Chapter 21: The Secret Fire, The Dragon's Demand
The essence of Horonno the Tyroshi was a living fire in Rico Moretti's blood, a restless, creative energy that thrummed with the rhythm of the hammer and the hiss of the quenching trough. It was a stark contrast to the cold cunning of The Scales or the brutal pragmatism of street thugs he'd absorbed. This was the power of creation, of shaping raw matter into objects of deadly beauty and unparalleled function. And Rico, a man who had spent two lifetimes mastering the arts of destruction and manipulation, found himself utterly captivated by it.
His first priority was to establish a forge, a secret sanctum where he could unleash this newfound talent. The main warehouse, already a labyrinth of hidden chambers and smuggling tunnels, was the obvious choice. In its deepest, most reinforced cellar, far from prying eyes and ears, a section was cleared. Hendry Stonehand's terrified, indebted Stonemasons were put to work under Jax's grim supervision, constructing a new, heavily insulated chamber with a sophisticated ventilation system designed by Alaric (who, it turned out, had a surprising grasp of practical engineering principles alongside his arcane lore). Mikken, the one-eyed Flea Bottom blacksmith, was "persuaded" – with a combination of immense profit and the unspoken threat of Shiv's presence – to procure and install the finest forge, anvils, and tools money could buy or coercion could secure, all under a vow of absolute silence.
The final touch was the acquisition of raw materials. Quality iron ore, charcoal in vast quantities, and, most importantly, the rare Tyroshi catalysts Horonno had used – these were smuggled in through Rico's now extensive network, some sourced from distant mines in the Westerlands (thanks to Ser Tommen Lannister's absorbed Lannister connections and Mathis's financial maneuvering), others arriving on discreet Essosi ships whose captains were now firmly in Rico's pocket (a legacy of Malatesta and The Scales).
When the forge was finally ready, its hungry maw gleaming in the torchlight, Rico felt a thrill unlike any he'd known before. It wasn't the cold satisfaction of a successful kill or the intellectual pleasure of a well-laid plan. This was… primal. He stripped to the waist, the heat already prickling his skin, and for the first time, he picked up the heavy smith's hammer, not as an observer, but as a master.
The knowledge flowed. Horonno's decades of experience guided his hands, his stance, the very rhythm of his breath. He fed the forge, coaxed the flames to the precise, searing temperature required for Tyroshi steel. He selected his first piece of iron, not just any stock, but a bar he intuitively knew, from Horonno's essence, possessed the right character.
Alaric watched from a safe distance, his eyes wide with a mixture of scientific curiosity and arcane trepidation. Lyra, surprisingly, also showed an interest, her knowledge of alchemy giving her an appreciation for the transformative power of fire and metal.
Rico began the first of the seventeen sacred folds. The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the cellar, a powerful, rhythmic beat. It was grueling work, physically demanding even for his enhanced physique. But with each fold, with each pass through the roaring flames, he felt the metal changing, its essence aligning with his will, just as he aligned himself with the absorbed essence of its former human masters. He understood, with a clarity that transcended mere memory, the precise angle of the hammer, the exact moment to quench, the subtle shifts in color and texture that spoke of the steel's transformation.
He worked for hours that first night, lost in the fiery embrace of the forge. When he finally drew forth the first completed billet of Tyroshi steel he had personally forged, it glowed with an inner light, its surface a mesmerizing tapestry of folded layers, impossibly light yet possessing a strength that felt almost alive.
"By the Seven… and the Old Gods…" Alaric breathed, stepping closer. "It is… perfect. As if Horonno himself had forged it."
"Horonno did forge it," Rico said, his voice raspy, his body slick with sweat, a fierce, almost joyful exultation thrumming through him. "Through my hands."
His first creation was not a sword for a king or armor for a dragonrider, not yet. It was a set of throwing knives for Shiv, perfectly balanced, their edges preternaturally sharp, their dark, patterned steel seeming to drink the light. When Shiv tested them, his usual stoic expression cracked with a rare flicker of awe. The knives flew truer, hit harder, and bit deeper than anything he had ever wielded. His loyalty to Rico, already absolute, solidified into something akin to worship.
