Chapter 17: The Serpent's Venom, The Dragon's Wake
The abduction of Maester Alaric was not merely an attack on Rico Moretti's organization; it was a violation of his sanctum, a theft of the one man who held the keys to the Valyrian whispers that now echoed in Rico's blood. The cold fury that settled upon Rico was a dangerous, focused thing, the predatory calm of a viper whose nest had been disturbed. The Golden Serpent, in their desperate gambit, had just signed their own death warrant.
"Find him," Rico's voice was a low growl, devoid of emotion, as he addressed his inner circle in the now heavily guarded warehouse. The smoking ruins of The Leaky Dinghy were a fresh wound, Stumpy Jon's brutalized corpse a stark reminder of the enemy's cruelty. "Turn this city upside down. Use every contact, every method. I want Alaric back, and I want the head of 'The Scales'."
Finn, his usually nervous demeanor replaced by a grim determination, nodded. The absorption of Ser Tommen Lannister's essence had subtly enhanced Rico's own strategic thinking regarding investigations, and he now guided Finn with a chilling precision. "Lannister's methods… they focused on pressure points, on finding the weakest links in a chain. The Serpent has operations beyond Flea Bottom – gambling dens, spice traders, back-alley apothecaries where they source their poisons. Squeeze them. Use their own fear against them."
Lyra, the Lyseni poisoner acquired from Vorian's Qartheen venture, stepped forward, her pale Valyrian features unreadable. "The Scales, if he is truly Essosi as rumored, will favor certain compounds, Master Razor. Poisons that induce terror, or compliance. He may use a 'questioner's draught' on the Maester. If we can identify their primary apothecary or alchemist, we might trace the source, find their lair." She offered a small, sealed vial. "This is a counter-agent for some of the more common Myrish interrogatives. Should we find the Maester… it might help."
Rico took the vial. "Your knowledge is valuable, Lyra. Identify their poisoner. And prepare your own… contributions… for when we find them."
While Finn's network scoured the city, Rico turned inward, to the arcane. The 'blood scent' technique he had tentatively used before, he now pushed to its limits, focusing on the golden serpent coin left on Alaric's desk, a direct tether to his enemy. He poured his will into it, his rage a cold, controlled inferno, trying to sense the fear and desperation of his prey. The connection was stronger this time, a greasy, venomous trail leading not to a specific location, but to a feeling – a sense of entrenched power, of hidden depths, of a mind that thought in coils and shadows.
He even dared the obsidian mirror again, despite its draining nature. He focused on Alaric, on the Maester's fear, his scholarly resilience. The mirror swirled, images flickering – dark, damp stone, the glint of steel, Alaric's pale, defiant face – but the location remained frustratingly obscure, as if shielded or too deep within the city's underbelly for the mirror's sight to easily penetrate.
Days turned into a tense, grinding hunt. Several of the Golden Serpent's known fronts were raided by Rico's men, not for plunder, but for information, for leverage. Jax and Grok, their methods far from subtle, extracted terrified whispers from low-level Serpent operatives. Mathis traced their financial tendrils, identifying businesses that laundered their coin. Perwyn forged official-looking Gold Cloak warrants, allowing Rico's men to "confiscate" Serpent assets, sowing further chaos and paranoia within their ranks.
The breakthrough came from Lyra. She identified a disreputable spice merchant in the Dockside Ward, a man named Zolio, known to discreetly supply rare herbs and chemicals used by Essosi alchemists. Under… intense persuasion… from Shiv and Vorian (who had learned a thing or two about Essosi interrogation methods in Qarth), Zolio confessed to supplying The Scales with specific ingredients for a potent soporific and a truth serum often favored by Myrish slavers. More importantly, he revealed the location of The Scales' primary stronghold: a series of interconnected cellars and forgotten tunnels beneath a seemingly legitimate tap Mvosa warehouse near the Mud Gate, a place known colloquially as the "Serpent's Coil."
"He keeps his treasures there," Zolio babbled, his face a mask of terror. "And his… special guests. The old Maester… I heard them take him there."
The Serpent's Coil. Rico now had his target.
He didn't delay. He gathered his elite: Jax and Grok, armed with warhammers and axes; Shiv, his bandoliers bristling with throwing knives; Vorian, with his sellsword's pragmatic skill and a newly acquired Myrish short sword; Harl, surprisingly agile and useful in navigating tight spaces, armed with a sturdy cudgel; and a dozen of their toughest, most disciplined men, now equipped with better armor and steel, thanks to Rico's burgeoning wealth. Rico himself carried his bastard sword, the obsidian mirror carefully wrapped and stowed, and Lyra's counter-agent vial tucked securely away.
