Chapter 4: Letters in Ash, Blood on the Cobbles
The pimp's greasy essence had left a foul taste in Rico's metaphorical mouth, but the message his death sent through their little slice of Flea Bottom was as crisp and clear as a winter morning. The Razor was not to be trifled with. Krayn's old territory, a miserable patch of interconnected alleys and hovels near the Mud Gate, was now under new, far more lethal, management. Fear, Rico knew, was a foundational element of control.
But fear alone was a blunt instrument. Rico Moretti had always prided himself on his brains as much as his brawn – or, in his previous life, the brawn he commanded. Now, possessing a rapidly increasing measure of his own, the need for intellect felt even more acute. His Game of Thrones knowledge was a superweapon, but it was encoded in memories tied to a language and context that didn't perfectly map to this reality. He needed to be able to read this world's script directly.
Jax, true to his word, if not his initial enthusiasm, had "asked around." The answer came in the form of a trembling, rheumy-eyed old man named Elric, whom Jax and Finn dragged into the hovel a few days after the pimp's demise. Elric stank of stale wine, piss, and the bitter dust of broken dreams. He clutched a tattered, wine-stained blanket around his skeletal frame as if it were the last bastion against the world's cruelty.
"This is him, boss," Jax announced, shoving Elric forward. "Used to be a clerk for some wool merchant down by the docks. Got a taste for the grape, lost his position, then his room, then his teeth, by the look of it."
Elric flinched, his watery eyes darting around the grim hovel, lingering on the still-faint bloodstains that Rico hadn't bothered to entirely scrub from the floorboards. This was clearly not the employment interview he'd envisioned, if he'd envisioned anything beyond his next drink.
Rico regarded him from Krayn's reinforced chair, which was rapidly becoming his throne. The old man was pathetic, a husk. Yet, Krayn's absorbed cunning whispered that even husks could have uses.
"Elric," Rico began, his voice devoid of menace but firm. "Jax tells me you can read. And write. Is this true?"
Elric swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. "Aye, m'lord… Master Razor. I… I still have my letters. Though my hand trembles some, these days."
"Good." Rico leaned forward. "I have a proposition for you. You will teach me to read the Common Tongue. Everything you know. In return, you will have a roof over your head – such as it is – food in your belly, and enough coin for a modest amount of wine. Enough to keep the shakes at bay, not enough to drown your remaining wits. You will be protected. You will be useful." He paused, letting the implications sink in. "Refuse, or prove… unsatisfactory… and your next drink will be the Blackwater Rush, from the bottom up."
Elric shuddered violently, but a flicker of something other than fear sparked in his faded eyes. Hope? Or just the animal instinct to survive? "I… I accept, Master Razor. Gratefully."
And so began Rico's education. Their classroom was the dim, smoky main room of the hovel. Their materials were scraps of parchment Elric had hoarded, old shipping manifests Jax 'acquired' from a dockside firepit, and charcoal sticks.
It was frustratingly slow at first. Rico's mind, accustomed to the swift, brutal calculus of survival and power, chafed at the painstaking process of deciphering symbols, of sounding out words that felt alien on his tongue despite his innate understanding of the spoken language. But the essences he'd absorbed, particularly Krayn's cunning and the faint, almost subliminal scholastic discipline from some forgotten ancestor of one of his victims, gave him an edge. He learned with an unnatural speed that astonished Elric.
"You grasp it so quickly, Master Razor," the old man quavered one evening, after Rico had successfully read aloud a tattered proclamation about new taxes on fishmongers. "It took me years as a boy…"
Rico just grunted. He wasn't about to explain that his brain was essentially supercharged by the distilled life experiences of dead men. He pushed himself relentlessly, practicing late into the night by the light of a flickering tallow candle, the shapes of letters swimming before his eyes until they resolved into meaning. He was not just learning to read; he was forging a key to unlock the deeper secrets of this world, to verify and expand upon his gamer knowledge.
While Elric tutored him, Rico didn't neglect his other burgeoning enterprises. The fear generated by the pimp's death had solidified his hold on Krayn's old rackets – protection money from a few miserable stalls and shebeens, a cut from some petty smuggling Krayn had overseen through a hidden sewer grate. But it was small fry. Flea Bottom was a sprawling beast, and Krayn had only been a flea on its hide.
