Chapter 6: Forging the Razor, Weaving the Web
The essence of Ser Kellen of the Kingswood was a peculiar vintage. It lacked the raw, explosive power of Gorm's brute strength or Morgo's savage aggression, yet it possessed a subtle, insidious potency. It was the difference between a tankard of cheap ale and a goblet of Arbor Gold – one hit you over the head, the other seeped into your bones and changed your posture.
In the dank cellar beneath his hovel, the same space where Morgo had met his end, Rico Moretti now practiced with a dedication that bordered on obsession. The blacksmith he'd paid – a one-eyed, taciturn man named Mikken who operated a forge in the soot-stained heart of Flea Bottom and asked no questions as long as the coin was good – had delivered a sword. It wasn't a knight's ornate longsword, but a bastard sword, practical and brutally efficient, with a dark, unpolished blade and a simple crossguard. Rico had specified a leather-wrapped hilt that offered a superb grip.
Holding it, Kellen's absorbed knowledge flowed through him. Not just memories, but muscle memory, an ingrained understanding of balance, stance, and the fundamental cuts and parries of formal swordsmanship. Kellen might have been a "popinjay," more concerned with his velvet doublets than rigorous training, but he had received the education of a knight. That education, however mediocre its original recipient, now resided within Rico.
He moved through the drills – the garde, the taille, the estoc – his body, already enhanced by previous absorptions, responding with a speed and precision that would have been unthinkable for him just weeks ago. The cellar was cramped, forcing him to adapt, to use shorter, more controlled movements. He imagined opponents: the lumbering Gorm, the vicious Morgo, the arrogant Kellen himself. With each imagined bout, his anachronistic Game of Thrones fanboy knowledge supplied archetypes of Westerosi fighters – the lightning speed of Syrio Forel, the brute force of Gregor Clegane, the pragmatic skill of Bronn. He was none of them, not yet, but the templates gave his training a focus.
Elric, huddled by a small brazier Rico now allowed him for warmth, would watch these sessions with a mixture of awe and terror. The old man had seen his share of brawls and street fights, but this was different. This was a predator honing its claws.
"Remarkable, Master Razor," Elric would whisper, his voice raspy. "You move as if you've trained for years, not mere days."
Rico would only grunt in response, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning. The absorbed skill was a foundation, a blueprint. But it was his effort, his will, that was forging it into a true weapon. He found that he could push past Kellen's apparent laziness, drawing on the sheer endurance absorbed from men like Gorm to train for hours, refining the techniques, making them his own. The poetry he'd absorbed from Kellen? Utterly useless, though occasionally a ridiculously flowery phrase would pop into his head when observing Finn's furtive movements, much to his internal, grim amusement. Finn, thou art as a shadow flitting, a whisper on the wind's soft knitting… He'd quickly quash such nonsense.
His growing mastery of the blade was more than just a new combat skill. It changed his calculus of threat and opportunity. He was still pragmatic, still preferred to strike from the shadows or with overwhelming local superiority, but the knowledge that he could, if pressed, defend himself with a degree of formal skill, lent him an additional layer of confidence, a sharper edge to his already formidable presence.
This newfound confidence permeated his other activities. Flea Bottom was still a chaotic cesspool, but under Rico's increasingly organized hand, his section of it was becoming a well-oiled, if morally bankrupt, machine. The gold from Larys Graceford was the lubricant.
He tasked Jax with expanding their "protection" rackets, not through random violence, but with a more systematic approach. They targeted slightly more prosperous (a very relative term in Flea Bottom) operations – the sturdier shebeens, the back-alley gambling dens that Morgo had controlled, even a grimy bathhouse that catered to sailors and low-rent merchants. Rico set the rates, ensuring they were high enough to be profitable but not so crippling as to drive their "clients" out of business or into the arms of another aspiring gang lord. He learned this balance from his mafia days: a milked cow gives more than a slaughtered one.
Finn, his nervous energy now channeled into a surprisingly effective network of informants, became Rico's eyes and ears, his web spreading beyond their immediate territory. Beggars, whores, street urchins, even disgruntled servants in the lower-end merchant houses – Finn found ways to ply them with a few coppers, a piece of bread, or a promise of protection in exchange for whispers. Rico wanted to know about Gold Cloak patrols, rival gang movements, new arrivals in Flea Bottom, and any gossip that drifted down from the wealthier parts of the city.
