Chapter 2: The Razor of Flea Bottom
The coppery scent of cooling blood, once a familiar perfume of his trade, now mingled with the squalor of Flea Bottom, creating an altogether new, yet strangely fitting, aroma for Rico Moretti's rebirth. He stood amidst the carnage of Krayn's hovel, the flickering brazier casting grotesque dancing shadows on the slain thugs. Gorm's massive frame lay like a felled oak, Rat a crumpled afterthought, Krayn himself a broken monarch on his grimy throne. The other two were just bloody heaps.
There was no remorse. Remorse was a luxury men like Rico – in any life – couldn't afford. There was only a cold satisfaction and the thrumming, vibrant energy coursing through his young-again limbs. Each kill had been a transaction, an investment. He'd spent their lives and bought himself power.
First things first. He was a mafia boss, not some berserker. Control started with your immediate environment.
"Alright, boys," Rico muttered to the corpses, a habit from his old life where he'd often talk through plans aloud, even to uncomprehending underlings. "Time for cleanup."
His new body, infused with the essences of four men – particularly the brute strength of Gorm and the street-level authority of Krayn – moved with an efficiency that surprised even him. He was still in a youth's frame, perhaps sixteen or seventeen standard years, but it now possessed a deceptive power and resilience. The aches from his earlier beating were long gone, replaced by a vitality that felt like a coiled spring.
He dragged the bodies one by one. Krayn's absorbed memories provided the solution: a loose cellar door hidden beneath a pile of mouldy straw and discarded rags in the corner of the main room. It stank of earth and something worse, probably the gang's previous disposals. Perfect.
Gorm was the hardest, a deadweight that would have been impossible for his previous, un-enhanced state. Now, gritting his teeth, Rico found he could manage it, muscles straining but not failing, a testament to the raw physical power he'd siphoned. As he heaved the big man's corpse into the dark hole, he felt another faint, residual echo of Gorm's essence, a flicker of stubborn defiance, now his.
Rat and the others followed. With each body hidden, the hovel felt less like a slaughterhouse and more like… his. His first piece of real estate in this new, shit-stained world.
Once the bodies were concealed, he scanned the premises, Krayn's and Rat's absorbed knowledge guiding his search. Rat, the weasel, had a small, pathetic stash: a few copper stars and groats hidden in a loose stone near where he'd slept, amounting to pocket change. But Krayn… Krayn was a minor king in this dung heap.
Behind a tapestry of questionable origin depicting a faded, multi-headed beast that was probably supposed to be a hydra (or a very unfortunate dog), Krayn's knowledge led Rico to a hollowed-out section of the wall. Inside was a small, iron-banded wooden chest. Not locked. Krayn had relied on fear, not finesse.
Rico's breath hitched, not with greed for coin, but for what it represented: resources. Means.
Inside, nestled on a bed of more rags, were several leather pouches. One clinked heavily with silver stags. Another contained a respectable number of gold dragons – more than Rico had expected for a Flea Bottom chieftain. Krayn, it seemed, had been more successful, or perhaps just more brutal in his extortion, than his surroundings suggested. There were also a few cheap rings, a tarnished silver chain, and, surprisingly, a small, velvet-wrapped object.
Rico unwrapped it carefully. A signet ring, carved from bone, depicting a snarling rat. Krayn's symbol, no doubt. He slipped it onto his finger. It was too large for his current hand, but the message was clear. This belongs to the boss now.
Beyond the coin, Krayn's memories also pinpointed a few hidden caches of cheap wine, some dried meat (of dubious origin, but protein was protein), and, crucially, a small collection of serviceable, if ugly, weapons: a couple of short swords, more daggers, a spiked club. Krayn had been preparing for more than just street brawls. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Either way, it was Rico's arsenal now.
He took a moment, sitting on Krayn's rickety chair, the iron-banded chest at his feet. The adrenaline was ebbing, replaced by a sharp, focused clarity. He cataloged the essences he'd absorbed:
* Rat: Cowardly, but with an intimate, ground-level knowledge of Flea Bottom's western maze of alleys, a few boltholes, and a keen sense for spotting trouble (which hadn't helped him much in the end). A slight boost to agility and sneakiness.