The challenge came, as expected, about a week into Elric's tutelage. A rival gang, the "Rat Alley Boys," led by a vicious brute named Morgo with a scarred face and a reputation for favoring a sharpened meat hook, decided to test the newcomer. They jumped two of Rico's men who were collecting tribute, beat them bloody, and sent them back with a message: Razor's turf was now Morgo's.
Rico received the news calmly, dabbing charcoal dust from his fingers. He looked at his battered men, then at Jax.
"How many has Morgo got?"
"Ten, maybe twelve regulars, boss," Jax said, his one eye glinting with anger. "Tough bastards, most of 'em. They control the warrens north of the Street of Soot."
More than Rico's current handful. A direct confrontation would be costly. But Rico wasn't Krayn. He didn't think in terms of brawls; he thought in terms of decapitation.
"Morgo himself," Rico mused. "What are his habits? Where does he sleep?"
Jax, using the remnants of Krayn's informant network which Rico was slowly cultivating, found out. Morgo, despite his bravado, was a creature of habit, sleeping in a supposedly secure cellar beneath a ruined sept near the edge of his territory.
That night, Rico didn't send his crew. He went alone.
He moved through the pre-dawn labyrinth of Flea Bottom like a phantom, Rat's absorbed knowledge of stealth guiding his steps, his enhanced senses alert to every whisper of wind, every distant footfall. Gorm's strength coursed through him, a silent promise of violence. Krayn's cunning formulated the plan.
The ruined sept was a desolate place, its stained-glass windows long smashed, the air thick with the smell of decay and desperation. Rico found the cellar entrance, a heavy oaken door secured by a crude iron bar. It would make noise. Instead, using Krayn's knowledge of illicit entry points and his own growing agility, he found another way: a collapsed section of the crypt that led into the cellar's far side, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through.
Inside, the air was foul. Morgo snored like a dying bear on a pile of filthy furs, his meat hook gleaming faintly beside him. Two of his lieutenants slept nearby.
Rico was a ghost in the darkness. He took out the first lieutenant with a single, precise thrust of Krayn's dagger to the throat, stifling the man's death gurgle with his other hand. The essence flowed into him – a brutal thug's life, some skill with a cudgel, a surprising knowledge of dog fighting pits. Every little bit helped.
The second lieutenant stirred. Before he could fully wake, Rico was on him, the dagger striking again. This one was quicker, managing a choked cry, but Rico's enhanced strength, fueled by Gorm and the others, crushed the man's windpipe before he could raise a proper alarm. More essence: a touch more speed, a gambler's instincts, a paranoid fear of fire.
Morgo awoke to the sounds of the struggle, a confused roar rumbling in his chest. He scrambled for his meat hook, eyes wide and uncomprehending in the gloom.
Rico didn't give him the chance. He launched himself across the small cellar, not with a weapon, but with his bare hands. He was faster, stronger than Morgo anticipated. He slammed the heel of his palm into Morgo's nose, a spray of blood and a crunch of bone. Morgo howled, dropping the meat hook.
The fight was savage, primal. Morgo was a beast, all flailing limbs and brute force. But Rico was a predator, honed by a lifetime of violence and now augmented by the dead. He moved with a vicious grace, dodging Morgo's wild swings, his fists and elbows finding purchase with brutal efficiency. He felt Morgo's ribs crack under a well-placed kick.
Finally, as Morgo staggered, dazed and bleeding, Rico saw his opening. He wrapped his arm around Morgo's thick neck from behind, sinking in a chokehold. Morgo thrashed, his powerful hands clawing at Rico's arm, but Rico's grip, empowered by the strength of multiple men, was like iron.
He squeezed, feeling the life drain out of the Rat Alley Boys' leader. The final, shuddering gasp. And then, the glorious, intoxicating rush.
Morgo's essence was potent. It was a wave of raw aggression, a deep understanding of intimidation, a comprehensive knowledge of his own territory and rackets, and a network of contacts even more extensive than Krayn's in that particular sector. Rico felt a significant surge in his own physical power, a hardening of his resolve, and a chilling expansion of his tactical understanding of gang warfare, Flea Bottom style. He also gained Morgo's proficiency with that wicked meat hook – a brutal, effective weapon he now knew how to wield as if born to it.
