A boy of thirteen walked the Street of Steel, his left hand balled into a tight fist and his head bowed low. They called him Black Robin and he roamed Flea Bottom, taking what he pleased.

Or, at least, he had taken what he pleased. For three years he had stayed in the dark, hidden in the shadows like the freak he was. No one would care to give a crippled boy a thing, and the loss of his hand left him a grotesque in the eyes of the nobles who lived in the Red Keep.

He was sure to be caught if he ever tried to steal again. When he was young he could blend in with other children, but with one hand, he was forever labeled a thief. That was why he had children to steal for him. Minor things; bruised apples from a fruit stand, the fat-covered pieces of meat that no one wanted from the butcher, the half-scorched loaves of bread that bakers used to feed their pigs. Things the nobles would turn their noses at, but that Robin and his friends would devour with the greed of starving men.

He stopped his walk to look into a blacksmith's shop. A man hammered away at a blade, the steel alight with glowing sparks. Beside him stood a younger man, who's black hair shone brightly with every burst of sparks.

Robin smiled despite himself, daring to take a step closer. His arm hit a rack of shields, and the clattering of metal filled his ears.

The younger man turned to face him with surprising speed. "What is it?" the elder asked.

"Nothing but a street rat," the younger man said, and he stepped toward Robin, his blue eyes locked on him. "Get on, then."

"I was just watching," Robin said quickly.

"I don't care what you were doing. Go. We don't need you ruining business."

Robin glared, but that did not deter the man. "Piss off," he urged, and he started to reach for Robin's arm.

Robin pulled his arm away quickly, turning and breaking into a run. The man watched him go, shaking his head.

Once he was far enough away, cloaked in the shadow of an alley, Robin sat. He turned his right arm, examining the scarred skin where his hand had once been. In the three years since the incident that had cost him his hand, he had been sure to stay far away from the Street of Flour. His friends were glad to go there in his stead, and if they were lucky, they would bring him back lemon cakes.

"Robin?"

His eyes shot up to examine the mud-covered face of one of the many children he'd taken under his wing. Poppy, whose mother had been a Septa. Whose mother had been murdered one night, body thrown into the Blackwater.

"Poppy," he greeted, raising his left hand in a wave.

She took a step into the alley. She seemed hesitant. Robin suddenly remembered her fear of the dark, and he rose to his feet, taking a few steps toward her. "It's all right, Poppy," he said. "I'm all that's in here. Just me and the rats."

She giggled and stepped further into the darkness, though Robin saw her hands quivering. He was used to living in the shadows, but there were many who were not. "Did you need me, Poppy?" he asked, and he smiled to ease her nerves.

"I got you something," she said, nodding to herself. "A gift."

"Poppy, you know I don't like getting gifts when you all don't get anything."

She smiled. "But you'll like this gift."

She seemed to forget her fear, moving to his side and holding out a small dagger.

"Poppy," Robin whispered. "How did you get this?"

"I got it from a blacksmith. He was all angry. Said it was ruined. He was going to melt it down, but I thought you'd want it."

Robin nodded faintly, understanding. He turned the dagger over in his hand, examining the awkward curve of the blade, the way the steel bent upward in jagged arcs. He smiled at Poppy one more time. "Thank you," he said. "It might not be able to kill a man proper, but it can hurt him."

"Who would you want to kill?" she asked quizzically.

Robin hesitated a moment before he held out his right arm to her. "The man who did this," he said. "Janos Slynt."

Poppy nodded faintly in understanding. "He must be bad if he did that to you."

Robin shrugged slightly. "I suppose I did deserve it. I stole."

Poppy shook her head, taking his shoulder and squeezing lightly. "He shouldn't have hurt you."

Robin managed a chuckle, freeing himself from Poppy's grip. "You're kind, Poppy. That means a lot."

She smiled broadly, clearly pleased with herself. Robin couldn't help but smile in return. Poppy was only ten, but she was one of the smartest of the children Robin had taken under his wing. She was small for her age and quick. Her wide, doe-like brown eyes made the kinder shopkeeps turn the other way if she was caught. Robin was quite proud of how well he taught her.

He nudged her forward with a chuckle. "Round up some of the others," he instructed. "I'll find somewhere for us to eat supper. You all try and find something good for us tonight."

"Is tonight special?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I'm just proud of you. We should celebrate your find."

She grinned, nodding before she turned on her heel and ran into the street, Robin watching her with a faint smile.