Chapter 10: The Price of Ambition, The Weight of a Crown
Commander Luthor Largent of the City Watch was a shadow that stretched beyond the grimy alleys of Flea Bottom and the opulent chambers of the Red Keep. He was a force to be reckoned with, a man whose reputation for incorruptibility and brutal efficiency preceded him like a chill wind. Larys Graceford's warning had been no idle gossip; Largent was actively investigating the recent shift in power dynamics within Flea Bottom, the sudden consolidation under a single, unseen hand.
Rico Moretti, who had built his nascent empire on violence and cunning, now found himself facing a threat that couldn't be simply stabbed in the back or intimidated with brute force. Largent was a different beast altogether, a hound on the scent, and Rico knew he would have to tread carefully.
His first move was damage control. He summoned Jax, Finn, and Shiv to the Leaky Dinghy's back room, the air thick with stale ale and unspoken tension.
"Largent is sniffing around," Rico said, his voice low but carrying a weight that silenced even Jax. "He's not a fool, and he's not easily bought. We need to be cleaner, quieter. No unnecessary bloodshed. No blatant displays of wealth. Our operations are to become even more discreet."
Jax, his one good eye narrowed, grunted. "That'll chafe some of the lads, boss. They're gettin' used to throwin' their weight around."
"They'll adapt, or they'll join Krayn and Morgo," Rico said coldly. "We don't need loud dogs; we need silent wolves."
He tasked Finn with intensifying his intelligence gathering within the City Watch. Bribing low-ranking guards was a start, but Finn needed to find someone closer to Largent, someone with access to his movements, his plans, his informants. The price would be high, both in coin and in risk, but the information was invaluable.
He also ordered Mathis to create a separate set of ledgers, a "shadow accounting" that masked the true extent of their profits and activities. The legitimate fronts – the salt fish warehouse, The Leaky Dinghy, even the expanded smuggling operation – would have meticulously documented (and heavily understated) income and expenses. The true ledger, detailing the protection rackets, the illicit trades, and the flow of information, would be kept under lock and key, accessible only to Rico and Mathis.
Perwyn, meanwhile, was tasked with creating a series of forged documents: letters of recommendation for some of Rico's more presentable men, establishing them as legitimate merchants or messengers; false bills of sale to explain the movement of goods; even a few carefully crafted "official" complaints, designed to misdirect the City Watch's attention towards rival gangs or long-dead crimes.
Rico himself focused on honing his skills and expanding his knowledge. He continued his relentless training in the warehouse cellar, pushing himself with the bastard sword until his muscles screamed. He sparred with Jax, but also with Shiv, forcing himself to adapt to the knife-thrower's unpredictable, deadly style. He was becoming a more versatile fighter, capable of both brutal force and subtle precision.
He spent hours with Elric, devouring texts on Westerosi history, law, and even military strategy. He wanted to understand the rules of this game, not just the rules of the streets. He read about Aegon the Conqueror, about the Targaryen civil wars of the past, about the strengths and weaknesses of the major houses. He saw parallels between the simmering tensions of his own time and the events that had led to the Dance of the Dragons.
He also began to learn more about the Stepstones, the chain of islands between Westeros and Essos, a region of constant conflict. Largent's experience there made him even more dangerous, and Rico knew that the Stepstones were also of immense strategic importance. Controlling them meant controlling trade routes, and perhaps even access to mercenaries from Essos.
One evening, as Elric was reading aloud from a tattered history of the Targaryen kings, a passage about Daemon Targaryen caught Rico's attention.
"...and Prince Daemon, in his youth, was a man of many talents, a fierce warrior, a skilled commander, and a cunning diplomat. He spent time in the Stepstones, fighting against the Triarchy, and learned the ways of war in that brutal crucible. He also had a… fondness… for the darker corners of King's Landing, the brothels, the gambling dens, the less reputable taverns. He knew the city's underbelly as well as any Flea Bottom cutthroat…"
Rico felt a chill. Daemon Targaryen, a prince who knew the gutters. A warrior, a commander, and a schemer. He was everything Rico aspired to be, and a potential rival of unimaginable power.
He questioned Elric further, gleaning every detail he could about Daemon's past, his personality, his known associates. The more he learned, the more he realized that Daemon was a force of nature, a wild card in the coming game.
Luthor Largent, however, was the more immediate threat. Rico decided to use Larys Graceford as bait. He summoned the young lord to The Leaky Dinghy, not for a task, but for a warning, carefully worded to sound like a request for help.
"Lord Larys," Rico said, his voice low and serious. "Commander Largent is taking an interest in my… operations. He's asking questions. He's putting pressure on my… associates. I need you to use your influence, however limited, to divert his attention. Perhaps a word in the right ear at court? A suggestion that his energies might be better spent elsewhere?"
