Chapter 11: The First Venture (80 AC, Age 11)
A year. In the grand tapestry of Westerosi history, a year was but a single, insignificant thread. For the great lords and ladies in the Red Keep, it was a year of peace under the Conciliator, a time of tourneys, feasts, and the slow, stately dance of courtly intrigue. For Maric, now a boy of eleven, it was the year he stopped being a refugee and became a businessman. It was the year his war for survival evolved into a campaign for profit.
The Shadow Sparrows, his fledgling organization born from the ashes of his family's home, had become a ruthlessly efficient machine. Their headquarters remained the damp root cellar, a secret nexus of information and planning hidden beneath the scorched earth of a forgotten bakery. Here, Maric reigned as the undisputed, unspoken king. His authority was absolute, built not on brute force, but on a foundation far more solid: results. The Sparrows, once a scattered collection of half-starved individuals, were now a cohesive unit. They were fed. They were safe. They had a purpose. And they were loyal to the strange, quiet boy who had given them all three.
Maric's family, now installed in a two-room apartment in a tenement near the Cobbler's Square, lived in a state of blissful ignorance. Their new home was a palace compared to the hovel they had lost. It had a real wooden door with a sturdy iron latch. The roof only leaked in one corner. They were a street away from the open sewers of the Gut, and the air, while still pungent with the city's thousand stinks, no longer carried the constant, cloying stench of raw filth.
Lara attributed their miraculous change in fortune to Maric's uncanny "luck" and a series of "odd jobs" he and his friends performed for local merchants. She saw the better food on their table—sausages, hard cheeses, even a small cask of watered wine for Borin's cough—as a blessing from the Seven, delivered by her miracle child. Borin, for his part, had fully ceded his patriarchal role. He was a quiet, listless man, content to follow the instructions of the son who had saved them from the fire, the son who provided for them with a competence that bordered on the supernatural.
Kael, now fifteen and simmering with the restless energy of young manhood, was the most complex case. He was not a Sparrow—Maric was careful to keep his two families separate—but he was an unwitting employee. Maric would use his brother's strength and desire for purpose, directing him to "opportunities." "Kael," he might say, "I heard the candlemaker on the Street of Sisters needs crates moved. He pays in coin." Kael would go, perform the work, and return with a few coppers, his pride bolstered, never realizing the "tip" came from Maric's own intelligence network and that the job itself was often a front for moving the Sparrows' acquired goods. He felt like a man contributing to his family's welfare, which was precisely the role Maric had designed for him.
But Maric knew this fragile prosperity was built on a foundation of petty theft and scavenging. It was subsistence, not growth. His ambition, ignited by the fire, demanded more. It demanded capital. It demanded the professionalization of their enterprise. It was time to move from simple acquisition to organized larceny. It was time for their first true venture.
He convened his war council in the cellar. The Sparrows were assembled: Finn, his ever-loyal Sottocapo; Lyra, the rooftop scout; Pip, the silent watcher; Garth, the grim-faced muscle; and the twins, Patch and Pot, agents of distraction.
"For a year, we have survived," Maric began, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. "We have eaten. We have kept safe. But we are still mice, stealing crumbs from the table. I am tired of crumbs. I want the whole loaf of bread."
He unrolled a piece of tanned sheepskin on the floor, a crude map of the market district that he and Pip had spent weeks perfecting. "We are going into business. The business of redistribution."
Garth grunted. "You mean thievin'."
"I mean liberating goods from those who do not appreciate their value and placing them with those who do," Maric corrected, his face impassive. "And taking a fee for our services. Our first target is not coin. Coin is heavy, and people guard it. We will target goods. Specifically, this." He pointed to a location on the map. "Madame Ellyn, the seamstress. She receives a shipment of Myrish lace every two weeks. It is light, valuable, and she is a fool."
Pip, the mute, nodded emphatically. He had spent days watching her shop. He took a piece of charcoal and began to sketch on the cellar floor. He drew the cart that delivered the lace, the portly driver who was more interested in the tavern next door than his cargo, and the Gold Cloak patrol whose route, Pip's drawing indicated, took them to the far side of the square for a full ten minutes at precisely the same time the delivery was made each fortnight.
