Chapter 14: The Weight of Ancient Words, The Shadow of Valyria
The ashes of The Sea Serpent had barely settled into the muddy harbor bottom before Rico Moretti and Maester Alaric sequestered themselves with their prize. The warehouse, once a mundane repository for salt fish, now housed a secret that could shatter kingdoms or elevate its possessor to heights undreamt of. The Valyrian scrolls, cool and brittle to the touch, lay unrolled upon a heavy oak table in a specially prepared, windowless room in the cellar, lit only by the steady glow of protected oil lamps. The air within was still, heavy with anticipation and the faint, almost metallic scent of ancient parchment.
For days, they barely ate or slept. Rico, his mind a crucible where the absorbed intellect of scholars like Elric and Kellen mingled with the newfound linguistic keys from Drako Malatesta, found he could decipher the elegant, flowing High Valyrian script with an eerie, intuitive fluency. Malatesta's essence had not just given him words; it had imparted a deep, contextual understanding of the language, its nuances, its forgotten idioms.
Alaric, his frail form practically vibrating with an intensity that belied his age and disgrace, was his indispensable guide. The disgraced maester's "forbidden knowledge" was not just a collection of heretical theories; it was a profound, if often speculative, understanding of the esoteric undercurrents of Westerosi and Essosi history. He recognized symbols, cross-referenced passages with obscure texts he'd committed to memory from his days in the Citadel's restricted sections, and provided the crucial historical and philosophical framework for the stark pronouncements within the scrolls.
The scrolls were not a simple grimoire of spells. They were far more dangerous, far more profound. They were, as Alaric had gasped, a treatise on the very nature of Valyrian blood magic – Valyrio Vējesēdria, the "Heritage of the Blood."
They spoke of the innate connection between the blood of Old Valyria and the dragons, not just as masters and mounts, but as intertwined destinies, their magics reflecting and amplifying one another. They detailed rituals – some shockingly brutal, involving sacrifice and the direct mingling of blood – used to awaken latent abilities, to strengthen bloodlines, to bind wills. They described the principles of shaping inanimate matter, not through crude sorcery, but through the focused application of will, amplified by blood and, often, by the fiery breath of dragons. There were sections on wardings powered by life essence, on glamours woven from shadow and desire, and on the subtle art of influencing thoughts and emotions through shared blood or potent sympathetic connections.
Most chillingly, and most resonantly for Rico, were the passages that spoke of the transference of jēdar – a High Valyrian term Alaric translated as "essence," "spirit," or "inherent nature." The Valyrians, it seemed, had understood, perhaps even practiced, ways to draw upon the vital energies and inherent qualities of other living beings, though the scrolls were maddeningly vague on the precise methodologies, hinting at lost arts and closely guarded family secrets.
"This… this jēdar transference…" Rico finally said, his voice raspy after hours of silent study, his finger tracing a complex glyph. "It's what I do. When I kill."
Alaric looked up, his eyes burning like embers in the lamplight. "So it would seem, Master Razor. Or, perhaps, what you do is a raw, untutored manifestation of these same ancient principles. Valyria built its Freehold on such power, concentrated within its forty dragonlord families. They were, in essence, living conduits of magic, their blood a potent fuel."
The scrolls also carried stark warnings. They spoke of the immense mental and spiritual toll such magic exacted, of the dangers of corruption, of madness, of the very essence of the practitioner becoming warped or consumed by the powers they sought to wield. They hinted at the Doom of Valyria not as a mere cataclysm of nature, but as a consequence of magical overreach, of delving too deep into forbidden arts, of bloodlines growing too thin or too corrupted.
"Power demands a price, Alaric," Rico stated, his voice flat. He'd learned that lesson long ago, in a different world, with different stakes. This was just a new currency.
"Indeed, Master Razor," Alaric murmured. "And the Valyrians paid it in full."
