Chapter 24: The Dragon's Gaze, The Regent's Test
The essence of Maegor the Dragonkeeper was a restless spirit within Rico, a constant, thrumming connection to the magnificent, terrifying beasts that slumbered and seethed within the Dragonpit. It was more than knowledge; it was an empathy, an intuitive understanding that allowed him to decipher the subtle shifts in a dragon's hiss, the flick of its tail, the dilation of its molten eyes. He found himself listening to the distant roars from Rhaenys's Hill not as the cacophony of monstrous animals, but as a language of mood and intent.
His success with Tessarion had earned him a precarious new level of regard within the Green regime. Larys Graceford, ever the sycophant, sang his praises to Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower, painting Rico as a preternaturally gifted "investigator of arcane threats" to the royal dragons. Prince Aemond, however, was a different matter. The One-Eyed Prince, now effectively ruling as Protector of the Realm while his brother Aegon II writhed in his recovery from the burns of Rook's Rest, possessed a chilling acuity that saw through Larys's fawning. Aemond's sapphire gaze, when it fell upon Rico during his infrequent, necessary reports (delivered via Larys), was like a shard of ice, assessing, probing, missing nothing.
"This… Razor… your creature, Graceford," Aemond had said to Larys one day, in a voice that carried even to Rico, who was ostensibly waiting in an antechamber (though his enhanced senses, augmented by The Scales' paranoia, picked up every word). "He has a… peculiar knack for these draconic matters. Ensure his 'knack' remains exclusively in service to the true King. And to Vhagar's kin." The unspoken threat was as palpable as the heat from a dragon's breath.
Rico knew Aemond was not a man to be trifled with. He was a test, and failure would mean a swift, brutal end. This spurred Rico to delve even deeper into his unique advantages.
Vorian and Harl, now Rico's eyes and ears within the Dragonpit's periphery, operated with new instructions, guided by Maegor's absorbed wisdom. They weren't just observing; they were subtly influencing. Harl, with his genuine affinity for animals, managed to earn the grudging trust of some of the younger, less suspicious assistant Dragonkeepers, learning their routines, their grumbles, their fears. Vorian, in his role as "Assistant Purveyor," noted the quality of feed, the cleanliness of the dragon-pens (often abysmal, leading to sickness), and the morale of the Hightower guardsmen, many of whom were terrified of their giant charges.
Rico, using this intelligence, began to orchestrate subtle improvements in the dragons' care, always through indirect channels, making sure the credit went to "diligent oversight by Prince Aemond's council" or the "renewed efforts of the Dragonkeepers themselves." A specific herb Maegor had favored for digestive ailments in young dragons suddenly appeared in the stores, its benefits noted. A change in the ventilation of a particular vault, one Maegor had always worried about, was "suggested" by an anonymous mason (one of Hendry Stonehand's old crew, now firmly in Rico's pocket) and quietly implemented. These small acts, born of Maegor's lingering care, also served Rico's purpose, making the dragons healthier, stronger, and perhaps, just perhaps, subtly more… receptive… to influences beyond their riders.
His most audacious move came when he decided he needed a closer look at Dreamfyre, Queen Helaena's mount. Helaena, always a strange, dreamy woman, had become even more withdrawn and lost in her own sorrowful prophecies since the murder of her son Jaehaerys. Her bond with Dreamfyre, Maegor's essence whispered, was strong but often… distracted. Dreamfyre herself was known for her gentle nature (for a dragon), but also for laying clutches of eggs that sometimes produced prophetic dreams in those who slept near them.
Under the guise of a security inspection of the vaults, a task Larys readily endorsed to Aemond, Rico gained limited access to the section of the Dragonpit where Dreamfyre was housed. He was accompanied by a stern Hightower captain and two guards, but Vorian, in his purveyor role, was also legitimately present, ostensibly checking on feed quality.
The vault was immense, a colossal cavern carved from the rock of the hill. And there she was. Dreamfyre. Even larger than he'd imagined from his scrying, her scales a pale, ethereal silver-blue, shimmering in the torchlight. She lay coiled on a vast bed of sand and straw, her breathing a soft, rhythmic hiss like a giant bellows. Her eyes, the color of molten sky, were half-closed, but Rico felt their ancient, intelligent gaze sweep over him.
