Chapter 25: The Regent's Razor, The Dragon's Egg
Prince Aemond Targaryen's sapphire eye was a singularly unnerving instrument of scrutiny. It missed nothing, pardoned nothing, and carried the chilling promise of Vhagar's fiery retribution for any perceived failing. To be the Regent's Razor was to walk a path paved with paranoia and peril, yet for Rico Moretti, it was also a direct conduit to the heart of Green power, an unparalleled opportunity to gather intelligence, eliminate rivals, and subtly shape events to his own monstrously ambitious ends.
His first major task under Aemond's direct, if informal, purview was to "cleanse" the higher echelons of the merchant guilds that were still showing reluctance to fully commit their resources to King Aegon II's war effort. Whispers persisted of gold and goods still trickling towards Black sympathizers, of vital war materials being hoarded for greater profit, of guild masters playing a dangerous game of feigned loyalty.
Rico selected his target with care: Lyman Beesbury, the aged Master of Coin who had been imprisoned (and later died, officially of a chill, though Rico suspected a more direct Green intervention) for denouncing Aegon's coronation, had deep ties to several wealthy Reach merchant families who still traded through King's Landing. His cousins and business partners, though outwardly professing loyalty to the Greens, were suspected by Otto Hightower of secretly funneling support to Rhaenyra.
This was not a Flea Bottom shakedown. This required finesse, a surgeon's touch. Rico, drawing upon Ser Tommen Lannister's investigative acumen and The Scales' mastery of manipulative intrigue, began by weaving a web of suspicion around these Beesbury-connected merchants. Finn's informants planted rumors. Perwyn's forgeries created "intercepted" correspondence hinting at illicit dealings with known Black agents. Mathis, with his growing understanding of high finance, identified irregularities in their ledgers, discrepancies that could be construed as treasonous diversions of funds.
Then came the "inquiries." Rico, in his guise as a discreet official of the Master of Coin's office (a position now carrying far more weight under Aemond's protectorate), would summon these merchants for "clarification." Lyra's subtle, truth-enhancing compounds, administered in wine or through perfumed braziers in his Red Keep chambers, loosened their tongues. He didn't need overt torture; fear, paranoia, and the carefully constructed illusion of overwhelming evidence were his weapons.
Several prominent merchants, their fortunes and their lives hanging in the balance, broke. They confessed to minor dealings, offered up scapegoats, and, most importantly, pledged vast sums to King Aegon's war chest, along with detailed information on their competitors' (often equally suspect) activities. Their essences, when Rico later arranged for their discreet "retirements" via "unfortunate accidents" or "sudden illnesses," added layers of mercantile cunning, knowledge of Reach trade networks, and a sophisticated understanding of Westerosi commerce to his already formidable repertoire.
Aemond was pleased. Otto Hightower was impressed. Larys Graceford, though increasingly fearful of the monster he had helped unleash, basked in the reflected glory. Rico's position as the Regent's Razor was solidified, his access to the Red Keep's secrets deepening.
But his true focus, the consuming passion that now burned alongside his ambition for worldly power, lay within the smoky, sweltering confines of the Dragonpit. The absorption of Maegor the Dragonkeeper's essence had opened a door into a world he had only dreamed of. He now possessed an intuitive, almost empathic connection to the great beasts, a whisper of the ancient Valyrian blood-bond.
His next target within the Dragonpit's insular hierarchy was Kennard, the grizzled old Keeper whom Maegor's memories had identified as the foremost expert on dragon egg incubation and the arcane lore of Targaryen bloodlines. Kennard was a recluse, even by Dragonkeeper standards, spending most of his time in the geothermal-heated vaults where the precious eggs – the future of the Targaryen dynasty – were nurtured. Gaining access to him, let alone his essence, would be incredibly difficult.
Rico, however, now had leverage. His successful intervention with Tessarion had earned him a degree of wary respect from some of the younger Keepers. And Vorian and Harl, guided by Maegor's knowledge, were subtly making themselves indispensable in the Pit's daily operations – Vorian by ensuring a consistent supply of high-quality (and sometimes specifically medicated, on Rico's orders) feed, Harl by his uncanny ability to soothe agitated lesser beasts and his meticulous attention to the cleanliness of the outer pens.
The opportunity came through Helaena Targaryen, Aegon's queen and Dreamfyre's rider. Helaena, always lost in her own world of prophetic mutterings, had become even more detached since the murder of her son. Her dragon, Dreamfyre, a creature known to lay many eggs, had recently produced a new clutch. One of these eggs, however, was reportedly "stone cold," showing no signs of quickening, a dire omen that deeply distressed the Queen and, by extension, her brother-husband Aegon (or rather, those who ruled in his name).
