The bustling city of King's Landing was not kind to those who had nothing.
The first day was manageable, a novelty even. The excitement of freedom—however bitter—could sustain one through sunup to sundown.
But as soon as darkness fell, the problem of shelter presented itself with cruel immediacy.
Any establishment that could be deemed decent required clean, tidy garments and a coin purse heavy with silver. Even the shabbiest inn, with its straw-stuffed mattresses crawling with vermin, demanded copper pennies.
And you had none.
Sleep on the cobblestone streets? In a vacant lot between hovels? In some shadowed corridor?
A fool's notion.
If discovered by the gold cloaks who patrolled day and night, those fellows wouldn't waste courtesy on the likes of you. Their cudgels spoke more eloquently than their tongues, and they might beat you bloody simply to avoid the tedium of dragging you to the dungeons.
Your only option was to curl up in some fetid corner of Flea Bottom, preferably finding protection by joining a beggar gang. But even there, you slept with one eye open, wary of nimble fingers and sharpened steel. People who had nothing were capable of anything—a truth as old as the city itself.
Oh, and the gods help you if you grew sick or suffered injury.
Mosquitoes, the elements, and your so-called companions could smell weakness like dogs scent fear. Then they would show you their most ferocious and sinister aspects, descending upon you like crows on a battlefield.
If you were fortunate enough to survive this first ordeal, congratulations—you might consider the luxury of finding a stable source of nourishment.
The prime begging locations were jealously guarded territories, not something a newcomer like you could simply claim. The brown bowls of porridge and hard crusts of bread distributed by septons in the name of the Seven were never enough to feed the multitudes of Flea Bottom's desperate.
Relying solely on such charity meant that within a few days, you would either grow too weak to seek the sun, or your "companions" would ensure you were buried without its warmth.
Of course, you could attempt to earn coin through labor, thereby escaping the beggar's life entirely.
Pleasant and easy occupations were beyond your reach, but working as a porter at the warehouse docks might earn you one copper star—sixteen copper pennies—for a day of breaking your back beneath others' goods.
A loaf of black bread, filled with more sawdust and gravel than wheat, cost a single copper penny.
Two loaves a day might allow a man to cling to life; four or five were necessary for someone performing the backbreaking work of a stevedore.
Sixteen copper pennies, sixteen loaves of bread. Such a meager yet somehow still unattainable sum.
But even that calculation existed only in theory.
The bastard son of a prostitute, after enduring more than a fortnight of such hardship, finally understood that reality was crueler than any tale of the seven hells.
That mockery of a trial in the throne room had cast him into a pit from which there seemed no escape.
He had lost his only support in this world.
As he'd walked out through the Red Keep's gate, he'd kept his gaze fixed upon the ground, terrified that he might accidentally glimpse his mother's face among the rows of tar-preserved heads adorning the spikes—the same heads he had once gazed upon with childish fascination.
In a stroke of fortune—or perhaps further cruelty—the gold cloaks stationed at the Red Keep's gate had returned his knife to him, taking only a single gold dragon as "payment" for their generosity.
He'd left with the blade and nothing more.
He had attempted to return to the brothel he once loathed yet could not leave, only to be thrown roughly back onto the street after barely crossing the threshold.
For two days, he'd relied upon those he'd called friends, before they too abandoned him to his fate.
Desperate, he'd wandered the city seeking honest work, but only the docks were hiring men with no references or trade. The docks it was, then; what right had he to be selective?
But he hadn't anticipated how complicated and shadowed manual labor could be.
He never received his full sixteen copper pennies for a day's toil.
First, when payment came, even if he had made no errors in his work, the foreman would deduct two copper coins, claiming it covered "wear and tear" on the equipment; if he had made a mistake, the penalty grew steeper still.
Then came the dock gangs with their scarred faces and missing fingers.
Claiming to "protect" the safety of the laborers, they demanded half his remaining earnings without negotiation. With rusted blades and calloused fists as their arguments, who would dare refuse?
At this juncture, he would typically have seven copper coins remaining—such an auspicious number.
He had named them after the Seven Gods—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.
Fresh seafood abounded at the docks, the day's catch glistening with salt water, but such fare cost more than twice what black bread did. He could only watch with hollow-eyed envy as others purchased their suppers.
Making his way from the docks back into the city proper, the gold and saffron cloaks worn by the city gate guards gleamed like beacons of authority, and they too demanded their "respect"—always half of what remained.
What constitutes half of seven?
On his knees in the muck, he would place his forehead to the filth of the street, pleading with the desperateness of the truly hopeless.
"Have mercy, m'lord, have mercy..."
The guards sometimes laughed heartily at the spectacle, seemingly amused by his degradation, and would magnanimously permit him entry to the city with only a kick to speed his departure.
Sometimes they were less jovial, and the sword scabbards they used to prod him bit deep. On those days, they relieved him of every copper that jingled in his pockets.
Occasionally, they would jest and ask for but a single coin.
He would always offer the one he had dubbed "Stranger."
