands, he was sure a rusty knife would relieve him of his earnings. No, he wasn't crazy. A genius, certainly, but not crazy.
Thus, he had given himself the mission of finding a group that met his expectations. Its members couldn't be too old; he wanted a swift takeover. They couldn't have too sordid a reputation; getting killed by rivals or arrested by the City Watch was not part of his plans. And finally, they had to be unconcerned with his background and not too violent in their recruitment tests.
This tedious operation took him nearly four days. In the meantime, he had to sacrifice a few of his copper coins to pay for a room at an inn. Sleeping alone in an alley again was not going to happen anytime soon.
Before starting his reconnaissance, he had meticulously hidden his gold dragon. Several of the gangs had tried to rob him, some even demanding an entrance fee.
"They're insane," he thought. "If they knew what I was capable of, they'd kill each other to have me."
Just as he was beginning to lose hope, he came across a gang with the inglorious name of "The Gnats." Yes, their name was shit. But they met his expectations in a scandalous fashion. They were a group of outcast children who did a bit of everything to survive, except for violent crimes. Their name was a nickname used to label them as cowards. Like any chaotic structure of its kind, their leader was the tallest and oldest of the group. If he had to guess, he'd put him at sixteen. And surprisingly, among the fifteen or so members of the gang, there were four girls.
Despite their wariness, approaching them wasn't difficult. He had just made himself look even more disheveled than usual, and that did the trick. His offer was simple: he knew how to read, write, and was good with numbers. He would help them, train them, in exchange for their protection and assistance.
When they asked him how such an educated kid could have ended up here, he just answered: the war. His family had died in it, an unscrupulous uncle had fled with what little was left, and now he was on the street.
Even if his story didn't make anyone cry, they seemed at least sympathetic. Until, that is, the little rascals demanded he prove he could fight, arguing that an education wasn't going to feed them or protect them on the streets.
And that's where he was now. In his past life, as Iron Man or simply Tony Stark, he had to learn hand-to-hand combat, mastering various fighting styles to a fairly advanced degree. So when the kid who was his opponent took him for an easy target, he unleashed a savage English boxing combo on him.
The other kids in the gang, unable to stand seeing one of their own get his ass kicked like that, had swarmed him like rabid dogs. Needless to say, he took a hell of a beating.
***********************************
Tony spat a trickle of blood onto the muddy ground, the metallic taste reminding him that even a genius like him wasn't invincible against a hungry pack. His body was a canvas of welts and bruises—a rib protested with every breath, one eye swelling into a glistening hematoma. The Gnats formed a tight circle, about fifteen kids with emaciated faces, some snickering nervously, others staring at the ground as if they already regretted hitting so hard. Jem, the sixteen-year-old leader, stood back, arms crossed, his expression a mix of satisfaction and cold appraisal. The scar on his left cheek pulled when he squinted; he had done nothing to stop the brawl, because that was the law here: prove your worth or die.
"Not bad for a runt who talks like a maester," Jem finally grunted, breaking the tense silence. His voice was raw, forged by nights of screaming orders into the wind off the Blackwater. He nodded towards the collapsed lean-to that served as their den, a heap of rotten planks and patched-up canvases near the docks. Two of the youngest—bow-legged twins, Pip and Pock, barely ten—unceremoniously dragged Tony inside. The air was suffocating, thick with the smell of mildew and rotten fish that clung to the skin. They tossed him a bowl of murky water, brackish like the river itself, and a crust of hardened bread that predated the last rain.
"You're in for now, bookworm. But if you fuck with us, we'll leave you to the Black Hounds. They eat traitors."
Jem turned on his heel, and the gang dispersed with a murmur of stifled laughs. Tony leaned against the cold wall, suppressing a wince. "Great, Tony. You've gone from slave to punching bag. But these numbers I promised... they're going to have to pay the bill."
The following days were a plunge into the raw misery of Flea Bottom, a daily grind that eroded the soul faster than hunger gnawed at the belly. They woke before dawn, when grey light filtered through the cracks, accompanied by the cries of gulls and the incessant lapping of the Blackwater against the rotting pylons. Jem barked orders in a voice that tolerated no laziness. "Pip, Pock, to the fish stalls—no trouble today, we lost three herrings yesterday because of your screw-ups! Flick, distract the guards near the baker. Tony, you watch the alleys, and shut your mouth."
