Chapter 3
It had been a week since Locke started living in the darkest corner of King's Landing. Situated between the Red Keep and Dagon's Pit, under the constant shadow of Rhaenys Hill, Flea Bottom was a death trap for anyone who wandered in unprepared.
Locke had already tried to escape it, looking for a way out to someplace better. Just outside Flea Bottom, across the Street of Sisters, lay a different world. It was full of mansions and lordlings, knights, and wealthy merchants.
Unlike the stacked, crooked, grumbling buildings of Flea Bottom, these homes were fenced off, spaced wide apart, and gleaming under the sun as if freshly painted every day. They were guarded not only by Goldcloaks but also by private security.
In another life, he might have lived here with his mother, in peace and quiet, without a care in the world. But reality was different, and he had to accept it. Dreaming about what could have been wasn't productive.
All he could do now was plan. And he planned to rob that world one day. Every last one of them would wake up with nothing to their name. But not today. Even if he managed to evade every guard and steal something, what could he do with it?
Even if it was quite tempting as he could see trinkets worth a pretty coin just lying around the yard, forgotten and abandoned. Just waiting for someone to pick it up and try to sell it on the market. But for now, to him, it was as worthless, and it was for those rich bastards.
He already had dozens of silver coins and pieces of jewelry hidden in secret caches. It wasn't hard to collect them—he only needed patience and a sharp eye. Those with coin to spare often didn't care enough to be cautious. Slipping his sleek fingers into some fat lord's pocket wasn't the hard part.
The real difficulty came afterward: how to use what he stole. He'd once tried buying fresh food with a silver coin, only to be beaten and robbed of it. There was nothing he could do. At least he was smart enough only to carry one coin at that time, and lucky enough not to be worthy of being killed.
And those who carried only copper—the kind of money people actually used down here—were far more careful. They saw rats like him coming from a mile away. So, rather than stealing coins, Locke learned it was safer to steal food and small trinkets. Not only could he eat, but he could trade for other things as well.
It was a system, and he was learning it bit by bit. He was sure he'd master it—so long as he didn't get in anyone's way. The streets were narrow and twisted; one wrong turn could lead him into a part of Flea Bottom where even the rats didn't go. A place where he'd be devoured in an instant.
He always had to be careful. And even after a week of studying the layout, he still got lost most of the time. It was like a jungle, and it will take far longer for him to adapt. He was only saved by his habit of avoiding unfamiliar or dark areas. He could never let his guard down.
"Still alive, kiddo?" said the cripple when Locke approached him. "It's been a few days since I saw you. I already thought you would be done in by something or someone. But I am glad you proved me wrong."
"Do you still have a knife?" Locke asked.
"Planning to kill someone?"
"Does it matter?"
"A good question," the cripple said, pulling a blade from within his shirt. "But a better question is—what's it worth to you?"
"Six silver coins." Locke carried nine. That was the most he was willing to part with.
"A few days ago, you got away with a few coppers," the cripple said, smiling not in disgust but in admiration. "You worked hard, or you were damn lucky. That kind of coin goes a long way with folks like me."
"That's why I'm offering it to you."
"I like smart runts like you. You know, anyone else would just take the coin from you. But not me. Because you could run away—couldn't you?" He asked, showing the stump where his leg once was. "You know how to pick your targets well. Believe it or not, that skill is more valuable than you think."
"Are you going to ask for more, or just bore me into walking away?"
"Can you read?"
"Forget it." Locke backed up a step, suspicion rising. Something felt off, and he didn't like it. He would rather run than confront anything he wasn't familiar with.
"A knife will protect you once," the man said, and suddenly he seemed far more dangerous than he had a moment ago. "What you need is friends watching your back to survive this place."
And suddenly, Locke was looking around. Trying to see if there was anyone else watching him, waiting for him to make a move. The cripple only laughed in amusement. Either way, Locke was now tensed up and panicked.
"Eight coins. Final offer." But Locke's greed for the knife overpowered his fear. It was sharp, well-maintained, and the hilt looked comfortable. It was short—perfect for someone his size. "Take the coin, give me the knife, and I'll be on my way."
"Take it." The man tossed the knife at Locke's feet. Without thinking, Locke picked it up, ready to sprint.
But the cripple added, "Go to the Drunken Pig's winesink. Tell them Henry recommends you. Trust me, kid—no matter how smart or fast you are, luck runs out. And I like smart runts like you. Be a shame to find your corpse half-eaten by dogs."
Locke gave the man the courtesy of listening—but no more. He stashed the knife in his shirt and slipped through the alleys until he reached his hideout. Before entering it, he looked carefully to see no one was nearby and no one was watching or following him.
