Chapter 9: The Serpent's Coil and the Razor's Ledger
The dregs of King Viserys's nameday tourney had long been swept from the streets, the vibrant banners furled, and the roar of the crowds faded into memory. Yet, for Rico Moretti, the tourney's bloody harvest was a seed that, carefully nurtured, was beginning to sprout into a formidable, if shadowy, empire within the bowels of King's Landing. The gold was useful, the fear he'd instilled a valuable currency, but the essences – particularly the tenacious spirit and unorthodox combat prowess of Ser Duncan the Short – were the true catalysts for his accelerating ascent.
His days settled into a new rhythm, a careful balance of consolidation, expansion, and relentless self-improvement. The smuggling tunnels, once Krayn's bolt-hole, were now the arteries of a burgeoning illicit trade network. Under Jax's brutal but effective oversight, and with a significant investment of Larys's gold, the tunnels had been cleared, reinforced with sturdy timbers in places, and extended to connect directly with the cellar of the dilapidated riverside warehouse Rico had earmarked.
Acquiring the warehouse itself had been his first major move beyond direct violence. The property was owned by a minor merchant family, the Sprouts, who were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Elric, his literacy now a potent tool in Rico's arsenal, had pored over copies of city ledgers and property deeds Finn's urchins had "liberated" from a drunken clerk's satchel. He discovered the Sprouts were deeply indebted to several more powerful merchant lenders.
Rico didn't simply burn them out or threaten their lives. That was crude, and would attract the wrong kind of attention now that he was thinking bigger. Instead, he approached the most aggressive of their creditors, a fat, odious moneylender named Tybold Spice, who operated from a cramped office on the Street of Flour.
The meeting was in Tybold's own den, a place reeking of ink, desperation, and stale sweat. Rico, flanked by a silent Shiv and a glowering Jax, didn't make overt threats. He simply laid out a proposition, his voice calm, his eyes like chips of obsidian. He offered to buy out Sprouts' debt to Tybold, at a slight discount to Tybold, of course, for the "inconvenience." He also made it clear, through an intricate and entirely fictitious tale of his own (non-existent) backers among certain "influential families who prefer anonymity," that further interference with the Sprout property once he held the debt would be… unwise.
Tybold Spice, a man used to bullying the weak, found himself facing a different kind Rof predator. Rico's calm confidence, the palpable menace of his companions, and the subtle implication of powerful, unseen allies, did the trick. Tybold, after a token protest, grudgingly agreed. The Sprout debt, and effectively the warehouse, became Rico's. The Sprouts themselves were allowed to quietly disappear with what little dignity they had left, oblivious to their new, shadowy benefactor.
The warehouse, under the guise of a failing salt fish importer, became the primary hub for Rico's smuggling. Wine from the Arbor, Myrish lace, Tyroshi dyes – goods that commanded high prices when avoiding the King's taxes – began to flow through his tunnels. He established cautious contact with certain ship captains, men whose greed outweighed their fear of the City Watch, using Finn's network to identify the most corruptible. His cut was substantial.
This new level of operation demanded a new level of organization. The Leaky Dinghy, now subtly renovated with some of the tourney gold, became his unofficial headquarters above ground. Stumpy Jon, the one-legged tavern keeper, proved to be a surprisingly astute observer, his common room a rich source of city gossip and information on the comings and goings of merchants, guardsmen, and sailors.
More importantly, Rico realized he couldn't manage the increasingly complex finances of his burgeoning enterprise with just his own wits and Elric's shaky arithmetic. Krayn's and Morgo's methods of stuffing coin into chests wouldn't suffice. He needed someone with a true head for numbers, someone who could keep ledgers, track profits, and perhaps even help him understand the more arcane aspects of finance in this world.
He found his target in Mathis, a former clerk for a Westerlands trading company, now disgraced and working as a debt-collector's dogsbody after being caught skimming (a crime Rico could, ironically, appreciate the ambition of). Mathis was rumored to be a prodigy with numbers, his downfall more due to arrogance and bad luck than a lack of skill.
The acquisition of Mathis was a more delicate affair than simply cracking skulls. Rico had him "invited" to The Leaky Dinghy for a private conversation. Mathis arrived, a man in his late thirties, thin, with ink-stained fingers and eyes that still held a spark of defiant intelligence beneath a veneer of fear.
"Master Mathis," Rico began, a pitcher of passable wine between them. "I hear you are a man of… numerical talents. And that your current employer perhaps doesn't fully appreciate them."
Mathis licked his lips. "I do my work, Master Razor."
"I'm sure you do. But I have a different kind of work. More rewarding, for a man of your skills. I am building an enterprise. Several, in fact. They require… careful accounting. Legitimate fronts, discreet investments, the meticulous tracking of income and expenditure." Rico leaned forward. "I need a master of coin, if you will. Someone to manage the flow, to ensure the Razor's ledger is always sharp, always accurate."