Larys, flattered by the idea of wielding even a modicum of influence, readily agreed. He was also growing increasingly dependent on Rico's services, and the thought of losing his shadowy fixer was unappealing.
"I'll speak to my cousin, Ser Otto Hightower," Larys boasted, puffing out his chest. "He has the King's ear. I'll suggest that Largent is neglecting more pressing matters, that his… focus on Flea Bottom… is a waste of resources."
Rico doubted that Larys's words would carry much weight with Otto Hightower, a master of the game whose gaze was fixed on far grander prizes than the squabbles of Flea Bottom. But it was a start.
While Larys played his small part in the larger game, Rico focused on consolidating his power and preparing for the coming storm. He knew that the peace he had forged in Flea Bottom was fragile, a thin crust over a simmering volcano. Other gangs, envious of his success, would be watching, waiting for a sign of weakness. And Largent, even if temporarily distracted, would not be deterred forever.
He needed more than just thugs and smugglers. He needed soldiers. He needed to train his men, to forge them into a disciplined fighting force capable of defending his territory and, eventually, expanding it.
He began to hold regular training sessions in the warehouse cellar, using the space that had once held rotting salt fish as a makeshift arena. He drilled his men in basic formations, sword and spear work, even rudimentary tactics. He used his own growing skill with the bastard sword, combined with the memories and techniques he'd absorbed from Ser Duncan, to teach them. Jax, despite his preference for brute force, proved to be a surprisingly effective drill sergeant.
He also started to recruit new blood. Not just street toughs, but men with some experience in combat, however limited. Discharged soldiers, failed watchmen, even a few sellswords down on their luck. He offered them steady pay, food, and the promise of a share in the spoils. He weeded out the weak and the unreliable, keeping only the strongest and most loyal.
His gang was becoming an army. Small, poorly equipped, and largely untrained, but an army nonetheless. And he, the Razor, was their commander.
He also began to think about alliances. He couldn't operate in isolation forever. He needed to find others who shared his ambitions, or whose resources he could exploit. He thought of the various factions within King's Landing: the merchant guilds, the criminal syndicates that operated beyond Flea Bottom, even the minor noble houses whose influence was overshadowed by the great players.
He knew he couldn't approach these groups directly. He needed an intermediary, someone who could navigate the complex social and political landscape of the city. He needed a fixer, a diplomat, a man who could speak the language of both the gutter and the court.
The answer, surprisingly, came from Perwyn. The forger, his initial fear replaced by a grudging respect for Rico's intelligence and a fascination with his ambition, mentioned a contact from his days in the Citadel's scriptorium: a disgraced scholar named Maester Alaric, who had been expelled for his unorthodox theories and his tendency to dabble in forbidden knowledge. Alaric, Perwyn said, was a brilliant man, but also a social pariah, forced to live on the fringes of society, his talents wasted.
A disgraced scholar with forbidden knowledge. It sounded like something out of a maester's tale. But Rico was intrigued. He had Elric track Alaric down. The maester was living in a crumbling tenement near the Rhaenys's Hill, eking out a living selling astrological charts and questionable potions.
Rico met him in Alaric's squalid room, surrounded by piles of books, scrolls, and strange-looking instruments. Alaric was a thin, pale man with wild eyes and a beard that reached his chest. He smelled of dust and old parchment.
"Master Alaric," Rico said, his voice calm but firm. "I hear you are a man of… unusual learning. And that your talents are not currently… appreciated."
Alaric looked at him suspiciously. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Rico didn't mince words. He laid out his situation, his growing organization, his need for someone who could navigate the complexities of King's Landing beyond the immediate concerns of violence and profit. He offered Alaric a position as his advisor, his strategist, his link to the world of knowledge and power.
Alaric, initially wary, became increasingly animated as Rico spoke. He saw in Rico a patron, a man who valued intellect and ambition, a chance to use his wasted talents. He agreed, with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism.
With Alaric's knowledge, Mathis's financial acumen, Jax's loyalty, Finn's network, Shiv's skill, Harl's expertise, and Elric's reluctant scholarship, Rico Moretti had assembled a formidable team. He was no longer just a gang leader. He was a Don, a king in the shadows, a power that was beginning to stir the attention of both the criminal underworld and the higher echelons of King's Landing society.
Commander Luthor Largent was still out there, a threat that loomed like a storm cloud. But Rico was no longer just bracing for the storm; he was preparing to ride it, to harness its power for his own ends. The game was getting bigger, the stakes higher. And the Razor was ready to play.
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