One of Krayn's absorbed memories had been of a series of hidden tunnels beneath their hovel, part of an older, forgotten sewer system that snaked its way towards the Blackwater Rush. Krayn had used them for quick escapes and to stash small contraband. Rico, with his new resources, saw greater potential. He put some of his men, the ones who were strong of back and weak of mind, to work clearing and shoring up these tunnels. A secure, hidden route for smuggling goods – or people – could be immensely profitable and a significant strategic advantage.
He also needed a "front." A legitimate-seeming establishment that could serve as a meeting place, a source of income, and a place to launder information and coin. He found it in a dilapidated tavern on the edge of his territory called "The Leaky Dinghy." Its owner, a one-legged man named Stumpy Jon, was deeply in debt to a loan shark who was about to take his leg, or his life. Rico "persuaded" the loan shark to transfer the debt to him, then offered Stumpy Jon a deal: continue running the tavern, pay Rico a hefty percentage, keep his mouth shut, and report anything interesting he overheard. Jon, grateful to keep his remaining leg and his life, readily agreed. The Leaky Dinghy, under new, silent ownership, became another node in Rico's growing network.
His crew was evolving. Jax remained his loyal, if unimaginative, enforcer. Finn was proving invaluable. Elric, fueled by a steady, if controlled, supply of cheap wine and the novel sensation of being useful again, was not just a tutor but was slowly becoming a reluctant archivist, meticulously (for a man with trembling hands) keeping track of names, locations, and payments on scraps of parchment Rico provided. Among Morgo's former men, a few stood out. Grok, the brute who had helped with Kellen's squires, was all muscle but fiercely loyal after Rico had spared him and then rewarded him. Another, a wiry, silent man named Shiv, had an uncanny talent with throwing knives – a skill Rico noted for future development or absorption.
The true test of his growing organization, and a significant opportunity, was the rapidly approaching King's Viserys's nameday tourney. King's Landing was transforming. Brightly colored banners of a hundred noble houses began to festoon the city walls and major thoroughfares. Knights in gleaming armor, accompanied by their squires and retinues, became a common sight, their horses clattering on the cobblestones. Merchants hawked tourney favors, food vendors set up stalls near the future grounds of the Tourney of the Hand's Meadow (as it would be known later, though now it was just a large, recently cleared field outside the King's Gate), and the city buzzed with an excitement that even penetrated the grim warrens of Flea Bottom.
For Rico, it was less about the spectacle and more about the concentration of targets and opportunities.
"Lord Larys will have tasks for us during this time, I'm sure," Rico said to Jax one evening, as they overlooked a crude map of the city Elric had helped sketch. "But we need our own agenda."
Larys, in fact, did make contact. Another perfumed note arrived, summoning Rico not to a brothel this time, but to a discreet alcove in the gardens of a minor noble's manse where Larys was attending a pre-tourney feast. Larys, flushed with wine and self-importance, had a new proposition.
"Razor, my resourceful friend," Larys slurred, looking around conspiratorially. "The tourney will bring many… pigeons ripe for the plucking. Betting will be fierce. Information will be key. There's a certain Reach knight, a Ser Steffon Fossoway, a cousin of mine by marriage, thrice removed. An apple Fossoway, not one of the green ones, thankfully." He winked, a gesture that Rico's absorbed courtly knowledge now understood as a reference to the two branches of House Fossoway. "Steffon is a decent jouster, but his favored horse, Stormcloud, has a… sensitive left foreleg. Prone to limping if it's not meticulously cared for before a match. Or if, say, it were to encounter a… small, sharp object on the way to the lists."
Rico's eyes narrowed. "You want me to lame a knight's horse?"
"Subtly, Razor, subtly!" Larys hissed. "Just enough to give him a disadvantage. I plan to wager heavily against him in his first tilt. If he performs poorly, my winnings will be substantial. And your share, naturally, will reflect your… assistance." He named a sum that made Rico's eyebrows rise. It was significantly more than the Kellen job.
This was a different kind of task. Less direct violence against a person, more sabotage. It was also risky. Harming a knight's warhorse was a serious offense, and tourney grounds would be heavily patrolled.
"This Ser Steffon," Rico asked. "Where does he stable his horse? What are his routines?"
Larys provided the details. Ser Steffon was staying at the Inn of the Seven Swords, and Stormcloud was stabled there, under the care of two grooms.
