Chapter 1: A Bloody Rebirth in a Land of Fire and Blood
The last thing Rico "The Razor" Moretti remembered was the searing agony of a dozen .45 slugs tearing through his bespoke suit, the coppery tang of his own blood filling his mouth, and the shocked, betrayed face of his consigliere, Sal, holding the smoking gun. Et tu, Brute? The thought, absurdly literary for a man whose business was brutality, had flitted through his mind as the expensive Italian marble of his own foyer rushed up to meet him.
Then, nothing. Oblivion. Or so he'd thought.
Now, sensation returned, not as a gentle awakening, but as a brutal, disorienting plunge. He was cold, impossibly so, a damp, bone-chilling iciness that had nothing to do with a morgue's sterile freeze. His expensive suit was gone, replaced by rough, scratchy fabric that stank of mildew and something vaguely animalistic. The .45 slugs? No pain, not even an echo. But his body felt…wrong. Weaker. Younger.
He tried to open his eyes, a monumental effort. They cracked open to a dim, flickering light. Stone walls, rough-hewn and damp, loomed around him. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and something else… a rank, musky odor he couldn't quite place. It wasn't the familiar stench of a back-alley den or a grimy prison. This was older, more primal.
Panic, an emotion Rico had suppressed and weaponized for decades, tried to claw its way up his throat. He was Rico Moretti, the goddamn boss of the Moretti crime family, a man who'd carved out an empire in a city of wolves. He wasn't supposed to be…wherever this was.
A groan nearby. Rico's head snapped towards the sound, his ingrained threat assessment kicking in. A hulking shape stirred in the gloom, resolving itself into a man, or rather, a brute. Matted hair, a beard crusted with god-knows-what, and eyes that gleamed with a dull, predatory light in the gloom. He was big, easily six and a half feet, and built like a brick shithouse. The kind of enforcer Rico would have paid top dollar for, then watched like a hawk.
"Finally awake, whelp?" The brute's voice was a gravelly rasp, the words heavily accented, guttural. Not Italian, not English, not any language Rico knew. Yet, somehow, miraculously, he understood it. The meaning, if not the precise words, registered in his mind.
This was the first concrete clue that something was profoundly, existentially wrong.
Rico tried to sit up, his limbs stiff and unresponsive. He felt like a puppet with tangled strings. His hands, when he finally managed to look at them, were smaller, the skin smoother, though caked with grime. No calluses from years of handling weapons, no sign of the faint scar on his left pinky from a youthful indiscretion with a stiletto. These were the hands of a boy, or a very young man.
He looked down at himself. The rough tunic barely reached his knees, his legs thin and pale. This wasn't his body.
The brute chuckled, a nasty sound. "Cat got yer tongue? Or did the beating knock the wits clean outta ya?"
Beating? Rico's mind, still reeling from the impossible, latched onto that. He had been beaten. His jaw ached, a dull throb resonated in his ribs, and a sticky patch at the back of his head told of a wound.
Before Rico could formulate a response, another figure emerged from the shadows. Smaller, wirier, with ferret-like eyes that darted around nervously. "Leave 'im be, Gorm," the newcomer whined. "The boss wants 'im alive, remember? For the… questioning."
Gorm spat. "Questioning. Like he knows anythin'. Just some street rat caught sniffin' where he shouldn't."
Street rat. Rico Moretti, a street rat. The irony would have been amusing if the terror wasn't so potent.
He needed information. Where was he? Who were these men? And most importantly, what the hell had happened to him? His Game of Thrones fandom, a secret indulgence he'd used to unwind from the stresses of his bloody profession, suddenly felt less like a leisure activity and more like a bizarre premonition. The aesthetic, the rough-spun clothes, the primitive weaponry he now noticed Gorm carried – a crude iron axe tucked into his belt – it all screamed of something pre-industrial, something… Westerosi.
No. It can't be.
But the evidence was mounting. The language he somehow understood, the setting, the brutal simplicity of his captors.
He decided to play weak, a tactic he'd used effectively in his youth to disarm opponents before striking. "Where… where am I?" he rasped, his voice indeed that of a younger man, hoarse and thin.
The ferret-faced man, whose name was apparently not important enough for Gorm to use, snickered. "Deep in the shit, that's where. Flea Bottom. And you're about to be in a deeper pile if you don't start singin' about who sent ya."
Flea Bottom. The name echoed in Rico's mind, plucked from the pages of George R.R. Martin's books and the HBO series he'd devoured. The sprawling, impoverished slum of King's Landing. If this was true, if he was truly in that world, then reincarnation wasn't just a theological concept, it was his current, horrifying reality.
And the timeline… "Dance of the Dragons." The user's request. He was a Game of Thrones fan. He knew what that meant. A brutal, Targaryen civil war fought with dragons. If he was ten years before that… King Viserys I would be on the throne. Rhaenyra would be the named heir, Alicent Hightower's sons growing, the seeds of conflict already sown.