Under the cover of a moonless, fog-choked night – the kind of night that King's Landing seemed to specialize in when dark deeds were afoot – they approached the Mvosa warehouse. The air was thick with the smell of brine, cheap wine, and an underlying, fetid odor that hinted at the Coil's true nature.
Finn's scouts had reported minimal external guards, The Scales relying on the Coil's labyrinthine nature and internal defenses. Rico's plan was direct: a swift, brutal infiltration, overwhelm any outer defenses, and push straight for the central chambers where Alaric and The Scales were likely to be.
They found a side entrance, a reinforced door Zolio had described. Jax, with a grunt of effort, smashed it open with his warhammer. The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the silence of the night. So much for stealth.
Inside, the warehouse was a maze of crates and shadows. Almost immediately, they were met by resistance – Serpent thugs, armed with short swords and poisoned daggers, their faces often bearing the tell-tale serpent tattoos. The fight was close-quarters, vicious. Rico's men, trained and disciplined, fought with a cold fury. Rico himself was a whirlwind of destruction, his bastard sword, guided by the combined essences of knights and street fighters, singing a deadly song. He moved with a speed and precision that terrified his opponents, each blow economical, each parry flawless. He felt the essences of the falling Serpent thugs flow into him, minor additions of brute strength, street cunning, and a chilling familiarity with various poisons.
They pushed deeper, into the cellars Zolio had described. The air grew colder, damper, the stench of decay more pronounced. Traps lay in wait – poisoned darts that Shiv's keen eyes spotted just in time, tripwires connected to alarms that Harl's nimble fingers disabled. Lyra, moving with a predator's grace, identified several rooms reeking of alchemical preparations, likely where The Scales' poisons were brewed.
Finally, they reached a heavy, iron-banded door, from behind which came the faint, muffled sound of a man's voice, speaking in heavily accented Common Tongue, and another, weaker voice, occasionally interjecting with defiance. Alaric.
"Jax! The door!" Rico commanded.
Jax's warhammer crashed against the iron, again and again, the sound deafening in the confined space. The door shuddered, groaned, then splintered.
Rico was the first through the opening, sword ready. The chamber beyond was larger, better lit by braziers that cast dancing, sinister shadows. In the center, bound to a heavy wooden chair, was Maester Alaric. He was pale, bruised, his scholar's robes torn, but his eyes, when they met Rico's, still held a spark of defiance.
Standing over him, a silver chalice in one hand and a long, thin-bladed knife in the other, was a figure who could only be The Scales. He was not the hulking brute Rico might have expected. He was of middling height, slender, almost dandyish in his dark, well-cut Essosi silks. His face was sharp, intelligent, with cold, reptilian eyes and a smile that didn't reach them. A single, golden serpent earring dangled from one ear.
"Ah, The Razor," The Scales said, his voice smooth, cultured, with the sibilant hiss of a Myrish accent. "You honor my humble abode with your… rather boisterous arrival. I was just having a most enlightening conversation with your learned Maester. He has such… interesting theories. Especially concerning Valyrian artifacts." His eyes flicked towards a nearby table, where, to Rico's horror, lay one of the Valyrian scrolls, unrolled.
Rage, pure and unadulterated, threatened to consume Rico. The Scales had not just taken Alaric; he had laid hands on his knowledge.
"Release him," Rico bit out, his voice dangerously soft.
The Scales chuckled. "All in good time, Razor. First, a negotiation. You have disrupted my… enterprises. Cost me a great deal of revenue. Perhaps you would be willing to make restitution? And then, perhaps, we can discuss the Maester's… continued well-being. And the fascinating contents of this rather unique parchment."
Behind The Scales, a dozen more Serpent guards, their elite, emerged from the shadows, armed with crossbows and wicked-looking Essosi blades. Rico's men, pouring into the chamber behind him, took up defensive positions. It was a standoff.
"There will be no negotiation," Rico said, his eyes locking with The Scales'. "Only retribution."
As he spoke, news, terrible and inevitable, chose that precise, bloody moment to arrive, not by raven or messenger, but as a sudden, mournful tolling of the Great Sept of Baelor's bells, a sound that cut through the city's night, carrying across the water, even into the depths of the Serpent's Coil. One bell, then another, then all the bells of King's Landing joining in a somber, clanging dirge.
Everyone in the chamber froze. Even The Scales' smug composure faltered.
"The King…" Alaric whispered, his voice hoarse. "The King is dead."
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant, mournful bells. The world outside had just irrevocably changed. The Dance of the Dragons had begun.
The Scales recovered first, a predatory gleam returning to his eyes. "Well, well. How… opportune. A new era dawns, Razor. An era of chaos. An era where men like us can truly thrive. Or die." He raised his knife. "Perhaps we should begin this new era by settling old debts."
