Chapter 6
The cold water dripped down Locke's face as he woke up. His head felt like it had split open, and his face like it had been caved in. His arms burned as water seeped into the cuts. But even with that shock, he couldn't move.
He was tied tightly to a chair—his hands bound behind his back, his legs splayed and fastened to the chair's legs. He looked up, wincing as light blinded him. Once his vision adjusted, he saw he was in a dark room with only one window, surrounded by three people.
The bitch who had almost killed him was leaning against the wall, looking far too satisfied with his current state. Then there was a man holding a bucket—Locke recognized him as the one who had knocked him out. The last figure was an old woman with grey hair and a face full of wrinkles.
"You're finally awake," the man said, his voice rough. "I have a few questions for you, kid. So I suggest you talk before things get nasty. Firstly, what's your name?"
Locke didn't reply immediately; he firstly tried to find his bearings. The smell of blood was quite strong in the room. And he didn't think it was his blood. He was in some torture chamber, meaning that it would become quite a painful experience for him soon.
"I am King Robert fucking Baratheon," Locke gnashed his teeth in defiance, glaring at the man with all the malice he could muster.
A slap landed fast, ringing in his ears. He realized he had fucked up. He shouldn't have fought like an idiot. He should've knocked the girl down and run—he could've lost her in one of those twisty alleys and hidden for the night.
He was a grown man, for fuck's sake. He should've known better. All he could do now was regret. Well, nothing good ever happened to people like him anyway. He'd have died one way or another anyway—maybe torture wasn't the worst way to go. It surely beat his worst nightmares.
"You're one nasty cat, you know," the man said, lifting Locke's slumped head—only to get spit in the face.
"A very nasty cat."
Another slap echoed in the room, sharp and brutal. The man wasn't holding back, not even with a kid. Locke had fucked up, and now he was paying for it. Still, he was just a ball of spiteful hatred, and he was ready to take the pain head-on so that he could annoy this bastard.
"What's your name, kid?"
"What does it matter?" Locke rasped. "What are you going to do with it? I could say I'm a lost Targaryen prince, and it wouldn't change anything. So just kill me, you shithead, and get it over with."
"I swear, every single one of you runts is more annoying than the last," the man sighed, slapping him again. "Just say your name, for fuck's sake."
"Why don't you ask your mother? She likes it so much, she screams it every night."
"Hahaha." The man only laughed. "Oh, you son of a whore. You've definitely heard more than you should've."
"I am a son of a whore. What of it?"
"Heh. I like you, kid. So please, just say your name."
"I am Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold."
Locke laughed to himself as the man sighed and grabbed his hair again, forcing him to look him in the eyes. If they thought he'd be scared, they were wrong. He'd already been beaten bloody, and he'd seen what happened to people in places like this.
If he were going to die, he'd spit in his killers' faces while doing it. And refusing to talk might buy him time. That window was high up, but big enough for him to crawl through—if he could get out of these binds. The chair could help him reach it. He just had to wait.
"You sure are bold," the man said, tugging hard on Locke's hair. "Most kids would be crying and begging by now, but not you. Let me guess—your mama's dead? Or your papa ran off? And now you think you're special. Think you alone have to take on the world. Look at her."
He yanked Locke's head toward the girl leaning against the wall—the same one who got him into this mess. Their eyes met, both filled with equal hatred.
"We found her four years ago, under her father. I don't even want to imagine what he tried to do to her. But I know how tough it must've been for her to kill him. And me? You want to know how the Lannister men slaughtered my family? Burned my home and left me for dead? You're not special, kid. You're not tough. You're just a fool who thinks he's smarter than everyone else. Now—what's your name?"
"You don't care about my name," Locke said. "You want to know where I hid the coin I stole. You want it for yourself. Well, I've got twenty gold dragons. It's all yours, if you want it."
Now they wouldn't kill him. Not yet. Not if they thought they could get to that kind of coin. Keeping him alive wasn't much of a risk. He just had to endure a little more and find his moment to escape.
"Oh really? And where is it?"
"I buried it. Same place I'll bury you."
The man sighed, rubbed his face, and then slapped Locke so hard the chair toppled over. Locke tasted blood in his mouth just as a kick slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
"Enough, Hal. You'll kill the poor boy."
"Fine. You talk to this suicidal little shit. Maybe you'll get through to him."
The old woman stepped forward and halted the man, Hal, apparently. He grunted and lifted Locke, setting him and the chair upright again. Though it seemed he wasn't very happy to do so.
"This knife. Where did you get it?" the old woman asked, showing him his blade.
"What does it matter?"
"Just answer the fucking question, kid," Hal growled. "Are you touched in the head or something?"
"No. I just like annoying the people who are going to kill me," Locke smirked.
"Nobody's going to kill you," the old woman said.
"Tell that to her," Locke nodded toward the girl. "She looks like she wants to gut me."
"Damn right," she said.
"But she won't if I tell her not to," the old woman replied. "You've been running our streets for a while now, boy. People call you the black cat, vanishing as suddenly as you appear. A shadow no one could catch."