This wasn't just a change of scenery. It was a plunge into a far more savage and unpredictable world than even the mafia. Here, power wasn't just about bullets and bribes; it was about steel, blood, and, if the stories were true, dragons and magic.
Gorm grabbed him by the front of his tunic, hauling him effortlessly to his feet. The world swam. Rico's new, weaker body protested violently. "Enough caterwaulin'. Boss wants to see ya."
He was dragged out of the dark room, through a narrow, reeking corridor, and into a slightly larger chamber. This one had a sputtering brazier that offered more light and a modicum of warmth. Seated on a rickety chair, looking like a pig in slightly better rags, was a man whose greasy black beard and dead eyes proclaimed him 'the boss'. A couple of other thugs loitered in the corners.
"This the little shit?" the boss grunted, not even bothering to look up from sharpening a vicious-looking dagger.
"Aye, Krayn," Gorm said. "Found 'im skulkin' near the Mud Gate, watchin' the gold cloaks a bit too close."
Gold cloaks. The City Watch of King's Landing.
Krayn finally looked up, his eyes appraising Rico with cold amusement. "Well, rat? What's your story? Who you spyin' for? The Spider's little birds? Or maybe one of the other stinkin' gangs in this shit-hole?"
Rico's mind raced. The Spider. Varys. Already a player, even now. He needed to think fast. His old persona, the ruthless mafia Don, wouldn't work here. Not yet. He was weak, unknown. He needed to be cunning.
"No one," Rico said, his voice trembling slightly – a mix of genuine fear from his new, vulnerable state and calculated acting. "I… I was just hungry. Looking for scraps."
Krayn laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Hungry? You look like you ain't missed many meals, for a street rat. Clean hands, too." He gestured with the dagger. "Not the hands of someone who scrabbles in the muck for a livin'."
Damn it. His new body was young, but apparently not starved enough to pass for a typical Flea Bottom urchin.
"I… I ran away," Rico improvised. "From a… a master who beat me. In the Reach. Stowed away on a ship."
Krayn's eyes narrowed. "The Reach, eh? Long way from home, ain't ya? And you come all this way just to stare at gold cloaks?"
"I was lost," Rico insisted. "Scared. I didn't know where else to go."
Gorm cuffed him on the back of the head. "Lying piece of filth!"
Rico stumbled, his vision blurring. Anger, cold and familiar, began to cut through the fear and disorientation. These men were animals, petty tyrants in their little fiefdom. In his world, they'd be gnats, easily crushed. Here… here they held his life in their hands.
But then, something new, something utterly alien, sparked within him. As Gorm's meaty hand had struck him, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of energy had flowed from the brute into Rico. It was gone in an instant, too quick to analyze, but he'd felt it. A subtle warmth, a flicker of… something.
Krayn leaned forward. "I don't believe you, boy. But I'm a patient man. We got ways of makin' people talk. Gorm, take him back. Let him… reconsider his story. And if he still ain't talkin' by sunrise…" Krayn drew the dagger across his own calloused thumb, a small bead of blood welling up. "…then he ain't talkin' ever."
Rico's heart hammered. This was it. His new life was going to be even shorter and more brutal than his last. He was dragged back to the cold, dark room, shoved inside, and the heavy wooden door slammed shut, the sound of a bolt sliding into place echoing ominously.
He sank to the filthy floor, his mind a whirlwind. Reincarnation. Westeros. Flea Bottom. Imminent death. And that strange flicker of energy…
He thought back to the user's prompt. The power to absorb the essence of anything he kills and strengthen himself from humans, dragons, magic beings and even gods.
Kills.
Not from a casual blow. He had to kill them.
A grim understanding began to dawn. This wasn't just a random reincarnation. This was… an opportunity. A horrifying, bloody opportunity, perhaps, but one nonetheless. His ruthless past, his knowledge of the Game of Thrones world – it wasn't just baggage. It was his arsenal.
The fear didn't vanish, but it was joined by a cold, calculating fury. Rico Moretti hadn't survived decades of mob wars by being a victim. He was a predator. And these Flea Bottom scum? They were prey.
He needed a weapon. His eyes scanned the dark cell. Nothing. Bare stone, damp straw. He patted himself down. The rough tunic, no pockets, no hidden blades. Of course not. He was a prisoner.
But then his hand brushed against something small and hard tucked into the waistband of his ragged breeches. He fumbled for it. A piece of sharpened rock, perhaps? No. It was smoother. Metal.
He pulled it free. It was small, barely three inches long, a crudely made, rusted nail. Probably fallen from the decaying structure and ended up in his clothes during the beating or the journey here. It wasn't much, but it was something. A shiv. He'd killed a man with less back in juvie.
