The smell of fresh bread wafted through the cramped alleyways of Flea Bottom, cutting through the usual stench of piss and shit that permeated King's Landing's poorest district. Lorrick Wrennel's stomach growled painfully as he crouched behind a stack of broken barrels, watching the baker's boy set out the morning loaves. His fingers twitched with anticipation, but patience had kept him alive for eighteen years in this cesspit. Patience and an uncanny ability to read people.
"Three more minutes," he whispered to himself, blue eyes narrowed as he observed the pattern of the morning crowd. The fat baker would turn to serve the blacksmith's wife, leaving the fresher loaves momentarily unguarded. It happened every morning like clockwork, one of those little routines people fell into without realizing how predictable they made themselves.
Lorrick wiped sweat from his brow, pushing back a strand of dark hair that had fallen across his face. Summer in King's Landing was brutal, especially in Flea Bottom where the buildings stood so close together they blocked any hope of a breeze. His threadbare tunic clung to his lean frame, still damp from the previous night's rain that had leaked through the roof of the abandoned tannery he called home.
The baker turned, just as expected. Lorrick moved, not rushing, not drawing attention. The trick wasn't speed but certainty. He slipped between two arguing fishwives, snatched two loaves from the unattended tray, and tucked them under his shirt in one fluid motion before merging back into the flow of the crowd.
No one noticed. No one ever did, until they did.
"Thief! Bread thief!"
The baker's boy had spotted him, damn his eyes. The shout cut through the morning bustle, and Lorrick caught sight of gold cloaks turning at the commotion.
Shit.
Lorrick didn't run. Running attracted attention. Instead, he walked briskly, head down but not suspiciously so, taking the first right turn into an alley too narrow for most grown men to navigate comfortably. His lean frame slipped through with practiced ease.
The alley opened into a small courtyard where a half-collapsed well stood surrounded by rickety wooden tenements leaning against each other for support. Two gold cloaks burst into the courtyard from the opposite side, cutting off his exit.
"You there! Stop!"
Lorrick assessed his options in an instant. The gold cloaks were large men, well-fed and strong, but slow in their armor. The building to his left had a missing lower section of wall where the wood had rotted away, creating a tight crawlspace.
"Me, sers?" Lorrick adopted a confused expression, his voice shifting into a slow, dim-witted drawl. "What's I done?"
The confusion bought him the seconds he needed to back toward the building. The first gold cloak approached, hand on his sword hilt.
"Don't play dumb, boy. Hand over what you stole."
"Ain't stole nothin'," Lorrick protested, his back now against the building. With a quick glance behind to ensure the space was clear, he added, "Swear on me mother's grave."
The gold cloak reached for him. In one motion, Lorrick dropped the act, ducked, and slipped backwards through the hole in the wall. Inside was a maze of fallen timbers and debris that he navigated with the ease of long familiarity, hearing the curses of the gold cloaks who were far too large to follow.
"Send the rats to catch a rat," one of them shouted in frustration.
Lorrick grinned as he emerged from the other side of the building into a different alley. The gold cloaks would have to go all the way around, by which time he'd be long gone. He patted the loaves under his shirt, still warm against his stomach.
Not a bad morning's work.
He made his way through the winding backstreets of Flea Bottom, where the buildings crowded so close together that the sky was barely visible. Streets with proper names gave way to nameless alleys, then to passages barely wide enough for a child to pass. It was a part of King's Landing that even most of its residents didn't know existed, a warren of desperation where the truly forgotten lived.
Near the edge of the district, where the shadow of the Dragonpit loomed in the distance, Lorrick stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. He glanced around to ensure he wasn't followed, then pushed aside a half-rotted plank revealing a low tunnel. Crouching, he made his way through, emerging into a small courtyard that had once been part of a manse before fire claimed most of it decades ago.
"Lorrick!" A small voice called out as a girl of about eight darted toward him. Her face was dirty, her brown hair matted, but her eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Did you get anything?"
"Would I come back empty-handed, Jena?" He produced one of the loaves with a flourish like a magician performing a trick. "Fresh from the oven. Where're the others?"
"Tommen's sick again," Jena said, her smile fading. "Weasel's with him."
Lorrick's brow furrowed. "Fever?"
Jena nodded, leading him to what had once been a kitchen. Three children were huddled there, one a tall boy of fourteen lying on a makeshift pallet, his face flushed.
"It's worse than yesterday," said a skinny boy of twelve who crouched beside the sick child. This was Weasel, named for his sharp features and quicker hands. "He can't keep water down."
Lorrick knelt beside Tommen, placing a hand on the boy's forehead. The heat radiating from him was alarming. Summer fever was common in Flea Bottom, where the sewage ran in open gutters and the drinking water was often fouled. Many didn't survive it, especially children.
"We need medicine," Lorrick said, breaking the bread and distributing it among the children, keeping only a small piece for himself despite his gnawing hunger. "Willow bark tea might bring down the fever."
"That hedge witch on the Street of Silk sells it," piped up a third child, a girl of about ten.
"Costs too much," Weasel said bitterly. "She wants a silver stag for her remedies."
Lorrick looked at Tommen's flushed face, remembering how the boy had shared his own meager food when Lorrick had broken his arm last winter and couldn't fend for himself. These children weren't his blood, but they were the closest thing to family he had. In Flea Bottom, such bonds were all that kept you human.
"I'll get it," he decided, setting aside the second loaf. "Save this for later. Make sure Tommen drinks water if he can keep it down."
"How are you gonna get a silver stag?" Weasel asked suspiciously.
Lorrick gave him a wry smile. "I'll use my natural charm."
"You're gonna steal it," Weasel translated flatly.
"I prefer to think of it as redistributing wealth from those who have too much to those who have too little." Lorrick ruffled Jena's hair as he stood up. "Keep the door barred. I'll knock three times, then twice when I return."
He left the hideout, mind already working on who might have a silver stag they wouldn't miss immediately. The answer came quickly, pushing away any doubts: the ale-soaked merchants who frequented the brothels on the Street of Silk. Men with more money than sense, especially after a few drinks.
Lorrick touched the small wooden pendant hanging from a leather cord around his neck, a habit when he was resolving to do something dangerous. It was carved into the rough shape of a wolf, the last gift from his mother before the fever took her too, years ago. He remembered her words: Be smart, be quick, but most of all, be good to those who are good to you.
He wasn't sure stealing made him good. But letting Tommen die when he could prevent it would make him far worse.
Lorrick headed toward the Street of Silk, where wine flowed freely and purses hung loose. There would be gold cloaks there too, but they'd be watching the pretty girls, not in the dark where Lorrick moved best.
For the children who depended on him, he'd risk it. In Flea Bottom, family wasn't about blood. It was about who you'd go hungry for.