Next, Rico turned his attention to his own armament. He began to design a new bastard sword, one that would be an extension of his will, a perfect fusion of the martial skills he had absorbed and the Tyroshi secrets he now commanded. He also envisioned a suit of armor, not the cumbersome plate of Westerosi knights, but something lighter, more articulated, offering superior protection without sacrificing agility – a shadow warrior's panoply. This would take time, immense resources, and further mastery of his new craft.
This new, creative endeavor did not mean Rico neglected his other enterprises. In fact, it fueled them. The Green court, reeling from the news of Jason Lannister's death at the Burning Mill and other setbacks in the Riverlands, grew more desperate and, consequently, more reliant on Rico's… discreet services. Larys Graceford was a constant presence, bringing new lists of suspected traitors, new demands for information, new pleas for Rico to use his "inquisitorial" talents to shore up the Greens' crumbling morale and expose Rhaenyra's spies.
Rico played his part with consummate skill. He "uncovered" several minor Black plots, most of which he had subtly orchestrated himself through his own agents, delivering carefully selected scapegoats to Larys, further cementing his value to Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent. Each "success" brought him more gold, more access, and more intelligence about the Greens' internal weaknesses and future plans.
He also began to discreetly leverage his newfound forging knowledge for profit. He didn't openly sell Tyroshi steel – that would attract far too much unwanted attention. Instead, he had Mathis subtly approach certain trusted (and controllable) merchant captains and Essosi traders, offering limited quantities of "unmarked, superior-grade steel components" – sword blanks, armor plates, even specialized tools – at exorbitant prices. The demand was immediate, the profits immense. Rico was becoming an arms dealer, his forge a secret mint printing power and wealth.
He also used his knowledge for more insidious purposes. He learned from Horonno's essence not just how to make superior steel, but also how to identify flaws, how to create weaknesses that would only become apparent under stress. Through his smuggling network, he began to feed subtly sabotaged weapon components – sword hilts that would crack, armor rivets that would shear – into the supply chains of certain Green-allied military units whose commanders he deemed incompetent or whose loyalty was suspect, a long-term strategy to weaken potential future rivals or to create "accidents" on the battlefield that could be exploited.
The obsidian mirror remained his most potent intelligence tool. As the war escalated, he focused his scrying efforts on key strategic locations and individuals. He witnessed Queen Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, receiving envoys from Storm's End and the Vale, her determination hardening into a cold, queenly fury after the news of her son Lucerys's death at Aemond's hand. He saw Prince Daemon, the Blood Wyrm, taking to the skies on Caraxes, his demonic dragon a terrifying portent of the fiery devastation to come. He even managed fleeting, terrifying glimpses of Sunfyre the Golden, Aegon II's magnificent dragon, and the ancient, bronze-scaled Vhagar, Aemond's colossal mount, their roars echoing in his mind long after the visions faded.
These scrying sessions were incredibly draining. Each foray into the Vējesy Kēlio left him feeling physically weakened, his mind filled with disquieting echoes and a gnawing, spiritual coldness. Alaric warned him of the dangers of overusing such an artifact, of drawing the attention of… other entities… that might also peer into the shadow realm.
"The mirror shows you what is, Master Razor," Alaric cautioned, his face pale. "But it also shows you to whatever might be looking back. There are older, darker things than Valyrian magic in this world."
Rico, ever pragmatic, heeded the warning, limiting his scrying to truly critical targets. He knew he was playing with fire, but the intelligence gained was too valuable to forsake. He needed to understand the dragons, their riders, their capabilities, if he was ever to implement the more audacious aspects of the Valyrian lore he was unearthing – the whispers of influencing dragon temperament, of disrupting the sacred bond between dragon and rider.
