Chapter 5: Silk Threads and Steel Fangs
The Dragon's Flagon was, by Flea Bottom standards, a palace. To Rico, it was just another operational theatre. Ser Kellen of the Kingswood, with his velvet doublets and jeweled dagger, was not a rival gang leader to be bludgeoned into submission in a dark alley. He was a mark, requiring a different kind of artistry – a blend of street-level brutality and a more refined, predatory cunning.
Rico's plan was simple in its core, relying on observation, timing, and the predictable arrogance of men like Kellen. Finn, whose slight build and nervous energy made him an excellent scout, had spent two days watching the Dragon's Flagon. Kellen, it turned out, was indeed a creature of habit. He ventured out late each afternoon, usually towards the Street of Silk or the Red Keep, and returned well after dark, often loud and deep in his cups, his two squires usually in a similar state.
The narrow, winding alleyway that ran behind the Dragon's Flagon, reeking of stale beer and refuse, was their chosen stage. It was poorly lit, seldom used by respectable folk, and offered multiple escape routes into the warren of Flea Bottom – Rico's home turf.
"Jax, you and Grok," Rico instructed, addressing his one-eyed lieutenant and one of Morgo's former bruisers who had shown a grim aptitude for violence, "will be the hammer. Hidden in the alcove by the overflowing bins. When Kellen and his lapdogs pass, you create a… diversion. Something to separate them, confuse them."
"What kind of diversion, boss?" Jax asked, his hand instinctively going to the hefty club he now favored.
Rico smiled thinly. "A damsel in distress, perhaps? Or a sudden, inexplicable avalanche of refuse. Be creative, but be quick. Your job is to isolate Kellen, push him towards the deeper part of the alley. Towards me."
Finn, meanwhile, would be their eyes, stationed on a nearby rooftop to signal Kellen's approach and departure, and to watch for any unexpected Gold Cloak patrols. Two other men, more of Morgo's seasoned thugs, would secure the alley's exits once the trap was sprung, ensuring no easy escape for Kellen and no unwelcome intruders.
Rico himself would be the scalpel. He wasn't planning on a prolonged brawl. He wanted the dagger, and he wanted Kellen "indisposed," as Larys had so delicately put it. Killing him was the most straightforward way to achieve the latter and, more importantly, to acquire his essence. A knight's essence… the thought sent a shiver of anticipation through him. What would it feel like? What skills, what knowledge, would he gain?
The night of the operation was damp and moonless, perfect for their purposes. Rico wore the dark, serviceable clothes Jax had procured, the leather jerkin offering some protection. He had Krayn's dagger tucked into his belt and, for the first time, Morgo's wickedly curved meat hook hanging from a loop – a weapon whose brutal efficiency he now intimately understood thanks to its former owner's essence.
Elric, surprisingly, had proven useful beyond literacy. The old man, in his days as a clerk, had learned a bit about the comings and goings of minor nobles. He'd even heard of Ser Kellen – "More peacock than hawk," Elric had sniffed, a surprising bit of venom in his voice, perhaps a residual resentment of the privileged classes who had never known his brand of desperation. Elric had also confirmed that knights, even lesser ones, often carried a dirk or a main gauche in addition to their sword, something Rico filed away.
Hours crawled by. Rico waited in the deepest shadows of the alley, a coiled spring of murderous intent. He went over the plan in his mind, visualizing every step, every contingency. His mafia past had taught him the value of meticulous planning, even when the execution was destined to be messy. His new powers hummed beneath his skin, a reassuring thrum of stolen strength and cunning.
Finally, Finn's signal – a soft hoot, like an owl, thrice repeated – drifted down from the rooftops. Target approaching.
Rico's senses sharpened. He heard them before he saw them: boisterous laughter, slurred singing, the clank of sword scabbards against cobblestones. Ser Kellen and his two squires, returning from their evening revelries.
They stumbled into the mouth of the alley, Kellen in the lead, his fine clothes disheveled, his voice loud as he regaled his companions with some doubtlessly embellished tale of his own wit and charm.
"...and then I told Lady Annelise, 'My dear, your eyes outshine even the jewels on this dagger!'" Kellen boasted, patting the hilt of the target object at his belt.
Perfect, Rico thought.
As they passed the refuse alcove, Jax and Grok sprang their "diversion." It wasn't a damsel in distress. It was Grok, letting out a roar like a wounded bear, and Jax, upending a massive, overflowing bin of rotting vegetables and kitchen waste directly into the path of the two squires.
The squires yelped, stumbling back, suddenly knee-deep in filth, their drunken good humor vanishing in an instant of shock and disgust.
"What in the seven hells?!" one sputtered, trying to wipe a rotten tomato from his face.
"Ambush!" the other shrieked, fumbling for his sword.