Larys, eager to curry favor with the royal family, brought the problem to Rico. "Prince Aemond believes it may be… Black witchcraft… an attempt to curse the royal line," Larys whispered. "He wants you to investigate, Razor. Discreetly. Old Kennard, the egg-master, is said to be at his wit's end. Perhaps your… unique insights… can shed light on the matter."
Rico knew this was his chance. He feigned reluctance, citing the sensitivities of the Dragonkeepers and the dangers of meddling in such arcane matters. But he allowed Larys to "persuade" him, demanding full access to the incubation vaults and the cooperation of Kennard himself.
The egg vaults were deep beneath the Dragonpit, hot and humid, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and something else, something ancient and faintly metallic – the scent of dormant dragonfire. Kennard, a wiry old man with eyes like burning coals, greeted Rico with open suspicion. He was flanked by two younger Keepers, their expressions equally hostile.
"The Regent's inquisitor comes to lecture us on the mysteries of the dragon's womb?" Kennard rasped, his voice like stones grinding together.
Rico met his gaze calmly. "I come to understand, Master Kennard. And perhaps, to help. The Queen is distressed. The Prince Regent is… concerned."
He asked to see the "stone egg." It was beautiful, its shell a deep obsidian black, shot through with veins of what looked like molten gold. But it was undeniably cold, lifeless. Maegor's essence within Rico confirmed Kennard's despair: this egg would not hatch.
But as Rico examined it, his "blood sense" tingling, he perceived something else. Not a curse, but a… flaw. An inherent weakness in the egg's structure, a subtle imbalance in its internal energies. The Valyrian scrolls spoke of such occurrences, of eggs that were "moon-touched" or "star-crossed," their inner fire failing to ignite.
He didn't reveal this immediately. Instead, he spent hours with Kennard, ostensibly "investigating." He questioned the old Keeper about incubation methods, about the lineage of Dreamfyre and her previous clutches, about the subtle signs of a healthy or failing egg. He drew upon Maegor's knowledge, speaking the ancient Valyrian terms for draconic husbandry, asking questions that demonstrated a profound, almost unnerving understanding.
Kennard, initially hostile, found himself slowly, grudgingly, drawn into a technical discussion with this strange, intense outsider who spoke his own secret language. He began to speak more freely, revealing a lifetime of accumulated knowledge: the precise temperatures required for different bloodlines, the herbs used to strengthen a weak shell, the incantations (Valyrian fragments, passed down through generations) whispered over the eggs to encourage quickening.
Rico absorbed it all, a silent, voracious predator. He learned of the Dragonpit's hidden archives, where ancient records of Targaryen dragon breeding were kept. He learned of specific vulnerabilities in certain dragon bloodlines, of legendary dragons from the past whose traits sometimes re-emerged in their descendants.
As for the stone egg, Rico eventually offered a "diagnosis" that satisfied both Kennard and, later, Larys. He attributed it to a "natural imbalance, perhaps influenced by the recent astrological conjunctions Maester Alaric has noted," a pronouncement vague enough to be irrefutable yet carrying an air of arcane wisdom. He suggested certain rituals of purification for the remaining eggs, rituals drawn from Maegor's practices, which further enhanced his credibility.
He did not kill Kennard then. The old Keeper was too valuable alive, his knowledge too vast to risk losing any fragment in the chaos of a violent absorption. But Rico knew that Kennard's essence, when the time was right, would be his. He had laid the groundwork, established a rapport. The old man was now a fruit ripening on the vine.
While these intrigues unfolded within the Red Keep and the Dragonpit, Rico's secret forge in the warehouse cellar roared to life with renewed purpose. He was no longer just experimenting; he was creating. His personal sword, the one he had envisioned, began to take shape. It was a bastard sword, like his current one, but longer, sleeker, forged from countless folds of his unique Tyroshi-Valyrian steel. He worked with a focused intensity that was almost terrifying to behold, Alaric and Lyra his only witnesses.
He incorporated principles from the Valyrian scrolls, anointing the blade with his own blood at critical stages of its forging, whispering ancient Valyrian incantations Maegor's essence had dredged up from his deepest memories – words of binding, of sharpness, of resilience. Lyra, using her alchemical knowledge, helped him prepare unique quenching oils infused with powdered obsidian and other rare minerals Malatesta's notes had mentioned in connection to Valyrian steelmaking.
The result, after weeks of relentless labor, was a weapon unlike any other. The blade was a dark, smoky grey, the intricate folding patterns like captured lightning. It was impossibly light, perfectly balanced, and its edge was so keen it seemed to cut the very air. When Rico held it, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible thrum, a sense that the sword was an extension of his own will, his own jēdar. He named it Anādrag – "One Blood" in a bastardized High Valyrian of his own devising, signifying its connection to him and its purpose.
