King’s Landing shuddered as news of the Greyjoy attack on Lannisport swept through the walls of the Red Keep and burst into the streets of the city.
The day, which had begun in its usual hustle and bustle, suddenly took on a different color.
The market squares emptied, and a whisper of anxiety filled every corner.
People dropped their business and interrupted conversations to hear the shouts of heralds announcing the beginning of the war.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, was furious.
Ever since nightfall, he had launched into an angry tirade in the Throne Room, stamping his feet on the marble slabs like an angry deer ready for battle.
His face, red with rage, shone in the light of the torches, and his voice shook the walls like a peal of thunder.
The Iron Islands hadn’t just destroyed the Lannister flotilla, which he was secretly pleased about, and even gloated over, as he disliked and feared the former Hand.
But by attacking his wife’s house, they had challenged his rule, which wounded his own royal dignity.
The raven carrying the ultimatum from Balon Greyjoy, who intended to separate from the Seven Kingdoms, plunged the king into a fury directed at the rebels.
The fact that he himself had won the royal throne through rebellion did not bother him at all.
“I’m going to drown those filthy krakens in their own sea!” Robert thundered, waving the hand that clutched his goblet as if it were a battle axe.
In the Council Chamber, where calm speeches about taxes and agreements usually echoed under the high vaulted ceilings, Robert Baratheon’s voice now thundered at an emergency meeting.
The King, towering over the map of the Westernlands like fate itself, seemed like a red-hot blade ready to fall upon his enemies.
“We must get ahead of Tywin, Jon!” he roared in response to Arryn’s remark about the need to wait and prepare carefully for the campaign.
His hand squeezed the goblet so hard that the thin gilding on its rim cracked and the metal began to deform.
“I’ll show them what it means to challenge King Robert!”
“We need to gather troops, secure fodder…” Arryn noted, understanding full well that delay was unwise.
However, haste in such matters could backfire against them.
“Send out ravens, gather allied forces.
We need time, Robert.
Tywin understands this too and won’t rush.”
After his words, Baratheon fell into thought, trying to calculate how quickly they could organize everything.
As a good commander, he understood all of this, but the desire for an immediate fight dictated otherwise.
“The Royal Fleet is fully ready.
We can sail first,” Stannis declared after a moment’s thought, having approached his post responsibly and being confident in his men.
“I have some ideas on how to break them on the water, clearing a path to the islands…”
“Excellent, brother!” Robert laughed heartily, for the first time in a long while addressing his grim brother with such warmth.
“Do it!”
Robert paced the chamber, his heavy steps echoing off the stone walls.
He looked more like a commander in the heat of battle than a king.
His enormous figure in a black cloak with a golden stag stood out among the lords gathered around him.
The King’s eyes burned, and in his fury there was something primal, almost magnetic.
From a man mired in idleness, a merry drunkard, Robert transformed in an instant back into the man they followed and feared.
The Demon of the Trident.
“Ravens!” he boomed, turning to the scribes.
“To Ned, to the Tullys, to the Tyrells…
to everyone!
Let them all know: we march to war against these squids!
Every sword, every boat!” His voice rose and gained strength.
“To us, fury!”
The discussion of the campaign and the first steps took many long hours.
Afterward, scribes’ quills scratched across parchment, recording orders.
The letters sent to Winterfell, Riverrun, and Highgarden, as well as the other kingdoms, carried the call to arms.
From early morning, the streets of King’s Landing were swept up in a wave of activity.
Criers walked through the districts, calling on all who could hold a sword to join the royal militia.
Their loud voices drowned out the clang of forge hammers and the muffled thuds of carpenters’ mallets hastily preparing ships for departure.
“Glory awaits you in war!” they shouted.
“King Robert promises wealth and victory to those who sail with him to defend the Crown’s honor!”
Life teemed in the port.
Ships, from old merchant vessels to formidable warships, prepared to set sail.
Sailors, hastily gathered from nearby villages and districts, loaded weapons, provisions, and tar to reinforce the vessels.
The wind carried the smell of the sea, mixed with coal and sweat.
The city hummed like a disturbed beehive.
Commoners stocked up on food, fearing rising prices and hunger.
Nobles argued over who would sail with the King and who would remain at the walls, weaving intrigues and debating plans.
And the King himself…
Robert, tired but energized, returned to his chambers.
The thick air of the room, filled with the scents of old wood, leather, and wine, felt like the calm before a storm, comparable to the one raging in his soul.
The gilded bracelets on his wrists clinked as he shrugged off his heavy cloak and tossed it onto the nearest table.
On the table before him stood a goblet of wine, and he reached for it as if for an old friend.