Tony would nod, his body still stiff from the beating, and step out into the damp cold, a patched cape over his shoulders—a "gift" from the gang that stank of the sweat of a dozen bodies.
The jobs were the most thankless, chores that paid just enough not to starve. That first morning, he was sent with Flick, a fourteen-year-old redhead with rotten teeth, to haul crates for a tanner on the lower docks. The guy, a fat pig in a piss-stained apron, made them empty nauseating vats: hides soaking in recycled urine, the fumes burning their eyes and throats. Tony swallowed his disgust, muscles trembling with effort, while Flick swore under his breath.
"Yesterday, we got two loaves for this. Today, he's just gonna give us crusts."
Sure enough, at the end of the morning, the tanner tossed them a sack of leftovers: moldy bread and a handful of black beans riddled with worms. Not a single copper coin.
"Come back tomorrow, or I'll have you whipped!" he sneered.
On the way back, slipping in the mud, Tony mentally noted the tanner's schedule—perhaps a way to run a racket on him later, but for now, it was just one more humiliation.
Pickpocketing was supposed to be more lucrative, but in the hardship of Flea Bottom, nothing was a sure bet. Lira, the second-in-command, ran that with an iron fist. At fifteen, she was a dull blade: black hair cropped short to avoid snagging on obstacles, cold green eyes that scanned the shadows like a hungry crow, and a thin scar on her right palm, a souvenir from a fall off a roof during a botched theft. Born from a family torn apart by the war—seven kids in a hovel, her mother taken by the bloody flux last winter—she had climbed the ranks by surviving where others broke. Jem consulted her for plans; she could smell a trap, decide on a retreat. Tough as the sandstone of the Red Keep, she never smiled, and her voice cut like a knife: low, precise, and merciless.
"You, watch the market entrance. If you see gold, you whistle. No heroes, got it?" she snapped that afternoon, tying her short blades into a filthy scarf.
Tony nodded, posted in an adjacent alley, his heart pounding with adrenaline. The Gnats operated like a swarm: Pip and Pock scurrying under stalls to snatch rotten fruit, Flick bumping into a bystander to empty his pocket. Lira aimed higher—a portly pilgrim from the Sept, his purse swollen with pious donations. She slid in like a shadow, fingers nimble, but the guy turned at the last second, a shrill scream tearing through the air.
"Thief! Help!"
Chaos erupted. The Gold Cloaks, two gleaming yellow armors amidst the filth, charged into the fray. Tony whistled the alarm, but it was too late: Pip tripped over a crate, spilling rotten apples; Flick took a club to the side that sent him sprawling in the mud. Lira swore, pulling her hand back empty—she'd gotten nothing. The gang scattered, running through the narrow alleys, lungs burning. Tony covered the twins' retreat, shoving them into a dead-end before sprinting after them. They regrouped at the den, breathless and empty-handed. Jem slammed his fist against a pillar, shaking the structure.
"Useless bunch! We lose another day's food. And you, bookworm, your whistle was shit—did you see the guards or were you asleep?"
Tony swallowed his retort, feeling rage boil inside. These kids are amateurs. No reconnaissance, no plan B. Instead of snapping back, he pulled out a stolen piece of bark and scribbled: Day's losses – zero coin, one bruise for Flick, increased risk of alert.
"Tomorrow, we aim smaller. The washerwomen by the canal. Their purses are light, but they're regular. And we split into two groups: one to distract, one to snatch."
Lira, leaning against the wall, crossed her arms, her piercing gaze sizing him up. "Easy for you to say. You weren't the one shitting in the mud with us. Show me your scribbles. If it's bullshit, I'll make you eat the bark."
She snatched the bark, her narrowed eyes scrutinizing the clumsy columns. At fifteen, she counted on her calloused fingers, but letters? That was a mystery for lords. Yet, she nodded, almost reluctantly.
"Not dumb. Jem, we try this tomorrow. But if it goes wrong, it's on him."