News from the war continued to pour in, mostly grim for the Greens. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, had captured Harrenhal, the colossal, cursed fortress dominating the Riverlands, without a fight, striking a huge psychological blow. His dragon, Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was now a terror in the skies above the Trident. In the Reach, the Hightower forces were bogged down in a brutal struggle against a coalition of Black-loyal lords.
King's Landing itself felt like a city under siege, not from external enemies, but from its own internal fears and deprivations. Food was scarce, prices astronomical. Rico's black market operations thrived, but even he could not feed the entire city. The smallfolk grew bolder in their desperation, their hushed grumbles turning into open protests, brutally suppressed by the Gold Cloaks.
It was during this period of heightened tension that the ghost of the Golden Serpent returned. Not the organization itself – Rico had shattered that beyond repair – but its Essosi connections. Vorian reported that a ship bearing the unmistakable markings of a Myrish slaving guild, one known to have been allied with The Scales, had docked under a false flag, its captain making discreet inquiries about Malatesta's fate and the current power balance in King's Landing's underworld.
Rico knew this was a probe, a test. The Myrish slavers, like sharks, smelled blood in the water – the chaos of the Westerosi civil war, the disruption of old criminal networks. They were likely looking to either avenge The Scales, reclaim his lost assets, or carve out a new territory for themselves.
He decided to meet this threat head-on, but on his own terms. He had Lyra, with her Lyseni heritage and knowledge of Essosi underworld politics, arrange a meeting with the Myrish captain, a man named Khorraz. The meeting took place on neutral ground, a decaying, rat-infested warehouse on the city's furthest, most lawless dock, a place even the Gold Cloaks avoided.
Rico went with only Shiv and Lyra, a deliberate show of confidence. Khorraz, a hulking brute with filed teeth and eyes like obsidian chips, was flanked by a dozen heavily armed Myrish sellswords.
"So, you are The Razor," Khorraz rumbled, his Low Valyrian thick and guttural. "The one who plucked The Scales from his coil."
"The Scales overreached," Rico replied coolly, his own Low Valyrian, a gift from Malatesta and The Scales himself, flawless. "As will anyone who mistakes King's Landing for an easy prize."
The negotiation was brief, brutal, and ended, as Rico had intended, in violence. Khorraz, underestimating Rico's calm demeanor, made a demand for tribute, for a share of Rico's profits, as compensation for The Scales' demise. Rico's answer was Anādrag.
The new sword was a revelation. It moved in his hand with a speed and precision that felt supernatural, an extension of his thought. The dark blade hissed through the air, meeting the Myrishmen's curved blades with contemptuous ease. Rico, fueled by the combined essences of countless warriors, his movements guided by a symphony of absorbed skills, was a whirlwind of death. Shiv, with his newly forged Tyroshi knives, was a silent, lethal echo at his side. Lyra, with a flick of her wrist, unleashed a cloud of choking, incapacitating powder that sowed chaos amongst the sellswords.
When it was over, Khorraz and his elite guard lay dead or dying on the warehouse floor. Rico, standing amidst the carnage, his new sword dripping crimson, felt a surge of power that was almost intoxicating. He had not just defeated them; he had dominated them. The essences of Khorraz and his best men – seasoned Essosi killers, masters of dirty fighting and shipboard combat, their minds filled with the brutal realities of the slave trade and the treacherous politics of the Free Cities – flowed into him, adding new, darker layers to his already formidable repertoire. He now understood the Myrish slaving guilds from the inside, their routes, their contacts, their methods. Another weapon in his arsenal.
He left a single survivor, disarmed and terrified, to carry a message back to Myr: King's Landing had a new master of its shadows, and his bite was far deadlier than any serpent's.
The King, Aegon II, remained a broken recluse in the Red Keep, his burns healing slowly, his spirit shattered. Prince Aemond, increasingly isolated by his own ruthlessness and paranoia, tightened his grip on the city, his sapphire eye ever watchful. The Dance of the Dragons raged across the realm, consuming lives and fortunes with equal abandon.
And Rico Moretti, now armed with a blade forged in shadowfire and blood magic, his mind a repository of stolen souls and forbidden lore, his influence stretching from the deepest gutters of Flea Bottom to the dragon-haunted heights of Rhaenys's Hill, looked towards the future. He was no longer just a player in their game. He was becoming a force of nature in his own right, a power unseen, unrecognized, but with the potential to shatter all their carefully laid plans.
His gaze turned again to the Dragonpit. He had the Dragonkeeper's knowledge. He had a growing understanding of Valyrian blood magic. He had a city teetering on the brink, ripe for the plucking. The dragons were the key, the ultimate symbol and source of power in this world. And Rico Moretti was finally ready to reach out and touch the fire. His next move would not be about whispers or shadows. It would be about the dragons themselves.