Prologue
The boy looked out from the wagon at the towering walls of King's Landing. In his nine years of life, he had never seen anything like them. Well, the walls of Harrenhal were quite tall, too, but in comparison, they were crumbling pieces of stone. Yet the walls, meant to inspire safety, filled him with dread far more than the walls of Harrenhal.
"Don't worry, Locke," his mother said, holding his trembling hands. "Everything will be fine. You'll meet your father soon, and he'll take care of you."
That was what terrified him the most.
He knew why his mother was anxious, but fear gripped his heart all the same—fear for himself, and even more so for the kind and gentle woman who was slowly dying beside him.
The journey had already drained them. Every penny she had saved was spent just to get here, and to look at least decently before the people they will soon meet. They had nothing left but the clothes on their backs as the wagon rolled ever closer to the gates of King's Landing.
If his father refused them, his mother would die this year. She was already barely holding on. Her coughing fits, though she tried to hide them, had become constant and painful. She had been sick for as long as the boy could remember, each year growing worse.
That was the only reason he agreed to come. They needed gold—more than they could ever hope to earn in a lifetime—for medicine, for doctors. But he knew the truth: his mother didn't bring him here for her sake. She was preparing to leave this world, and she wanted someone to take care of him.
He wouldn't allow it. Even if his father accepted him—and that was a big if—he was still a bastard. No matter how much he looked like the man, with black hair and piercing blue eyes, he would always be a stain on the family name. But maybe, if they were lucky, they wouldn't leave empty-handed. A few gold dragons would mean nothing to the lords of King's Landing, but for them, it could mean everything.
With it, they could find a healer. His mother wouldn't have to sell her body anymore. He could find an apprenticeship. They could start again.
As much as that hope warmed his heart, it filled him with even greater dread because he knew that nothing good ever happened to people like them, especially not in this city.
When the smell hit them, it wasn't the piss and shit that shocked him. It was the scent of decay, like the very earth was rotting away. It made sense. Only five or six years ago, the Lannisters had butchered the city. Gods knew how many still lay in shallow graves, rotting beneath the cobbled streets.
The dread in King's Landing was thicker than even in Harrenhal, and that place was known to be cursed. And they haven't even entered the city, stopping at the settlement outside the walls as he spotted flies amassing at certain patches of land that were a bit shallower than the rest.
The boy and his mother climbed down from the wagon, looking for the entrance to the city. She gripped his hand tightly as they walked through the Gate of Gods. Never before had he seen so many people in one place, and they had just entered the city.
It was cleaner than he expected, though the air was still filled with a decaying smell that made his mother cough even more heavily. The main road led straight to the Red Keep, perched majestically above the city. His eyes were drawn to it, and so were his mother's. She pulled him through the crowd.
It had been over a month since the King returned from his campaign against the Greyjoys. And though it was still early morning, thousands of people celebrated in the streets. Songs and drunken chants of praise echoed through the squares. The stench of wine and ale masked the underlying rot of the city. However, it could not hide it completely.
His mother paid them no mind. Her steps quickened, though he could see how her strength waned with every step.
"We don't have to go, Ma," he tried one last time to dissuade her.
"No, we must, sweetie," she said, forcing a smile. Her tone left no room for argument, and her steps became firmer.
And so, his fear deepened.
He could only hope they'd be turned away and that no audience would be granted. But no matter what, he wouldn't leave her. She was all he had in this world.
He was a bastard born in a brothel outside Harrenhal. Nobody cared for him. And they watched him with suspicion. He was too smart, too well-read for someone like him. And even though he tried to hide it, people still noticed—how well he could count, how he'd taught himself to read.
He should never have tried to impress that traveling merchant. Even two years later, the whispers hadn't stopped. But his mother never questioned him. She had only ever been proud, even if she received more hard stares than ever.
She was everything to him. Never abandoning him, even when they starved and had nothing even if people controlled by their superstition would whisper and accuse them of all kinds of shit like they were responsible for everything bad that ever happened to them.
Like his mother had given everything she could to him, he would beg. For her sake, he would crawl on his knees and lick any shit-stained boots he needed. He would do anything in his power to save her.
…
Why?
The question burned inside him as they waited for their turn. It didn't feel like what awaited them was an audience—it felt like a death sentence would be carried out on them. The hours crawled by, but even minutes were unbearable.
He couldn't stop watching. Not the opulence of the Red Keep, but the people inside. The guards looked bored, even cheerful. The King must have been generous after his victory—none of them seemed concerned by a mother and child requesting an audience.
They were lucky today. Few people had come to petition the King. Despite their humble origins, both he and his mother were clean and neatly dressed. So, as long as they behaved, the court could not decline their petition for an audience with the King. But the boy hoped the King would not care for them and dismiss them without a question.
Once their names were written down, they were led to a waiting hall and offered food and drink. The servants were polite, perhaps unaware that everyone in this palace was higher position than they could ever hope to be.
But it was only a matter of time. Once the truth of his parentage came out, they would be thrown out. Then they could leave this place and return to their mediocre but somewhat peaceful lives.
As he sat, his mind wandered. He didn't like thinking about his old life. The life of hard work and countless hours of effort amounted to nothing. As bad as this world was, he was quite happy here. He was given a second chance to make something out of himself, and at least here he had someone who cared about him.
He dreamed. If they could leave with even a handful of dragons, he could buy an apprenticeship—blacksmith, tailor, didn't matter. He could learn anything. And if they had enough, he would buy medicine, hire a healer. Even if she couldn't be cured, maybe she could live a few more years after treating her symptoms. That would be enough.