Kellen, startled, spun around. "What is this outrage? Show yourselves, cravens!"
Jax and Grok, their faces masked by rags, emerged from the shadows, clubs already swinging. They didn't aim to kill the squires, just to occupy them, to create chaos. The alley erupted into a flurry of confused shouts, grunts of effort, and the dull thud of wood against padded cloth.
This was Rico's cue.
As Kellen's attention was fixed on the sudden melee involving his squires, Rico melted from the deeper shadows behind the knight. He moved with the preternatural silence absorbed from Rat, his steps making no sound on the grimy cobblestones.
Kellen, sensing movement too late, started to turn, his hand instinctively going to his sword. But Rico was already there. He didn't go for the dagger immediately. He went for incapacitation.
He swung Morgo's meat hook in a vicious, disarming arc, not with the sharp point, but with the curve, aiming for Kellen's sword hand. The heavy iron hook connected with a sickening crunch of bone.
Kellen screamed, a high-pitched sound of agony and surprise that was abruptly cut short as Rico's other hand, grabbing a fistful of the knight's velvet doublet, slammed his head against the brick wall. The knight's eyes rolled back, and he sagged, a puppet with its strings cut.
It was almost too easy. Larys had been right. Peacock, not hawk.
Rico wasted no time. He ripped the jeweled dagger from Kellen's belt. It was a pretty thing, intricately carved, with small, glittering rubies embedded in the hilt. Larys would be pleased.
Then, the main prize. Kellen was unconscious, bleeding from his shattered hand and a gash on his scalp, but still alive. Rico dragged him further into the shadows, away from the ongoing, noisy scuffle between his men and Kellen's squires.
"Jax! Grok! Disengage! Fall back!" Rico hissed, his voice cutting through the din.
He knelt beside the fallen knight. Kellen moaned, his eyelids fluttering. There was no time for sentiment, no room for hesitation. This was business. And personal growth.
Rico drew Krayn's dagger. He looked into Kellen's dazed, uncomprehending eyes for a brief second, then plunged the blade deep into the knight's chest, once, twice, ensuring the job was done.
The rush of essence was different this time. It wasn't the raw, brutish power of Gorm or Morgo, nor the sly cunning of Krayn. This was… refined. A wave of knowledge flooded him, cleaner, more structured. He felt an instinctive understanding of basic swordsmanship – stances, parries, cuts – far beyond the brawling tactics he'd absorbed before. It wasn't the skill of a master, Kellen was likely mediocre as Larys suggested, but it was a formal foundation, a framework he could build upon.
With it came a surprising lexicon of courtly etiquette, snippets of heraldry, the names of minor noble houses in the Crownlands and the Reach, and a vague but useful understanding of the protocols surrounding tourneys. He also got Kellen's vanity, his insecurity masked by arrogance, his superficial charm, and a keen appreciation for fine wine and tailored clothes. Most unexpectedly, he absorbed a passable, if uninspired, ability to compose poetry – mostly dreadful love sonnets addressed to Lady Annelise Thorne. Rico almost snorted. This power was truly a mixed bag.
The fight with the squires was ending. Jax and Grok, following orders, were withdrawing, leaving the two young men bruised, battered, and covered in garbage, but alive. Rico didn't need their essence; he needed a swift, clean getaway.
"Finn! Exits clear?" Rico called softly.
"All clear, boss!" came the reply from above.
Rico and his men melted back into the labyrinth of Flea Bottom, leaving behind a scene of chaos, a dead knight, and two very confused and humiliated squires. The City Watch would be stirring soon.
Back in the relative safety of his hovel, Rico examined his acquisitions. The jeweled dagger was indeed a fine piece. The fifty gold dragons Larys had promised would significantly bolster his treasury. But the knight's essence… that was the true treasure.
He picked up one of Krayn's old short swords. Before, it had felt like a crude implement. Now, as he held it, Kellen's absorbed knowledge guided his grip, his stance. He moved through a few basic forms, the motions feeling surprisingly natural, if unpracticed. He was no master swordsman, not by a long shot, but he was no longer just a thug with a sharp piece of metal. He had a foundation. He could train. He could become dangerous with a blade in a way Gorm's axe skills, effective as they were, hadn't allowed.
The next day, Rico, dressed again in his unassuming Flea Bottom attire, sought out Larys Graceford. He didn't go to the Gilded Lily. Instead, he sent a message via the same urchin network, requesting a meeting in a quiet, neutral location – a disused stable near the city wall. He wanted to control the environment.
Larys arrived, nervous and eager, his usual arrogance tempered by anticipation.
"Razor! Well? What news?"
Rico tossed him the jeweled dagger. Larys snatched it from the air, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he examined it. "Magnificent! You got it! And Ser Kellen?"
