Chapter 15: Glimmers in Dark Glass, Cracks in Ancient Stone
The fleeting vision in the obsidian mirror – the fleeting, fiery image of a dragon – had ignited a new, more dangerous curiosity within Rico Moretti. It was a tantalizing glimpse into the true, potent magic that underpinned this world, a magic far removed from the grimy realities of Flea Bottom thuggery or even the complex machinations of city-wide criminal enterprise. The Valyrian scrolls were his textbook; the mirror, perhaps, his scrying glass.
He returned to it often in the nights that followed, in the silent, warded secrecy of the warehouse cellar. Maester Alaric, armed with Malatesta's notes on the mirror (which the Myrish captain had referred to as Vējesy Kēlio, the "Shadow Sky" or "Spirit Sky") and his own vast, if often speculative, knowledge, guided his efforts.
"Malatesta believed it was a scrying glass of ancient Valyrian origin, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his voice hushed with awe as he translated from the captain's spidery Myrish script. "Not for seeing the future – such things are the domain of charlatans or gods – but for seeing… what is, across distances, or perhaps, what was, as an echo in the fabric of reality. Or even, some whispered, to glimpse the reflections of powerful souls or magical confluences."
The mirror remained stubbornly enigmatic. Most often, it showed Rico nothing but his own reflection, the face of a young man with eyes far older and harder than his years. But occasionally, with intense concentration, by focusing his will as the scrolls described, and sometimes by anointing the mirror's surface with a drop of his own blood as Malatesta's notes suggested, he would coax forth… glimmers.
He saw fleeting images: a snow-swept landscape he did not recognize; a bustling, exotic marketplace under a blazing sun, filled with people in vibrant, unfamiliar garb; a dark forest where ancient, carved weirwood faces seemed to weep tears of red sap. Once, startlingly, he saw a brief, clear vision of Larys Graceford in his chambers, preening before a looking glass, oblivious to Rico's unseen gaze. The connection was weak, the images uncontrolled, like snatches of dreams, but they were real. He was peering, however imperfectly, beyond his immediate surroundings.
"The blood is the key, Master Razor," Alaric theorized, his excitement palpable. "Your blood, already a potent conduit for the absorption of jēdar, likely acts as an amplifier, a focusing lens for the mirror's properties. The Valyrians understood this. Their magic was always… visceral."
Rico also began to explore other, more internal applications of the Valyrian lore. The scrolls spoke of sytilībos – "blood-knowing" or "essence-memory" – the idea that the inherent qualities and skills of a being were imprinted upon their very lifeblood, and that a skilled practitioner could consciously draw upon and integrate these imprints more effectively. This resonated deeply with his own power.
He began to meditate, not in the style of a peaceful monk, but with a focused, predatory intensity, turning his will inward. He would concentrate on a specific absorbed essence – Ser Duncan's tenacity, Kellen's swordsmanship, Malatesta's linguistic knowledge, even Tobin's affinity for ravens – and try to deepen his connection to it, to draw out its subtler nuances, to make it more intrinsically his.
The results were not immediate or dramatic, but he felt a shift. Skills that had felt like implanted memories began to feel more like ingrained instincts. He found he could access Malatesta's knowledge of Essosi trade routes with greater clarity, recall obscure High Valyrian verb conjugations with ease, even anticipate the flight patterns of his ravens with uncanny accuracy. His swordsmanship, when he trained with Jax, became less a collection of learned techniques and more a fluid, intuitive dance of death, his body responding almost before his mind gave the command.
"You are not just accumulating power, Master Razor," Alaric observed, watching one of these intense, almost trance-like states Rico would enter. "You are… metabolizing it. Integrating it into your very being. This is what the Valyrian dragonlords did, not just with their dragons, but with the lesser magics they wielded."
While Rico delved into these arcane pursuits, the more worldly aspects of his empire continued to expand. The Qartheen expedition, led by one of his most trusted and intelligent lieutenants, a former sellsword named Vorian whom Rico had "acquired" (along with his loyalty) after a rival gang's ill-fated attempt to muscle in on their smuggling routes, returned after several months.
