Chapter 16: The Serpent Strikes, The King Shudders
The obsidian mirror, Vējesy Kēlio, had become Rico's silent confessor, his window onto a world trembling on the precipice of chaos. Under Alaric's increasingly obsessive guidance, and fueled by his own potent will, Rico's scrying attempts grew more focused, the fleeting images less random, more responsive to his intent. He learned to filter the visual noise, to ignore the unsettling whispers that sometimes seemed to emanate from the glass's cold depths – echoes, Alaric theorized, of ancient Valyrian souls or the mirror's own long, dark history.
One moonless night, after anointing the glass with a smear of his own blood, Rico concentrated fiercely on the Red Keep, on the chambers of King Viserys I. The mirror swirled with shadows, then coalesced. He saw it: a lavish bedchamber, tapestries heavy on the walls, and on the bed, a frail, withered figure, his breath a shallow rattle. Maesters fussed around him, their faces grim. Queen Alicent stood by the bedside, her expression a mask of strained piety and steely resolve. Otto Hightower, her father, lingered in the background, his eyes missing nothing.
The vision was hazy, like looking through smoke, and it drained Rico, leaving him feeling scoured and cold, but it was undeniably real. The King was dying. Not in weeks or months, but in days, perhaps even hours. The immediacy of it struck Rico with the force of a physical blow. The Dance of the Dragons was no longer a future eventuality; it was a storm about to break.
"He fades, Alaric," Rico said, his voice raspy as he pulled away from the mirror, the image dissolving back into darkness. "The King. It's imminent."
Alaric, who had been chanting softly in a forgotten dialect of Old Ghiscari (a practice he claimed helped "attune the æthyric vibrations"), nodded slowly. "The stars have been aligning for this, Master Razor. The celestial portents are dire. A great bleeding is upon us."
This arcane confirmation was almost unnecessary. The entire city of King's Landing thrummed with a palpable, nervous energy. Gold Cloak patrols were doubled, then tripled. The gates of the Red Keep were more heavily guarded than ever. Noble retinues, those who hadn't already departed after the tourney, either scurried to leave the city or huddled in their manses, awaiting news, their loyalties a subject of frantic speculation.
Larys Graceford, predictably, was a gibbering wreck. He sought Rico out in The Leaky Dinghy, his usual foppish arrogance replaced by a beads of sweat and wide, fearful eyes.
"Razor! You must help me! The King… they say he won't see another dawn!" Larys blurted, clutching Rico's arm. "My patrons… they are… concerned. Certain documents, certain… arrangements… they need to be secured. Or made to disappear. Before the wrong hands find them in the chaos."
Rico, looking at the trembling nobleman, felt only contempt, but also opportunity. "Be specific, Lord Larys. What documents? Whose hands?"
Larys, in his panic, became a fount of Green faction secrets. He spoke of ledgers detailing payments to sympathetic lords, of letters outlining strategies to secure the treasury and the Royal Fleet for Aegon, of lists of key Rhaenyra supporters who were to be "detained" the moment the King died. Much of it was information Rico had already gleaned or suspected, but Larys's confirmation and the specific details he offered were invaluable.
"Some of these papers are held by a man named Ser Tommen Lannister, a distant cousin of Lord Jason, currently serving with the City Watch's investigative arm – one of Largent's old appointments, though not as… zealous," Larys whispered. "He's sympathetic to our cause, but he's also a cautious man. My patrons fear he might waver, or try to use his knowledge for his own gain when the crown changes hands. They want his records… sanitized. And Ser Tommen himself… encouraged to take a long, quiet holiday. Permanently."
A Lannister, even a minor one. A Gold Cloak investigator. This was a delicate, dangerous task, especially now, with the city on high alert. But the potential rewards were significant: favor with the ascendant Green faction (if they indeed ascended), the removal of a potentially troublesome Gold Cloak, and, of course, Ser Tommen's essence.
Before Rico could fully process Larys's request, however, a more immediate, more visceral threat erupted from the city's own underbelly. His meticulous expansion, his consolidation of Flea Bottom, his increasingly sophisticated smuggling operations, and the whispers of a new, disciplined power rising from the gutters had not gone unnoticed by the older, more established criminal elements of King's Landing.
For years, the city's underworld outside of Flea Bottom's chaotic squalor had been dominated by a shadowy syndicate known as the Golden Serpent, their influence woven through the docks, the markets, the lesser merchant guilds, and even some corners of the City Watch. They were led by a mysterious figure known only as "The Scales," rumored to be an Essosi exile with a penchant for poisons and a network that stretched across the Narrow Sea. They had largely ignored Flea Bottom, deeming it too chaotic and unprofitable for their more refined methods of extortion and control.
But Rico's efficiency, his reach, and particularly his lucrative new smuggling routes that bypassed their traditional chokeholds on illicit trade, had finally drawn their ire.
