Chapter 18: The Green Dawn, The Dragon's Shadow
The bells that had tolled King Viserys's death knell now rang with a frenzied, forced jubilation for the coronation of his son, Aegon II. But beneath the veneer of celebration, King's Landing was a city coiled tight with fear. Green banners – the gold dragon of Aegon on a field of green, the colors of House Hightower – had replaced the old King's personal sigil on the Red Keep's ramparts almost overnight. The Gold Cloaks, now firmly under the command of officers loyal to the Greens, patrolled the streets with a new, menacing swagger. Whispers of arrests, of loyal Rhaenyra supporters disappearing in the night, spread like wildfire through the terrified populace.
For Rico Moretti, the chaos was a fertile ground. From the moment the bells had confirmed Viserys's demise, his organization had moved with the precision of a well-oiled death machine. The essence of "The Scales," the former master of the Golden Serpent syndicate, had integrated into Rico with breathtaking speed, gifting him not just a vast network of criminal contacts across King's Landing and into Essos, but an innate, almost instinctive understanding of how to manage such an empire – the delicate balance of fear and reward, the art of delegating to dangerous men, the subtle ways to turn a profit from every human vice and fear.
Within days, the remnants of the Golden Serpent were either absorbed or ruthlessly eliminated. Their safe houses became Rico's. Their smuggling routes, now cleared of competition, flowed directly into his coffers. Their informants, those who survived the transition, now answered to Finn, whose own network, augmented by Ser Tommen Lannister's absorbed knowledge of investigative procedures and City Watch protocols, became chillingly efficient. Rico was no longer just the Razor of Flea Bottom; he was the undisputed, unseen monarch of King's Landing's entire underworld, his influence a dark mirror to the royal power being contested in the light.
Mathis, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, found himself managing a treasury that had swelled beyond his wildest imaginings. "Master Razor," he'd stammered, presenting a ledger overflowing with figures, "the… the consolidation of the Serpent's assets… it's yielded… well, it's yielded a king's ransom. Several, perhaps."
"Good," Rico had replied, his expression unreadable. "Wealth is a weapon, Mathis. Ensure it is sharp and always ready."
Lyra the Lyseni, with her chilling expertise in poisons, became Rico's silent enforcer of internal discipline and a purveyor of… specialized tools… for external negotiations. She established a hidden laboratory within the warehouse, its purpose known only to Rico and Alaric, brewing concoctions that could bring swift death, lingering agony, or blissful, truth-inducing oblivion. The Scales' essence had also gifted Rico an encyclopedic knowledge of toxins, and he found he could converse with Lyra on her own deadly terms, suggesting refinements, discussing applications with a detachment that even she found unsettling.
The first official overture from the new Green regime came, predictably, through Larys Graceford. The foppish lord, now puffed up with self-importance as a minor courtier in Aegon II's hastily assembled court, arrived at the heavily fortified warehouse (The Leaky Dinghy being no more) with an air of triumphant conspiracy.
"Razor, my man!" Larys exclaimed, oblivious to the cold, appraising gaze Rico fixed upon him. "A new sun rises over King's Landing! King Aegon – long may he reign! – is on the Iron Throne! My patrons, Queen Alicent and the Lord Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, are… most pleased with your recent services regarding the regrettable Ser Tommen and his… problematic documents."
Rico merely inclined his head. He had delivered only a curated selection of Tommen's papers to Larys, enough to implicate Rhaenyra's supporters and earn the Greens' gratitude, while keeping the truly damning evidence of the Greens' own extensive pre-coronation plotting for himself. Knowledge, like wealth, was a weapon.
"They have… further need of your unique talents, Razor," Larys continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Princess Rhaenyra, the pretender on Dragonstone, will not take this news idly. She has dragons. She has supporters. The Greens require… assurances. Certain individuals within the city, known sympathizers of Rhaenyra, need to be… dissuaded from treason. Permanently, in some cases. Others, who might be wavering, need to be… persuaded to see the wisdom of Aegon's claim." He produced a list of names, written on fine parchment bearing a subtle Hightower seal.