His ambition was now a terrifying, multifaceted thing. He was the undisputed king of King's Landing's underworld, his criminal empire more organized and profitable than ever. He was a master spy, his network rivaling that of the long-dead Varys he remembered from his Game of Thrones fandom. He was a political manipulator, a Green inquisitor with the ear of powerful courtiers. He was a master craftsman, his hands capable of forging steel that could change the course of battles. And he was a budding sorcerer, a student of forbidden Valyrian blood magic, peering into dark glasses and contemplating the essences of dragons.
The war outside the city walls intensified. News arrived of the Battle of Rook's Rest, a brutal, pyrrhic victory for the Greens. King Aegon II himself had been gravely wounded, burned and broken, his dragon Sunfyre also grievously injured. Lord Staunton, the Black defender of Rook's Rest, had been slain. More significantly for the wider war, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the "Queen Who Never Was," and her dragon Meleys, the Red Queen, had also perished, consumed by the combined fires of Sunfyre and Vhagar.
The news sent shockwaves through King's Landing. The Greens celebrated a victory, but a costly one. Their King was incapacitated, perhaps permanently. Their most beautiful dragon was maimed. The Blacks had lost a queen and a dragon, but their resolve, fueled by Rhaenyra's grief and Daemon's fury, only hardened.
Larys Graceford came to Rico in a state of barely concealed panic, despite the Green victory. "The King… Aegon… he is broken, Razor! Ser Otto and the Queen Mother rule in his name, but the whispers… the succession is fragile! Prince Aemond… he styles himself Protector of the Realm. He is ambitious, ruthless. Some fear he may not relinquish power even if Aegon recovers!"
Rico listened, his mind already calculating the new variables. An incapacitated King, a powerful and ambitious Prince Regent in Aemond, a war that was rapidly consuming lords, knights, and dragons. The chaos was escalating, and with it, the opportunities for a man like him.
"What do your patrons require of me now, Lord Larys?" Rico asked, his voice calm amidst the storm of Larys's anxiety.
Larys wrung his hands. "Vigilance, Razor! More vigilance than ever! Root out the Black spies who will surely try to exploit the King's weakness! Find those who might be wavering in their loyalty to Prince Aemond's regency! We need to know who our enemies are within these walls. And there is… another matter. A dragon's matter."
Rico's senses sharpened. "Go on."
"Sunfyre the Golden… the King's dragon… he is gravely wounded, hidden away, his recovery uncertain," Larys whispered, his eyes wide. "Prince Aemond… he is concerned about the other dragons in the Pit. Dreamfyre, Helaena's mount. Syrax, who is still with Rhaenyra on Dragonstone but whose eggs are sometimes brought here. Even the hatchlings. He fears… sabotage. Poison. Black witchcraft. He needs someone with… unique skills… to ensure their safety, to watch the Dragonkeepers, to identify any unnatural influences. Someone who can move unseen, who understands… secrets."
To be given access, however indirect, to the Dragonpit, the very sanctum of Targaryen power. To be tasked with protecting dragons, the creatures whose essence he secretly craved, whose ancient magic he was beginning to comprehend. It was a breathtaking, terrifying opportunity.
"The Dragonpit is heavily guarded, Lord Larys," Rico said, testing him. "By men loyal to the Targaryens, not necessarily to Prince Aemond's… protectorship."
"Precisely!" Larys hissed. "That is why we need you, Razor. Your methods are… unconventional. Your loyalty, we trust, is to those who reward it best. Ensure the safety of the Green dragons in King's Landing. Uncover any plots against them. The reward will be… a King's gratitude. Perhaps even a Prince Regent's."
Rico Moretti, the master of shadows, the student of Valyrian lore, felt a cold smile touch his lips. The dragons were calling. And he, with the secret fire of the forge in his hands and the absorbed souls of a hundred dead men in his blood, was finally ready to answer. The Dance had truly begun, and he was about to step onto its most dangerous, and most rewarding, stage.