His mind began to work, the old, familiar gears of planning and execution clicking into place. There were two of them outside the door, Gorm and the weaselly one. Krayn and the others were likely in the other room. He was weak, his body unused to hardship, but he had surprise, desperation, and potentially, this new, terrifying power.
He had to wait. Wait for an opportunity. Sunrise, Krayn had said. That gave him a few hours.
Hours passed in a fugue of fear, planning, and a strange, burgeoning anticipation. He focused on the cold, hard nail in his hand, imagining the damage it could do. He thought about Gorm, his size, his carelessness. He thought about the weasel, his nervousness.
The door creaked. Rico tensed, his heart leaping into his throat. Footsteps. A single set.
The bolt slid back. The door opened a crack, and the ferret-faced man, Rat, as Rico had mentally dubbed him, peeked in. "Still alive, whelp? Boss sent me to… check on ya." His eyes were shifty. He was alone.
This was his chance. It was now or never.
Rico feigned unconsciousness, slumping against the wall. Rat, emboldened by Rico's apparent stillness, pushed the door open wider and stepped in, a greasy, half-eaten piece of bread in his other hand.
"Lazy little prick," Rat muttered, nudging Rico's leg with his foot. "Wake up. Boss wants to know if you're ready to…"
Rico exploded upwards.
It wasn't the smooth, powerful movement of his old body, but a desperate, adrenaline-fueled lunge. He drove the rusted nail with all his young, desperate strength towards Rat's throat.
The weasel yelped, a pathetic, gurgling sound, stumbling backwards, his eyes wide with shock and sudden, dawning terror. The nail, though crude, was sharp enough. It bit deep into the soft flesh beneath Rat's jaw. Blood, dark and shockingly hot, sprayed across Rico's hand.
Rat clawed at his throat, his legs kicking feebly. He was trying to scream, but only a choked, wet rattle emerged.
Rico didn't hesitate. This wasn't his first kill, not by a long shot, though it was the first in this new, strange body. He grabbed Rat's hair, yanking his head back, and drove the nail in again, harder this time, twisting it.
A final, shuddering gasp, and Rat went limp.
And then it happened.
As the last spark of life left the weasel's body, Rico felt it – an undeniable, visceral rush. It was like a jolt of pure, raw energy, a thousand times stronger than the faint flicker he'd felt from Gorm's blow. It surged from Rat's cooling corpse, a torrent of… something… pouring into Rico, through the point of contact, through the very air around them.
It wasn't just physical. He felt… more. His aching muscles seemed to soothe, the throbbing in his head lessened. But it was deeper than that. He felt a sliver of Rat's own being – a lifetime of petty cruelties, a rat-like cunning, a deep-seated cowardice, but also a surprisingly detailed knowledge of Flea Bottom's warrens, its secret paths, its hidden dangers and opportunities. It wasn't just memories; it was an intuitive understanding.
He felt a minuscule, almost imperceptible increase in his own physical toughness, a slight sharpening of his senses. His hearing seemed a touch keener, the shadows in the room a fraction less opaque.
Essence absorption.
It was real. Terrifyingly, exhilaratingly real.
He stared at Rat's lifeless body, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The initial shock of the kill was there, but it was overlaid with a dawning, savage elation. This power… this changed everything.
But there was no time to marvel. Gorm would be nearby. The sounds of the struggle, muted as they were, might have carried.
Quickly, Rico wiped the bloody nail on Rat's tunic. He needed a better weapon. Rat had a dagger, a short, nasty-looking pig-sticker tucked into his belt. Rico pulled it free, the cheap iron surprisingly heavy in his hand. It felt good. Familiar.
He listened. Heavy footsteps were approaching. Gorm.
Rico flattened himself against the wall beside the door, Rat's dagger held low, ready. His mind was crystal clear, the fear replaced by icy focus. He was Rico Moretti again, not the helpless boy. He was The Razor, and he was about to live up to his name.
The door swung open, and Gorm's bulk filled the doorway. "Rat? You done in there? What's takin' so…"
He saw the body on the floor, his eyes widening in momentary disbelief. That was all the opening Rico needed.
He lunged, not for the throat this time – Gorm was too tall, his neck too thick. Rico went low, driving the stolen dagger with all his might into the soft spot just above Gorm's groin.
The brute roared, a sound of pure agony and outrage, his hands instinctively going to the terrible wound. His axe clattered to the stone floor.
Rico didn't give him a chance to recover. He yanked the dagger free, sidestepped Gorm's clumsy, pain-fueled swing, and drove the blade into the side of his exposed neck, right below the ear, severing arteries.
Gorm gargled, blood fountaining. He staggered, clawed at Rico, his immense strength still a threat even in death. Rico kicked his legs out from under him, and the giant crashed to the floor with a sickening thud, his lifeblood pooling around him.
