282 AC. Outside King's Landing.
Fresh earth, soggy from the rain; two crude, almost careless little mounds stood side by side—no headstones, no markers.
The digger had not gone deep, merely flinging soil over the bodies.
In the crimson storm that had swept King's Landing, the fact that two small corpses had not been tossed into the brown stew-pot of Flea Bottom might have been the Usurper's final, grudging scrap of "mercy."
Rain drizzled, light yet bone-cold.
The downpour soaked the newly-turned soil, softening it, letting it slump.
After an unknowable time, one of the little mounds stirred.
Then a filth-smeared, unbelievably tiny hand, nails packed with black mud, pushed trembling yet doggedly through the loose earth.
Followed by another.
The dirt was scraped aside; a small head forced its way up through the covering layer.
The little face was caked in muck; forehead, cheeks, even the temples bore ghastly wounds and dents, as though struck by something heavy.
Blood had long congealed into dark brown, mingling with the soil.
Violet eyes opened, filled with a pain and bewilderment no child should know, as if waking from a long nightmare only to find himself in a truer hell.
He crawled out.
Lying on the icy, sodden ground, he panted hard; every breath tore at his lungs.
Rain drummed on his shattered skull and bony frame, washing off some filth, driving in the chill.
A corner outside King's Landing.
An unnamed potter's field.
Next to rotting corpses, scrambling with starving dogs for the occasional maggot-ridden scraps tossed aside.
Rolling beneath fangs to escape, cowering in cold tree-holes or behind broken walls, night after night of hunger and old pain.
Day, and day, and another day.
Until, at length, that nearly broken skull, steeped in some unfathomable power, began—slowly, stubbornly—to mend.
The agony remained, yet life, like the lowliest weed, pushed shoots through the soil of despair.
Once, near the ramshackle docks by Blackwater Bay, he collapsed on the slick stones, starved and weak, vision darkening.
A calloused, fish-reeking hand pressed a hard, salt-bitter strip of dried fish into his palm.
He lifted his gaze to an old man in patched clothes, a fisherman in looks, crouched before him.
The man was weathered, eyes clouded yet glinting sharp within.
Without a word he watched Aegon wolf the fish, nearly choking.
"Boy," the old man rasped when Aegon could breathe again, "want to live? Hot meals, a place to sleep, and a trick or two to stay breathing."
Aegon regarded him, violet eyes wary beyond their years.
"Price is... you come with me."
"Far away. Less freedom later," the elder added, as though remarking on the weather.
Aegon glanced at the half-eaten fish, touched his head—still sore, no longer broken.
Hunger and the will to survive won.
He nodded.
He was led aboard a mildewed, fish-smelling carrack.
The hold was dark, cramped, packed with children his age, eyes dull or terrified.
He lost track of time while the ship pitched through wind and wave long enough to forget day from night.
When he stepped ashore his legs buckled.
Salty air hit him, wilder than anything about King's Landing.
"Here we are—the other side of the sea," someone muttered.
It was a village clinging to steep sea-cliffs, houses crude yet stout.
Everyone, young or old, bore the name Haine.
So would he.
"From today you're Lotte Haine," the old fisherman—old Haine—said, ruffling his hair, voice still gravelly but softer now. "Remember: you're Lotte of Westeros."
Lotte Haine... Aegon snapped back from the brief, searing memory.
Before him, a dingy corner of Lys harbour reeked of salt fish, sour ale, and mildewed cargo.
They had followed three guides through twists and turns to a district of vast warehouses. Few people, tall silent buildings.
The skinny leader stopped at an unremarkable iron-banded door and knocked a quick, uneven rhythm.
A faint scrape answered; the door cracked open.
The wiry man slipped inside, the other two close behind.
Aegon halted, eyes sweeping the surroundings.
He lifted a hand and murmured to Henry and the Bloodsworn behind him: "You—ten men. Hold the gate and rear alley. Watch. Any move, sound the alarm."
"The rest, with me."
"Yes, my lord!" Henry answered, tapped ten of the sharpest, and they fanned out.
The remaining twenty-odd Bloodsworn elite gathered at Aegon's back, hands brushing sword or dagger hilts, hawk-keen.
Aegon stepped forward, pushed the iron door, and went in.
Soldiers filed after, fanning out to shield his flanks.
Inside, the place looked nothing like the derelict warehouses outside.
The space was larger than expected; no windows, but torches in wall-sconces cast bright, flickering light.
Not a storehouse—more an underground market or secret meeting hall.
Rough tables and benches scattered, littered with bottles, dice, half-eaten food.
The air reeked of sweat, cheap wine, rough tobacco, and oiled leather.
Plenty of people, all sorts.
Brawny sailors with tattooed forearms tossing dice in a corner.
Mercenaries leaning against walls, polishing weapons.
A fat, aproned tavern-keeper murmuring to a merchant.
Even two guardsmen in Lys city livery, helmets off, drinking quietly.
When Aegon entered with twenty armed, grim men, the hubbub died in an instant.
Scores of eyes snapped toward them—curious, wary, surprised, faintly... knowing?
The three guides had vanished into the crowd.
Aegon's gaze swept the room and settled on a crude stair to the upper floor.
Up there, wooden partitions formed several rooms; one door stood ajar.
Just then, a languid, teasing woman's voice drifted from behind that half-open door, ringing through the hushed hall: "Well, well—if it isn't our arena champion, the mighty 'Lotte Haine' himself?"
A pause, the speaker's mocking smile almost audible.
"Such a grand entourage for our humble little den."
"You weren't half this tense when you faced a 'thousand-man army' out there, were you?"
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