He never heard of it. But again, he wasn't really a social butterfly. He did his best to avoid the unwanted eyes on him. Though he didn't know if he should be happy or not to have gathered some reputation in the time he was in the Flea Bottom.
"I've run through many streets," Locke said. "What of it?"
"This knife belonged to a dear friend of mine. He was found dead not long ago. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
"Henry's dead?" Locke asked, surprised.
Even if he didn't want to admit, that crippled bastard was the kindest person Locke met in this shithole. And he hasn't even done anything that noteworthy. Still, even if Locke didn't have much use for it, Henry has gifted him a knife. Too bad, it seems that the gift brought more trouble to him than any good.
"You knew him, then?"
"He gave me the knife. Told me to go to some Drunken Pig and say he recommended me. I gather this is the place."
"Ha. A nasty cat like you would've been welcomed here. Though I'd rather not deal with you," Hal said. "So that's how you got the knife. Maybe now you'll tell us your name. Or is that still too much?"
"Locke Rivers," he finally muttered.
It had been a long time since he heard his name, even from his lips. He hadn't realized how sad he'd feel hearing that Henry was gone. Nor did he expect to be so emotional about a man he had only met a few times.
"Why didn't you come, if he told you to?" the girl asked.
"Why should I listen to a crippled idiot?"
"Watch your words, bastard."
"Make me, bitch."
She looked like she was about to lunge at him, but the old woman gave her a look that froze her in place. Locke couldn't understand it—how a woman that old could command people like them with just a glance. She was feeble, and with one push, he could finish her. And yet, she was the most powerful person in the room.
"Calm yourself, boy." Her tone grated on him, like he was some child, even if it was true, he didn't like it. "That crippled idiot was our friend. And we want to know who killed him. You're one of the suspects, Locke Waters."
"Why would I kill a fool like him?" Locke asked. "If that's all you wanted to know, you can let me go. I did nothing. I know nothing."
"Let you go? You tried to kill me," the girl snapped.
"What was I supposed to do? You ambushed me. It's your fault for believing every word you hear."
"Enough, both of you," Hal cut in before she could get close. "We can't let you go, no matter what you think. You'll work for us from now on."
"And why should I?" Locke asked, though he didn't really care. Even if they made him work, he'd escape the moment they weren't watching.
"Because you caused a scene," Hal said. "We have a reputation to keep. What do you think people will say if you're seen running free after attacking one of ours? They'll think we're soft. Weak. So, either you run with our name behind you, or we dig you a hole to lie in."
Locke had no answer. He hadn't thought of that. A gang lived by reputation. If a stray like him could humiliate one of them, other gangs would see it as an opening. Even if they were wrong, the fighting would drain them over time. Killing him right now made sense.
"How much will you pay me?" Locke asked.
He should've expected the slap—less harsh than the others, but no less frustrating. Hal clicked his tongue, shaking his hand out. By now, he has done it by reflex rather than anything else. Though, Locke could tell that Hal was a bit pissed that Locke even asked such a question.
"Thirty coppers a week," the girl said. "That's how much you'll pay to stay under our roof and eat our food."
"Bull. Shit." Locke spat. "First, those other kids only pay twenty coppers. And second—go fuck yourself. I ain't paying you shit."
"Watch your mouth," The bitch warned Locke, Hal didn't seem to want to hold her back this time either and the old lady only sighed and didn't seem interest in this conversation. "You only got lucky once; we can see how far that luck will carry you now."
Locke wanted to tell that he was beaten to hell by now, and he didn't have a weapon. But rather than arguing with a little girl, he found it would be better to plead his case to the old woman and get something out of this situation.
"I'm strong, I'm fast, and I'm smart," Locke went on. "I'll work with you. But I won't work for you. And I'm definitely not paying. This bitch is supposed to be your best? Well, I'm better. So, give me a deal that won't make me try to betray you the first chance I get."
"What are you?" the old woman asked, sounding more curious than offended. "I've never seen a kid like you. You don't sound like one either."
"A bastard has to grow up fast to survive," Locke said. "No matter where he is. And I'll survive-no matter what."
"Everything you steal comes to us. You don't cause trouble. In exchange, you get a roof and food. But you'll work. Hal, he's all yours."
"Huh? Fucking fantastic."
The rest was a blur. They cut him free, washed him, dressed him, and brought him to the kitchen. They gave him some scraps from dinner, which he devoured without any shame as he was starving by this point.
"You'll chop wood every morning," Hal told him. "You'll be the first one up. You will need to prepare enough wood for the cook. Oh, and that gold—was that true?"
"Aye," Locke smirked. "A gift from my father. Though I'd forget about it if I were you."
"Why's that?"
"It belongs to the dead."
"Tch. You could have just said you were bullshitting to save your ass."
When Hal showed him where he'd be sleeping, Locke dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes. He was beaten, broken, and tired like a dead horse. He just wanted the day to end—and a new one to begin. One where he could finally take control of his life.
A.N. 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.