[ A/N: The prologue is optional, as it’s mostly a recap of the events surrounding Robert Baratheon’s coronation.
However, it also contains a few subtle hints regarding the protagonist’s origins and some details that may become important later on, so I’d recommend giving it a read.
]
Knowledge can be more valuable than gold and more dangerous than a dagger.
-A Feast for Crows
It was the year 289 AC, counted from the coronation of the first King of the Andals and the First Men, Aegon Targaryen.
Or the eighth year since the change of the ruling dynasty, though that manner of reckoning time had never truly taken root among either the nobility or the common folk.
Eight years had passed since Robert Baratheon had taken the Iron Throne in King’s Landing.
Once bathed in hope and promises of change, the city, which had once teemed with life, had in recent years become a place where traces of former grandeur mingled with endless gloom.
King’s Landing, choked with the haze of dung smoke and lined with fading facades, in some places resembled a forgotten alleyway in a great city, where extravagant dreams had yielded to harsh reality.
Narrow lanes that had once been bright and lively were losing their color and character beneath layers of dust and filth.
The walls of houses, once painted in vibrant hues before the royal wedding, had grown pale.
Time had dulled the colors, and repainting them was far too costly.
But that was only true in the less fortunate districts.
Elsewhere, life still thrived.
Bright signs and fresh posters could be seen here and there.
Crowds still filled the streets.
Merchants rubbed shoulders with wandering knights who had come to the city for yet another tourney.
Yet in the maze of gray streets and cramped alleys that surrounded the Red Keep’s poorer quarters, life followed its own laws.
Here, among crumbling walls and soot-blackened rooftops, day gave way to night without leaving room for rest or reflection.
These districts, once of some importance, had become realms ruled by poverty and despair.
The streets twisted like serpents through a landscape of unimaginable misery.
Narrow passageways cloaked in shadow led to dark dead ends where time itself seemed to have stopped.
Stone buildings that had once possessed a certain dignity had long since lost it, weathered and broken by the years.
Their brick walls were coated in grime and mold, while half-boarded windows gaped like black eye sockets.
Every morning began with shouting and commotion.
The faces of the residents bore the marks of labor and suffering, their eyes heavy with the exhaustion of relentless work.
The streets, no less than the rest of the city, pulsed with life without ever knowing peace.
Merchants cried out their wares.
Recruiters sought cheap dockhands and sailors.
Children with greasy faces played the sorts of games that taught them how to survive.
Old men sat huddled in corners, searching for warmth in their memories.
The slums had forged their own rules.
Here, strength and deceit were the law.
Work was hard, but street gangs and corrupt guards fiercely protected their domains, collecting tribute and enforcing their own order.
The broad road leading to the Red Keep was lined with high walls and sturdy gates, constant reminders that another world existed beyond them, a world of privilege and luxury.
And it was not as though some of the city’s inhabitants would have minded taking a look inside.
“Thief!
Stop that thief!”
The fat baker’s face had gone crimson with outrage as he bellowed in the middle of the bustling city, waving a massive arm through the air.
His flour-stained apron fluttered like a banner, and his round face burned with fury.
It was far from the first time nimble fingers had snatched goods from his stall.
And, in all likelihood, it would not be the last.
The baker’s thick legs pounded after the culprit, every step echoing heavily across the cobblestones.
The crowd stirred at once.
People turned, following his gaze, eager to catch sight of the offender.
The culprit proved to be a lanky boy who looked about eleven years old.
Thin as a reed, swift-footed, with clever blue eyes, he clutched a freshly baked roll that was still warm, its delicious aroma drifting into the air.
His black hair, marked by a small streak of gray, stood in every direction, while dirt streaked his face.
His clothes were worn and obviously hand-me-downs.
The patched sandals on his feet were of different sizes.
Everything about him marked him as one of the countless orphans that had sprouted like weeds from the seeds of the last war.
