Chapter 12: Wings in the Shadows, Echoes in the Stone
The taming of Commander Luthor Largent had been a pivotal victory, a testament to Alaric's cunning and the diverse talents Rico was rapidly accumulating within his organization. It had bought them breathing room, a precious commodity in the cutthroat world of King's Landing. But Rico Moretti knew that laurels were for resting on, and resting was a luxury he couldn't afford. The game was always evolving, the stakes perpetually rising.
Tobin's absorbed knowledge of ravenry was the first new asset Rico put into active, strategic use. In the cavernous, dusty upper levels of the salt fish warehouse, Harl, under Rico's now expert guidance, had established a small, meticulously concealed rookery. The cooing and rustling of wings became a secret heartbeat within their burgeoning empire. These weren't the grand, well-tended lofts of a noble house; their birds were housed in cleverly disguised alcoves, their comings and goings masked by the warehouse's legitimate (and often odorous) activities.
The first messages were simple: coded updates between The Leaky Dinghy, the warehouse, and key lookout posts in their Flea Bottom territory. Jax, initially bewildered by the idea of "talking birds," quickly came to appreciate the speed and security of this new communication method. Finn's network of informants was now augmented by these feathered messengers, allowing him to relay urgent information – the movement of Gold Cloak patrols, the arrival of suspicious ships at the docks, whispers of rival gang activity – with unprecedented efficiency.
Rico himself found a grim satisfaction in handling the birds. The essence of Tobin, the dismissed Ravenmaster, pulsed within him, an intuitive understanding of their moods, their needs, their incredible homing instincts. He could feel the subtle shift in a bird's feathers that indicated agitation, the faint rasp in its coo that might signal illness. It was a connection to the natural world that was strangely grounding amidst the filth and brutality of his daily existence.
"These birds, Master Razor," Alaric observed one day, watching Rico dispatch a raven with a tiny, rolled parchment tied to its leg, "they are the silent whispers that can cross city walls and castle gates. An invaluable tool for an enterprise such as ours, which thrives in the spaces between what is seen and what is known."
The disgraced maester had become Rico's most trusted advisor, his intellect a sharp counterpoint to Jax's brawn and Mathis's numbers. Alaric's "forbidden knowledge" wasn't just about obscure texts or heretical theories; it was a deep, cynical understanding of power and human nature, gleaned from years spent observing the hypocrisies of the Citadel and the ambitions of those who sought its wisdom.
"Flea Bottom is your fortress, Master Razor," Alaric counseled during one of their late-night strategy sessions in the fortified back room of The Leaky Dinghy, a room now lined with shelves holding not just ale, but ledgers, maps, and Elric's painstakingly copied texts. "But a fortress can also be a prison if it has no gates to the wider world. Your smuggling operations are one such gate. Lord Larys Graceford, for all his foolishness, is another. We need more."
Alaric proposed a new venture, one that would move Rico beyond simple extortion and illicit trade into the realm of influence peddling and information brokerage on a grander scale. "The guilds, Master Razor," Alaric said, his eyes gleaming. "The artisan guilds, the merchant guilds. They are the lifeblood of this city's commerce. They are rife with rivalries, secrets, and men whose ambition far outstrips their scruples. If we can gain leverage over a few key figures within the major guilds – the Stonemasons, the Chandlers, even the Fishmongers – we can control contracts, manipulate prices, and gather intelligence that reaches into the very heart of the city's economy."
This was a more sophisticated game. It wouldn't be won with alleyway ambushes or meat hooks. It would require Mathis's financial acumen to identify vulnerabilities, Perwyn's forgeries to create false credentials or compromising documents, and Rico's own growing ability to read and manipulate men of a different class than the thugs he was used to. The essences of Kellen and Patrek, with their superficial understanding of courtly manners and noble interactions, provided a thin veneer of polish Rico could now employ when necessary.
Their first target was a man named Hendry Stonehand, the ambitious but debt-ridden under-master of the Stonemasons' Guild. Hendry had a taste for high-stakes gambling in back-alley establishments that Mathis's informants had identified. Rico, using a carefully constructed persona of a "newly wealthy merchant from the Free Cities" (a persona Perwyn equipped with flawless credentials and letters of introduction), began to frequent the same gambling dens.
