Chapter 11: The Gold Cloak's Gambit and the Scholar's Riposte
The shadow of Commander Luthor Largent loomed larger with each passing week. He was, as Larys had warned and Rico's own growing intelligence network confirmed, a different breed of Gold Cloak. Incorruptible, tenacious, and possessed of a keen military mind honed in the brutal crucible of the Stepstones, Largent was methodically tightening a noose around the illicit activities of King's Landing, and his gaze was increasingly fixed on the unnaturally ordered fiefdom Rico had carved out in Flea Bottom.
Finn, his network of informants now including a few disgruntled and poorly paid Gold Cloaks in the lower ranks, brought chilling news. "Largent's got a list, boss," Finn whispered, his face pale in the flickering lamplight of The Leaky Dinghy's back room. "Names. Krayn, Morgo… even some of the lads we 'retired' during the tourney. He's connecting the dots. He's talking about a 'new order of thuggery,' more disciplined, more dangerous than anything Flea Bottom has seen before. He's planning a series of targeted raids, not just a general sweep. He wants to cut off the head of this new snake, as he puts it."
Rico listened, his expression unreadable. The head of the snake. That was him.
"Does he have my name, Finn?"
"Not yet, boss. 'The Razor' is what they're calling you in their reports. An unknown quantity. But he's getting closer. He's been seen personally scouting the edges of our territory, disguised as a beggar."
This was serious. Largent wasn't just relying on underlings; he was doing his own fieldwork. A direct confrontation with the Commander himself was out of the question, for now. Largent was too well-protected, too skilled, and killing him would bring the full wrath of the Crown down upon them. Rico needed a more subtle approach, a way to defang Largent without a direct assault.
He convened his inner circle: Jax, the ever-loyal fist; Mathis, the nervous but brilliant master of coin; Perwyn, the forger whose talents were becoming indispensable; Shiv, the silent blade; Harl, the horse expert whose skills might yet find new applications; Elric, the reluctant scholar; and now, Maester Alaric, the disgraced academic whose eyes gleamed with an almost feverish intelligence.
"Largent is moving against us," Rico stated, laying out the situation. "He plans targeted raids. He seeks to decapitate our… organization."
A grim silence filled the room. Jax clenched his fists. "We fight, boss. We set traps. We bleed every Gold Cloak who dares step into our alleys."
"Brute force will only confirm his suspicions and bring more heat, Jax," Alaric interjected, his voice surprisingly firm for a man who looked like he'd crumble in a stiff breeze. He tapped a long, bony finger on a crudely drawn map of Flea Bottom that lay on the table. "Largent is a soldier. He thinks in terms of direct engagement, of identifying and neutralizing command structures. We must not play his game."
Rico looked at the disgraced maester. "You have a strategy, Alaric?"
Alaric's eyes glittered. "Indeed, Master Razor. A soldier expects resistance, or flight. He does not expect… misdirection on a grand scale, orchestrated to make him look not like a hero cleansing the city, but like a fool tilting at windmills, or worse, a pawn in someone else's game."
Alaric's plan was audacious, multi-layered, and relied on the unique talents of Rico's crew. First, they would feed Largent misinformation through Finn's corrupted Gold Cloaks – false leads, exaggerated tales of mythical Flea Bottom kingpins operating from locations far from Rico's actual center of power, even hints of involvement by minor nobles known for their debauchery.
Second, Perwyn would work his artistry. He would forge official-looking documents: complaints from "concerned citizens" (merchants whose establishments were actually under Rico's protection) detailing extortion by other gangs, gangs that Rico's men would then anonymously "report" to Largent's informants. He would also create "evidence" – planted ledgers showing minor illicit activities, carefully aged and distressed, to be "discovered" in these decoy locations during Largent's raids, leading the Commander on a wild goose chase.
Third, Mathis would use a portion of their treasury to discreetly bribe certain minor city officials – dockmasters, customs clerks, even Septons in the poorer districts – not to ignore their activities, but to loudly complain to the Gold Cloaks about other, entirely fictitious, criminal enterprises, complete with detailed, albeit fabricated, accounts of their misdeeds.
Fourth, and most daringly, Alaric proposed using Larys Graceford. "This Lord Larys," Alaric said, his lips curling in a faint sneer, "he fancies himself a player, does he not? And he has connections, however tenuous, to the Hightower faction. Commander Largent, while effective, is not universally loved. Some at court see him as an overzealous upstart, perhaps even a tool of Prince Daemon, given their shared history in the Stepstones and Daemon's past command of the Watch."