Vorian brought back not just the cache of gemstones and rare coins Malatesta had hidden – a significant boost to Mathis's treasury – but also a collection of other, stranger artifacts the Myrish captain had hoarded: a set of obsidian knives that never seemed to dull, a small, intricately carved dragonbone statuette that felt faintly warm to the touch, and, most intriguingly, a star chart purportedly from Asshai-by-the-Shadow, its constellations alien and unsettling. He also brought back valuable intelligence about the political climate in Qarth and the lucrative trade in spices, silks, and… information.
"The East is a viper's nest of intrigue and opportunity, Master Razor," Vorian reported, his eyes reflecting the wonders and dangers he had witnessed. "Malatesta had many contacts, many enemies. His demise will not go unnoticed there for long. But there are also fortunes to be made, knowledge to be gained, for those bold enough to reach for it."
Rico, armed with Malatesta's absorbed understanding of these Eastern networks, began to lay the groundwork for expanding his smuggling operations into Essos. He had Perwyn forge convincing Myrish trade manifests and identification papers for a new, discreet shipping venture. Mathis was tasked with understanding the complex currency exchanges and trade laws of the Free Cities. Alaric, meanwhile, pored over the Asshai'i star chart, muttering about ancient prophecies and pathways to forgotten knowledge.
In King's Landing, his influence within the guilds grew. Hendry Stonehand, the compromised Under-Master of the Stonemasons, was now firmly under Rico's thumb. Through Hendry, Rico began to steer lucrative city construction and repair contracts towards businesses that paid him a hefty percentage. He learned of crumbling sections of the city walls that needed repair (information useful for future infiltration or defense), of new manors being built by ambitious nobles (potential targets for future theft or information gathering), and of the intricate rivalries and corruption within the guild itself, which he exploited mercilessly.
Emboldened by this success, Alaric advised targeting another key guild: the Vintners and Brewers. "Control the flow of wine and ale into the city's taverns, Master Razor," Alaric said, "and you control not just a source of immense profit, but also the flow of loose tongues and valuable information. Men speak freely when their cups are full."
This proved more challenging. The Vintners' Guild was older, more powerful, and more tightly controlled than the Stonemasons. But Rico, using a combination of Mathis's financial acumen to identify leveraged guild members, Perwyn's forgeries to create compromising situations, and occasionally, Jax's more direct methods of persuasion on recalcitrant tavern owners who were reluctant to stock "preferred" vintages, began to make inroads.
The Leaky Dinghy, once a dilapidated dive, was now a thriving, if still rough-around-the-edges, establishment, a central hub for Rico's Flea Bottom operations and a surprisingly good source of income. Stumpy Jon, its one-legged proprietor, had become a loyal, if terrified, servant, his ears open to every whisper.
But as Rico's power grew, so did the need to protect it. The warehouse, with its hidden rookery and Valyrian sanctum, became a veritable fortress. He had Hendry Stonehand's masons, working under duress and sworn to secrecy (reinforced by Shiv's silent presence), reinforce its walls, add hidden passages, and create concealed chambers. His best men, armed with the superior weapons he was now able to smuggle in from Essos or commission from Mikken the blacksmith (who was growing rich, and increasingly fearful, from Rico's patronage), guarded it day and night.
The internal discipline of his organization was paramount. The lesson of Iron Gut Yoren had been well learned. Rico ruled with a combination of generous reward for loyalty and swift, brutal punishment for any transgression. He instituted a clear chain of command: Jax as his enforcer and general overseer of Flea Bottom operations; Finn as his spymaster, his network now augmented by the ravens; Mathis as his treasurer and financial strategist; Alaric as his maester and advisor on arcane and political matters; Perwyn as his master of forgery and deception; Harl as his master of horse and ravens; and Shiv as his personal assassin and master of stealth. Each knew their role, and each knew that their fortunes, and their lives, were tied to Rico's success.