He made Mathis an offer: a position of trust, a significant share of the profits, protection, and the chance to use his talents to their full extent. The alternative, Rico implied without saying it, was to return to his miserable existence, or worse. The unspoken threat, combined with the allure of wielding real financial influence again, was enough. Mathis, after a tense silence, agreed.
Rico didn't kill Mathis for his essence. Not yet. A living, motivated financial expert was, for now, more valuable than an absorbed skill set he himself wouldn't have the patience or inclination to fully utilize. However, Rico made sure Mathis understood that his loyalty was non-negotiable, and that Elric, despite his age, would be discreetly "auditing" his work. Elric, surprisingly, took to this task with a grim sort of glee, happy to have someone other than Rico to find fault with.
While his criminal empire grew, Rico did not neglect his personal development. The essences of Ser Kellen, Ser Patrek, and particularly Ser Duncan, had given him a solid foundation in swordsmanship and a reservoir of stamina that astonished him. He established a new, more secluded training ground in the reinforced cellar of the newly acquired warehouse. It was spacious enough for more expansive drills.
He pushed himself relentlessly. He wasn't just practicing the forms he'd absorbed; he was dissecting them, combining Kellen's more classical technique with Duncan's unpredictable, tenacious style, and Patrek's slightly more robust, if less refined, Riverlander methods. He imagined fighting styles from his Game of Thrones memories – the water dancers of Braavos, the Dothraki screamers, the disciplined Unsullied – not to mimic them, but to understand their principles, to anticipate a wider range of opponents. He had Jax, now armed with a sturdy warhammer, spar with him, pushing him to his limits. Jax was strong, but Rico was faster, more agile, his movements guided by an increasingly sophisticated combat intuition.
"Seven hells, boss," Jax panted after one particularly grueling session, where Rico had disarmed him and held the point of his bastard sword to Jax's throat. "You ain't just a Razor no more. You're a bloody whirlwind."
Larys Graceford, flush from his tourney winnings, remained Rico's primary link to the world of nobility. The young lord, emboldened by his successes, now saw Rico as his personal instrument of intrigue. His requests became more frequent, if often trivial – spreading a malicious rumor about a rival for a lady's affection, "discouraging" a merchant who had overcharged him, acquiring some rare spice or wine that was difficult to obtain through legitimate channels.
Rico handled these tasks with a calculated efficiency, using them to further hone his organization's skills and expand his network. For Larys, he was a shadowy problem-solver. For Rico, Larys was a valuable, if unwitting, informant on the currents of courtly life and a source of easy income. Larys, in his cups, would often gossip about the great houses, the King's failing health, the growing tension between Queen Alicent's "greens" and Princess Rhaenyra's "blacks." He spoke of Otto Hightower's subtle maneuvering, Prince Daemon's brooding presence, and the latest squabbles among the younger Targaryen princes. Rico filed every scrap of information away, cross-referencing it with his own extensive knowledge of the future Dance.
One evening, Larys came to The Leaky Dinghy, not with a task, but with a warning.
"Razor," he whispered, his usual bravado replaced by a hint of genuine concern. "There are… whispers. About the order in Flea Bottom. About Krayn and Morgo's sudden… retirements. And the unusual number of 'accidents' during the tourney."
Rico's expression remained impassive. "Whispers are common in this city, Lord Larys."
"These are different. They speak of a new power rising in the gutters. A disciplined power. Commander Luthor Largent of the City Watch…" Larys shivered. "He's not like the usual gold cloaks, easily bribed or fooled. He's a hard man. A veteran of the Stepstones. He's taken an interest in the… unusual peace in your particular domain."
Luthor Largent. The name was new to Rico, not one he recalled from his Game of Thrones lore, meaning he was likely a contemporary figure of this specific pre-Dance period. A competent, unbribable Commander of the Gold Cloaks was a genuine threat. Rico's operations, while increasingly sophisticated, still relied on the general incompetence and corruption of the City Watch.
"I appreciate the warning, Lord Larys," Rico said. "Forewarned is forearmed."
This new threat forced Rico to accelerate his plans for discretion. The smuggling tunnels became even more vital. He ordered his men to be more circumspect, to avoid unnecessary violence or displays of wealth. He also realized he needed better eyes within the City Watch itself. Finn's network was good for street-level gossip, but bribing or coercing a Gold Cloak or two, even low-ranking ones, could provide invaluable advance warning of patrols or investigations. This became Finn's new priority.