"Betha and Locke, you may enter," a servant called.
The Throne Room.
He had never imagined seeing it. And instead of the fat, slobbering man he had envisioned, the King was tall and muscular, his bright blue eyes cold and curious. He sat atop the Iron Throne, dressed in rich cloth and heavy jewels.
Locke knelt beside his mother.
The King stood.
He walked toward them, and fear gripped the boy's heart. He looked for escape, only to see an old, bald man rush to the King's side, speaking frantically, and the Queen, her gaze cold as ice.
The Kingsguard didn't stir. The courtiers whispered, already speculating.
"Betha? Is that you?" The King's voice was firm, but not unkind. He lifted the woman's chin gently as he looked at her frail and pale face adorned with luscious brown hair.
"Your Grace…" Tears fell down her cheeks. "I—"
A coughing fit overtook her, surprising the King, but he didn't even flinch, just looked at her with concern. At the same time, the Queen sneered in derision at the show before her. The boy's mother tried to hide the red on her palm as she cleaned her mouth, but she was never good at hiding anything.
"I am dying, Your Grace," she said, bowing her head. "I came to beg mercy. For our child."
"Child?"
Locke said nothing. He kept his eyes low. His hands trembled like leaves in the wind.
Then he felt the Queen's gaze—cold, hateful, murderous.
"Lift your head, boy," the King said. "What is your name?"
"Locke Rivers, Your Grace." The boy raised his head, revealing eyes like the King's. "I beg you—in the name of the Seven—have mercy on my mother. Please, help us buy medicine. Let her live another day."
That was all he asked.
He knew what his mother truly wanted: for the King to claim him. To take him in. But Locke wouldn't have it. He just needed a few coins to save her. And then, they would vanish.
"Your Grace—" the King's voice faltered as the Hand of the King stepped in.
The boy heard nothing of their exchange, but soon the King was grumbling and angrily took his seat, a goblet of wine in hand. He stayed silent as the Hand of the King stepped in.
"The King does not ignore the suffering of his people," the Hand finally declared. "For your bravery to come and state your reasoning, he shall award you twenty gold dragons."
Relief flooded the boy. The Hand handed them a pouch, heavy with gold.
"But Your Grace, Locke is—"
"We thank His Grace for his mercy and generosity," the boy interrupted his mother quickly, bowing. "May the Seven bless him and his reign. And all those who will come after him."
The Hand looked startled, then grateful, realizing the boy had saved them both from a dangerous misstep. He took his mother's hand and led her out. It was over, and he would not stay even a second longer in this lion's den.
…
Even as they left the Red Keep, Locke's dread deepened. He once again reminded himself that nothing good ever happened to people like them.
He took his mother's hand and quickened their pace.
"I'm sorry, Locke," his mother said quietly. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"It's fine," he said. "Let's go home. Everything worked out, like you said."
Twenty gold dragons. It was more than enough. He could hire teachers, open a shop, study the sword, or the quill. They would build a better life. No more sickness. No more hunger. They could live anywhere they wanted, away from suspicious and vile gazes. A peaceful place where nothing ever happened.
"Sorry, lady—you'll have to come with us."
A man grabbed the boy's mother's elbow. No one on the street even blinked. Even as more men revealed themselves out of nowhere, nearing them. Locke reacted without thinking, slamming his fist into the man's groin. As he fell, three more men advanced on them quickly.
Locke grabbed his mother's hand and ran. They darted through alleys and streets, twisting and turning. To the point they now had no idea where they were. Yet behind them, voices followed.
"Where are they?"
"They went this way!"
"They can't escape!"
His mother coughed violently, her breath ragged. Locke's legs ached, and he was as tired. They have been traveling for a long time without any rest. And now they were in an unfamiliar city of which they knew nothing. Completely alone and powerless.
"Take it, Locke," she shoved the coin pouch into his hands. "Hide."
"No, Ma, don't do this, please."
With sudden strength, she forced him into a dog-dug hole under a building. Small. Cramped. But just enough to fit his thin body.
"I love you," she whispered, shoving a broken crate in front of the hole. "One day, you'll return here as a proud Baratheon. I know it. So live, and stay silent."
He barely saw her move away before the men found her.
She ran.
They caught her.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The first stab made him flinch. Then another. And another.
Her muffled scream. Their laughter.
All of it he witnessed through the broken crate. It made him stiff with shock as his mother fell into the puddle of her blood, limp and lifeless. Yet it didn't end, the men cut through her clothing and searched her, throwing her body like it was nothing but a rag.
"Where's the coin?"
"The boy—where's the boy? Lorch will have our heads!"
"Forget the boy—she had our coin!"
"You fool! The boy probably has it—find him! He couldn't have gotten far!"
Locke didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even breathe.
He only stared through the cracks in the wood at his mother's lifeless hazel eyes.
And he listened.
A name. Lorch.
A name he had completely forgotten, as it shouldn't have concerned him.
But he knew that name. It was the name of one of the Lannister men. A Lannister man whom the Queen had control of. Everything clicked in his mind. The Queen sent them. She killed the boy's mother and took everything he loved in this world.
And Locke would make sure she paid her for this. The events of this day played out in his mind; he remembered every face in that Throne room. So, he will kill them all. He will take everything away from them; he will burn this city itself to do so.
A.N. A new story, just wanted to write something more realistic. So don't expect magic or special abilities. Just a survival and revenge story that might spiral into something more complicated.
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.