Re-posting this here with minor edits.

I admit I had a lot of fun writing this. No real plan for a longer story, I might post a few more shorts, I might not. For now, consider it a stand-alone piece. Because if there's one city more corrupt than Gotham, its this one.

I don't own Game of Thrones or Batman, Im making no money off of this, etc.

Edit: Added the title below and re-did the italices and the break between sections one and two to fix 's formatting issues.

THE DEMON OF KING'S LANDING.

He ran down the winding streets of Fleabottom, his limbs burning, his chest heaving. He felt that he was going to collapse at any moment, but he dared not stop, could not stop. He tripped over a drunk, or possibly a body, lying sprawled at the entrance to an alley. He skinned his hands, but barely felt it, scrambling to his feet and running on, leaving a boot behind on the rain-slicked mud of the narrow street.

That thing. Oh, Gods, that thing. Lord Petyr Baelish had never been much of one to believe in magic or demons, or in anything except the frailty of men and his own cleverness, but that creature... He shuddered. He'd been relaxing in one of his several brothels, appraising the skills of a pretty auburn girl of some fifteen years, when something had crashed through the walls of the common room downstairs. He'd strode from the room to tell his men to deal with whatever drunken fool was causing a disturbance, when he'd seen thick smoke pouring up the stairs, then heard the clash of steel on steel, and the screams of men and women. Before he could do anything, one of his men, Royce he thought his name was, had come stumbling up the stairs. He was a tall, heavy-set man, more muscle than fat, used to casual violence, and smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. He was reliable muscle, as these things went, but as he staggered toward Baelish, his eyes were wide with terror, his face bruised and dripping blood. He'd been half-way up the stairs, his mouth opening to utter a plea- then a black cord had coiled around his leg and with a scream he'd been yanked back down into the smokey chaos below. That had been enough for Petyr, and he'd bolted out the back, mingling with the terrified patrons and girls as they fled the building. But looking back, he had seen a figure standing in the second-floor window of the room he'd just left, man-shaped but all in black, its head crowned with pointed ears or horns as it spread great black wings behind it. He'd heard the rumours: stories of a knight in black who protected the innocent, or a demon that drank the blood of the guilty. Foolish stories, he'd thought, to comfort gullible Smallfolk with little food and less hope, or made up by some drunken thugs or Goldcloaks to explain why they'd been beaten into a bloody pulp. He hadn't believed. Until the story came to life. So he'd run, with no thought but to get as far away from that thing as possible.

He felt a sharp pain as something wrapped around his leg, then he was yanked into the air, the Earth shrinking away beneath him, until he dangled, a hundred feet in the air, off the side of the great Sept of Baelor. He spun slowly, the city streets revolving beneath him, making his stomach turn. He froze when he found himself face to face with the creature on the rooftop.

It was huge and hulking, its black cloak making it seem larger. Its face was hidden by a helm of steel, painted black, a monstrous face and pointed ears creating a visage even more grotesque than the Hound's. It was coated head to toe in black mail, and black gauntlets lined with wickedly sharp spikes covered its hands, only inches from his face. But its eyes... they glowed an eerie, unnatural white, that cast a faint light over the roof and seemed to see into his very soul.

"WHO SENT AN ASSASSIN TO KILL BRAN STARK?"

What? Apparently, confused panic was not what the creature wanted, because it let him go, and the ground was flying toward him, and he was going to die-

He jerked to a stop, painfully, and then began to rise again, until he was once more face to face with the nightmare.

"I'll ask you one more time", it said, its voice a low growl that was far more terrifying than shouting. "Who sent an assassin to kill Brandon Stark?"

"It must have been Lord Tyrion", he said faintly, hoping the same story would work twice. "He won the dagger off me, I told Lord Stark he'll tell you its the truth-" The creature snarled and struck him across the face, leaving a gash that dripped blood onto the street far below.

"YOU'RE LYING!"

"I don't know", he babbled, all pretense gone, desperate only now to save his skin. "I swear I don't. I don't know who he gave it to I swear to the Seven!"

"SWEAR TO ME!"

He sobbed, "I swear, I swear", and then there was a blur, and a sharp pain, and when he woke up, he was lying sprawled in an alley a few streets away from the Sept. It was there the Gold Cloaks found him, leg torn and bloody, a gash across his cheek, watching every shadow, too terrified to move until the Sun had risen above the rooftops.

The Red Keep.

Ned stood shivering in the cool wind off the Sea atop the Red Keep. It was cold, but at least the smell from the city was a little less here. He was beginning to wonder if the Bat-Man was coming, when he heard the faintest sound behind him. He wheeled 'round, hand going to the hilt of his sword. He relaxed only slightly when he saw who it was: the Bat Man, clad in his helm and armour, his cloak billowing around him and the fading traces of whatever concoction he used to give his eyes that unnatural glow. Ned shivered, again, and it had nothing to do with the wind.

"Stark."

"Bat Man." The name still sounded strange to his ear, and once again he wondered what he was doing taking information from a nameless man who clearly acted outside the King's laws.

Because his information is usually good. And in this city, he'd learned, an honest man was much rarer than gold.

"Baelish knows nothing", the Dark Knight growled, then passed him a bundle of papers. "But I found this in his office, and the ones on the bottom in one of his establishments"-the knight's lip curled in distaste, and on this at least they were in accord-"in Fleabottom. If you compare them, they will show that Lord Baelish has embezzled considerable sums from the Royal Treasury."

Ned took them, glanced over them, then tucked them carefully beneath his doublet. He would study them more thoroughly in the relative privacy of his chambers, though he had little doubt that the Bat Man was telling the truth.

"And the matter of Lord Arryn's death", he asked hopefully. There was no answer. He looked up, and saw to no surprise that the Bat Man was gone. He sighed, wrapped his cloak around him, and headed back down into the Keep. Hopefully, his masked informant would have more to tell him soon. For now, he thought grimly, he had a Master of Coin to deal with.