Stranger, take them away soon, he would silently pray. They do not belong in the realm of men; they should dwell in fiery lava, in all seven of the hells.
He could only console himself that at least his fate was marginally better than the lifelong beggars of Flea Bottom, with their missing limbs and festering sores.
Until a week ago...
A silver stag jingled as it rolled to a stop at his feet, and the little beggar immediately cast aside the bitter memories that had been his constant companions.
A silver stag! Worth seven copper stars! One hundred and twelve copper pennies!
"May the old gods and the new bless you! Thank you for your generosity, m'lord, you are truly a kind and noble soul!" The little beggar pressed his forehead to the street in genuine gratitude.
His mind raced with schemes to safeguard this unexpected fortune. He couldn't possibly return to Flea Bottom with a silver stag in his possession; that would be tantamount to slitting his own throat.
The man who had bestowed the silver spoke in a measured tone. "A certain lord wishes an audience with you."
The little beggar slowly raised his head, uncertainty warring with hope in his hollow eyes.
A plain-looking man of perhaps thirty namedays stood before him, with calm eyes that revealed nothing of his purpose.
In a remote alley where even rats seemed reluctant to venture, Joffrey listened as Tyrion described the selected boy's experiences over the past fortnight.
"After that encounter, the dock thugs took a fancy to the knife he carried," Tyrion explained, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a hint of admiration. "But rather unexpectedly, the lad refused to yield it. Instead, he drew the blade and put it through two of his would-be robbers."
Tyrion acknowledged the boy's courage, though he considered it rash. "He fled back within the city walls, but now no one would hire him, fearing retribution from the gangs. He's been reduced to begging these past eight days."
Joffrey nodded with satisfaction. The boy's refusal to submit was promising; a broken spirit would serve no purpose in what was to come.
A subtle scrape of boot leather against stone alerted them to approaching figures.
The unremarkable man who had first approached the beggar now led a painfully thin youth into the shadowed alley.
Joffrey observed the boy in silence, noting the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the wary intelligence in his gaze.
Tyrion assumed the role of "that lord" as planned.
"Little fellow," he began, his tone deliberately gentle, "there's no cause for alarm. There's a matter in which you might be of assistance. I wonder what you might think of such an opportunity?"
"Command me as you will, m'lord." The boy attempted an awkward bow, his gaze flicking from the dwarf lord to the taller, more richly dressed figure beside him.
The beggar's eyes widened slightly as he took in Joffrey's appearance. Priceless fabrics whose names he could not hope to know, intricate embroidery in crimson and gold that framed a face of such fine-boned beauty it made him achingly aware of his own unwashed state. At first glance, the young man was clearly highborn, powerful. But most importantly, the beggar recognized him from that day in the throne room.
In an instant, a cascade of memories flooded his mind, and his cracked lips pressed together in a thin line.
The law! Seven save us from such justice!
Tyrion, perceptive as always, sensed the boy's emotional surge.
"Do you hunger for vengeance, boy?" the dwarf asked softly. "Having lost your mother and fallen to such squalor, who do you hate most in this world?"
The beggar thought first of the disgusting brute who had so often visited his mother, but he had already ended that man with his own blade. The man's widow, perhaps? The dock gangs? The gold cloaks with their ready cudgels? The beggars who had robbed him in his sleep? The brothel that had turned him away? The fair-weather friends who had abandoned him?
He had a surfeit of candidates, but the image that finally crystallized in his mind was that of the cold-blooded lord who had stood rigid in the throne room, delivering his mother's death sentence without a flicker of emotion.
He knew the man's name well: Stannis Baratheon.
Joffrey saw the fire kindling in the boy's eyes and knew their gambit would succeed.
After a brief and decidedly unequal negotiation, Joffrey pressed his thumb to the boy's knife, attaching a solid rune mirror image to the well-worn blade. He then bestowed upon the boy additional solid runes and mirror images of fire runes, power concealed beneath humble appearances.
The silent agent who had first approached the beggar now led him away without a word, disappearing into the warren of streets beyond.
The alley returned to oppressive silence.
After staring at the empty passage for a time, Tyrion finally broke the stillness.
"Are you so confident in him?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of unease.
Joffrey merely shrugged, the gesture elegant even in its dismissiveness.
"All I know is that he has no other path. All his rage, all his pain—it will be channeled toward our chosen target."
Tyrion fell silent, understanding the cruel logic at work.
Yes, the boy they had approached was already marked for death, regardless of the outcome. What could such a wretched creature truly accomplish?
A beggar, even if he somehow attempted to report their scheme, would find no one willing to believe his tale. If he tried to flee, how far could he possibly get? The most significant resistance he might offer would be inaction—a refusal to play his part, choosing instead to wait for death to claim him.
But would he make such a choice?
Would he relinquish the chance to strike at the greatest enemy his limited imagination could conjure?
Tyrion sighed, a sound heavy with foreknowledge of blood yet to be spilled.
Stannis, he thought, you truly are a difficult man to like.
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