The year was 289 AC, counting from the coronation of Aegon Targaryen, the first king of the Andals and the First Men.
Some called it the eighth year since the change of dynasty, though such reckoning never truly caught on, neither among the nobility nor the common folk.
Eight years had passed since Robert Baratheon took the Iron Throne in King’s Landing.
At first, the city was filled with hope and the promise of change.
But now, the once-bustling capital had become a place where the traces of former glory were tangled with endless gloom.
King’s Landing, choked with fog and grime, with its faded facades, in some places resembled a back alley of a great city where extravagant dreams had given way to harsh reality.
The narrow streets, once bright and full of life, now lost their colour and shape, covered in layers of dust and dirt.
The walls of houses, once brightly painted in anticipation of the royal wedding, had grown pale.
Over time, the paint had faded, and there was no money to renew it.
But that was only in the less prosperous quarters.
In other parts, life still pulsed vigorously.
Bright signs and new posters could be seen here and there.
Crowds of people still wandered the streets from traders to wandering knights arriving for the next tournament.
But in the labyrinth of grey streets and cramped alleys of the slums near the Red Keep, life followed its own laws.
Here, among dilapidated walls and soot-covered roofs, day gave way to night without leaving time for rest or reflection.
These districts, once significant, had become places ruled by poverty and hopelessness.
The streets twisted like snakes through unimaginable squalor.
Narrow lanes, shrouded in shadows, led to dark dead ends where time itself seemed to stand still.
Stone buildings, once majestic, had lost their original pride, fallen into disrepair and ruin.
Their brick walls were covered with layers of grime and mould, and their windows, some boarded up, gaped like empty eye sockets.
Here, every morning began with shouts and commotion.
The faces of the residents reflected toil and suffering, their eyes full of the weariness of hard daily labour.
The streets were as lively as the rest of the city, bustling with relentless energy: merchants hawked their wares, touts sought cheap labour or sailors, children with grimy faces played survival games, and old people sat in corners, trying to find warmth in their memories.
The slums had their own rules.
Law here was force and deceit.
Working conditions were harsh, but street gangs and corrupt guards carved out their own territories, collecting tribute and establishing their own order.
The road to the Red Keep was enclosed by high walls and strong gates, as if reminding residents of the existence of another world a world of privilege and luxury.
Not that some wouldn’t have minded a glimpse inside.
“Stop, thief!” The fat baker, his face red with indignation, shouted in the middle of the bustling medieval city, shaking his massive fist in the air.
His flour-dusted apron fluttered like a banner, and his round face burned with anger.
It was far from the first time nimble fingers had pilfered from his stall.
And, by all appearances, it would not be the last.
The baker’s thick legs hurried after the thief, each step echoing with heavy footfalls on the cobblestones.
The crowd stirred; people turned, following his gaze, trying to spot the culprit.
The culprit was a tall boy, about eleven years old, thin as a rail, with quick feet and cunning blue eyes.
He clutched a fresh, still-warm loaf of bread, its delicious aroma wafting from the crust.
His black hair, streaked with a single white lock, was dishevelled, and his face was smeared with dirt.
His clothes were worn and clearly stolen from someone else.
Old sandals, covered in patches, were mismatched.
Everything about him marked him as one of the countless orphans, like weeds springing from the seeds of the last war.
Hearing the shouts behind him, the boy darted through the narrow streets, weaving between market stalls, baskets of vegetables, and people like a fish slipping between stones in a fast current.
The crowd, now more curious than eager to help the baker, watched the boy’s agility and speed.
He leaped over piles of dung, ducked under carts, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Guards!” The robbed merchant refused to give up, gasping for breath as he approached a pair of Gold Cloaks, who, judging by their looks, were not particularly interested in catching the runaway.
“What happened?” the younger one drawled lazily.
He was a tall fellow dressed in a “golden” cloak that hung to the ground, made of heavy dyed wool, and a black mail shirt.
“Don’t just stand there, the thief is getting away!” the shopkeeper exclaimed indignantly, pointing at the boy quickly making his way toward the exit.
“Show some respect!” the young man snapped, already tasting the sweetness of authority.
“Easy now.
What did he steal?” asked the older partner, a man with a small round beard, wearing a breastplate instead of mail.
“A loaf…” the baker began, but his eyes flashed with anger as his hand reached for his belt, ready to sweeten the attention of the valiant guards.
“A purse!
The little bastard stole my purse!”
“After him,” the leader ordered his young partner.
“Damnit…
Humphrey,” the first muttered, but he took off with surprising speed, trying not to lose sight of the small figure.
“If this turns out to be a lie…” the older man hinted meaningfully.
He didn’t really believe the shopkeeper.
A stolen loaf of bread, sure.
That could earn the boy a few lashes.
But a purse theft could cost him his hand.
“Absolutely!” the baker spat angrily.
“May the Seven curse me if I’m lying!”
The boy, unaware of the conversation, kept running.
In his eyes danced a mix of fear and daring he couldn’t believe he’d actually done this.
At the orphanage where he lived, the attitude towards theft was clear.
It was a church orphanage, after all.
But by the age of eight, he’d learned a simple truth: prayers to the Seven for a good meal or new clothes were almost never answered.