Rico felt no fear, only a grim affirmation. His power wasn't a gift; it was a tool, a weapon, forged in the fires of death. These scrolls didn't give him new spells to cast, but they gave him something far more valuable: understanding. They provided a theoretical framework for what he did instinctively, a lexicon for the raw, primal magic that flowed through him. And they hinted at possibilities, at refinements, at applications he had not yet even conceived.
He began to experiment, subtly at first. The scrolls spoke of focusing will through blood. One evening, alone in the cellar, he made a small cut on his palm, letting a few drops of his own blood fall onto a misshapen piece of iron he'd taken from the warehouse. Focusing his will, drawing on the ambient sense of power that now seemed to thrum beneath his skin since absorbing Malatesta's more magically-attuned essence, he tried to bend the iron, not with physical force, but with intent, as the scrolls described Valyrian artisans shaping their famed steel.
Nothing happened. The iron remained stubbornly inert. But Rico felt… something. A faint thrum, a resonance, a sense that he was touching the edge of a vast, unseen ocean of power. It was like the first time he'd tried to learn a new language, the words meaningless until suddenly, a single phrase clicked into place. This was a language of will, of blood, of essence, and he was only just beginning to learn its grammar.
Malatesta's worldly knowledge also proved immediately useful. The Myrish captain, as Alaric had suspected, was more than just a trader of trinkets. His absorbed memories gave Rico a mental map of the Free Cities, their political intrigues, their shadow economies. He knew which merchant princes in Pentos were involved in the slave trade, which banking families in Braavos secretly funded corsairs in the Stepstones, which artisans in Lys possessed skills in creating poisons or rare lenses. He even knew of a hidden vault Malatesta had maintained in a Qartheen trading post, containing a modest reserve of gemstones and rare Essosi coins.
Mathis, presented with this information, was initially skeptical, then astonished as Rico, drawing on Malatesta's fluency in Bastard Valyrian and knowledge of Qartheen customs, dictated a series of coded instructions that could, if dispatched correctly, secure these assets.
"This… this changes the scale of our operations significantly, Master Razor," Mathis said, his usual nervousness tinged with excitement. "If we can access these Essosi markets, these resources…"
Rico tasked Finn with finding a reliable ship captain, one desperate or greedy enough to undertake a discreet voyage to Qarth, carrying Rico's agent (one of his more intelligent, less conspicuous men, equipped with Perwyn's flawless forgeries and Malatesta's knowledge) to claim the cache. It was a long-term investment, but the potential returns were enormous.
The official investigation into the sinking of The Sea Serpent was, as expected, perfunctory. The Gold Cloaks, with Largent's influence curtailed, were content to label it a tragic fire followed by opportunistic looting by unknown pirates. No one mourned Drako Malatesta, a foreigner with few friends in King's Landing. Rico's tracks were well covered.
However, the scrolls and their dangerous knowledge necessitated a new level of secrecy. The hidden room in the warehouse cellar became Rico's sanctum, accessible only to himself and Alaric. Even Jax and Finn were only told that "valuable ledgers" were stored there. The true nature of their prize was a secret too potent, too dangerous to share.
Alaric thrived in this atmosphere of clandestine scholarship. He cross-referenced the Valyrian texts with other forbidden lore he possessed – fragments concerning the Shadow Lands of Asshai, whispers of the Rhoynish water witches, even garbled tales of the Children of the Forest and the First Men. He began to formulate theories, wild and ambitious, about the interconnectedness of these ancient magics, and how Rico's unique abilities might be a key to unlocking them.
"The Targaryens cling to the remnants of Valyrian power through their dragons and their blood, Master Razor," Alaric mused, his eyes bright. "But they are inheritors, not innovators. They wield a fraction of what their ancestors knew. You, however… you are something new. Something that takes, that absorbs, that becomes. The scrolls speak of 'shapers of essence.' Perhaps that is what you are."
Rico listened, absorbing Alaric's theories as he absorbed everything else – critically, dispassionately, looking for the practical application. He had no interest in becoming a sorcerer in a tower. His ambition was worldly, tangible: power, control, the ability to shape events to his will. If this ancient magic could serve those ends, he would master it.