His lips touched the rim, but he paused, almost admiring the red liquid so like blood.
Robert, despite all his fury, was truly happy in this moment.
“It will be a glorious battle,” he said hoarsely, gazing into the deep crimson of the drink, as if among its dark swirls he saw the coming storm.
“Damn it, how I’ve waited for this.”
While the King raged in his castle, life in the city continued in its usual chaotic rhythm.
The streets of King’s Landing were a labyrinth of poverty and splendor, where the rich and the poor lived side by side, their fates intertwined in a dance of survival and ambition.
On the outskirts, where the stench of the slums mixed with the salt spray of the sea, children played among piles of refuse.
In the richer quarters, merchants shouted their wares from colorful stalls, and the air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and fresh bread.
The news of the war spread like wildfire, and every soul in the city felt its heat.
Arthur Snow, a boy of about eleven, ran through the crowded streets of Flea Bottom.
His bare feet, calloused from years of walking on cobblestones, slapped against the ground as he weaved between the legs of adults and the wheels of carts.
He was small, fast, and hungry, and he had just stolen a loaf of bread from a baker’s stall.
The baker’s voice echoed behind him: “Stop, thief!
Stop him!”
But Arthur didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop.
The bread was warm in his hands, and the smell of it filled his nostrils.
He ducked into an alley, his heart pounding in his chest.
He’d done this before, many times, but the fear never left him.
The fear of being caught.
The fear of being beaten.
The fear of being thrown into the dungeons of the Red Keep.
He ran deeper into the maze of alleys, his feet carrying him through the familiar territory.
He knew every twist, every turn.
But today, the guards were faster.
They had been alerted, and their heavy footsteps echoed behind him.
“Stop him!
Don’t let him get away!”
Arthur pushed himself harder.
He could see a drainage grate up ahead, a narrow opening leading into the darkness beneath the city.
He’d used it before, a secret passage that led to the sewers.
If he could make it there, he could disappear.
He slipped through the grate, his thin body squeezing through the narrow opening.
He fell into the darkness, landing on a slick, uneven surface.
The smell of sewage and decay filled his nostrils, but he didn’t care.
He was safe, at least for now.
He sat in the darkness for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the guards searching above him.
Their voices faded into the distance, swallowed by the vastness of the city.
He let out a breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
But his relief was short-lived.
A sound echoed through the tunnel, a wet, splashing sound coming from deeper within.
Arthur’s heart leaped into his throat.
He scrambled to his feet, his eyes straining to see through the darkness.
He could hear something moving, something large and heavy.
And then the water began to rise.
The current was stronger than he’d expected.
It pulled him under, twisting him in its grip, and he was helpless against its force.
His lungs burned as he tried to hold his breath, but the water was relentless.
It filled his mouth, his nose, his ears.
He gasped, swallowing a mouthful of foul liquid, and then he stopped fighting.
He surrendered to the dark.
When Arthur opened his eyes again, he was lying on a rocky shore.
The sun was warm on his face, and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks filled his ears.
He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of salt water, and tried to sit up.
Every muscle in his body ached.
He blinked, trying to focus.
He was on a small stretch of beach, surrounded by towering cliffs.
Above him, the Red Keep loomed like a dark shadow, its walls rising into the sky.
He’d been swept out to sea, carried by the current to the foot of the cliffs.
He looked at his hand.
The bread was gone, a soggy mess of flour and water.
He felt a pang of disappointment, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of relief.
He was alive.
That was what mattered.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling.
He could see a narrow path leading up the cliff face, a series of rough-hewn steps carved into the stone.
He knew where it led.
The dungeons of the Red Keep.
The entrance to the tunnels was dark, a black mouth leading into the unknown.
Arthur hesitated for a moment, his fear warring with his curiosity.
He’d heard stories about the dungeons beneath the Red Keep, tales of prisoners who vanished into the darkness and never returned.
But he also knew there was no other way.
The current had swept him here, and the path up the cliff face was the only way out.
He stepped forward, his bare feet pressing against the cold stone.
The tunnel was narrow, its walls slick with moisture, and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head.
The air was damp and heavy, carrying the smell of moss and decay.
He walked for what felt like hours, his hands tracing the rough walls for guidance.
The darkness was absolute, and he could see nothing.
He only had the sound of his own footsteps and the drip of water echoing through the chamber.
Then he heard something else.
A low growl, the sound of an animal in pain.
Arthur froze, his heart pounding in his chest.
He could hear the animal’s breath, heavy and labored, echoing through the corridor.
He tried to back away, but his foot hit something.