Rico took the list. It contained several prominent merchants, a few lesser knights, even a Septon known for his stirring orations. This was an escalation. The Greens weren't just asking for petty sabotage or information; they were asking for political assassinations and intimidation on a grand scale.
"This is a dangerous game, Lord Larys," Rico said, his voice flat. "The price will be… considerable."
Larys waved a dismissive hand. "The Crown is generous to its loyal servants, Razor. Name your fee. More importantly, prove your loyalty. Prove that you are a true friend to King Aegon."
Rico, whose only loyalty was to himself and his own ascent, saw the opportunity clearly. The Greens needed a deniable asset, a blade in the shadows to do their dirty work. He would be that blade. But he would also ensure that blade cut both ways, extracting maximum profit and leverage for himself.
He agreed, setting a price that made even Larys blink, then immediately set his organization in motion. Shiv, Vorian, and their teams of handpicked killers became ghosts in the city, visiting the names on Larys's list. Some targets disappeared without a trace. Others were found dead in their beds, victims of "sudden illness" (Lyra's subtle contributions) or "unfortunate accidents." A few prominent Rhaenyra supporters, after a visit from Jax and his bruisers, publicly recanted their loyalties and swore fealty to Aegon II with trembling voices and bruised faces.
King's Landing became a city of fear, but also, for those in Rico's orbit, a city of unprecedented opportunity.
While his men waged this shadow war on behalf of the Greens, Rico and Alaric retreated ever deeper into the study of the Valyrian scrolls. The King's death, the coronation, the palpable sense of impending civil war – it all lent a terrible urgency to their work. The Scales' essence had, unexpectedly, contained fragments of esoteric knowledge related to Essosi shadow-binders and blood-mages, which Alaric eagerly cross-referenced with the Valyrian texts, his theories growing ever more audacious.
"The Valyrians did not just control dragons with whips and horns, Master Razor," Alaric explained, his eyes fever-bright as he pointed to a complex series of glyphs on one scroll. "It was a bond of blood, of jēdar. They could see through their dragons' eyes, feel their thoughts, even influence their wills. And some, the most powerful, could draw upon the dragon's own life force, its inherent fire, to amplify their own abilities." He paused, his gaze intense. "Your power, Master Razor… it is the inverse, perhaps. You take the jēdar of men. What if… what if you could take the jēdar of a dragon?"
The thought was staggering, terrifying. To absorb the essence of a dragon… what would that even mean? What power would it grant? The scrolls were silent on such a direct transference, speaking only of the symbiotic bond. But the implication hung in the air, a monstrous, incandescent possibility.
Rico pushed the thought aside, for now. It was too distant, too dangerous. His immediate concern was information. With the Dance now truly begun, reliable intelligence was more valuable than gold. He turned his attention back to the obsidian mirror, Vējesy Kēlio.
He focused his will, no longer on random glimpses or distant landscapes, but on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra's seat of power. He poured his concentration into the cold, dark glass, drawing on the mental fortitude from Ser Duncan, the analytical focus from Ser Tommen, the arcane sensitivity from Malatesta and The Scales.
The mirror swirled, resisted, then grudgingly yielded. An image formed, clearer than ever before: a dark, stone chamber, the Painted Table of Aegon the Conqueror its centerpiece. And around it, figures: Princess Rhaenyra, her face a mask of grief and cold fury, her silver-gold hair like a lion's mane. Prince Daemon, her husband and uncle, his hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, his eyes burning with a familiar, predatory light. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his weathered face grim. And others, lords and knights loyal to the Black Queen.
Rico watched, a silent, unseen observer, as they planned their response to Aegon's usurpation. He heard their strategies, their arguments, their vows of vengeance. He saw the ravens being dispatched, carrying messages to their allies across the Seven Kingdoms. The mirror held the image for several minutes, a torrent of priceless intelligence flowing directly into Rico's mind, before it faded, leaving him drained but exhilarated.