The mention of Commander Largent also brought another name to the forefront of Rico's mind: Prince Daemon Targaryen. Larys had mentioned Daemon was a veteran of the Stepstones, like Largent. Daemon had even commanded the City Watch years ago, forging them into a more effective force. If Largent was cut from similar cloth, he would be a formidable adversary.
Rico also knew that Daemon was a pivotal figure in the coming Dance. A skilled warrior, a dragonrider, charismatic, ruthless, and fiercely loyal to his own. His essence would be beyond price. The thought of absorbing such a being was both terrifying and exhilarating, a distant peak he might one day aspire to climb. But for now, Daemon was a dangerous, unpredictable power, best avoided until Rico himself was far stronger.
Amidst these concerns, an opportunity arose that was too good to ignore, a chance to acquire a unique and highly valuable non-combat essence. Elric, in his scrounging for texts, had come across a recently dismissed scribe from the Citadel's small King's Landing scriptorium, a man named Perwyn. Perwyn wasn't old or broken like Elric; he was middle-aged, highly skilled in calligraphy, illumination, and, crucially, the forging of seals and handwriting. His dismissal, Elric had gleaned, was due to "heretical leanings" and an "unhealthy interest in restricted texts," though the more prosaic truth involved an illicit affair with a Septa.
A master forger. The applications were immediately obvious to Rico. Forged documents, land titles, letters of credit, even official-looking passes could open up a thousand doors, legitimize a hundred illicit activities.
Perwyn, now living in fear of the Starry Sept and scratching a miserable living copying out prayer scrolls for pennies, was an easy target. Rico didn't need to threaten him overtly. He simply had Mathis approach Perwyn with a generous offer of employment, working on "private commissions for a wealthy patron who values discretion above all."
Perwyn, desperate and recognizing a lifeline, agreed to a meeting. Rico met him in one of the back rooms of the warehouse, the scent of salt fish carefully masking the faint, earthy smell from the nearby tunnel entrance.
Rico observed Perwyn. The man was nervous, but his hands, despite a slight tremor, were those of a master craftsman – long, nimble fingers stained with a rainbow of inks.
"Master Perwyn," Rico said. "Your skills are… rare. I have need of them. You will be well compensated. You will have access to the finest materials. All I ask is your complete loyalty and your… artistic talent."
He laid out a few "test" commissions – copying a complex trade manifest in a specific merchant's hand, recreating a minor lord's seal from a description. Perwyn, his initial fear giving way to the pride of a craftsman presented with a worthy challenge, excelled.
Rico could have killed him then and there, absorbing his decades of skill in an instant. But, as with Mathis, he hesitated. A living, motivated master forger, capable of adapting to new challenges, was currently more valuable than the raw skill integrated into Rico's own mind, especially as Rico himself had no innate artistic talent to build upon. He needed these specialists to perform their specialties. For now.
Perwyn was given a secure room in the warehouse, equipped with everything he needed. He became another spoke in Rico's rapidly expanding wheel, his forgeries soon proving invaluable in smoothing transactions, creating false identities for Rico's agents, and even generating "official" complaints that misdirected Gold Cloak patrols away from their operations.
With a growing treasury managed by Mathis, a secure smuggling route, a forger, an intelligence network under Finn, loyal enforcers led by Jax, and specialists like Shiv and Harl, Rico's organization was evolving from a street gang into something far more potent. He was building a shadow syndicate, its tendrils reaching into various aspects of the city's underbelly and, increasingly, brushing against the legitimate world.
His own power continued to grow. He was reading complex texts with Elric now, discussing history, lineage, and even the basics of Westerosi law. He learned of the Great Council of 101 AC that had chosen Viserys over Laenor Velaryon (and by extension, Rhaenys Targaryen), sowing the first seeds of the succession crisis. He read about past Targaryen kings, their triumphs and their madness. This knowledge, combined with his gamer's foresight of the Dance, gave him a unique perspective, allowing him to see the fault lines in the current political landscape with chilling clarity.
He knew the major players he would eventually have to contend with or exploit: the Hightowers, with their ambition and piety; the Velaryons, with their fleets and dragons; and the Targaryens themselves, a house divided, their fiery blood both their strength and their fatal flaw.
He was still Rico Moretti, the ruthless pragmatist, the survivor. But the essences he'd consumed were layering new depths onto his persona. Duncan's stubborn honor, Kellen's superficial grasp of courtliness, even the street-level cunning of Krayn and Morgo – they were all part of him now, a complex, often contradictory, but undeniably powerful whole.
The warning from Larys about Commander Luthor Largent, however, was a sobering reminder that his ascent would not go unchallenged. The city was a coiled serpent, and while he was learning to navigate its coils, a single misstep could still prove fatal. He needed to be smarter, stronger, and more deeply entrenched before the real game began. The game of thrones. And he, the Razor, was sharpening himself for the bloodletting to come.