"Ser Kellen encountered some… rather aggressive vermin in an alleyway last night," Rico said, his voice flat. "I doubt he'll be attending any tourneys. Or courting any ladies. Ever again."
Larys's smile widened into a wolfish grin. "Ever again? Excellent! You exceeded my expectations, Razor. The man was an irritation." He didn't seem remotely troubled by the news of Kellen's death, only pleased by the outcome. Nobles, Rico mused, were often just as savage as Flea Bottom cutthroats, just with better clothes and prettier excuses.
Larys produced a heavy pouch. "Fifty gold dragons, as promised. And my gratitude, Razor. My profound gratitude." He paused, his eyes appraising Rico. "You are… remarkably effective. Perhaps we can discuss further opportunities. I find myself in need of someone who can solve… delicate problems without involving my family's name directly."
"I'm always open to mutually beneficial arrangements, Lord Larys," Rico said. This was the opening he wanted. Not just a one-off job, but an ongoing relationship. A conduit to the world of silk and steel.
"Indeed." Larys tapped the jeweled dagger thoughtfully. "The King's nameday tourney is in three weeks. Many… influential people will be in the city. Opportunities will abound. For those with the right connections. And the right… skills." He gave Rico a significant look. "Stay accessible, Razor. I may have need of your particular talents again very soon."
With that, Larys departed, clutching his dagger, leaving Rico with a pouch full of gold and a head full of new possibilities.
The gold was immediately put to use. Rico paid Jax, Finn, Grok, and the others involved in the Kellen job a generous share, cementing their loyalty. Fear was a good motivator, but coin was a better one. He invested in better arms and armor for his core crew – no more rusty swords and makeshift clubs. He even commissioned a local, albeit shady, blacksmith to forge him a proper sword, something balanced and lethal, based on the new understanding he'd gained from Kellen's essence.
His literacy lessons with Elric intensified. With Kellen's more educated linguistic framework absorbed, the Common Tongue's written form became even easier to grasp. He devoured every scrap of text Elric could find, his hunger for information insatiable. He learned about the major Houses, their sigils, their words, their traditional lands and rivalries – details that his GoT fan knowledge provided in broad strokes but which now gained local texture and immediacy.
He learned that King Viserys was seen as a good, if sometimes indecisive, man. Queen Alicent was respected for her piety and her Targaryen-blooded sons, though some whispered she was too ambitious for her own good, and that her father, Otto Hightower, the former Hand, still pulled strings from Oldtown. Princess Rhaenyra was the beloved Realm's Delight, charismatic and spirited, but her claim was still a source of underlying tension, especially now that she had sons of her own with Laenor Velaryon – or rather, sons attributed to Laenor, as hushed rumors often suggested. And Prince Daemon, the King's unpredictable brother, was a force of nature, loved by some, feared by many, his presence in King's Landing a constant source of speculation.
The tourney was indeed shaping up to be a major event. Nobles from all over Westeros were beginning to arrive, their colorful retinues crowding the city streets. The inns were full, prices were rising, and the Gold Cloaks were on high alert. For Rico, it was a field ripe for harvest – information, contacts, perhaps even more… potent acquisitions.
He started to organize his Flea Bottom operations more systematically. Krayn's and Morgo's territories were merged, their rackets streamlined. He established a clear hierarchy, with Jax as his second-in-command. Finn, with his knack for information gathering, became his unofficial spymaster in the lower city. He even started a rudimentary "treasury," keeping track of income and expenses, a skill Elric, in his sober moments, helped him with.
The essences he'd absorbed were not just passive memories or skills; they were catalysts. Kellen's knightly knowledge, however superficial, gave him a glimpse into a different world, a different mindset. It made him realize the vast gap between the gutter and the throne, but also the myriad paths that might lead from one to the other.
He practiced with his new sword in the pre-dawn hours, in the same cellar where he'd dispatched Morgo. His movements were still clumsy, but the innate understanding from Kellen's essence guided him, corrected him. He was building on a foundation now, not just flailing. He could feel himself growing stronger, faster, more skilled, not just by absorbing new essences, but by honing what he already possessed.
His power was a fearsome, wonderful thing. It was the ultimate equalizer, the ultimate tool for advancement in this brutal, beautiful world. He was Rico 'The Razor' Moretti, the mafia boss reincarnated. But he was also becoming something more. He was a nascent power, a shadow growing in the heart of King's Landing, a player whose name was not yet known in the great game, but who was learning the rules, acquiring the pieces, and preparing to make his own devastating moves.
The tourney would be his first major gambit on a larger stage. He could feel it. The threads of fate, or perhaps just opportunity, were drawing him towards it. And he would be ready, with silk words when needed, and steel fangs when necessary.