“Do you know why people get drawn into games?”
“Because they’re fun?”
“That’s one reason, but…
not the main one.”
“Then what is?”
“To experience something different from reality.”
– (The Gamer)
***
The fat baker, having finished his colorful account to the suspicious city guardsman, returned to his shop with every intention of putting the whole affair behind him and getting back to business.
Yet the moment he crossed the threshold, he noticed that several more loaves had vanished from the counter.
His face flushed crimson with rage.
“Damnation!” he thundered, kicking a stool so hard that it flew across the room and struck the wall with a miserable crack.
The townsfolk nearby turned at the outburst in confusion, but the baker merely glared at the crowd, searching for someone to blame.
His thoughts immediately went to the local boys who were forever loitering nearby.
Usually they begged for scraps of stale bread, but today they had clearly overstepped every boundary.
The loss of his purse and part of his stock weighed heavily on him.
A day’s earnings could feed his family for several days, allow him to purchase more flour and butter.
Now he could only hope to sell what little remained.
“You’ll pay for this,” he muttered under his breath, trying not to attract any further attention.
As he bent to pick up the stool, he noticed a leather cord protruding from beneath the counter.
Frowning, he tugged on it and, to his astonishment, pulled out his missing purse.
Relief flashed across his face, only to be swiftly replaced by confusion.
“So that lad…”
The memory of the guardsman, grimly warning him of the consequences of a false accusation, made the baker go pale.
At first he felt relieved and considered finding the man and telling him what he had discovered.
Then the possibility of a fine, his anger at the damned thieves, and the bread stolen afterward tipped the scales.
“Serves him right,” he thought bitterly, tightening his grip on the purse.
Deciding that it would teach the boy a lesson, the baker cast aside any notion of admitting his mistake.
He had no intention of thinking about what sort of “lesson” awaited the lad, nor of confessing his own blunder.
“Fresh loaves!
Fresh loaves!
Come and get them!” he shouted, taking his place behind the counter once more, forcing a calm smile onto his face as though nothing had happened.
*
When Arthur awoke, the first thing he saw was an enormous dragon skull.
Its empty eye sockets seemed to be staring directly at him.
With a strangled gasp, he tried to scramble away, only to crash into another massive bone.
Only then did he remember where he was and how he had come to be there.
The vast cavern littered with dragon bones no longer seemed mysterious or enticing.
Now it filled him with dread.
The skulls watched him with the cold, lifeless gaze of empty sockets.
His head throbbed terribly, and blood began trickling from his nose.
“Seven save me…” Arthur wiped the blood away with a filthy sleeve, hurriedly rose to his feet, and decided to leave as quickly as possible.
He took the first passage he came across, the widest of them all, and hurried down the dark corridor, trying to find the route by which the men had arrived.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, allowing him to make out the vague outlines of tunnels and branching paths.
His head felt as though it were splitting apart.
Pain pulsed behind his temples.
At the edge of his vision, strange motes of light drifted in and out of existence, gathering themselves into symbols and unfamiliar runes.
Everything that had happened after he touched the object had vanished from his memory, too vast and overwhelming to retain.
The orphan convinced himself that he must have struck his head on a rock or bone when he fell and chose not to think any further about it.
He only wanted to escape.
By now, he no longer feared being discovered.
To his surprise, however, the corridors were deserted.
More than that, at some point Arthur seemed to have entered a more inhabited part of the underground passages.
There was far less dust here, and he found several stairways that led upward.
Unfortunately, that did nothing to help him find an exit.
There were too many forks.
Too many turns.
Some passages bore markings he could not understand.
Then, when a delicious smell drifted from one of the side tunnels, Arthur made another turn, carefully memorizing the route behind him.
The scent led him into a small dead end.
The only way forward was a narrow crawlspace, far too small for any grown man.
But an orphan boy…
“Again…”
With a groan, Arthur released the metal grating that refused to budge no matter how hard he pulled.
It was firmly set into the stonework.
He had encountered several such barriers while slowly climbing the narrow catwalk-like passages that wound ever upward.
Some openings had been sealed entirely.
None led outside.
All Arthur could do was stare helplessly at freedoms so close and yet utterly beyond reach.
Beyond the bars lay rooms, studies, storerooms, and chambers of various kinds.
The grate near the kitchens, the one to which the smell had first led him, had been blocked further by a large crate.
Rats had gnawed a small hole through one side.
Throughout the endless maze of narrow tunnels he had frequently glimpsed gray tails disappearing into cracks.
Each time he had instinctively struck the walls to drive them away.
Yet the rats of the Red Keep were unlike their starving, frightened cousins in Flea Bottom.
They showed no aggression.
Indeed, they hardly seemed afraid of the exhausted boy at all.
And exhausted Arthur certainly was.
He had long since become hopelessly lost in the cramped passages, searching fruitlessly for an exit.
There was none.
Unlike the tunnels below, these crawlspaces had not been built for escape or secret travel.
They existed for another purpose entirely.
“~Oh, Jaime…”
As he crawled toward yet another grate, a sigh heavy with pleasure drifted from beyond it.
Arthur froze.
Yet curiosity, mingled with another sort of interest, drew him onward.
People said bastards grew up quickly.
In the places where Arthur had grown up, children matured even faster.
He knew well enough how men and women came together.
But to see it with his own eyes…
Holding his breath, the boy crawled closer.
This grate was hidden behind a hanging tapestry.
Pressing his eye to a small gap, he peered through.
The sight that greeted him was astonishing.
A richly furnished chamber.
And the bare back of a magnificent golden-haired woman.
Like a blooded mare in full gallop, she moved atop a man, her breasts obscuring his face.
The candlelight cast long shadows, highlighting the flawless whiteness of her skin.
Arthur scarcely dared breathe.
The warm air filtering through the tapestry suddenly seemed hotter.
Beyond the heavy cloth and iron grate, a scene unfolded that he could never have imagined, not even in dreams.
The woman, naked in every sense of the word, moved with effortless grace and confidence.
Her cascade of golden hair flowed down her back like molten gold.
The man beneath her, powerfully built and bearing the same golden hair, seemed utterly consumed.
His voice emerged in ragged whispers that barely reached Arthur’s ears.
“My…
queen,” he rasped.
With effort, he rolled her beneath him.
Arthur noticed an odd similarity in their features.
The thought flashed through his mind and disappeared just as quickly, for the spectacle before him was too mesmerizing to ignore.
“Jaime…” the woman moaned.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders like the talons of a hunting hawk, leaving bloody streaks across his flesh.
“Cersei,” he answered, never breaking eye contact.
His gaze was filled equally with passion and fury.
Their bodies moved in silent harmony, as though time and space had ceased to exist and only the two of them remained.
Arthur felt his breathing grow heavier.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Then the meaning of the names struck him.
The blood rushing through his body seemed to turn to ice.
“Hells…” he whispered, his face draining of color.
Everything suddenly fell into place.
Cersei.
Could that truly be that Cersei?
Arthur knew only one woman by that name, a woman known even among the poorest folk of Flea Bottom, though few had ever seen her.
Cersei Lannister.
The Queen.
He did not know who the man was.
Arthur knew little of the lives of great lords and ladies.
But he knew one thing.
King Robert had black hair.
The Queen’s treason.
‘FUCKING HELL!!’
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)