"Move! Hurry up! What are you dawdling for? Want a taste of the whip?!"
The curses behind him mingled with the sharp crack of a whip cutting through the air, stabbing viciously into Hope's ears.
He hurriedly bent his already stooped back even lower, almost pressing his face against the cold stone steps. Gritting his teeth, he braced his shoulder against a heavy stone block slick with wet moss and dragged it upward on his hands and knees.
Damned Gold Cloaks! They couldn't do a thing about the rebels and monsters outside the city. All they could do was take their anger out on wretched commoners like him and throw their weight around!
Hope cursed up a storm inside his head, from little King Joffrey to the Garrison's lackeys, then from those Targaryen remnants outside the city with nothing better to do to this damned world itself. But he did not dare so much as breathe loudly, let alone make a sound.
Half an hour earlier, he had seen a rash young lad complain just once about being made to haul stones, after moving a little too slowly. A Gold Cloak squad leader had cut him down on the spot.
Blood had flowed down the steps, nearly splashing Hope's face and scaring him out of his wits.
He still had a ramshackle hovel in Flea Bottom. He did not want to become a heap of mangled flesh on the steps.
Like a mule beaten into submission, he hauled stones and logs for the city's defenses, one after another.
Sweat mixed with dust ran into his eyes, stinging unbearably, but he did not dare raise a hand to wipe it away, afraid that even a moment's delay would earn him blows and curses.
By the time he finally dragged the stone