"Alaric," he said, his voice hoarse. "Rhaenyra will not yield. She declares Aegon a traitor. She summons her banners. The war… it begins now, in earnest."
He immediately dispatched his own ravens, Harl overseeing their flight with Tobin's absorbed expertise. Coded messages went to his burgeoning contacts in the Free Cities (cultivated from Malatesta's and The Scales' networks), instructing them to gather information on sellsword companies, on ships available for charter, on any Essosi powers that might seek to involve themselves in the Westerosi civil war. Other messages went to his agents within King's Landing, relaying Rhaenyra's immediate plans, allowing them to anticipate Green counter-moves.
The business of war, Rico knew, was business. And he intended to profit handsomely. His smuggling tunnels, now extended to multiple discreet outlets along the Blackwater Rush and even connecting to a few sympathetic merchant cellars within the city walls, became conduits for more than just avoiding taxes. He began to smuggle essential goods that would soon be in short supply – grain, salt, iron for weapons, even horses acquired through Harl's network and spirited away through the city's underbelly. He sold to anyone who could pay his price, Green or Black sympathizer, his only loyalty to the clink of coin. Mathis, his moral scruples long since eroded by the sheer scale of the profits, managed this wartime economy with ruthless efficiency.
But Rico also knew that true power in the coming conflict would not just be measured in gold or armies, but in dragons. The Targaryens had them. He did not. Yet.
The Valyrian scrolls spoke of dracarys ēdrus – "dragon sleep" or "dragon dream" – a state of deep communion that dragonriders could achieve with their mounts. They also hinted at rituals, blood rituals, that could soothe an agitated dragon, or even, some texts dared to suggest, sway its loyalty if its bond with its rider was weak or broken. This was dangerous, forbidden lore, the kind that had likely contributed to Valyria's Doom. But to Rico, it was a potential weapon of unimaginable power.
He didn't have a dragon. But he had a city full of them, roosting in the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill, or flying sorties from the Red Keep. He began to gather every scrap of information about the individual dragons: Syrax, Rhaenyra's golden queen; Caraxes, Daemon's fearsome Blood Wyrm; Sunfyre, Aegon's magnificent golden beast; Vhagar, Aemond's ancient, colossal mount, the largest living dragon in the world. He learned their temperaments, their feeding habits, the routines of their keepers, the strength of their bonds with their riders.
His ambition, already vast, was beginning to take on a terrifying, almost blasphemous new dimension. He was no longer content to be a king of shadows. He was beginning to think like a Valyrian of old, a shaper of destinies, a potential master of the ultimate power in this world.
The first major clash of the Dance soon reached King's Landing – news of Blood and Cheese, the horrific assassination of Aegon's young son, Jaehaerys, in retaliation for Aemond's slaying of Lucerys Velaryon at Storm's End. The city recoiled in horror. Queen Alicent descended into a paroxysm of grief and rage. King Aegon II swore terrible vengeance. The Greens became even more paranoid, more ruthless.
Larys Graceford, his face pale with genuine fear this time, came to Rico with a new, desperate urgency. "They suspect spies everywhere, Razor! Traitors in their own household! They need… an inquisitor. Someone with your… particular skills… to root out the Black Queen's agents within the Red Keep itself. The rewards will be… beyond imagining."
To operate within the Red Keep, the very heart of royal power and Green paranoia. It was an incredibly dangerous proposition. But the access it would grant, the secrets he could uncover, the potential essences he might acquire…
Rico looked at Larys, then his gaze drifted towards the distant silhouette of the Dragonpit against the blood-red sunset. The Valyrian scrolls lay locked in his cellar, their ancient words whispering of power, of blood, of dragons.
He smiled, a cold, thin smile that held no warmth, only the chilling promise of the Razor's edge. "Tell your patrons, Lord Larys," he said softly, "that I will consider their… generous offer. After all, in a city of whispering shadows and dancing dragons, a man of my talents can be most… useful."
The Green Dawn had given way to the Dragon's Shadow. And Rico Moretti was poised to stalk them both.