Chapter 3: A Whisper in the Mud, A Hand in the Silk
The air in The Rusty Helmet was thick with the metallic tang of impending violence. The drunken young nobleman, puffed up with Arbor Gold and arrogance, postured before the increasingly irate tavern owner. His two guards, thuggish but clearly accustomed to their master's petulance, had hands on hilts, their bored expressions replaced with a professional readiness.
Rico Moretti watched, not with the casual interest of a bystander, but with the predatory focus of a chess master observing a crucial move. This wasn't just a bar brawl waiting to happen; it was an intersection of worlds. The grimy underbelly of King's Landing brushing against the silken privilege of the nobility. And Rico, the newly risen Razor of Flea Bottom, intended to be the fulcrum.
He didn't want to fight the guards directly. Not here. Too messy, too many witnesses, and attacking a nobleman, even a foolish one, could bring down a world of hurt he wasn't ready for. No, this required finesse, a scalpel rather than a sledgehammer. His power grew with kills, but his influence would grow with cunning.
"Jax, Finn," Rico murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the tavern's din. "Stay put. Don't move unless I signal. And if you do, be smart about it."
Jax grunted, his one good eye narrowed. Finn, ever nervous, just nodded jerkily.
Rico rose slowly, not with aggression, but with an air of weary intervention. He pushed back Krayn's slightly-too-large tunic sleeves, revealing the surprisingly well-toned forearms that were a recent acquisition from Gorm. He walked not towards the nobleman or the owner, but towards the bar, placing himself peripherally to the unfolding drama.
He signaled the barman, a different, harried-looking fellow who was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the volatile noble. "Another ale for myself," Rico said, his voice calm but carrying an unexpected note of authority that made the barman look up in surprise. He placed a silver stag on the counter – more than enough. "And," he added, nodding subtly towards the irate nobleman, "perhaps a bottle of the actual Arbor Gold your establishment keeps for… discerning customers. Put it on my coin."
The young nobleman, whose name Rico didn't yet know, heard the words "Arbor Gold" and "discerning customers." His tirade faltered for a moment. He turned, his wine-flushed face contorting in a sneer as he took in Rico's rough Flea Bottom attire.
"And who in the seven hells are you, dung-scraper?" the noble spat. "Offering me your filthy coin?"
Rico met his gaze, not with defiance, but with a cool, almost detached amusement. This was a language nobles understood, even if they didn't expect it from someone like him: utter lack of deference.
"Just a man who appreciates good wine, even when it's served in a… rustic setting," Rico replied, his tone even. "And who dislikes seeing it wasted in a squabble. The good stuff, I mean." He gave a pointed look at the half-empty tankard the noble had been complaining about.
The tavern owner, seeing a potential, albeit unlikely, de-escalation, quickly chimed in. "Aye, m'lord! This… this gentleman speaks true. We do have a finer vintage, reserved, of course." He was already scurrying to a hidden shelf beneath the counter.
The nobleman looked momentarily nonplussed. Rico's calm, his implication that the noble was making a fuss over the cheap house wine, had subtly shifted the dynamic. It pricked the young lord's vanity rather than his anger.
"Well," the noble huffed, trying to regain his bluster, "if there's better to be had, then produce it! And it better be worth my time."
One of his guards muttered, "M'lord, perhaps we should just leave…"
"Nonsense, Joryn," the noble snapped, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. He was intrigued, perhaps even a little shamed into seeing this through.
The tavern owner returned, dusting off a less battered, corked bottle. He uncorked it with a flourish, the aroma noticeably finer than the vinegar Rico was currently nursing. He poured a generous measure into a cleaner, if still chipped, goblet and offered it to the nobleman.
The young lord sniffed it suspiciously, then took a tentative sip. His eyes widened slightly. "Well… this is… acceptable." He took a larger gulp. "Indeed, far superior to that swill you tried to pass off earlier!"
Rico gave a slight nod to the tavern owner, who shot him a grateful, if bewildered, look. "Sometimes," Rico said, loud enough for the noble to hear, "one must simply know what to ask for. Or have someone ask for them."
He turned back to the barman. "My ale?"
The nobleman, now mollified by the better wine and slightly intrigued by the strangely confident street youth, looked Rico up and down again. "You have a discerning palate for a… commoner. And a heavy purse, it seems."
"I manage," Rico said cryptically. He took his refilled tankard. He now had the nobleman's attention, and had done so without bloodshed or overt threat. Phase one complete.
"What's your name, boy?" the noble asked, his arrogance tempered with curiosity.
"People call me Razor," Rico said, using the moniker Krayn's men had sometimes used for their boss, which he was now claiming. It sounded better than 'Rico from another dimension.' "And you, m'lord?"