* Gorm: Raw physical strength, resilience, intimidation factor. A crude but effective understanding of brawling and axe-work. His pain threshold seemed higher now.
* Lackey 1 (Club Thug): Dull, but physically robust. Some knowledge of basic street extortion, and that bizarre flash of dice-cheating. Minor boost to stamina.
* Lackey 2 (Rusty Sword Thug): Nervous, but quick. The pickpocketing skills were surprisingly refined. A little more dexterity.
* Krayn: The most significant. His cunning, his leadership (such as it was), his network of informants (low-level beggars and whores mostly), knowledge of smuggling routes beneath the Pisswater Bend, a rudimentary grasp of gang politics in Flea Bottom, and a chilling ruthlessness that resonated with Rico's own. This also came with a stronger boost to his overall constitution and a noticeable sharpening of his strategic thinking, especially concerning turf and control.
He could feel these changes. His senses were sharper. The murky shadows of the hovel held more detail. The distant, cacophonous sounds of Flea Bottom – a drunken shout, a wailing infant, the scrabbling of rats in the walls – were clearer, more distinct. He flexed his hands. They were still a youth's hands, but they felt capable, possessed of a strength that belied their size.
He stood and experimentally threw a punch at the stone wall. There was a dull thud, and his knuckles stung, but the force behind it was considerably more than he'd possessed an hour ago. He picked up Gorm's axe. It still felt heavy, but manageable now, not the unwieldy burden it had been. He swung it, the air whistling. Krayn's absorbed knowledge of gang intimidation tactics, coupled with Gorm's raw physicality, made the movement feel almost natural.
This power… it was addictive. Each soul consumed was a step up. He was already leagues beyond the helpless victim he'd been upon awakening.
But Flea Bottom was the bottom rung of a very tall ladder. He needed information, real information, beyond the ramblings of street thugs. His Game of Thrones knowledge was a priceless treasure map, but he needed to pinpoint his exact location on it. Ten years before the Dance of the Dragons. That put it around 119 AC, by his reckoning. King Viserys I Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra, his daughter, named heir. Alicent Hightower, the Queen, pushing for her own son, Aegon. The "Greens" and the "Blacks" weren't warring factions yet, but the fault lines were definitely forming.
Krayn's memories confirmed Viserys was King. There was talk of the King's health being… variable. Princess Rhaenyra was indeed the Realm's Delight, though some grumbled about a woman inheriting. Queen Alicent was pious and had borne the King strong sons. These were the broad strokes, common knowledge even in the gutters. He needed more nuance.
His immediate plan began to form, a blend of mafia pragmatism and his unique advantage:
* Secure the Base: This hovel was now his. He needed to make it defensible, or at least less obviously a fresh slaughter scene. He'd need to dispose of the bloody straw, perhaps find some fresh.
* Establish Dominance (Locally): Krayn had enforcers. They'd notice he was gone. His remaining informants and contacts would too. Rico needed to either co-opt them, eliminate them, or intimidate them into submission. Krayn's ring might help. News of Krayn's demise, with a new, more dangerous predator in his place, needed to spread. Fear was a currency here.
* Gather Intelligence: He needed to get out of Flea Bottom, even if only briefly, to listen to more informed gossip in the city proper. Markets, taverns near the port, places where news flowed. He also needed to find someone who could read and write, or learn himself. Knowledge was power, especially in a world without the internet.
* Acquire Resources: Coin, better clothes, better food, more weapons. And, if possible, a way to train. His power was reactive; he needed to hone the skills he was absorbing.
* Stay Low (Globally): While he needed to establish local dominance, attracting the attention of Gold Cloaks, let alone nobles or the Crown, would be premature and disastrous. He was a long way from taking on dragons.
First, appearances. He was caked in grime and now, blood. Krayn's knowledge included the location of a semi-secluded spot by the Blackwater Rush where one could wash without too much risk of being shanked for their clothes – assuming they had any worth stealing. His current rags barely qualified.