Maegor's essence flared within him, a wave of respect, awe, and a deep, instinctual understanding. He didn't feel fear, not in the conventional sense. He felt… a connection. He subtly mimicked the low, almost inaudible calming rumble Maegor would have used, a vibration more felt than heard. Dreamfyre's massive head, which had lifted slightly at their approach, settled back down, a plume of smoke escaping her nostrils. The Hightower captain looked impressed. "She seems calm today. Often she is… agitated."
Rico merely nodded, his senses drinking in every detail: the way her scales overlapped, the faint scent of ozone and old stone that clung to her, the almost palpable aura of dreaming magic that surrounded her. He noted the Dragonkeepers attending her, their movements ritualistic, tinged with fear and reverence. He identified one, a grizzled man named Kennard, whom Maegor's essence recognized as particularly skilled with egg incubation and the lore of dragon bloodlines. Another target for future acquisition.
As they left Dreamfyre's vault, Rico "noticed" a loose stone in the archway, a potential security risk he pointed out to the captain. While the guards examined it, Rico, his back momentarily to them, let his fingers brush against a patch of dried dragon spittle on the wall, a substance Maegor had believed held a faint, residual trace of a dragon's jēdar. He felt nothing overt, but the act itself, a tiny, deliberate transgression into the dragon's immediate sphere, was a step.
Prince Aemond, however, was not content with mere reports of improved dragon care or the foiling of minor (fabricated) plots. He summoned Rico directly, not through Larys this time, but via a curt, non-negotiable order delivered by one of his own household knights.
The audience took place in a stark, private chamber in the Tower of the Hand, where Aemond now often resided, effectively running the Green war effort. The Prince Regent sat behind a massive oak desk, Vhagar's presence an almost tangible weight in the room, even though the great dragon was miles away in the Dragonpit. His single sapphire eye, blazing with fierce intelligence and suspicion, was fixed on Rico. Otto Hightower stood beside him, a silent, hawk-like observer. Larys Graceford hovered nervously near the door.
"Lord Larys tells me you have… a unique understanding… of our city's shadows, Razor," Aemond began, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "And that you have shown some… aptitude… in matters concerning my family's beasts."
Rico met his gaze, his own expression carefully neutral, projecting an air of humble, efficient service. The essences of courtiers and investigators within him helped him maintain this facade. "I serve His Grace, King Aegon, and you, Prince Regent, to the best of my abilities."
"Indeed." Aemond leaned forward. "There is a rot within this city, Razor. Not just the open treason of Rhaenyra's curs, but a more insidious kind. Whispers that undermine morale. Merchants who hoard grain, waiting for prices to rise further. Craftsmen who shirk their duties to the war effort. Even some within the Gold Cloaks who still remember my uncle Daemon's… largesse… too fondly." His sapphire eye narrowed. "I want them found. I want them… re-educated. Or removed. This is not a request for Flea Bottom thuggery. This requires discretion, intelligence, and an utter lack of sentiment. Larys believes you possess these qualities."
This was Aemond's test. A broader, more dangerous mandate than simply hunting Black sympathizers. This was an invitation to become the Greens' secret police, their enforcer of loyalty across all strata of King's Landing society. The power offered was immense. So were the risks.
"Such tasks require resources, Prince Regent," Rico said calmly. "And a free hand."
"You will have what you need," Aemond replied. "Ser Otto will see to it. But understand this, Razor: I expect results. Swift, decisive, and silent. Fail me, or betray my trust…" He let his gaze drift towards the window, in the direction of the Dragonpit. "…and Vhagar enjoys a varied diet."
Rico felt a chill, but his outward demeanor remained unruffled. "I understand perfectly, Prince Regent."
He left the audience with a new level of authority, and a new level of dread. Aemond was not Larys; he was not easily fooled or manipulated. This new role would thrust Rico into direct conflict with powerful interests, and any misstep could be fatal.
But it also provided unparalleled opportunities. With Aemond's tacit approval, he could now extend his reach far beyond Flea Bottom, targeting corrupt merchants, guild masters who resisted his influence, even minor nobles whose wealth or connections he coveted. Each "traitor" or "hoarder" he dealt with would not only solidify his position with the Greens but also potentially provide valuable essence and assets.