This was a new angle. Rico had known of Daemon's past with the Gold Cloaks, but Alaric was suggesting a way to weaponize that connection.
"We can subtly feed Larys information," Alaric continued, "information that he, in his eagerness to appear influential, might whisper to his Hightower contacts. Suggestions that Largent's focus on Flea Bottom is a smokescreen, that he is neglecting more serious threats, perhaps even that his 'investigation' is a way to settle old scores or to embarrass rivals of Prince Daemon. If the Queen's party, the Greens, begin to see Largent as an inconvenience or a potential liability linked to Daemon, his leash might be significantly shortened."
Rico considered the plan. It was complex, risky, and relied on many moving parts. But it was also brilliant, a way to fight Largent not with steel, but with shadows and whispers, turning the Commander's own strengths – his diligence, his focus – against him.
"Make it so," Rico declared.
The following weeks were a whirlwind of clandestine activity. Finn's informants carefully planted their seeds of misinformation. Perwyn, working like a man possessed, produced a stream of flawless forgeries. Mathis, with surprising finesse, distributed bribes and cultivated an air of aggrieved citizenry. Larys Graceford, puffed up with the "secret intelligence" Rico fed him about Largent's supposed hidden agendas, eagerly played his part, whispering insinuations into the ears of anyone at court who would listen.
Rico, meanwhile, intensified the training of his own men. If Alaric's plan failed, or if Largent saw through the deception, they would need to be ready to defend their territory. The warehouse cellar became a true training ground. He armed his core enforcers with better weapons smuggled through their tunnels – short swords, sturdy shields, even a few crossbows that Shiv was teaching them to use with deadly accuracy. Rico himself practiced relentlessly, his swordsmanship, fueled by the essences of Duncan, Kellen, and Patrek, becoming sharper, faster, more lethal. He could feel the disparate skills coalescing within him, forming a unique, pragmatic fighting style that blended formal technique with brutal efficiency.
The first of Largent's anticipated raids came not as a sudden hammer blow, but as a series of targeted, almost surgical strikes on the decoy locations they had prepared. Rico, watching from afar via Finn's network, felt a grim satisfaction as Gold Cloaks, led by Largent's grim-faced lieutenants, kicked down doors in abandoned tenements and derelict warehouses, only to find carefully planted "evidence" of petty crimes and long-gone miscreants. The "Flea Bottom Kingpin" they sought remained elusive, a phantom.
Largent, however, was not easily deterred. He pressed on, his frustration visibly mounting with each fruitless raid. He doubled patrols, interrogated known informants with renewed vigor, and the pressure on Finn's sources within the Gold Cloaks became immense. One of Finn's key contacts, a corporal named Symon, was arrested on suspicion of leaking information.
This was a blow. Symon knew too much. Rico couldn't let him talk. This required a more direct intervention.
"Shiv," Rico said, his voice like ice. "Corporal Symon is being held in the East Barracks lockup. He won't survive a night with Largent's interrogators. Ensure he doesn't talk. Make it look like a suicide, or a shanking by another prisoner."
Shiv merely nodded, his eyes like chips of flint, and disappeared into the night. The next morning, Corporal Symon was found dead in his cell, a crudely sharpened spoon buried in his throat. The official story was a brawl with another prisoner over a gambling debt. Largent knew better, but he couldn't prove anything. The message, however, was clear: The Razor's reach was long, his methods ruthless.
The turning point came through Larys Graceford, though not in the way Rico had entirely anticipated. Larys, in his eagerness to impress his Hightower connections, had perhaps embellished the tales of Largent's "hidden agenda" a little too enthusiastically. He'd focused particularly on the (entirely fabricated by Alaric) notion that Largent was using his position to gather information detrimental to Queen Alicent's sons, perhaps at the behest of Prince Daemon.
Ordinarily, such rumors from a fop like Larys would be dismissed. But Otto Hightower, the Queen's father and a man who saw shadows and plots in every corner, was ever vigilant against any perceived threat to his grandsons' claims. While he likely didn't believe Larys entirely, the seed of suspicion, combined with Largent's recent lack of tangible results in Flea Bottom and his growing reputation for overzealousness, was enough.