He rummaged through Krayn's meagre possessions, finding a slightly less disgusting tunic and breeches. They were too large, but better than his current bloodstained ones. He used a strip of cloth to tie back his dark, matted hair – another detail from Krayn's absorbed memories: the gang leader had been surprisingly vain about his greasy locks.
Taking a deep breath, Rico unbarred the door. The stench of Flea Bottom hit him full force – a miasma of human waste, rotting fish, cheap ale, and desperation. It was a symphony of poverty. But now, it also smelled of opportunity.
Using Rat's intricate knowledge of the labyrinthine alleyways, he navigated the pre-dawn gloom. Flea Bottom was stirring. Shadowy figures moved through the narrow passages, faces obscured by hoods or the dim light. Every cough, every furtive glance, felt like a potential threat. But his enhanced senses, a gift from his victims, gave him an edge. He heard the whisper of footsteps behind him before they rounded a corner, felt the shift in air that indicated an occupied doorway.
He found the spot by the river. It was as grim as expected, the water murky and filled with refuse. But it was relatively secluded. He stripped quickly, the chill morning air raising goosebumps on his skin, and plunged in. The cold was shocking, but it washed away the blood and some of the grime. He scrubbed himself as best he could, his mind racing.
This world was brutal. To survive, let alone thrive, he had to be more brutal. His power was tailor-made for it. But he couldn't just be a mindless killer. He needed to be smart, calculating. Each kill had to be an investment, not just a release.
Cleaned, dressed in Krayn's slightly-too-large clothes, he felt more human, more… Rico. He even used a shard of broken pottery with a semi-reflective surface he found nearby to get a better look at his new face. Young, as he'd thought, with sharp features that, cleaned up, weren't unpleasant. Dark hair, and eyes that now held a disturbing intensity. He could pass.
His next stop, guided by Krayn's memories, was a hovel belonging to one of the gang's enforcers who hadn't been present during the takeover – a one-eyed brute named Jax. If Jax was still loyal to Krayn's memory, he'd be a problem. If he could be flipped, he'd be an asset. If he resisted… another source of essence.
Jax's shack was a miserable lean-to on the edge of a sewage-choked canal known as the Pisswater Bend. Rico approached cautiously. No light from within. He listened. A rough, snoring sound.
He didn't knock. He eased the flimsy door open.
Jax was sprawled on a pile of rags, a clay jug of what was probably foul wine beside him. He was big, though not Gorm's size, with a scarred face and the promised single, milky eye. An empty scabbard lay beside him; his sword was likely under the rags.
Rico stepped inside, kicking the door shut.
Jax snorted awake, reaching instinctively for his sword. His one good eye focused on Rico, then widened in confusion, then narrowed in suspicion. "Who in the seven hells are you, boy? This is my place."
Rico tossed Krayn's bone signet ring onto Jax's chest. It landed with a soft thud.
Jax stared at it, then back at Rico. "Krayn's ring… What're you doin' with that? Where's Krayn?"
"Krayn had an accident," Rico said, his voice calm, level. He let the axe he'd carried, Gorm's axe, rest casually on his shoulder. "He, Gorm, Rat, and the others. They all ran into some bad luck."
Jax sat up slowly, his hand still near his sword. "Bad luck? What kind of bad luck?"
"The kind that creates vacancies," Rico said. "I'm the new management around here."
Jax's good eye darted between Rico and the ring. He was no fool. He knew what this meant. He was also a predator, assessing a potential rival. Rico could see the calculations in that single eye: Rico was young, new. But he had Krayn's ring, and he was speaking with an unnerving confidence. And he was still alive, while Krayn and his crew apparently weren't.
"You? A snot-nosed brat?" Jax sneered, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in his voice. "You expect me to believe you took down Krayn and Gorm?"
"You don't have to believe me," Rico said, his grip tightening slightly on the axe. "But Krayn isn't coming back. Gorm isn't coming back. Their stuff is my stuff now. Their territory is my territory. And anyone who worked for them either works for me… or they can join Krayn in whatever shitty afterlife this world has."
He let the threat hang in the air. He was banking on Jax being pragmatic, a survivor. If not, well, Jax looked reasonably strong. His essence would be useful.