His first move was to use his new forging skills, now significantly honed, to create tools for this new phase of his operations. In his secret warehouse forge, he began to craft items imbued with a subtle, almost undetectable touch of the Valyrian principles Alaric was helping him decipher. He forged a set of exquisitely balanced daggers for Shiv, their Tyroshi steel treated with an alchemical compound Lyra had developed, designed to cause intense, localized pain far exceeding the actual wound – perfect for "encouraging" confessions. For himself, he began the meticulous creation of a new sword, its core of folded Tyroshi steel wrapped in layers treated with minute quantities of his own blood and other reagents Alaric had identified from the scrolls, hoping to create a blade that would resonate with his will, a true "Razor's edge." The process was slow, demanding intense concentration and drawing upon the deepest reserves of Horonno's absorbed mastery.
The war news continued to be grim for the Greens. The Velaryon fleet, though battered, still controlled the Gullet, choking off seaborne trade to King's Landing. Rhaenyra's dragonriders, including the new "dragonseeds," were beginning to harry Green-held territories in the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Food shortages in the city worsened, and the smallfolk grew increasingly restless. Riots over bread became common.
Rico, using his smuggling network, profited immensely from these shortages, selling grain and other essentials at inflated prices in the black market. But he also, with a calculated show of largesse (suggested by Alaric as a way to build goodwill and a network of desperate debtors), distributed a portion of his illicit gains as charity in the poorest sections of Flea Bottom, creating an image among the gutter-folk as a shadowy benefactor, a dangerous but sometimes merciful power.
His operations against Aemond's designated targets began. A wealthy grain merchant, caught hoarding vast quantities by Finn's informants, was visited by Jax's men. His stores were "confiscated" (most finding their way into Rico's own smuggling channels), and the merchant, after a "persuasive conversation" facilitated by Lyra's compounds, "donated" a substantial sum to the Crown and swore undying loyalty to King Aegon. His essence, when Rico later arranged for his "accidental" demise, provided a useful understanding of high-level commodity trading.
A master shipwright at the city docks, suspected of delaying repairs on Green warships, was found to have had a "tragic accident" in his own workshop. His skills in naval construction and repair flowed into Rico, invaluable knowledge given the importance of the Velaryon fleet.
Each success, each absorption, made Rico more formidable, his knowledge base more diverse, his ability to connect disparate pieces of information more acute. He was becoming a true Renaissance man of crime and power, his mind a repository of skills ranging from street brawling to arcane lore, from forging steel to navigating courtly intrigue.
But the shadow of Aemond Targaryen, and his dragon Vhagar, was ever-present. Rico knew he was a tool, and tools could be discarded, or broken. His long-term survival, and his ultimate ambition of not just navigating but mastering the Dance of the Dragons, depended on becoming more than a tool. It depended on understanding, and perhaps one day, controlling the ultimate power in this world: the dragons themselves.
His focus returned to the Dragonpit, to the echoes of Maegor's essence, to the whispers of Valyrian blood magic. He had to get closer. He had to learn more. He tasked Alaric with a new, dangerous line of research: find any record, any legend, any forgotten ritual that spoke of how a non-Targaryen, a man with no Valyrian blood of his own but with a unique connection to jēdar, might truly commune with a dragon, not as a rider, but as… something else.
"You tread on the bones of Old Valyria itself, Master Razor," Alaric warned, his face pale but his eyes burning with a scholar's insatiable curiosity. "Such knowledge, if it even exists, was their most fiercely guarded secret. To seek it is to invite the attention of forces that brought about the Doom."
Rico met his gaze, his own eyes reflecting the secret fire of his forge. "Some fires are worth the burning, Maester. Some secrets are worth any price."
The King shivered in his pain-wracked recovery. The Prince Regent sharpened his claws. The city starved and feared. And in the heart of it all, Rico Moretti, the Razor, the Spider, the Forgemaster, the nascent Sorcerer, prepared his next move, his gaze fixed firmly on the fiery breath and ancient souls of the last dragons. The Dragon's Gaze was upon him, and he was determined to meet it, not as prey, but as a power in his own right.