It was the ghost of Silas the beggar, speaking through Pip's charcoal. Decades of watching that same patrol from a beggar's corner had been absorbed by Maric, and he had tasked Pip with confirming the ancient, ingrained pattern. It had not changed in thirty years.
"Madame Ellyn underpays her workers and overcharges the lesser nobles who buy from her," Maric explained, providing the moral justification that, while irrelevant to him, was important for the morale of his soldiers. "We will be taking from a thief to feed ourselves. The plan is simple and requires all of you."
He laid out the blueprint with the precision of a master architect. It was a symphony of deception and timing.
"Patch, Pot," he began, looking at the twins. "You will be our overture. Two minutes before the cart arrives, you will start a fight. A loud one. About a stolen sweetroll. Right here." He tapped a spot on the map, a busy intersection fifty yards from the seamstress's shop. "I want it to be messy. I want you to knock over a fruit vendor's stall. Draw a crowd. Draw the attention of the Gold Cloaks."
The twins grinned, their eyes alight with the promise of sanctioned chaos.
"Lyra," he continued, turning to the nimble girl. "You will be on the roof of the tavern. You will be our eyes. You will watch the cart driver. You will watch the Gold Cloaks. You will watch every approach. You have three signals. One hand raised, fist clenched: target is in place, driver is gone. Two hands: complication, abort. A wave of both hands: the Gold Cloaks are returning, scatter."
Lyra nodded, her expression serious. She understood her role was the most critical.
"Garth. You will be here, pretending to look for work by the stables. If any local toughs try to interfere with the twins, you will… discourage them. No fights unless necessary. Your presence alone should be enough."
Garth cracked his knuckles, a rare smile touching his lips.
"Finn. You and I will be the instruments. When Lyra gives the signal, we move. The lace is in a small, silk-wrapped bundle. It will be on the front seat of the cart. It will take you two seconds to grab it. You will pass it to me. I will be hidden here, in the mouth of this alley. You will then walk away, in the opposite direction, and melt into the crowd. I will take the package and be gone before anyone even knows it's missing."
It was a perfect plan, every variable accounted for, every role essential. It was their graduation from a gang of urchins to a crew of professionals.
Two days later, they put the plan into motion. The air in the market square was thick with the smell of horse manure, roasting nuts, and humanity. Maric watched from the shadows of a narrow alley, his heart a steady, slow drumbeat. He felt no fear, only the cold, clear focus of a predator.
He saw his pieces move into position. Garth loitered by the stables, a picture of sullen boredom. Lyra was a small, fleeting shadow, scrambling up a drainpipe and onto the tavern roof, vanishing from sight. Finn casually leaned against a wall, looking for all the world like a boy waiting for his father.
Then, the overture began. A loud shout erupted from the intersection. Patch and Pot were performing magnificently. They were screaming at each other, a torrent of childish insults that quickly escalated into a shoving match. A carefully aimed shove sent Patch tumbling into a pyramid of brightly-coloured apples. The fruit vendor shrieked. A crowd gathered. Just as planned, the two Gold Cloaks on duty, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and amusement, began to saunter over to break up the fight.
At that moment, the delivery cart rumbled into the square. The portly driver, as Pip's intelligence had predicted, pulled up before the seamstress's shop, grunted a greeting, and immediately headed into the tavern for his customary pint of ale, leaving the cart unattended.
On the roof opposite, Lyra's hand shot up, her small fist clenched. The signal.
Go.
Finn moved. He did not run. He walked with a casual, unhurried pace, his hands in his pockets. He passed the cart, his body momentarily shielding his actions from the street. His hand darted out, a flicker of movement, and the small, silk-wrapped bundle was in his grasp. He continued walking without breaking stride, turning down a side street and vanishing. The entire action had taken less time than a single breath.
Maric felt the bundle pressed into his own waiting hand. It was light, almost weightless. He slipped it into a specially prepared pouch inside his tunic and melted back into the alley. Moments later, he heard Lyra let out a sharp, bird-like whistle from the roof—the all-clear signal. It was done. Perfect execution.
That evening, they did not meet in the cellar. The risk of bringing stolen goods to their headquarters was too great. Instead, Maric had arranged a new rendezvous. He needed to convert the lace into coin, and for that, he needed a fence.