A chain.
The animal stirred, and Arthur heard a low, menacing bark.
He turned and ran.
The tunnel twisted and turned, and he ran blindly, his feet slapping against the wet stone.
He could hear the animal behind him, its growls growing closer.
He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t care.
He just had to get away.
He rounded a corner and found himself in a wide, open chamber.
Light filtered through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating a pile of bones.
They were scattered across the floor, remnants of some long-dead creature.
Arthur’s eyes widened as he took in the scene.
The chamber was enormous, its ceiling lost in darkness.
The walls were lined with alcoves, each one containing a skeleton.
Some were human, others were the bones of animals.
A few were something else entirely, creatures he had never seen before.
He was in a tomb.
He took a step back, but his foot hit something.
He looked down and saw a skull, its empty eye sockets staring up at him.
It had been a man once, but now it was nothing more than a relic.
Arthur felt a chill run down his spine.
He had to get out of here.
He had to find a way back to the surface.
He wandered through the tunnels for hours, his sense of direction lost in the labyrinthine passages.
He was on the verge of collapse when he heard a sound.
Voices.
He pressed himself against the wall, listening.
The voices were close, coming from a chamber ahead.
He could hear the clink of chains and the murmur of conversation.
He crept forward, peering around the corner.
He could see a torch flickering on the wall, and in its light, he could make out a group of men.
They were guards, their uniforms bearing the crimson and gold of the Lannisters.
Arthur felt a surge of fear.
He’d been caught.
He was going to be thrown back into the dungeons, or worse.
He turned to run, but his foot slipped on a loose stone.
He stumbled, hitting the wall with a thud.
The guards turned, their faces dark with suspicion.
“Hey!
Who’s there?”
Arthur didn’t wait for an answer.
He ran.
He ran through the tunnels, his heart pounding in his chest.
The guards were behind him, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.
He could hear them shouting, their voices growing louder and closer.
He turned down one corridor, then another, his feet carrying him through the maze of passages.
He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to keep moving.
He had to find a way out.
And then, he saw the light.
A faint glimmer at the end of the tunnel.
He pushed himself toward it, running faster than he’d ever run before.
The tunnel opened up, and he emerged into a small courtyard.
He was out.
He was free.
He was in the city.
He collapsed against a wall, gasping for breath.
The sounds of the guards were distant now.
He’d lost them.
He was safe.
He looked at his hands.
They were empty.
The bread was gone.
He had nothing.
He was alone.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling.
He had to keep moving.
He had to find a way to survive.
And he had to find a way back to the Black Beth.
Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, stood on the deck of his ship, the Black Beth, and watched the boy stumble onto the shore.
He’d seen him in the water, a tiny figure struggling against the current.
He’d sent a boat out to retrieve him, and now he was here, shivering on the deck.
The boy was young, perhaps eleven or twelve, with dark hair and a thin, hungry face.
He had a strange intensity in his eyes, the look of a survivor.
He was wet and cold, and his teeth were chattering.
“Get him a blanket,” Davos said to one of his men.
“And some hot food.”
The boy looked up at him, his eyes wide with gratitude.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling.
“Thank you for saving me.”
Davos knelt down beside him.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Arthur,” the boy said.
Davos nodded.
“Well, Arthur, you’re lucky to be alive.
That current would have carried you out to sea.
You’d be fish food by now.”
Arthur nodded, shivering despite the warmth of the sun.
He had been through a lot in a short time.
He was still trying to understand how he had ended up here.
“My name is Davos Seaworth,” the man continued, adjusting the small pouch hanging around his neck.
“You’re aboard the Black Beth, one of the finest galleys in Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.
And I don’t know how to tell you this, boy, but if you were hoping to get back to King’s Landing, you’ll have to wait a long time.
We’re bound for Highgarden.”
He paused, considering his words.
“Although…
perhaps we can drop you off at Dragonstone.”
“Arthur, then,” the man chuckled, slapping the boy on the shoulder.
“Thank not me, it was Mattos who pulled you out…
Consider it your second birthday.”
He pointed to a tanned young man in wet clothes.
The boy was somehow subtly similar to this man.
“Thank you!” Arthur said warmly to his savior, who waved a dismissive hand, though it was clear he was pleased.
“My name is Davos Seaworth, or Captain,” the man continued, adjusting the small pouch hanging around his neck.
“You’re aboard the Black Beth, one of the finest galleys in Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.
And I don’t know how to tell you, boy, but if you’re hoping to get back to King’s Landing, you’ll have to wait a long time.
We’re going to Highgarden.
Although…
maybe we’ll drop you off at Dragonstone.”