"Larys," the young noble announced, puffing his chest out slightly. "Larys Graceford. My father is Lord Gregor Graceford of Holyhall."
Graceford. A house sworn to Highgarden in the Reach. Not a major player in the capital, but still nobility. Rico filed the name away. Larys Graceford. Young, arrogant, fond of wine, easily manipulated by appealing to his vanity. Potentially useful.
"A pleasure, Lord Larys," Rico said smoothly. "Perhaps you'd allow me to share this… acceptable vintage with you? Discuss matters of mutual interest?"
Larys looked surprised, then a smirk played on his lips. The idea of slumming it with a surprisingly articulate street tough, one who bought him good wine, probably appealed to his sense of decadent adventure. "Very well, Razor. For a short while. Don't get any ideas above your station."
Rico merely smiled. His station was whatever he chose to make it.
He joined Larys at his table, Jax and Finn watching from their corner with a mixture of apprehension and awe. The two Graceford guards stood a little straighter, their eyes on Rico, but the immediate tension had dissipated.
For the next hour, Rico played a careful game. He listened more than he talked, prompting Larys with questions that flattered his ego. He learned that Larys was in King's Landing on a minor errand for his father, mostly spending his time (and his father's coin) in less reputable establishments, bored with the formalities of the Red Keep. He was, as Rico suspected, full of court gossip – much of it trivial, some of it potentially useful. He spoke of the upcoming tourney for King Viserys's nameday, the latest fashions, the rivalries between minor knights. He confirmed Daemon Targaryen was indeed in the city, though keeping a low profile, a guest at some manse in the Street of Silk.
Rico absorbed it all, filtering the dross from the gold. He didn't reveal anything about himself, maintaining an air of enigmatic competence. He let Larys believe he was just a particularly sharp Flea Bottom denizen with an uncanny ability to navigate the city's underbelly.
Crucially, as Larys grew drunker and more expansive, Rico subtly steered the conversation to needs.
"A man like you, Lord Larys," Rico said, his voice sympathetic, "must find it tiresome dealing with the… lesser elements of this city when you seek your pleasures. Reliable information, discreet services… these things can be hard to come by for an outsider."
Larys snorted. "Tell me about it. Half the servants are spies, the merchants cheats, and the whores… well, the less said the better about some of them."
"Indeed," Rico said. "Perhaps, should you ever require something… procured, or some information gathered that polite society wouldn't deign to handle, I might know a few people. People who value discretion. And who appreciate… patrons who are generous."
Larys's eyes, though glazed with wine, held a spark of interest. "Are you offering your services, Razor?"
"Let's say I'm offering… a potential solution to certain logistical problems a nobleman might face in a city like this," Rico said smoothly. "No more, no less. A whisper in the mud, if you will, for a hand in the silk."
He produced a small, tarnished silver piece, one of Krayn's. On it, he scratched a tiny, almost invisible 'R' with the tip of a dagger he'd palmed earlier. "Should you need to find me, ask for Razor near the Eel's Coil in Flea Bottom. Show this. Someone will know where to look."
Larys took the coin, squinting at the scratch. He chuckled. "Clever. Very well, Razor. I may just take you up on that. A man of… particular talents… could be useful." He drained his goblet. "But now, I must retire. This… excursion… has been surprisingly diverting."
He rose unsteadily. His guards helped him up. As they were leaving, Larys paused and looked back at Rico. "You're wasted in the gutter, Razor. Though I suspect you already know that."
Rico just inclined his head. "Enjoy the rest of your stay, Lord Larys."
Once they were gone, the tavern seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The owner hurried over to Rico's table. "Thank you, master… Razor. You handled that well. That young lordling could have wrecked the place. The wine is on the house, of course."
"Keep the change from the stag," Rico said. "Just remember my name. And that I appreciate a quiet place to drink from time to time."
The owner bowed, suitably impressed. "Of course, Master Razor. Anytime."
Jax and Finn approached, their expressions unreadable.
"Boss," Jax said, his voice low, "that was… risky. Playing games with nobles."
"Calculated risk, Jax," Rico corrected. "We need eyes and ears beyond Flea Bottom. And sometimes, the best way to control a man is to make him think he's controlling you."
He now had a potential, if unreliable, link to the world of nobility. A drunken fop, yes, but a fop with connections and access to information Rico couldn't get from scaring Flea Bottom rats. It was a start.
Their return to Krayn's – his – hovel was uneventful. Rico spent the rest of the day consolidating. He interrogated Krayn's former informants, the beggars and whores whose names and locations he'd absorbed. Some were terrified, others defiant, a few clearly opportunistic. He made an example of one particularly belligerent pimp who thought Krayn's demise was an invitation to muscle in.