The nights were the worst, an ordeal of hunger and wakefulness. Huddled in the lean-to, The Gnats shared a single tattered blanket, the youngest pressed against the oldest to steal a little warmth. Tony, stuck between Flick who snored like a hog and Pip who whimpered in his sleep, stared at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to the drip of the Blackwater seep through like a reproach. Hunger twisted his guts, a gnawing emptiness; the tanner's bread hadn't lasted the day, and the worms in the beans were a luxury they had spat out. Outside, the cries of whores and the brawls of rival gangs—the Black Hounds, those tattooed brutes who controlled the docks—were a reminder that Flea Bottom wasn't a playground, but a giant rat trap.
One evening, after a botched job—hauling coal for a blacksmith who paid them in useless shavings—the tension snapped. Jem and Lira argued over the distribution: an extra crust for the twins, or for Flick, who was limping from an infected gash?
"They're small, they'll die first without it!" Lira barked, her voice rising to a high pitch for the first time.
Jem glared at her, fists clenched. "What about Flick? He covers us, and look at him: pus and fever. If we lose him, we're done for."
Tony, sitting in a corner, intervened in a calm voice, despite his pulsing migraine. "Split it in two. Half and half, and tomorrow we steal herbs from the herbalist. I saw his stall: no guard at night. With your blades, Lira, we're in and out."
She spun towards him, eyes blazing. "And if we get caught? You're not the leader here, bookworm. You're just... useful. For now." But she didn't argue further, and the next day, they tried it. He and Lira climbed the herbalist's roof under a veiled moon, the cold wind biting their bones. Lira cut through a plank with a slender blade, slipping inside like a snake. Tony covered her, watching the shadows. They returned with a handful of dried leaves—not enough to cure Flick, but enough to bring the fever down. The kid mumbled a hoarse thank you, and for the first time, Jem clapped Tony on the shoulder.
"Not bad. Your plans work... sometimes."
Yet, the struggle never let up. A week later, the Black Hounds ambushed them during a pickpocket attempt on a cart driver. The brutes surged from the alleys, rusty blades drawn, reclaiming "their" territory. Jem charged with a staff but took a blow that split his brow; Lira threw a knife that grazed a giant, who retaliated with a backhand that sent her to the ground, lip split. Tony, protecting the twins, parried an attack with a piece of wood—a crack of bone, a searing pain in his arm—and struck low, at the knee, to create an opening. They fled, leaving behind a half-torn bundle of cloth, short of breath and bleeding. Back at the den, Lira cleaned the wounds with dirty rags soaked in boiled water, swearing through her teeth.
"Those dogs will eat us one day. We need to move higher up, towards the central markets. Fewer rivals, more prey."
Tony, his arm bandaged, nodded. "With proper reconnaissance. I'll teach the little ones to count guards. And you, the letters to note down targets."
She stared at him, a moment of tense silence. "Why do you do this? You're not like us. You look like you've seen things worse than the bloody flux."
He shrugged, hiding the weight of his memories—high-tech armors, bloody arenas, a gold dragon hidden like a burning secret. "Because surviving alone is just dying slower. And here, we're a pack. Even if it stinks of shit."
The days dragged on in an infernal cycle: sporadic successes—five copper coins from a distracted washerwoman, a fresh loaf stolen from a dozing baker—drowned in failures. A brawl with beggars over a street corner, a fever that kept Pip in bed for three days, forcing the gang to cut rations. Tony taught at night, tracing numbers on the sooty walls: addition for the loot, subtraction for the losses. Lira learned in silence, her calloused hand forming clumsy Ls—for Lira, so she wouldn't forget. No tender friendship, just an alliance forged in filth, a mutual recognition between survivors.
A month passed like this, The Gnats thinner but tougher, rumors of their name circulating like a sweet poison in the alleys. Jem, Lira, and Tony formed a hard core: the leader for brute force, the lieutenant for instinct, and the bookworm for twisted plans. During a rare feast—a stew of rats and roots after a lucky score from a drunk—Jem raised a chipped bowl. "To us. We're not dying today."
Inwardly, Tony was already fed up, his mind working a hundred miles an hour to find a viable and profitable project.