The rush was even more intense this time. Gorm's essence flooded into Rico – raw, brutal strength, a lifetime of mindless violence, a stubborn resilience. Rico felt his own muscles swell and harden, a surge of primal power thrumming through his veins. The lingering aches and pains from his earlier beating vanished completely. He felt stronger, significantly so, than he had just moments before. His new body, previously a liability, now felt… capable. More than capable.
He also absorbed Gorm's rudimentary understanding of combat, the brutal, straightforward tactics of a thug. It wasn't finessed, but it was effective. And with it came a clearer, if still crude, map of Krayn's little gang, their numbers, their habits.
Two down. Two essences absorbed. He could feel the difference. This power was intoxicating.
He picked up Gorm's axe. It was heavy, crudely made, but well-balanced enough. He preferred the dagger, but the axe had reach and a satisfying heft.
Krayn and his remaining two thugs were in the next room, probably alerted by Gorm's death roar. Rico didn't wait for them to come to him. He was the wolf among the sheep now.
He kicked open the door to the larger chamber, axe in one hand, bloody dagger in the other.
Krayn was on his feet, his greasy face a mask of fury and surprise. His two remaining lackeys were scrambling for their own weapons – a rusty sword and a club.
"You little bastard!" Krayn snarled. "You'll die screaming for this!"
Rico just smiled, a cold, predatory baring of teeth that didn't belong on the face of a boy. "You first."
The fight was short, brutal, and utterly one-sided. The two lackeys were no match for Rico's newfound strength and the cold fury of a cornered mafia boss with a taste of godlike power. He moved with a speed and precision that his previous, older body could only have dreamed of, amplified by the essences he'd consumed.
The thug with the club rushed him, swinging wildly. Rico sidestepped, the axe a blur, and cleaved the man's skull open. Another jolt of essence, weaker this time – this man was a follower, a dullard – but it still added to the burgeoning power within him. A little more resilience, a flicker of something… a surprising, if fleeting, knowledge of basic dice-cheating techniques. Useless now, maybe useful later. Everything had a value.
The second lackey, seeing his companion fall, hesitated. Fatal. Rico's dagger found his throat before he could even raise his rusty sword properly. Another rush, another small increment to his growing strength. This one had a surprising talent for pickpocketing. Interesting.
Now it was just Krayn. The gang boss, his face pale beneath the grime, backed away, his bravado evaporating. He still held his dagger, but his eyes were wide with a fear Rico recognized well – the fear of a man who knows he's about to die.
"Who… who are you?" Krayn stammered.
Rico advanced slowly, the blood-soaked axe held loosely at his side. "I'm the new boss of Flea Bottom," he said, his voice a low growl, resonating with a power that was more than just physical. "And you're my first lesson in asset acquisition."
Krayn lunged, a desperate, telegraphed attack. Rico parried the dagger strike easily with his axe handle, then brought the butt of the axe crashing down on Krayn's wrist. Bones crunched. The dagger clattered away.
Krayn screamed, clutching his shattered hand.
Rico wasted no time. He reversed the axe, the blade whistling through the air, and brought it down on Krayn's head with a sickening, final thud.
The last essence flowed into him, the strongest yet from these Flea Bottom dregs. Krayn's essence was a potent cocktail of low cunning, brutality, a network of contacts within the slum, knowledge of smuggling routes under the city, and a surprisingly keen, if ruthless, understanding of how to control desperate men. It was a significant upgrade. Rico felt his mind sharpen, his senses expand further. The layout of this section of Flea Bottom, Krayn's safe houses, his hidden stashes of coin – it all flooded into Rico's awareness.
He stood there, panting, surrounded by the carnage. Four bodies. Four lives extinguished. And with each one, he had grown stronger, more aware, more… himself, yet also something new.
The dim light of the brazier cast flickering shadows on the blood-spattered walls. The stench of death was thick in the air. But to Rico, it smelled like opportunity.
He was in a savage world, yes. But he had a savage power. He was a Game of Thrones fan, he knew the players, he knew the game. And now, he had the means to not just play, but to dominate.
His name was Rico Moretti. But that man was dead.
He looked at his reflection in a murky puddle of spilled ale and blood. The face staring back was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, with hard eyes that held the chilling wisdom of a lifetime of violence and a newfound, terrible purpose.
This world of Westeros, this age of fire and blood leading to the Dance of the Dragons, was a ladder of chaos. And he, with his unique gift, was about to start climbing. Each kill, a step higher. Humans, dragons, magic beings… even gods, the prompt had said.
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his young face.
The pinnacle of this world? He wouldn't just climb to it.
He would carve his way there. Starting tonight. Starting in the shit-hole of Flea Bottom.