The first strike was brutal and symbolic. The Leaky Dinghy, Rico's public face, was firebombed in the dead of night. Stumpy Jon, the one-legged tavern keeper, was found nailed to his own door, a golden serpent coin stuffed in his mouth. The message was clear: The Razor had trespassed on Serpent territory.
Rage, cold and absolute, flooded Rico. Stumpy Jon had been a pawn, yes, but he had been his pawn. This was a direct challenge, an insult that could not be ignored. His mafia instincts, honed over decades of bloody turf wars, screamed for retribution.
"Alaric," Rico said, his voice a low snarl as he surveyed the smoking ruins of the tavern, his men already pulling Jon's body down. "Tell me everything you know about this Golden Serpent."
Alaric, his face grim, recounted what little was known – rumors of their Essosi leader, their preference for poison and assassination over open brawls, their control over the trade in illicit substances like sweetsleep and Tears of Lys, their enforcers often marked with subtle serpent tattoos. "They are an old power, Master Razor, deeply entrenched. Attacking them directly would be like striking at a hydra."
"Then we'll cut off its heads, one by one," Rico said, his eyes like chips of ice. He knew this was more than just a turf war. It was a test. If he couldn't deal with a rival syndicate, how could he ever hope to navigate the cataclysm of the Dance?
His first order was to secure their core operations. The warehouse, with its Valyrian sanctum and rookery, went into lockdown. Jax, his face a mask of fury over Stumpy Jon's death, tripled the guards, turning the place into an armed camp. Finn's informants were tasked with one thing only: identify the Golden Serpent's key operatives, their safe houses, their businesses. Mathis began to trace their financial networks, looking for vulnerabilities. Perwyn prepared forged documents that could sow dissent within their ranks or implicate them in crimes that would draw unwanted official attention.
Rico himself, drawing on the combined cunning of Krayn, Morgo, and Malatesta, began to plan his counter-attack. He wouldn't meet them head-on. He would use their own methods against them: stealth, misdirection, and targeted assassination.
Shiv was dispatched with a list of names – mid-level enforcers and bagmen for the Serpent. Over the next few nights, these men began to die, not in loud brawls, but quietly, in their beds, in dark alleyways, victims of "unfortunate accidents" or "robberies gone wrong." Each death was accompanied by the subtle placement of a rival gang's token, or a hint of internal betrayal, designed to make the Serpent leadership look inward, to suspect their own.
Rico also decided to use the Valyrian lore in a more direct, offensive manner. The scrolls spoke of hēdrȳ ñōghā, or "blood scent," the ability to attune oneself to the vital essence of a target, to track them, to even subtly influence their humors or sow paranoia from a distance, especially if one possessed something of their blood or a significant personal item.
He didn't have blood samples of The Scales or his top lieutenants. But he had something else: the gold coins they used as their symbol. He had Mathis acquire several, purportedly through gambling debts. In the depths of his cellar, Rico performed a ritual adapted from the Valyrian texts, anointing a golden serpent coin with his own blood, focusing his will, his rage, his predatory intent upon it, trying to create a sympathetic link to the organization it represented.
He felt a strange, dark connection form, a faint, greasy trail in the æther. He couldn't see his enemies, not like with the obsidian mirror, but he could… sense their network, their fear, their anger, like a hunter sensing the spoor of his prey. He began to feed that fear, that paranoia, projecting thoughts of betrayal and incompetence towards the unseen leaders of the Serpent. Alaric, watching him, grew pale, recognizing the dangerous potency of what Rico was attempting.
"Be wary, Master Razor," Alaric cautioned. "To touch such forces is to invite them to touch you in return. The mind can be a fragile thing when assailed by unseen currents."
Rico acknowledged the warning but pressed on. He was walking a razor's edge, balancing his mundane war with the Golden Serpent with his burgeoning exploration of the arcane.
Meanwhile, the Qartheen expedition had returned, not just with Malatesta's hidden wealth, but with an unexpected asset: a Lyseni poisoner named Lyra, whom Vorian had "persuaded" to join their enterprise. Lyra had been a rival of Malatesta's in Qarth, and seeing an opportunity with his demise, had offered her services. She was a striking woman, with the pale hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria, and a chillingly nonchalant expertise in toxins both subtle and swift. Her essence, Rico knew, would be invaluable, but like Mathis and Perwyn, her living skills were, for now, more useful. She was immediately put to work developing… countermeasures… and more offensive tools for their shadow war.
The conflict with the Golden Serpent escalated. They retaliated, striking at Rico's smuggling routes, ambushing his patrols in Flea Bottom. Several more of Rico's men died. But Rico's organization, forged in his own ruthlessness and discipline, held firm. His counter-attacks, guided by his eerie "blood scent" and executed by Shiv and his hunters, were precise and devastating. Key Serpent operatives disappeared without a trace. Their businesses suffered inexplicable misfortunes. Trust within their ranks began to crumble.