The fight exploded. The Scales, with surprising speed, lunged not at Rico, but at Alaric, clearly intending to use him as a shield or a hostage. Rico reacted instantly, his Valyrian-enhanced senses screaming danger. He threw himself forward, intercepting The Scales, his bastard sword clashing against the Myrishman's poisoned knife.
The Serpent guards unleashed a volley of crossbow bolts. Rico's men met them with their own, Shiv's aim preternaturally accurate even in the chaos. Jax and Grok charged into the fray, their heavy weapons crashing through defenses. Vorian and Harl fought back-to-back, covering each other.
Rico's duel with The Scales was a deadly ballet. The Myrishman was incredibly agile, his poisoned blade darting like a serpent's tongue. He fought with a sophisticated Essosi style that relied on feints, misdirection, and subtle, debilitating cuts. But Rico was a force of nature, his strength augmented by Gorm, his swordsmanship by Kellen and Patrek, his stamina and unorthodox tactics by Duncan the Short, and his entire being now infused with a growing understanding of Valyrian combat principles – fighting not just with muscle, but with will, with jēdar.
He felt a scratch on his arm from The Scales' blade, a faint, burning sensation. Poison. But Lyra's counter-agent, which he'd downed before the assault, seemed to be working, dulling the poison's edge, though a wave of dizziness threatened him. He fought through it, his rage and determination a burning core within him.
He saw an opening. The Scales, overconfident, feinted left but telegraphed his true strike to the right. Rico, anticipating it, sidestepped and brought his pommel crashing down on The Scales' wrist, sending the poisoned knife clattering away. Before the Myrishman could recover, Rico's blade plunged deep into his chest.
The Scales' reptilian eyes widened in shock, then glazed over. As his life force drained, his essence – potent, dark, and incredibly complex – surged into Rico. It was a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated criminal genius: mastery of vast, intricate networks of spies, smugglers, and assassins across Westeros and the Free Cities; fluency in a dozen languages and dialects, including several coded ones used by underworld organizations; an encyclopedic knowledge of poisons, their antidotes, and their subtle application; a chilling talent for manipulation and a profound understanding of the levers of fear and greed. There was also a strange, cold affinity for serpents, and a lifetime of Essosi intrigue, a mind that thought in plots within plots.
This was a monumental absorption, far eclipsing any previous one. Rico felt his own mind expand, his understanding of power and control reaching a new, terrifying level. He was no longer just a Flea Bottom kingpin; he now possessed the strategic intellect and operational knowledge of a true international crime lord.
With their leader dead, the remaining Serpent guards faltered. Rico's men, sensing victory, pressed their advantage. The fight soon turned into a rout, then a slaughter.
When it was over, the chamber was a charnel house. Rico, breathing heavily, the last vestiges of The Scales' poison making his head spin, cut Alaric free. The Maester was shaken, bruised, but alive. Lyra's counter-agent, administered again, helped clear Alaric's head from the truth serum he'd been forced to ingest.
"He wanted the scrolls, Master Razor," Alaric rasped, looking at the Valyrian parchment still on the table. "He… he understood their significance. He spoke of… other factions in Essos who seek such knowledge."
Before Rico could delve deeper, Finn burst into the chamber, his face ashen. "Boss! The Red Keep… it's sealed. Banners are changing. They say… they say Prince Aegon has been crowned King!"
The bells still tolled for Viserys, but already, the Greens had made their move. The Dance had truly begun.
Rico stood amidst the carnage of the Serpent's Coil, the essence of its master thrumming within him, the knowledge of ancient Valyria a burning secret in his mind, and the news of a new, contested king echoing in his ears. He was now, without question, the undisputed master of King's Landing's underworld. He possessed wealth, a disciplined force, a sophisticated intelligence network, and arcane knowledge that few in Westeros could even dream of.
The choice he had pondered before was now upon him with the force of a tidal wave. Which side to favor? Or how to play both against each other for his own ultimate gain?
His lips curled into a grim smile. The great houses would play their game of thrones with dragons and armies. Rico Moretti would play his with shadows, secrets, and the absorbed souls of the dead. And he suspected his game, in the long run, might prove to be the deadliest of all.
He issued a series of rapid orders. Secure the Serpent's Coil, its treasures, its records. Send messages via raven to his key operatives, informing them of the King's death and Aegon's coronation. Activate the contingency plans Alaric had helped him draw up for just such an eventuality – plans to profit from the inevitable disruption, to gather intelligence on the reactions of both Green and Black supporters, and to ensure his own organization remained a hidden, untouchable force amidst the coming storm.
The city above was descending into a mixture of fear, confusion, and feigned loyalty. But in the depths beneath it, The Razor was sharpening his claws, his eyes fixed on the dragons as they began their terrible, beautiful dance. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to his core, that he would not merely watch. He would find a way to partake in the feast.