Hearing the shouts behind him, the boy darted through the narrow streets, slipping between market stalls, vegetable baskets, and passersby like a fish weaving between rocks in a swift stream.
The crowd, driven now more by curiosity than any desire to aid the baker, watched his flight with growing amusement.
He vaulted over piles of manure, ducked beneath wagons, and cast quick glances over his shoulder.
“Guards!” the wronged merchant shouted, wheezing as he reached the nearest pair of Gold Cloaks, who appeared far from eager to chase a runaway child.
“What happened?” drawled a tall young guardsman clad in a golden cloak of heavy dyed wool that nearly brushed the ground, with black mail beneath.
“Stop standing there like posts!
The thief’s getting away!” the shopkeeper cried, pointing toward the rapidly retreating boy.
“Mind your tongue,” snapped the younger man, already accustomed to the taste of authority.
“Easy now.
What did he steal?” asked the older guard.
He wore a breastplate rather than mail and sported a neatly trimmed round beard.
“A bun…” the baker began, then his eyes suddenly filled with indignation as his hand drifted toward his belt, only to find no opportunity to sweeten the guards’ interest.
“My purse!
The little bastard stole my purse!”
“Go after him,” the older man ordered his younger companion, clearly the one in charge.
“Hells…
Humphrey,” muttered the first guard, though he set off at a respectable pace, careful not to lose sight of the small figure.
“If this turns out to be a lie…” the older guardsman said meaningfully.
He did not quite believe the baker’s tale.
A stolen loaf, that he could readily believe.
Such a crime might earn a whipping.
A stolen purse, however, could cost a thief a hand.
“It’s true!” the baker growled.
“May the Seven curse me if I lie!”
The boy, unaware of the conversation behind him, continued running.
Fear and exhilaration sparkled together in his eyes.
It seemed that even he could scarcely believe he had dared commit such a bold crime.
In the orphanage where he lived, theft was viewed in only one way.
It was, after all, a septon-run orphanage.
Yet by the age of eight, the boy had already learned a simple truth.
Prayers to the Seven for a good meal or a new set of clothes almost never brought results.
Forgiveness for sins, however, the Faith dispensed with remarkable regularity.
Since the previous matron, Yunella, had risen into the ranks of the Most Devout, the highest clergy of the Faith of the Seven, conditions at the orphanage had worsened with each passing month.
And who better than a hungry child to know what hunger could drive a person to do?
Arthur was quite certain that the baker would not suffer greatly from losing a single roll.
For an orphan, he was unusually clever for his eight years.
Tall enough to pass for eleven, he possessed a sharp eye for details.
He had noticed, for instance, the purses of coins many “knights” handed over before receiving absolution and recounting all manner of…
things within the confessional.
Among tales filled with violence and crimes far worse than his own, the theft of a single roll would surely be overlooked by the Seven.
At least, the boy sincerely hoped so.
His swift feet flashed over the paving stones.
To Arthur, the city with its winding lanes and towering stone houses was a labyrinth where every corner concealed either salvation or danger.
But he knew these streets as well as anyone, having explored countless hidden places with a curiosity that seemed absent in most children his age.
Now he twisted through them in hopes of throwing off pursuit.
Just beyond the next turn should lie the road leading toward the gates that separated Flea Bottom from the rest of the city, a world far more prosperous than his own.
The guards rarely ventured there.
Once he reached it, he would be safe.
But as he rounded another corner, he found himself staring directly at a squad of Gold Cloaks.
The guards, gleaming in polished armor, blocked the street ahead.
Their stern faces and confident bearing left no doubt.
They were not here for amusement.
Behind their helmets, their expressions were cold with boredom.
Duty alone shone in their eyes.
Catch.
Punish.
They stood across the road like an impenetrable wall.
For a moment the boy froze, as though the world itself had stopped while his thoughts whirled like a storm.
There was no retreat.
Behind him lay the baker and perhaps a growing crowd eager to seize him by the collar.
Ahead stood the Gold Cloaks.
To one side, perhaps?