He also began to use the obsidian mirror for more than just random scrying. Recalling the fleeting image of Larys Graceford, he tried to consciously focus on individuals he knew, to see if he could observe them. It was difficult, requiring immense concentration and often yielding nothing but frustrating flickers. But one night, concentrating on Hendry Stonehand, he saw a brief, clear image of the Under-Master meeting secretly with a rival guild official, seemingly passing him a document.
The rage that filled Rico was cold and immediate. He had invested time and resources in Hendry. Betrayal was intolerable.
He didn't send Jax or Shiv. He went himself, appearing at Hendry's modest home in the dead of night like a vengeful spirit. The confrontation was short. Hendry, confronted with Rico's uncanny knowledge of his secret meeting, confessed, blubbering about threats from the rival faction.
Rico listened, his face an unreadable mask. Then he drew Krayn's old dagger, the one that had tasted so much blood. He didn't just kill Hendry; he made an example of him, ensuring the man's terror and pain were exquisite before the end. The essence he absorbed was a predictable mix of craftsman's skill, petty ambition, and overwhelming fear. More useful was the specific knowledge of the rival faction's plans and Hendry's contacts within it, which Rico now possessed.
The message to his other assets within the guilds was clear: The Razor's eyes were everywhere. Disloyalty was death.
Despite these harsh necessities, Rico was not solely focused on earthly power. The Valyrian scrolls and the obsidian mirror had opened a door to something more, something that resonated with the deepest, most alien parts of his absorbed essences. The glimpse of the dragon, whether real or imagined, haunted him.
He pushed Alaric to find any texts, any legends, any whispers that spoke of existing magical creatures in Westeros, or of places where the veil between worlds was thin. The Children of the Forest were long gone, their magic faded into myth. Giants were confined to the lands beyond the Wall. But what of dragons, beyond those controlled by the Targaryens? What of other, stranger beings hinted at in the darkest corners of Essosi lore that Malatesta's essence now whispered to him?
"The world is older and stranger than most maesters dare to admit, Master Razor," Alaric said, his eyes alight with a scholar's obsession. "Valyria was but one peak in a vast mountain range of forgotten magics. There are whispers… of creatures that sleep beneath the waves, of beings that walk in frozen wastes, of powers that slumber in the hearts of ancient forests. But to find them… that would be a perilous quest indeed."
For now, such quests were beyond his reach. His focus had to remain on King's Landing, on consolidating his power, on preparing for the inevitable chaos of the Dance. King Viserys's health, according to Larys's increasingly panicked reports, was failing visibly. The King was rarely seen in public, and when he was, he appeared frail, leaning heavily on a cane, his face pale and drawn. The Greens and the Blacks were no longer just factions; they were armed camps, their enmity barely concealed beneath a veneer of courtly protocol. Prince Aegon, Alicent's eldest, was gaining a reputation for drunken brawling and whoring, while his younger brother, Aemond, was growing into a formidable, if ruthless, young warrior, his one good eye burning with a fierce ambition since claiming the dragon Vhagar. Rhaenyra, from Dragonstone, sent carefully worded missives professing her loyalty, but her supporters were quietly arming themselves.
Rico knew the explosion was coming. And when it did, he intended to be more than just a scavenger feasting on the scraps. He intended to be a force that could shape the outcome. The Valyrian scrolls, the obsidian mirror, the network of spies and smugglers, the burgeoning army of loyal thugs, the gold in his coffers – all of it was being forged into a weapon.
He was Rico Moretti, the reincarnated mafia boss. He was the Razor of Flea Bottom. But he was also becoming something else, something older and more terrifying, a student of forgotten lores, a wielder of absorbed souls, a shadow with Valyrian whispers in his blood, gazing into a dark glass that reflected a future he would carve with his own bloody hands. The city held its breath, unaware of the true monster breeding in its depths. And the monster was learning, growing, and waiting.