Jax was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Rico. Then, slowly, a grim smile spread across his scarred face. "Krayn was gettin' soft anyway. Too much wine, not enough crackin' skulls." He spat on the floor. "Alright, new boss. What are your orders?"
Rico felt a surge of satisfaction. The first piece was in place. "First order? Spread the word. Krayn's out. I'm in. Anyone who has a problem with that can come see me. They know where Krayn lived." He paused. "Or rather, where I live now."
Jax nodded. "They'll squawk. Some might try ya. Flea Bottom's full of ambitious rats."
"Let them try," Rico said, a cold glint in his eyes. "I'm always looking to expand my… assets."
Over the next few hours, with Jax acting as a reluctant but effective herald, the news of Krayn's demise and Rico's ascendancy began to filter through their small section of Flea Bottom. There was disbelief, then fear, then a grudging acceptance from those who had paid tribute to Krayn or operated under his brutal thumb. Two more of Krayn's former thugs, smelling opportunity or fearing retribution, sought Rico out at the hovel. They were wiry, nervous types, quick with a knife and quicker to switch allegiances. Rico, drawing on Krayn's absorbed cunning, questioned them, tested their loyalty with threats and promises of a cut from future spoils. He didn't kill them. Not yet. He needed manpower, even if it was unreliable. For now, fear and the promise of coin would keep them in line. He made them clean the main room properly, dispose of the blood-soaked straw, and reinforce the door.
His small gang was now five strong, including himself. Pathetic by the standards of his old life, but a start.
As the sun climbed higher, casting pale, dusty rays through the cracks in Flea Bottom's hovels, Rico ventured out again, this time with Jax and one of the newer recruits, a shifty man named Finn, in tow. He needed to see more, learn more. Krayn's memories gave him a map, but he needed to update it.
He moved with a newfound confidence. The essences he'd absorbed weren't just raw power; they gave him an intuitive understanding of this environment. He knew which alleys were likely to be watched, which beggars might be informants for other gangs, where the Gold Cloak patrols were laxest.
They passed a makeshift market in a slightly wider alley, the "Sow's Alley Market," according to Finn. Merchants sold wilted vegetables, suspiciously sourced meat pies, and watered-down ale from rickety stalls. The air was thick with smells and shouts. Here, Rico listened.
He heard talk of ships from the Free Cities, of rising prices for grain. He heard whispers about the King's tourney, still months away, but already a source of excitement and potential profit for the city's underbelly. And he heard a name that made his ears perk up: "Daemon Targaryen."
"...heard Prince Daemon's back in favor, or soon will be," a fishwife said to a baker. "The King's brother. Always stirs up trouble, that one. But handsome as a dragonlord should be, they say."
Daemon. The Rogue Prince. A major player in the Dance. Rico's GoT knowledge screamed at him. If Daemon was around and in people's thoughts, it meant the timeline was indeed close to what he suspected. Ten years before 129 AC… Daemon's fortunes were often waxing and waning. He'd been in and out of King Viserys's favor multiple times. His presence, or even rumors of it, was a significant marker.
Rico motioned for Finn to buy some meat pies – a test of his new underling's ability to handle money and not simply run off. While Finn haggled, Rico focused on the conversations around him, his enhanced senses filtering the noise. He needed more than just Flea Bottom gossip. He needed to understand the currents higher up the ladder.
He also used the opportunity to study people. Not just for potential threats, but for potential… acquisitions. He saw a drunken sellsword bullying a merchant. Strength there, combat skills perhaps, but undisciplined. He saw a nimble cutpurse dart through the crowd. Agility, stealth, but likely weak. His power made him see the world in a new, predatory light. Everyone was a potential resource.
Finn returned with the pies, slightly singed but edible. He'd even managed to haggle a copper back. Smart.
"Jax," Rico said, keeping his voice low. "Krayn had contacts outside Flea Bottom. Merchants he… protected. Taverns where he sold smuggled goods."
Jax nodded, his one eye glinting. "Aye. A few. Risky, but profitable."
"We're going to visit one," Rico decided. "Not for business today. Just to listen. I need to know what the city is saying, beyond these walls."
Jax looked uneasy. "The Gold Cloaks are thicker once you leave the shit-stink of the Bottom. And Krayn… well, he wasn't exactly popular."