He didn't win every hand. He played the part of a slightly reckless, affable foreigner, letting Hendry win a few significant pots, subtly indebting the Stonemason to his charm before ensnaring him with a carefully orchestrated series of losses that left Hendry owing Rico a sum he could never hope to repay. The "hook" was set not with violence, but with calculated generosity followed by ruthless financial pressure. Hendry Stonehand, master stonemason, became Rico's unwilling informant and pawn within one of the city's most powerful guilds.
While Rico wove these new webs, he also had to contend with the ever-present threat of betrayal from within his own ranks. His organization had grown rapidly, absorbing remnants of Krayn's and Morgo's gangs, and attracting new recruits eager for a share of the Razor's success. Loyalty, Rico knew from his mafia past, was a fragile commodity, often bought with coin and maintained with fear.
The first serious internal challenge came from one of Morgo's former lieutenants, a hulking brute named Iron Gut Yoren, who had always chafed under Rico's more disciplined regime. Yoren, believing Rico was growing soft with his "scheming" and "book-learning," began to sow dissent among some of the older hands, whispering that Rico was hoarding profits and that the "old ways" of mindless plunder were better.
Finn's informants brought word of Yoren's grumbling. Rico could have had Yoren quietly shanked by Shiv. Instead, he decided to make an example, a lesson in the price of disloyalty that would resonate throughout his entire organization.
He convened a meeting of all his core crew and section leaders in the main space of the warehouse, the scent of salt fish doing little to mask the underlying tension. Yoren, unaware he was the subject of the meeting, swaggered in, confident and belligerent.
Rico, seated on a makeshift throne of stacked crates, his bastard sword resting across his lap, let Yoren spout his grievances for a few minutes, his voice calm, almost bored. Then, he simply said, "Yoren. You question my leadership. You spread dissent. You believe my methods are… ineffective."
Yoren, emboldened, puffed out his chest. "Aye, Razor! We're thugs, not bloody accountants! Morgo knew how to lead! He took what he wanted!"
Rico smiled, a cold, predatory expression that sent a shiver down the spines of even his most hardened men. "Morgo is dead, Yoren. Because his methods were crude, and his ambition outstripped his intellect. You wish to challenge my leadership? Very well. Let us settle this in the 'old way' you seem to admire."
He stood, tossing his sword to Jax. "No blades. Just fists and will. If you defeat me, Yoren, you can have it all. My position, my wealth, my organization. If I defeat you…" Rico let the implication hang in the air.
Yoren, a mountain of a man who relied on sheer brawn, grinned confidently. He saw Rico's slighter build, even enhanced as it was, and underestimated the ferocity and skill that lay beneath.
The fight was brutal, but short. Yoren charged like a bull. Rico, drawing on the stamina of Duncan the Short and the unconventional, agile tactics he'd honed, moved like a matador. He didn't try to match Yoren's strength head-on. He dodged, weaved, used Yoren's momentum against him, his fists and elbows striking with vicious precision at vulnerable points – the throat, the kidneys, the temple. Kellen's and Patrek's formal training provided the footwork and balance, while Duncan's essence fueled his tenacity.
Yoren, accustomed to overwhelming opponents with sheer force, found himself flailing at air, his powerful blows met with stinging, debilitating counters. Within minutes, the giant was on his knees, gasping for breath, his face a mask of blood and disbelief.
Rico stood over him, unmarked, his breathing barely labored. "The old ways, Yoren," Rico said, his voice soft but carrying to every corner of the warehouse, "are often the stupid ways. Leadership is not just about strength; it is about intelligence, discipline, and the will to do what is necessary."
He didn't kill Yoren immediately. He had him dragged to the cellar, and for the next hour, the sounds of Yoren's agony echoed through the warehouse as Rico, with cold, dispassionate precision, personally demonstrated the price of betrayal. When Yoren finally expired, his essence – a morass of brute strength, blind aggression, and a surprising, if crude, knowledge of Flea Bottom's deep sewers (which had been his preferred hiding spots) – flowed into Rico. It was a minor addition to his power, but the lesson delivered to his men was invaluable. Loyalty, from that day forward, was absolute. The Razor was not to be tested.
