They say it is useful to catch people unawares.
You never know what you might learn then.
– George R.
R.
Martin, A Game of Thrones
***
“Move it!” growled a burly guardsman, shoving Arthur forward.
The boy stumbled and nearly fell before tumbling headlong into the dungeon beneath the Red Keep.
Barely managing to keep his footing, he lifted his head, only to hear mocking laughter.
“Make yourself comfortable…
Snow,” the guardsman added with open contempt.
Then he spat demonstratively toward the bars, leaving a thick green gobbet dangling from one of the iron rods.
Paying no further attention to his prisoner, he turned away and headed back down the corridor, muttering something under his breath about not having to search for a separate cell for a beggar.
“Seven hells…” Arthur whispered, slowly surveying his new home.
The stone cell was damp, cold, and poorly lit by a smoking torch in the corridor outside.
The air reeked of rot, filth, and stale dampness.
Rats scratched and scurried in the corners.
Yet the most unpleasant thing was what awaited him inside.
From the shadows, a broad-shouldered man with an imposing frame regarded him with interest.
A fresh bruise darkened one eye, while the skin across his knuckles was split and swollen, speaking plainly of his fondness for fighting.
A little farther away sat a lean, bearded man with watchful eyes, his back resting against the wall.
One sleeve had been tied shut with a knot.
His arm ended at the wrist in a stump.
In the farthest corner of the cell, where the stink of human waste was strongest, sat a dark-skinned, muscular man with long, tangled hair.
He was nearly naked, and his entire body was covered in bruises.
Most curious of all, his hands were locked in heavy iron manacles.
He looked at Arthur with an odd expression the boy could not understand, then turned back toward the wall.
Something about him felt dangerous.
Yet at the moment it was the towering dockworker who worried Arthur far more.
He knew the sort.
Men who drank away their wages in taverns, who were always drunk and always eager for a fight.
It was best not to draw their attention.
Anyone foolish enough to beg such men for a copper usually earned nothing but a kick.
Sailors were different.
The ships that entered King’s Landing’s harbor brought men willing to spend their coin.
Drunken sailors told stories, sang songs, and sometimes even shared scraps of food with the street children who gathered around them.
“Oi, lad,” rumbled the dockworker.
His voice was as heavy as a boulder rolling down a hillside.
He peered at Arthur from beneath lowered brows, studying him.
“What happened?
Got tired of the fresh air?”
Arthur did not answer.
Instinctively, he edged closer to the bars.
With his massive shoulders and crooked grin, the man looked exactly like someone searching for an excuse to use his fists.
Arthur had spent his whole life avoiding men like that.
Unfortunately, there was nowhere to run.
“Don’t frighten the boy, Maren,” said the older man, who until now had remained silent.
He waved his good hand cheerfully at Arthur as though they were meeting in a marketplace rather than a dungeon.
“Pay him no mind.
He only looks frightening.
What’s your name, lad?
Mine’s Luka.”
“Arthur,” the boy answered cautiously, never taking his eyes off the giant.
“Stop trembling.
I won’t hurt you,” Maren grunted.
Rising to his feet, he lumbered toward Arthur.
His enormous frame seemed to fill half the cell.
He extended a calloused hand.
“I’m Maren.
Come sit.”
Before Arthur could reply, a powerful hand seized him by the shoulder.
A moment later he found himself planted upon a pile of straw.
Maren clapped him on the back so hard the breath left his lungs.
“They dragged me in here for a brawl,” the dockworker said, as casually as if he were telling a tavern tale.
“Seems the gold cloak didn’t appreciate the black eye I gave him.
What about you?”
“For stealing a loaf.”
Arthur sniffed.
His plunge into icy water and his wandering through the caves afterward had not passed without consequence.
He felt feverish.
“For a loaf?” Luka raised his brows.
“Nobody gets thrown down here for a loaf.
A fine, a whipping, maybe a couple of days in a holding cell.
But the dungeons?”
“The baker said I stole his purse,” Arthur added quietly.
“And you didn’t?”
“I am not a thief!” Arthur blurted out, startled by the volume of his own voice.
“I stole a loaf.
The first thing I’ve ever stolen in my life.
I was hungry.
That’s all.”
“No one’s accusing you,” Luka replied soothingly.
“You don’t look much like a cutpurse, that’s true enough.
But why would the baker lie?”
“The guardsman asked the same thing,” Arthur muttered.
“He said he’d look into it.”
“Hah.
They’ll look into it, will they?” Maren snorted.
“No offense, lad, but it sounds like…” He stopped when he caught Luka’s warning glance.
“Well.
Perhaps it’ll still work out.”
Arthur said nothing.
His gaze drifted toward the dark-skinned prisoner curled against the wall.
“And him?”
“A Dothraki,” Maren said with obvious disgust.
“Keep your distance.
They’re taking him to the executioner tomorrow.
Good riddance too, the filthy beast.”
The rest of the conversation remained a blur.
The guardsman who had arrested him had kept his word.
After some time, a gaoler brought food.
A stale chunk of bread and a watery stew carrying only the faintest hint of meat.
Arthur had never been happier to see a meal.
Afterward, exhausted by the day’s events, he drifted into sleep upon his pile of straw.
He never even noticed when Maren quietly moved him to a softer spot and added some of his own bedding beneath the boy.
Maren himself had only a few days left to serve.
His fine had already been paid.
The boy, however, was another matter.
Losing a hand at such an age…
Maren could imagine all too well what kind of future awaited an orphan.
One needed only to look at Luka.
But the night still held another trial for Arthur.
Cold metal touched his skin.
Arthur awoke with a start.
The stench of sweat and old grime filled his nostrils.
A rough hand clamped over his mouth, smothering any cry before it could escape. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Another hand, hairy and powerful, tugged at his thin trousers, trying to drag them down.
The chain between the Dothraki’s manacles slowed him, but not enough.
Arthur struggled desperately.
The man paid no attention.
He was twice the boy’s size and strength.
Effortlessly pinning his prey, he rolled Arthur onto his stomach and continued stripping away his clothing.
It felt like a nightmare.
Too horrible to be real.
Yet the cold iron, the crushing weight atop him, and the man’s hot breath told him otherwise.
“No move…
be no hurt…” the Dothraki growled in broken Common Tongue, leaning close to his ear.
For a moment, Arthur froze.
That moment nearly doomed him.
This was real.
No one was coming.
No one would save him.
Despair and the instinct to survive exploded inside him like wildfire.
He jerked backward with all his strength.
Pain shot through his skull as the back of his head smashed into the man’s face.
He heard cartilage crack.
The Dothraki hissed in agony and answered with a brutal punch to the back of Arthur’s head.
The world lurched.
His vision blurred.
“Be…
hurt,” the man snarled through gritted teeth as he tore away the cloth covering his face.
Then, as though the gods themselves had intervened, Arthur’s fingers brushed against something hidden in the straw.
A stone.
Cold.
Angular.
It seemed almost to leap into his hand.
With a desperate cry, he thrust upward blindly.
The stone struck the man’s temple.
The Dothraki jerked.
His grip loosened.
His head began to twitch strangely.
Arthur did not hesitate.
The instant he felt freedom, he twisted away, scrambled atop the man, and brought the stone crashing down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Panic and fury consumed him.
The Dothraki tried to shield himself, but every blow smashed through his defenses.
Flesh split.
Blood sprayed across Arthur’s hands, his shirt, the filthy straw, the stone walls.
Arthur struck again.
And again.
And again.
Someone shouted behind him.
Only dimly did he hear it.
Maren.
The giant dockworker seized him and hauled him away from the mangled body.
“Seven hells!
What’s happening here!?”
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)