It was a narrow space between two buildings whose tops leaned together. To reach it, Locke had to squeeze through the gap between the walls. But once inside, it was just big enough and, most importantly, dry.
It was perfect for hiding and sleeping, even if the rats came visiting most nights. No adult could squeeze in, and anyone small enough to try wouldn't be strong enough to worry him. He'd even carved an escape route—he'd chipped away at the far wall with stones, and now it would only take a good kick to break through to the alley on the other side.
With the knife now in his possession, he felt safer. After a week of learning about this place, he heard many things and saw many more. So far, he was lucky, but now he feared dogs more than anything else. Who knew what diseases they carried? Even a single bite was too risky.
Dogs were vicious, fast, and small enough to follow him anywhere. Now, at least, he could fight off one. And best of all, he got the knife for free. At least he hoped it was free, and nobody would come looking for him for it.
He didn't know what that old fool Henry really wanted, but Locke didn't play by anyone else's rules. He was fine on his own. He had a steady stream of food and coin and had even saved up some copper for emergencies.
And if he didn't think he needed to worry about someone stupid enough to go to war and then give something so precious so easily. Though, Locke did wonder what he wanted from him, and the name of that winesink was still in his head. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to check it out later on.
But for now, he just needed to keep this up for a few more years—until he grew stronger. Strong enough to protect himself. Then he wouldn't need to fear anyone. Then he could spend his silver and gold without looking over his shoulder, even if he would probably still do it. Just to be safe.
But what then? Buy a house? Open a shop? Learn swordsmanship?
None of it interested him.
There was only one place he wanted to go: the Red Keep on Aegon's Hill. Tall and proud, it looked down on him and the rest of the city.
He couldn't stand knowing that the people who killed his mother were up there—eating like pigs, celebrating, drinking, and forgetting he even existed. Every time he thought about them, rage consumed him.
He didn't want to forget. He couldn't forget. That rage was the only thing that made life in Flea Bottom bearable. And the thought of his revenge kept him moving, kept him thinking and planning. Kept him alive.
"No! Please, forgive me!"
Locke froze at the sound of a voice just outside his hideout. It was loud enough to be heard by the next three streets, probably. But since it came from the Flea Bottom, it would be ignored. And that's why it was a plead for help and forgiveness.
As unlikely as it was, it still would give someone more hope to be forgiven if he begged than if he thought they could be saved. One only had themselves to rely on—to trust and to blame. In these parts, people were isolated from each other, and the only connection people had with each other was that of profit.
Carefully, he edged closer to the gap and peeked through. Not far away, a man was crawling across the street, trying to escape two others. One of his legs was twisted in a very painful way, but the man didn't give up and crawled with his bleeding arms as fast as he could.
And Locke would have done the same in his position, as he had never seen anything like that in this world or his previous life. For a moment, Locke didn't think they were human. The only human thing they had was that they had clothes and were walking on two legs.
One of them was covered head to toe in black hair, except for his face, which only made him look more inhuman. His face was square and fierce, and instead of a nose, there was only a gaping hole. He loomed over the man on the ground like a beast.
"Sick at him," the creature said, his voice rough and vicious.
Then the second man lunged forward and began devouring the victim alive, like a starving dog.
Locke could barely see him, only made out that he was bald, bloated, and pale, but it was enough. The man's flesh was saggy and heavy, his teeth sharpened to points, and his long tongue coated in blood and saliva, as he pieces of flesh and even bone were gobbled up by him.
The screams didn't last long. And soon, only the tearing of flesh could be heard, and the unsettling crunch of bones grinding against teeth. It last just long enough for the one devouring the poor man to be satisfied. Before a dreary silence descended.
Locke held his breath, his knife clutched tight. He didn't move. He didn't blink. A part of him was certain that if he turned away, they would appear behind him. So, he watched until the end.
Eventually, the monsters finished their meal and walked off, leaving behind a half-eaten corpse. Only then did Locke collapse to the floor, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.
When the silence held, he finally calmed down. He waited a few more minutes, then crept forward like a cat. Making sure no one was around. More like making sure the monsters have truly left. Locke didn't think anyone would come this way anytime soon.
He checked the body's pockets. Took the man's boots—the only item left intact. Then he dragged the corpse away from his hideout and dumped it under the sun. He didn't want to attract any attention to his hiding place. The blood would dry away soon anyway, so maybe everyone who would come later on would only see the corpse.
Only then did he return, hiding once more, watching the streets with a knife in hand. He knew that this knife would never leave his hand ever again.
A.n. I will try to update this story every Friday from now on. As always, thanks for reading and supporting me, so I can continue writing without any concerns, and if you want more, up to seven more chapters, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.