He stood panting over the three corpses, the cellar now his. This was how empires were built. Not with pleas, but with blood and bone.
The next morning, the remaining Rat Alley Boys found their leader and his top men slaughtered. They found Rico sitting on Morgo's furs, cleaning the meat hook with a rag, Jax and Finn standing behind him like specters. The message was unambiguous.
Most of the Rat Alley Boys folded immediately, swearing fealty with terrified eyes. A few tried to flee. Jax, now armed with one of Krayn's short swords and a newfound viciousness inspired by his new boss, hunted them down. Rico didn't need their essence; he needed their fear and their obedience. His crew had just tripled in size. His territory had doubled. The Razor of Flea Bottom was carving out a real kingdom in the filth.
Just as he was solidifying this new, bloodier phase of his reign, a message arrived. Not a challenge from another Flea Bottom dweller, but a perfumed note delivered by a nervous street urchin who'd been given Larys Graceford's silver piece.
"Lord Larys requests the pleasure of Razor's company. An matter of… mutual benefit. Tonight. The Gilded Lily, Street of Silk. Discretion paramount."
The Gilded Lily. A high-class brothel, far from the squalor of Flea Bottom. Larys was calling in his marker, or rather, offering one.
Rico considered. The Street of Silk was a different world. But Larys was his only link to the nobility, however tenuous. And "mutual benefit" usually meant Larys wanted something Rico could provide, which in turn meant Rico could extract something in return.
"Jax," Rico said, handing him the note. "Get me some decent clothes. Nothing too fancy, but something that won't scream 'Flea Bottom cutthroat' quite so loudly. And I'll need two of our best men, ones who can keep their mouths shut and their hands ready, but look presentable enough not to scare the silk off the ladies."
Jax, despite his rough exterior, had a surprising knack for procurement, a skill perhaps honed by Krayn's demands. He returned with a dark, well-made woolen tunic, serviceable breeches, and a sturdy leather jerkin that had clearly belonged to someone well-off before it found its way into Flea Bottom's grey market. Rico even managed a passable wash with heated water Elric nervously prepared.
Cleaned and dressed, with two of Morgo's former bruisers (now his, after witnessing their leader's fate and seeing the advantage of siding with the new power) flanking him, Rico felt a flicker of his old self – the Don heading to a high-stakes meet.
The Gilded Lily was ostentation itself, a stark contrast to the gritty functionality of The Rusty Helmet. Perfumed braziers, silk hangings, musicians playing softly in a hidden alcove. Courtesans of all descriptions glided through the rooms, their painted smiles promising paradise for a price.
Larys Graceford was in a private room, already half-drunk, but his eyes lit up with a shrewd gleam when Rico was announced.
"Razor! You came. Excellent. Wine?"
"Later perhaps, Lord Larys," Rico said, his eyes scanning the room, noting the single, heavily curtained window and the one door. "You mentioned a matter of mutual benefit."
Larys chuckled. "Always to the point, aren't you? I like that. Yes. I have a… rival. A young knight, Ser Kellen of the Kingswood. He fancies himself a poet and a swordsman. More importantly, he fancies the same lady I do at court. A Lady Annelise." He scowled. "He's made me look a fool more than once. And recently, he acquired something… something I believe is mine by right. A family heirloom, a small, jeweled dagger. He won it from me in a rigged game of dice."
Rico raised an eyebrow. "Rigged?"
"Of course it was rigged!" Larys sloshed his wine. "Or perhaps I was merely too deep in my cups. Regardless, it's mine. I want it back. And I want Ser Kellen… discomfited. Embarrassed. Perhaps unable to attend the King's tourney events for a few days due to… unforeseen injury."
Rico processed this. Larys wanted him to act as a high-class thug: retrieve a stolen item and rough up a knight. This was more direct than he'd anticipated from their first meeting.
"A knight, Lord Larys?" Rico said carefully. "Knights usually have friends. And sharp swords."
"He's a popinjay," Larys sneered. "More skilled with a lute than a longsword, despite his boasts. He's staying at the Dragon's Flagon inn, near the Street of Steel. Not particularly well guarded. And the dagger… he keeps it on him, the arrogant fool."