His intelligence network had identified the perfect candidate: a tailor named Thom, a once-proud man whose business was failing due to the rise of flashier competitors like Madame Ellyn. Thom was skilled, but he was drowning in debt. He was desperate. And desperation, Maric knew, was a key that could unlock any man's integrity.
Maric sent Finn as his envoy. He had coached him for an hour on exactly what to say, how to stand, the precise blend of youthful innocence and implied menace to project.
Finn entered the tailor's dimly lit shop. Thom, a gaunt man with a threadbare coat and ink-stains on his fingers, looked up wearily.
"What do you want, boy? I've no work for beggars."
Finn placed the silk-wrapped bundle on the counter. "My master has acquired some goods," he said, his voice steady, repeating the words Maric had drilled into him. "He believes them to be of fine quality. He knows you are a man who appreciates such things."
Thom's eyes widened as he unwrapped the bundle and saw the exquisite Myrish lace, its threads shimmering in the lamplight. This was worth a fortune. "Where… where did you get this?" he stammered.
"My master's business is not your concern," Finn replied coolly. "He knows of your troubles. He knows you are a good tailor who has been ill-used by fate. He offers you a chance to reverse that fate. He will sell you this lace for a fair price. A very fair price. You can use it to make a gown for a noble lady, and your reputation will be restored. In return, you will be a reliable and discreet partner for his future ventures."
The tailor stared at Finn, then at the lace. It was a lifeline. It was also a crime. But his pride, his family's hunger, the crushing weight of his debts… there was no choice.
"Who is this master of yours?" Thom whispered.
"He is a man who values skill and discretion," Finn said, delivering his final, rehearsed line. "And he knows that a satisfied partner is a silent partner. What is your answer?"
The deal was struck. Maric, watching from the mouth of the alley across the street, saw Finn emerge with a heavy pouch. They had turned silk and thread into thirty silver stags and a hundred copper pennies. It was more money than Maric had ever seen. More importantly, he had acquired a new, controllable asset: a fence. A vital piece of the infrastructure for his growing empire.
The new wealth flowed upwards to his family. The two rooms became three. Borin was given a cup of rich, red Dornish wine every night for the "health of his lungs," and the potent drink seemed to burn some of the weariness from his soul. Lara had new, warm dresses, and Kael was given a man's wages for his "work," allowing him to walk the streets with a new confidence. The family was prosperous, their comfort a direct result of their son's criminal enterprise, a truth they were shielded from by a carefully constructed wall of lies.
Maric, however, was not content. He knew that success in the underworld was like blood in the water; it attracted sharks. He had been careful, his Sparrows moving like ghosts, but the city had a way of noticing such things.
One evening, as he was returning to their new home, he felt it. A prickling on the back of his neck. The hunter's instinct, stolen from a dozen creatures, screaming a silent warning. He was being watched.
He didn't turn. He didn't react. He continued walking, his pace even, but his senses were on fire. He used the reflection in a darkened shop window to scan the street behind him. There. A man, leaning against a wall, trying to look casual. But his eyes were fixed on Maric's tenement building. The man was big, with the broad shoulders of a brawler, and even from this distance, Maric could see the faint outline of a hawk's head tattooed on the man's hand.
A Razor-Hawk. Galt's gang.
Maric felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The Dreg Rats had been a nuisance, a pack of rabid dogs. The Razor-Hawks were wolves. They were the apex predators of Flea Bottom, and their territory bordered on his new area of operations. His success, his growing influence, however small, had not gone unnoticed.
He reached his room and locked the door behind him. He went to the small, sturdy chest where he kept his growing fortune. The pile of silver and copper gleamed in the candlelight. It was the tangible proof of his victory, of his genius. He had built a successful criminal venture from nothing. He was providing for his family. He was winning.
But the image of the Razor-Hawk watcher was burned into his mind. He was a new player on the board, and the established powers were beginning to assess the threat he posed. The war against the Dreg Rats had been a preliminary bout. The real fight, the war for control of the shadows of King's Landing, was yet to come.
His ambition, once satisfied with a full belly and a safe bed, now soared higher. It was not enough to be a successful thief. He had to be the only thief. He had to be the king. He looked at his hands, the hands of an eleven-year-old boy that now controlled a network of spies, a theft ring, and the fate of his family. They felt too small for the weight of the crown he intended to seize.