The confrontation was swift and brutal, a demonstration for his own fledgling crew as much as for the local underworld. He didn't use Gorm's axe this time. He used Krayn's old dagger, the one he'd used to kill the gang leader, and the fight was a vicious, close-quarters affair in a stinking alley. The pimp was strong, wielding a meat cleaver, but Rico was faster, his movements guided by a blend of street cunning and the raw physicality he'd absorbed. He took a shallow cut to his arm – a reminder that he wasn't invincible – but ended it by disarming the man and slitting his throat.
The essence that flooded him was greasy, tainted with petty cruelties and a surprising knowledge of the local brothel economy. More importantly, it sent a clear message. The kill also gave him an idea. The pimp had controlled a few streetwalkers. Rico didn't want to be in that business directly, but information flowed through those channels. He tasked Finn, whose nervous energy might actually be suited to gathering whispers, to find a way to 'liaise' with them.
He also spent time examining his own growing power. The absorbed essences weren't just memories; they were closer to ingrained instincts. He knew how to use an axe like Gorm, not just remembered Gorm using one. He felt Krayn's understanding of Flea Bottom's power dynamics. The skills were raw, unrefined, but present. He wondered if he could train them, hone them like any other skill. Could he become a better swordsman by absorbing the essence of a master, or would he just get the raw talent and have to build upon it? This needed testing, but he couldn't just go around challenging skilled fighters to duels to the death. Not yet.
The cut on his arm healed remarkably quickly. Within hours, the bleeding had stopped, and the pain had dulled to a mere ache. By the next morning, it was little more than a pink line. His resilience, bolstered by the essences, was definitely superhuman.
He realized he needed more than just thugs. He needed skills his current acquisitions hadn't provided. Literacy was a major one. His Game of Thrones knowledge was vast, but if he couldn't read maps, ledgers, or missives in this world, he'd be severely handicapped. Krayn had been illiterate. Gorm certainly was.
"Jax," he said the next day, as they were gnawing on some dried meat from Krayn's stash. "Anyone in our… circle… who can read? Or write?"
Jax snorted. "Read? Boss, most of us are lucky if we can count our own fingers without gettin' confused. That's for maesters and highborn squids."
Rico frowned. This was a problem. He couldn't rely on others to read for him indefinitely; that was a weakness. "Find someone," he ordered. "A beggar who used to be a scribe, a failed novice from the Citadel, anyone. They teach me, they eat. They refuse, they fertilize the river."
His ruthlessness was becoming second nature again, adapted to this new, harsher environment. The pretty courtesies of his old mafia life – the polite threats before the violence – were being stripped away. Here, directness was more effective.
Jax, to his credit, didn't flinch. He was beginning to understand the kind of leader Rico was. "I'll ask around. Might be some old drunkard who remembers his letters. Won't be cheap, if they're any good."
"We have Krayn's coin," Rico reminded him. "Use it. Wisely."
His sphere of influence was still tiny, a few blocks of Flea Bottom. But it was his. He established a rough system. Jax was his enforcer, his fist. Finn, surprisingly, was proving useful as an information gatherer, his nervous energy making him seem harmless as he flitted through the alleys, listening. The other two Krayn remnants were muscle, assigned to guard the hovel or shake down the few local businesses that had previously paid Krayn protection money. Rico made sure the rates were the same, for now. Stability first, then expansion.
He started to think longer term, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of the Red Keep, visible from certain vantage points in Flea Bottom. The Dance of the Dragons. A continent-spanning war that would tear the realm apart. For a Game of Thrones fan, it was epic, tragic. For Rico Moretti, the reincarnated mafia boss with the power to absorb the dead, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Chaos was a ladder, as Littlefinger would say. But Rico wasn't just going to climb it. He was going to build it, rung by bloody rung, from the essences of his enemies. Dragons, magic beings, even gods… the thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He was a long way from facing a dragon, but every step, every kill, every piece of information, every new contact, brought him closer.
Larys Graceford was a pawn, a very minor one. But even pawns could open up the game. He needed more such pawns, more connections outside the squalor. The tourney Larys had mentioned… that would be a gathering of nobles, knights, power. A place to observe, to learn, perhaps even to… acquire.
His old life was a ghost, a collection of useful skills and brutal lessons. His new life was a raw, untamed frontier. Rico 'The Razor' Moretti looked out over the stinking, teeming expanse of Flea Bottom, no longer a prisoner, but its nascent king. And he smiled. The game was truly afoot. He just needed to ensure he was strong enough, smart enough, and ruthless enough to not just play it, but to win it on his own terms. And winning, for Rico, meant taking it all.