With internal discipline reinforced, Rico turned his attention back to his long-term goals. The Dance of the Dragons. It was still a distant drumbeat, but Alaric, with his knowledge of history and prophecy (some of which he claimed came from "suppressed texts"), painted a vivid picture of the coming chaos.
"The Greens and the Blacks, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his eyes alight with scholarly fervor, "are not just factions; they are fundamental divisions in the fabric of the realm. The Queen's party, the Hightowers and their allies, represent tradition, the Andal law, the Faith. Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters – the Velaryons, many of the older Valyrian houses, those who champion the King's will – represent a different path. When King Viserys dies, and die he surely will, given his declining health and fondness for rich food, this realm will bleed. Dragons will dance, and the crows will feast."
Alaric believed that the key to surviving, and perhaps even profiting from, the coming conflict was not to choose a side too early, but to build an independent power base, to become a force that both sides might need, or at least, fear to make an enemy of.
"Information, Master Razor," Alaric stressed. "That will be your greatest weapon. Knowing who is allied with whom, who is wavering, where the dragons are nested, the state of the royal treasury, the movements of armies. We must become the unseen eyes and ears of this city, and eventually, of the realm."
Rico, thinking of Varys from his Game of Thrones knowledge, understood. Varys had wielded immense power through his "little birds." Rico had his ravens, Finn's informants, and his own unique ability to absorb knowledge from the dead. He could surpass Varys.
He began to use his resources to gather more specific intelligence related to the great houses. Larys Graceford, now thoroughly enmeshed in Rico's network through a combination of greed and carefully cultivated fear (Rico had subtly let Larys know that he was aware of some of the young lord's less savory debts and indiscretions), became a useful, if unwitting, conduit for gossip from the Red Keep. Larys spoke of Queen Alicent's growing piety and her fierce protectiveness of her sons, especially Aegon, who was showing signs of becoming a boorish young man with a taste for wine and women. He spoke of Princess Rhaenyra's visits from Dragonstone, her undeniable charisma, and the open affection King Viserys still showed her, much to the Queen's chagrin. And he spoke, always in hushed tones, of Prince Daemon, who remained a brooding, unpredictable presence, sometimes at court, sometimes disappearing to parts unknown.
Rico, using the literacy Elric had painstakingly taught him, began to compile his own secret ledger, not of coin, but of power. Names, alliances, weaknesses, potential leverage points for every major and minor player he could identify. Alaric helped him analyze this information, drawing parallels to historical conflicts, predicting potential flashpoints.
He also continued his personal training, pushing the limits of the essences he'd absorbed. He needed to be more than just a skilled swordsman or a tough brawler. He needed to be a weapon, capable of facing threats far beyond those Flea Bottom could offer. He even had Harl teach him the basics of archery, recalling the effectiveness of ranged attacks from his gaming days. His progress was unnaturally fast, Tobin's raven-master essence lending him an unexpected affinity for understanding trajectories and windage, while Duncan's stamina allowed for hours of practice.
One day, an unexpected opportunity arose that promised a different kind of power. Finn reported that a Myrish merchant ship, "The Sea Serpent," had docked, rumored to be carrying not just silks and spices, but also a few "exotic artifacts" from the east, including, some whispered, scrolls purported to contain ancient lore, perhaps even fragments of Valyrian magic. The captain, a man named Drako Malatesta, was known to be a shrewd and ruthless trader, with a crew of hardened sellswords.
Valyrian magic. The words sent a jolt through Rico. His power allowed him to absorb the essence of "magic beings" and even "gods." While he doubted these scrolls contained true, potent magic, the knowledge they might hold, or the essence of someone who understood such lore, was an irresistible lure.
Drako Malatesta and his "exotic artifacts" became Rico's new target. This would be a far more dangerous undertaking than dealing with Flea Bottom thugs or even drunken knights. It would require meticulous planning, all the skills his organization possessed, and perhaps, a direct confrontation where Rico would have to unleash the full, terrifying extent of the power he was accumulating. The potential reward – a glimpse into the arcane, a step closer to understanding the deeper magics of this world – was worth any risk. The Razor was ready to strike at a new, more dangerous prey.