This was a risk. Attacking a knight, even a "popinjay," was a serious offense. But the potential rewards… Larys would be indebted to him. And if Ser Kellen was indeed a knight, his essence… what skills, what knowledge of the court or martial prowess might he possess? The allure was strong.
"And my benefit, Lord Larys?" Rico asked.
"Twenty gold dragons upon the dagger's return," Larys said promptly. "Another thirty if Ser Kellen is… indisposed for the better part of a week. And, more importantly, my continued patronage. I hear whispers, Razor. About your… rapid advancement in Flea Bottom. A man who can tame that beast could be very useful to someone like me, someone who navigates the more… polished kennels of this city."
Twenty gold dragons was a significant sum, more than Krayn had hoarded in months. Fifty was a small fortune. But Larys's "continued patronage" was the real prize.
Rico considered the absorbed skills. Morgo's brutality, Gorm's strength, Krayn's cunning, Rat's stealth. The dice-cheating knowledge from that one lackey. The pickpocketing finesse from another. He was a walking amalgamation of criminal talents.
"Ser Kellen of the Kingswood," Rico said slowly, committing the name to memory. "The Dragon's Flagon. When do you need this… discomfiture to occur?"
"The sooner the better," Larys said eagerly. "Before he can flaunt the dagger, or Lady Annelise, in my face again."
"I'll look into it," Rico said, noncommittally. "No promises. Knights are not street thugs. This requires… delicate planning."
Larys smirked. "I have faith in your… indelicacy, Razor."
Rico left The Gilded Lily with his two men, the scent of perfume and intrigue clinging to him. This was an escalation. From Flea Bottom power struggles to targeted attacks on minor nobility. But it was also a step up the ladder.
He spent the next day gathering information. Finn, surprisingly adept now at his role, used some of the coin Rico gave him to pry information from stableboys and tavern wenches near the Dragon's Flagon. Ser Kellen was indeed there. He was young, handsome, known for his flamboyant dress and his boasts of martial skill, though few had seen him in serious combat. He had two squires, more like drinking companions, and was indeed courting a Lady Annelise Thorne, known for her beauty and her father's considerable wealth. The jeweled dagger was a new affectation, often displayed.
Rico weighed his options. A direct assault was crude. He preferred surgical precision.
He decided to observe Ser Kellen himself. Dressed in his "better" Flea Bottom attire, but keeping to the shadows, he watched the Dragon's Flagon. He saw Ser Kellen emerge mid-afternoon, preening in a new velvet doublet, the jeweled dagger indeed tucked into his belt. The knight was heading out, likely to the Red Keep or some noble gathering.
Rico knew he couldn't take him in broad daylight, not with his squires and the City Watch patrols. But he now had a target, a routine. He needed to isolate Kellen, preferably when he was returning, perhaps a little drunk, a little careless.
His mind, a swirling vortex of absorbed cunning and his own innate ruthlessness, began to formulate a plan. It would be dangerous. But the potential reward – coin, Larys's gratitude, and the essence of a knight, however minor – was too tempting to ignore.
He also continued his lessons with Elric, his progress startling the old man. He could now read simple texts, and his vocabulary was expanding daily. He made Elric read aloud from any scraps of parchment they could find – old laws, merchant records, even a tattered page from a book of heroic poems that Elric had kept hidden. One passage described a dragon – "scales like black diamonds, breath like a smithy's forge, wisdom as old as mountains."
Rico listened, the words painting vivid pictures, aligning with the images from his Game of Thrones memories. The Dance of the Dragons was fought with these creatures. To reach the pinnacle of this world, he would eventually have to understand, and perhaps even confront, such power. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He was changing. The essences were not just adding skills; they were subtly altering his perceptions, his instincts. He felt more primal, his senses sharper, his reactions quicker. The casual brutality of Flea Bottom no longer shocked him; it was merely the environment in which he operated. His own ruthlessness was deepening, becoming a more intrinsic part of this new self. He was Rico Moretti, but he was also becoming the Razor, a creature perfectly adapted to this savage, beautiful, and eminently conquerable world. Ser Kellen of the Kingswood was about to become another stepping stone on his ascent.