But the Church was always ready to forgive sins, and did so regularly.
Now, after the previous matron, Yunella, had joined the ranks of the Righteous the highest clergy of the Faith of the Seven things at the orphanage had only worsened.
And who better than he knew what a hungry person was capable of?
Arthur knew the baker wouldn’t miss a single loaf.
The orphanage boy was quite clever for his age.
Tall for eight, he looked eleven.
He was good at noticing things like the purses of coins that many “knights” handed over before receiving indulgences and confessing all sorts of things in the confessional.
Among those stories, full of violence and crime, the theft of a single loaf in the eyes of the Seven would surely be lost.
At least, the boy sincerely hoped so.
His quick feet pounded the cobblestones.
The city, with its narrow streets and tall stone houses, seemed like a labyrinth where every corner hid both salvation and danger.
But he knew these streets like the back of his hand, always exploring new places with a curiosity his peers seemed to lack.
Now he weaved through them, hoping to lose his pursuers.
Around the next corner should open a straight road to the gates separating Flea Bottom from the rest of the more prosperous world.
The guards rarely ventured there, and Arthur would be safe.
But as he rounded the next alley, his gaze fell upon a squad of Gold Cloaks.
The guards, clad in gleaming armour, blocked the way ahead.
Their stern faces and confident steps left no doubt they weren’t here for fun.
Their faces under their helmets were coolly bored, their eyes showing only duty: catch and punish.
They blocked his path like an impassable barrier.
The boy froze for a moment, the world slowing down, his thoughts whirling like a vortex.
There was nowhere to retreat behind him was the baker and perhaps a crowd of townsfolk ready to grab him by the collar.
Ahead, the relentless Gold Cloaks would not let him pass.
Turn aside?
“And all this for a loaf of bread?!”
“Stop!” shouted one of the guards as the boy darted into a side alley leading toward the Red Keep.
All other paths were closed.
But Arthur hoped he could lose his pursuers before reaching the main gates or finding another way out.
He didn’t know what the baker had told the guards, but it was clearly something that would mean big trouble.
The dark alley twisted like a snake, leading straight to the Red Keep a giant fortress towering over the entire city.
The boy’s feet barely touched the ground, and it seemed the air itself pushed him forward, but behind him, the Gold Cloaks’ steps grew closer.
The clink of their armour, shouts, and curses echoed off the stone walls.
The alley was narrow, old, and filthy, littered with rubbish the boy leaped over with ease while the guards struggled through, cursing and threatening punishment.
Arthur knew this city like no one else; his nimble feet could carry him for hours through these endless labyrinths, but the Red Keep was close a place where hiding was impossible.
With its huge gates and tall walls, the fortress loomed ahead, rising above the rooftops like a threat or a final obstacle.
And as if fate had turned against him, a tall figure appeared ahead a guard with a small round beard.
Spotting a narrow gap almost completely hidden behind a pile of old barrels and crates, the boy dove in without hesitation.
He squeezed through the narrow opening, the cold smell of dampness and decay assaulting his senses a stone drainpipe leading somewhere deep beneath the city.
In the darkness, it was hard to tell where he was going, but the sound of footsteps and clanking armour behind him faded for a moment.
Then a muffled shout echoed from the guard with the small beard.
“Boy, stop, you’ll fall!” The shout reflected off the walls, only urging his legs faster.
Arthur sped up, stumbling over slick stones, touching the walls for balance.
His heart pounded in his chest, but he felt the air growing thicker, cooler.
Yet after a few minutes, he realized something was wrong.
The tunnel didn’t end it sloped downward, growing steeper.
“Ah…
Damn it!” His old sandal betrayed him as the strap snapped.
Suddenly, he was sliding down through filth, desperately trying to stop his fall while clutching his prize.
A dull roar filled his ears, like a river nearby.
He braced against the walls, his unease growing.
The tunnel abruptly ended.
The boy teetered on the edge, his eyes widening in horror.
A yawning void lay before him.
The tunnel was a drain leading to the cliffs outside the city.
Below, several metres down, a roaring torrent of water rushed away.
The cliffs were steep and slick, with no way back.
Arthur realized his mistake too late.
His fingers, weak with fear and exhaustion, slipped on the damp stone.
For a moment, time seemed to stop panic surged through his mind, his heart seized, and then, as if on cue, everything lurched back into motion.
He felt himself lose control, and in the next instant, he was falling.
The wind whistled in his ears as the world blurred into a smear of stone walls, grey sky, and roaring water.
The fall lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
Each heartbeat echoed heavily in his chest.
Fear filled him to the brim, paralysing his mind.
He crashed into the raging current with a deafening splash.
The icy, muddy water swallowed him instantly, like a monstrous beast awaiting its prey.
Cold pierced every cell of his body; his lungs gasped for air, but the current dragged him under.
The powerful flow tossed him, spinning and flinging him like a helpless doll.
He fought, trying to surface, but the current was too strong.
The water whirled him, robbing him of any sense of direction.
Each thrash of his arms seemed futile, and with every second, his strength waned.
Yet somewhere deep inside, a spark of hope still flickered hope that he could escape, grab hold of something, or at least draw one more breath.
But the elements, as always, were deaf to the pleas of others.