A quiet word was passed from the Tower of the Hand to the Commander of the City Watch. Luthor Largent was "advised" to refocus his energies on more pressing matters – the security of the Red Keep, the protection of visiting dignitaries, the smuggling of actual contraband through the city gates, rather than chasing phantoms in Flea Bottom. His resources were subtly curtailed. His targeted investigation into Rico's territory was effectively neutered.
Largent was furious, but he was a soldier. He obeyed orders, however grudgingly. The intense pressure on Flea Bottom eased. The immediate threat had been blunted, not by a clash of arms, but by a campaign of whispers, forgeries, and political maneuvering.
Rico felt a profound sense of triumph, mixed with a chilling understanding of the new game he was playing. He had faced down one of the most dangerous men in King's Landing and won, not through brute force, but through intellect and strategy. Maester Alaric had proven his worth tenfold.
"You were right, Alaric," Rico said, a rare note of acknowledgment in his voice, as they reviewed the outcome in the back room of The Leaky Dinghy. "The pen, and the well-placed lie, can indeed be mightier than the sword."
Alaric preened, his thin chest puffing out. "Power, Master Razor, has many faces. Brute force is but its crudest manifestation. True power lies in understanding the motivations of men, their fears, their ambitions, and using those levers to achieve one's ends."
With Largent's threat diminished, Rico turned his attention back to expansion. The smuggling operations flourished, Mathis's ledgers showing a rapidly increasing stream of gold. Perwyn's forgeries allowed them to acquire new properties under false names, expanding their network of safe houses and storage facilities.
Rico also decided it was time to acquire a new, specific essence. His organization, while increasingly effective in crime and subterfuge, lacked certain practical skills. Alaric had mentioned the importance of controlling information flow, not just gathering it. He spoke of the carrier ravens used by the Citadel and the great houses, and the need for someone skilled in their breeding, training, and use, should Rico wish to communicate discreetly over longer distances, or intercept the communications of others.
Through Finn's network, they identified a man named Tobin, a former assistant to the Ravenmaster at a minor lord's keep in the Rosby Road, dismissed for drunkenness and neglect but rumored to possess an almost magical touch with the birds. Tobin was now scraping a living selling captured songbirds in the market.
The acquisition was swift. Rico didn't need Tobin alive; he needed his knowledge integrated. He cornered Tobin one evening as the man was returning to his miserable shack. The fight was pathetically one-sided. Tobin's essence, when Rico absorbed it, was a strange mix: the profound, intuitive understanding of raven behavior, their care, their training, the routes they flew, even the subtle signs of their health or distress. It was accompanied by a haze of alcoholic regret and a surprising talent for carving small wooden birds.
The knowledge settled within Rico, alien yet instantly accessible. He now understood the intricate world of ravenry as if he'd lived it his entire life. He tasked Harl, whose affinity for animals was already proven, with acquiring a few healthy ravens and establishing a small, hidden rookery in the upper levels of their main warehouse. Soon, The Razor would have his own messengers, his own eyes in the sky.
His literacy, too, had reached a point where Elric could teach him little more of the basics. He could read and write the Common Tongue fluently, deciphering complex ledgers, missives, and even some of Alaric's more esoteric texts. This opened up new worlds of information, allowing him to study maps of Westeros in detail, to understand the genealogies of the great houses, to delve into the histories of past conflicts and alliances. He was no longer just a Game of Thrones fan with foreknowledge; he was becoming a true student of this world, its history, its people.
The weight of his growing power and responsibility was palpable. He was responsible for the lives and livelihoods of hundreds of people now, his enforcers, his smugglers, his informants, his specialists. His decisions had consequences that rippled far beyond the alleys of Flea Bottom. He was building an army, a treasury, an intelligence network. He was forging a weapon.
But for what purpose? Survival and dominance in King's Landing were immediate goals. But his gaze was increasingly fixed on the larger canvas of Westeros, on the coming storm of the Dance of the Dragons. He knew that true power lay not just in controlling a city's underbelly, but in influencing the fate of kingdoms.
He stood on the precipice of becoming a significant, if clandestine, player. The Gold Cloak's gambit had been countered by the scholar's riposte. But Rico knew this was just one battle in a long war. There would be other Largents, other threats. And beyond them, the dragons, the great lords, the clashing ambitions of a house tearing itself apart.
He thought of Daemon Targaryen, the prince who knew the gutters, the warrior, the dragonrider. A man whose essence would be a crown jewel. The thought was no longer a distant fantasy. It was a goal, however remote, however dangerous.
Rico Moretti, the Razor of Flea Bottom, smiled. The game was evolving. And so was he.