And all this over a bun?!
“Stop!”
The shout came from one of the guards just as the boy bolted into a side alley that led toward the Red Keep.
Every other path was blocked.
Arthur hoped he could lose his pursuers before reaching the main gates or find another escape route.
He had no idea what exactly the baker had told the guards, but it was clearly something capable of bringing him very serious trouble.
The dark alley twisted like a serpent toward the Red Keep, the immense fortress looming over the city.
Arthur’s feet barely seemed to touch the ground.
It felt as though the air itself urged him onward.
Yet behind him came the footsteps of the Gold Cloaks, closer with every passing moment.
The clatter of armor, shouts, and curses echoed from the stone walls.
The alley was narrow, ancient, and filthy, littered with refuse that the boy easily leapt over while the pursuing guards struggled through, hurling threats and oaths.
Arthur knew the city better than anyone.
His quick, agile legs could carry him for hours through these endless mazes.
But the Red Keep was near.
And there was nowhere to hide there.
Its colossal gates and towering walls rose ahead like a threat, or perhaps a final barrier.
And as though ill fortune itself had marked him on this day, another figure appeared before him.
A tall guardsman with a neatly rounded beard.
Spotting a narrow opening almost entirely concealed behind a heap of old barrels and crates, the boy dove toward it without hesitation.
It was his only chance.
Squeezing through the gap, he was met by the cold smell of damp stone and rot.
Around him stretched a stone conduit, an old drainage tunnel leading deeper beneath the city.
In the darkness it was difficult to see where he was going.
The sounds of footsteps and clattering armor faded for a moment.
Then came the muffled shout of the bearded guard.
“Boy, stop!
You’ll fall!”
The cry echoed from the walls and only made Arthur run faster.
He accelerated, stumbling over slick stone and catching himself against the walls.
His heart hammered within his chest.
The air grew cooler and heavier around him.
Then, after several minutes of running, he realized something was wrong.
The tunnel did not end.
It descended.
And it was growing steeper.
“Ahhh…
Hells!”
The old sandal betrayed him as its strap snapped.
Suddenly Arthur found himself sliding down a slope slick with filth, desperately trying to halt his fall while clutching his prize tightly against his chest.
Somewhere nearby came the dull roar of rushing water.
He pressed harder against the walls, panic tightening in his chest.
Then the tunnel ended.
Abruptly.
The boy teetered at the edge for a heartbeat, eyes widening in horror.
Before him yawned an empty void.
The tunnel was a drainage outlet leading to the cliffs beyond the city walls.
Several yards below, a raging torrent churned through the darkness, carrying its foul waters away toward some unknown destination.
The cliff walls were steep and slick.
There would be no climbing back.
Arthur understood his mistake at once.
But it was already too late.
His fingers, weakened by fear and exhaustion, slipped from the wet stone one final time.
For an instant, time seemed to stop.
Panic flashed through his mind.
His heart froze.
Then, in the next moment, everything rushed forward once more.
The boy felt control leave his body.
And he fell.
The wind screamed in his ears.
The world blurred into streaks of gray sky, stone walls, and the rushing water below.
The fall lasted only seconds.
To him, it felt like an eternity.
Each heartbeat thundered through his chest.
Fear filled him to the brim, drowning every other thought.
He struck the torrent with a deafening splash.
The water, icy and foul, swallowed him instantly, like some vast beast waiting patiently for its prey.
Cold pierced every part of him.
His lungs convulsed for air, but he was dragged beneath the surface.
The current seized him at once, spinning and tossing him like a rag doll.
The boy fought desperately to reach the surface, but the current was too strong.
The water whirled him around, robbing him of any sense of up or down.
Every stroke seemed useless, and with each passing second his strength ebbed away.
Yet somewhere deep inside him, a tiny spark of hope still flickered.
Hope that he might escape.
Hope that he might seize hold of something.
Hope that he might draw one more breath.
But the elements, as ever, were deaf to the prayers of men.