"We'll be discreet," Rico said. "And if anyone recognizes Krayn's old muscle and has a problem, they'll be dealing with new management." He gave Jax a look that brooked no argument.
They made their way towards the edge of Flea Bottom, near the Mud Gate. The transition was noticeable. The alleys widened slightly, the buildings were a fraction less dilapidated, the stench a little less overwhelming. Gold Cloaks were indeed more visible, striding in pairs, their namesake cloaks a flash of color in the grime.
Rico felt a thrill. This was it. The wider world. His old instincts, honed in the concrete jungles of his past life, kicked in. Observe. Analyze. Adapt. Conquer.
Krayn's knowledge led them to a dingy tavern called 'The Rusty Helmet', tucked away in a street not far from the wharves. It was dark, smoky, and filled with a rough crowd: sailors, dockworkers, a few off-duty City Watchmen slumming it or looking for bribes.
Rico, Jax, and Finn took a table in a dark corner. Rico ordered ale, paying with one of Krayn's silver stags, noting the barman's quick, appraising glance. News of Krayn's… retirement… clearly hadn't reached this far yet. Or if it had, Rico's appearance didn't scream 'new gang boss'. Good. Anonymity was an asset.
He nursed his ale, which tasted like piss, and listened. Here, the talk was more varied. Shipping news, complaints about taxes, rumors from the Red Keep. He heard Princess Rhaenyra's name mentioned with admiration, Queen Alicent's with respect for her piety. He heard talk of the Triarchy, the alliance of Free Cities in the Stepstones, still a thorn in Westeros's side. Prince Daemon's name came up again, linked to potential campaigns in the Stepstones.
One conversation, from a nearby table of what looked like ship's mates, caught his full attention.
"…and they say the Sea Snake himself is building more ships. Corlys Velaryon isn't one to sit idle, especially with the Triarchy vultures still circling."
"Aye, and with Princess Rhaenyra wed to his son Laenor, House Velaryon flies high. Higher than some old houses, I reckon."
"Quiet, fool! Walls have ears, even in a dive like this."
Corlys Velaryon. Laenor Velaryon. Rhaenyra's husband. This was vital. Laenor was still alive. In his GoT knowledge, Laenor's death (or faked death, depending on the source) was a significant event that paved the way for Rhaenyra's marriage to Daemon Targaryen, further polarizing the court. If Laenor was still alive and married to Rhaenyra, and people were talking about it as current, then it helped solidify the timeline: post-114 AC (their marriage) and pre-120 AC (Laenor's reported death). Combined with Daemon's ambiguous status, it painted a picture of the political pot simmering nicely. Approximately 119 AC felt increasingly accurate.
This was exactly what he needed. Actionable intelligence.
As he processed this, a commotion near the tavern entrance drew his eye. A young nobleman, judging by his finer, if slightly stained, clothes and arrogant demeanor, was berating the tavern owner, his voice loud and slurred with wine. Two thuggish-looking guards flanked him.
"...this swill you call Arbor Gold? It tastes like bilge water! I demand satisfaction, and a refund!" the young noble slurred.
The tavern owner, a burly man with arms like tree trunks, was trying to placate him.
Rico watched, a cold calculation forming in his mind. The nobleman was drunk, arrogant, and clearly not from Flea Bottom. His guards looked competent, but bored. An opportunity? Perhaps not for essence acquisition, not here, not yet. Too public. But for something else…
The young noble, in his drunken anger, shoved the tavern owner. The owner stumbled back, his face darkening. The noble's guards stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts.
The tavern tensed. This could get ugly.
And in that moment, Rico saw it. Not just a drunken brawl, but a chance. A chance to test his growing influence, his new persona, and perhaps, acquire something more valuable than just essence right now: a contact, however unwilling, outside the dregs of Flea Bottom.
Rico Moretti, the mafia boss, knew how to play such situations. He leaned back, a predatory stillness about him, and a plan began to bloom in the fertile, blood-soaked ground of his new existence. The pinnacle of this world was a long way up, but every ladder started with a single, well-placed step. This drunken fool might just be it.