Rico left Larys with a noncommittal agreement to "look into the matter." He wasn't averse to the task, but he needed to weigh the risks and rewards. More importantly, Larys's request sparked an idea. If Larys was looking for an edge in betting, so were others. The tourney was a hotbed of intrigue, rivalry, and high-stakes gambling. Information, sabotage, even intimidation – these were commodities that Rico's organization could provide.
His literacy was now functional enough, thanks to Elric's diligent, if sometimes terrified, tutelage and Kellen's absorbed scholasticism, to read simple notices and even some of the more lurid gossip sheets that were beginning to circulate. He learned the names of favored champions, the odds being offered in back-alley betting pools, and the schedule of events. The jousts, the melee, the archery competition – each was an ecosystem of potential profit and, for Rico, potential essence.
He pictured the knights: strong, skilled, steeped in martial tradition. He thought of skilled archers, their keen eyesight and steady hands. Even the squires and men-at-arms of prominent lords might possess useful, if less glamorous, essences.
His own training with the bastard sword was progressing rapidly. He sparred with Jax, who, despite his brute strength and club, found himself increasingly outmaneuvered by Rico's newfound skill and speed. These weren't serious spars, more like controlled tests, but Jax's growing respect was evident.
"Boss, you fight like a demon now," Jax panted after one session where Rico had disarmed him thrice in quick succession. "That fancy knight taught you well, even if he was dead while doin' it."
Rico merely nodded, already thinking ahead. He needed more than just swordsmanship. The tourney would involve horses, crowds, varying terrains. Kellen's essence had included a rudimentary familiarity with horses, but not true equestrian skill.
An opportunity presented itself in an unexpected way. One of his newer recruits, a former Rat Alley Boy named Harl, was caught trying to skim from the take of a protected gambling den. Under Rico's new regime, the punishment for such an offense was swift and brutal. Rico could have simply killed him, absorbed whatever meager essence Harl possessed. But Finn reported something interesting: Harl, before falling in with Morgo, had worked as a stablehand for a minor lord, and was rumored to be exceptionally good with horses, even difficult ones.
Rico summoned Harl, who arrived expecting death. He was a wiry young man, his face pale with terror.
"Harl," Rico said, his voice cold. "You stole from me."
Harl fell to his knees. "Mercy, Master Razor! It was a moment of weakness! I… I can repay it!"
Rico circled him slowly. "Perhaps. Finn tells me you have a way with horses."
Harl looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. "Aye, boss! Better than any man in Flea Bottom, I swear it! I can calm the wildest stallion, spot a lame leg from a mile off, make a nag run like a champion!"
"A useful skill," Rico mused. "Especially with the tourney approaching." He paused. "I need someone to… assess the health and temperament of certain horses. And perhaps, to teach me the basics of riding, quickly and discreetly. Kellen's memories are… insufficient."
Harl's eyes widened. "Teach you, boss? I… I'd be honored!"
"Your life depends on the quality of your instruction, Harl," Rico said softly. "And on your absolute loyalty from this day forward. You understand?"
"Yes, Master Razor! Crystal clear!"
And so, Harl the horse thief became Harl the riding instructor. In a secluded, rubbish-strewn yard, using a swaybacked, ill-tempered pony 'acquired' by Jax, Harl began teaching Rico how to ride. It was an awkward, painful process at first, very different from the intuitive grace of swordsmanship. But Rico's enhanced physique and his sheer determination, coupled with Harl's surprisingly patient (fear-induced) instruction, meant he progressed faster than any normal student. He wouldn't be charging into a joust anytime soon, but he was learning to stay on a horse, to guide it, to understand its movements.
This, too, was part of forging the Razor. Every skill, every piece of knowledge, every loyal underling, was another sharpened edge, another point on his ever-growing arsenal. Larys Graceford wanted a horse lamed. Rico Moretti was thinking bigger. He was thinking about how to use the chaos and opportunity of a grand tourney to take another significant step towards the pinnacle of this new, savage world. He would gather information, build his network, acquire new assets – both monetary and essential – and perhaps, just perhaps, make a name for himself, not as a Flea Bottom thug, but as a whisper in the ears of power, a hidden hand that could tilt the scales.
The city held its breath, waiting for the spectacle. Rico Moretti held his, waiting for the hunt.