CH-5

Being homeless is miserable, no matter the world. But at least it was during the Long Summer, which had begun with Daenerys Targaryen's birth. The days were warm, and with Robert Baratheon on the throne, King's Landing was starting to find some order again. That didn't mean it was safe. Not for a boy like me.

The first month on the streets was a brutal teacher. King's Landing teemed with orphans and bastards, and many were older and meaner than me. You quickly learned not to stand out. In one instance, I saw a boy beaten to death over a crust of bread. You had to make yourself invisible, a ghost among the filth and desperation.

Once I learned the rules, it got a little easier. Don't get me wrong, survival was still a daily fight, but at least I wasn't walking into ambushes unaware anymore. The Goldcloaks, the city watch, treated all street urchins like future criminals. They'd beat us as soon as look at us, so I kept my distance.

But hunger gnawed at me. The rat-catching competitions some of the other children took part in didn't appeal to me. Each day I grew weaker, my stomach aching for something more than scraps. The first time I stole a piece of meat was in my second month. I snatched a strip of jerky from a street vendor's stall, and I swear, it was the best thing I had ever tasted. The salt, the chew—it was heaven, a moment of relief in an otherwise grim existence. I'll carry the memory of that taste with me until I die.

Once I started stealing, I realized I was good at it. My hands were quick, my reflexes sharp—much better than in my previous life. I wasn't clumsy before, but in this body, it felt like I had a natural talent for thievery. The more I succeeded, the bolder I got, until one day I nearly got caught. A Goldcloak spotted me and gave chase. I only escaped by diving behind a crate and hiding until he gave up. It was a harsh reminder that luck could run out at any moment.

From that day on, I became smarter about it. I started moving around the city, never hitting the same place twice, never staying in one spot long enough for anyone to notice me.

By the sixth month, my targets changed. I went from picking off street vendors to lifting purses from passersby and sneaking into homes. With more coin in my pocket, I knew I needed a place to hide, somewhere that could be my home—or as close to one as I could get.

I found a narrow alley with a few other street kids I trusted, and we built a makeshift shelter from scraps of wood and cloth. It wasn't much, but it was ours.

A street urchin couldn't just stroll into a shop for a bath, so I'd wash myself with cold water from a tap once a week if I could. Most of the others gave up on bathing entirely.

The oldest in our little group was Edmund, an 11-year-old who could pass for respectable with a bit of effort. We scrounged enough money to buy him a decent set of clothes—old, but clean enough to fool people. Once washed and dressed, he didn't look like a street rat anymore. He'd do the shopping for us, buying food with what we stole. Thanks to him, I began to lose the gaunt look I'd had when I first arrived on the streets.

Then came the first anniversary of my life as a street kid. Or near enough to it. Things had improved since those early, hungry months. So, to celebrate, I decided to repeat my first theft: a strip of jerky from the same vendor I'd stolen from a year ago. I hardly ever stole food anymore, but this felt like a personal ritual.

The vendor was busy when I approached. I slipped a piece of meat into my hand and started walking away. It was too easy. Or so I thought.

I had barely stepped into the alley when a hand clamped down on my arm. I spun around to see a man towering over me, close to six feet tall, with curly hair and sharp brown eyes. He wore armor, though no helmet, and he regarded me with a strange, almost amused smile.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying to pull free. His grip was like iron.

"Oh, I must have imagined you snatching that piece of dried meat, then?" He didn't let me go, his eyes narrowing. "Where's your family?"

"My mother's dead, and my father went out for milk… still waiting for him to come back," I quipped, though the joke seemed to fall flat in this world.

The man wasn't amused. "Where are you staying? What's your name?"

I scowled, annoyed by his questions. "On the street, where else? And my name's Arthur."

He looked me over, like he was considering something. "How would you like to be my page?"

I blinked, not quite understanding. He must have seen my confusion, because he explained further. "I'm Ser Edric Rivers, a knight. You'll stay with me, have food, a roof over your head, two sets of clothes a year. And I'll teach you how to wield a sword."

I considered him for a moment, eyeing his armor. There was no mistaking that he was a knight, or at least a soldier. "What about money?" I asked, testing my luck.

He chuckled, the first hint of warmth in his demeanor. "Don't push it."

"Alright. I'll accept."

At last, he released my arm, and I rubbed my wrist, sore from his grip. "I need to go somewhere before I follow you," I said.

"Where?" Edric asked.

"Home," I replied, turning toward the alley. He followed close behind as I led him to our makeshift shelter.

When we arrived, the other street kids looked up, staring wide-eyed at the man behind me. "I'm leaving," I announced. "You can split my coins amongst yourselves. Mitch, the place is yours now."

They didn't argue. They knew what a man like Edric represented. He was my way out. There was a little jealousy in everyone's eyes. But they sent me off and I could see that they were eager to share my money.

I left without waiting too long. And now I have started following Ser Edric.