It was during this shadow war that Rico received an urgent summons from Larys Graceford. The King was fading fast. Ser Tommen Lannister, the Gold Cloak investigator Larys wanted neutralized, was reportedly preparing to flee the city with his compromising documents.
"You must act now, Razor!" Larys pleaded, his voice cracking. "If those papers fall into Rhaenyra's hands… it would be disastrous for my patrons! For Queen Alicent! For Prince Aegon!"
Rico now faced a critical decision. The war with the Golden Serpent was at a crucial juncture. Diverting his resources, and himself, to deal with Ser Tommen was risky. Yet, the opportunity to curry favor with the Greens, who seemed increasingly likely to seize power upon Viserys's death, was too great to ignore. And Ser Tommen's essence… a Lannister, an investigator…
He decided to handle Ser Tommen personally, but with a small, elite team. He chose Shiv, for his silence and lethality, and Vorian, the pragmatic ex-sellsword who had proven his worth in Qarth.
They tracked Ser Tommen to a small, fortified townhouse near the Street of Sisters. The Lannister was indeed preparing to flee, his servants loading saddlebags onto horses in a secluded courtyard. Getting to him, and the documents, without raising an alarm in the tense city would be difficult.
Rico, however, had an ace up his sleeve. The obsidian mirror. Before leaving, he had scryed Ser Tommen's townhouse, focusing his will, pushing his abilities further than before. He'd gained a clear, albeit brief, layout of the ground floor, noting guard positions and potential entry points. He'd even glimpsed Ser Tommen himself, nervously pacing in his study, a locked strongbox on his desk.
They struck under the cover of a sudden downpour that lashed the city, muffling sounds and reducing visibility. Shiv, using his uncanny climbing skills, scaled the garden wall and neutralized two guards with silent precision. Rico and Vorian slipped in through a side door the mirror had revealed was often left unbolted.
Inside, they moved like ghosts. Rico's combat senses, honed by countless absorptions and now subtly amplified by his tentative explorations into Valyrian blood sense, allowed him to anticipate the movements of the household guards. They dispatched two more before reaching Ser Tommen's study.
The Lannister investigator was not a warrior, but he was no fool. He had a drawn sword on his desk and a look of grim determination. "So, the gutter rats have come for me," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "Whose coin are you, Rhaenyra's or Alicent's?"
"Does it matter, Ser Tommen?" Rico replied, his own sword appearing in his hand as if by magic.
The fight was short. Ser Tommen, though brave, was outmatched by Rico's superior skill and ruthlessness. Rico disarmed him, then drove his blade through the Lannister's heart.
As Ser Tommen's lifeblood flowed out, his essence surged into Rico. It was a potent mix: the investigative training of the City Watch, a keen analytical mind, a detailed knowledge of King's Landing's legal codes and criminal procedures (far more formal than Krayn's street-level understanding), and, most intriguingly, a web of Lannister family connections, loyalties, and secrets. He also gained Tommen's deep-seated anxiety and a surprising fondness for lemon cakes.
Vorian secured the strongbox from the desk. Inside were the ledgers and letters Larys had described – damning evidence of Green faction plotting.
They made their escape as silently as they had come, leaving behind a scene that would suggest a robbery gone wrong. The city was too preoccupied with the dying King to pay much heed to the death of one Gold Cloak investigator, however well-connected.
Rico delivered a curated selection of the documents to a grateful Larys Graceford, enough to incriminate Rhaenyra's key supporters if "discovered" at the right time, while keeping the most valuable intelligence – particularly the full extent of the Greens' network and their financial dealings – for himself. Larys, overjoyed, promised Rico immense rewards and the eternal gratitude of his patrons once Aegon was crowned.
But as Rico returned to his warehouse stronghold, a new, more urgent message awaited him from Finn. The Golden Serpent, reeling from Rico's relentless shadow campaign and perhaps sensing the shift in the city's power dynamics, had made a desperate, brazen move. They had struck not at his operations, but at the heart of his new arcane knowledge: Maester Alaric had been abducted from his rooms near the warehouse.
A single golden serpent coin was left on Alaric's ransacked desk.
The rage Rico felt was a cold, burning inferno. Alaric was more than just an advisor; he was the key to understanding the Valyrian scrolls, the guide to the arcane path Rico was now treading. The Golden Serpent had not just taken a man; they had stolen a part of Rico's future.
The King was dying. The city was a powder keg. And Rico Moretti, the Razor of Flea Bottom, the burgeoning master of whispers and shadows, now had a very personal score to settle with a rival who had dared to strike at the one thing he was beginning to value more than gold or earthly power: the forbidden knowledge of Old Valyria. The game of thrones was about to be overshadowed by a far more brutal, and far more personal, war in the gutters of King's Landing.