The implications for his long-term strategy regarding the Dance of the Dragons were profound. Understanding the principles of blood magic, the true nature of the bond between dragonlords and dragons, gave him a new lens through which to view the Targaryen dynasty. Their power was not merely political or military; it was intrinsically magical, rooted in their very blood. To influence them, to control them, perhaps even to supplant them, would require more than just armies and gold. It might require an understanding, and a mastery, of the very forces that had forged their empire.
He began to subtly shift the focus of his intelligence gathering. He wanted to know more about the Targaryen dragons – their temperaments, their bonds with their riders, their rumored abilities. He wanted to know about the health and vitality of the individual Targaryens, any hint of magical talent or weakness in their bloodlines. Queen Alicent's sons, for instance – Aegon, Aemond, Daeron – did they possess the same fiery Valyrian heritage as Rhaenyra's children, or was their Hightower blood a diluting factor? Such questions, once academic, now held a grim, practical significance.
His raven network, now fully operational, became an invaluable tool for this. Harl, under Rico's direction and using the absorbed knowledge from Tobin, trained the birds with meticulous care. Messages, coded by Mathis and often penned by Perwyn in flawless imitation of various hands, began to flow between Rico's agents, his informants, and even, cautiously, to contacts outside King's Landing that Malatesta's memories had provided – merchants in Pentos, informants in Tyrosh. Rico was building his own web of whispers, one that stretched beyond the city walls, beyond even the shores of Westeros.
The day-to-day running of his Flea Bottom empire continued. Jax kept the peace with an iron fist. Finn's network brought in a steady stream of information. Mathis ensured the gold flowed. Perwyn's forgeries smoothed over a hundred rough edges. The Leaky Dinghy served as a perfect, unassuming front. Hendry Stonehand, the compromised under-master of the Stonemasons' Guild, provided valuable insights into city contracts and guild politics, allowing Rico to steer lucrative construction work towards businesses that paid him tribute, or to sabotage rivals.
But a new, more dangerous undercurrent now ran beneath these familiar activities. The knowledge from the Valyrian scrolls had awakened a deeper, more primal aspect of Rico's power. He felt it stirring within him, a hunger not just for skills and strength, but for something more… fundamental. The essence of magic itself.
He knew the path ahead was fraught with peril. The Valyrians had flown too close to the sun, and their empire had turned to ash. But Rico Moretti had been forged in the fires of a different kind of hell, the concrete jungles of organized crime. He had died once already. He did not fear the flames.
One evening, as a storm raged over King's Landing, the thunder echoing the pronouncements in the ancient scrolls, Rico stood before the obsidian mirror he had taken from Malatesta's cabin. It was cold, unnervingly so, and its surface seemed to swallow the lamplight, reflecting nothing. The scrolls had mentioned such mirrors, "Shadow Glass," used by Valyrian seers to scry across vast distances, to peer into the hearts of men, or even, some whispered, into other realms.
He focused his will, drawing on the techniques described in the parchments, tinged now with the raw power of his absorbed essences and the faint, arcane understanding from Malatesta. He stared into the mirror's depths, not expecting to see the future, but hoping for a flicker, a sign, a connection to the unseen world that the scrolls promised.
For a long time, there was nothing but a cold, empty void. Then, just as he was about to turn away, a ripple. Not on the surface of the glass, but deep within it. A flicker of light, like a distant star, then another. And for a fleeting, heart-stopping instant, he thought he saw… something. A shape, vast and scaled, wreathed in flame, its eyes like molten gold.
A dragon.
The image, or illusion, was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Rico breathless, his heart hammering. Was it a trick of the light, a figment of his over-stimulated imagination? Or had he, for one brief moment, brushed against the true magic of this world, the fiery heart of Valyria itself?
He didn't know. But the hunger within him, the ambition, the relentless drive to climb to the pinnacle of this world, now had a new, terrifying, and utterly irresistible dimension. The whispers of Valyria had become a roar in his blood. And the game was about to escalate beyond anything he had ever imagined.