Chapter 27: The Queen's Justice, The Rogue Prince's Game
The fall of King's Landing to the Black Queen Rhaenyra and her consort, Prince Daemon Targaryen, was less a liberation and more a violent changing of the guard. The green banners of Aegon II were torn down with savage fury, replaced by the red and black three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, Rhaenyra's personal standard. Daemon's feared Stormcrows, a brutal collection of sellswords and hardened veterans, alongside loyalist riverlords and Crownland knights, swarmed the city, their justice swift and often merciless for any known Green sympathizers. The Great Sept's bells, which had tolled for Viserys and then for Aegon's hasty coronation, now rang with a strained, uncertain peal for Queen Rhaenyra.
For Rico Moretti, the shift was a seismic tremor that threatened to topple the carefully constructed edifice of his power. His association with the Greens, particularly his role as their clandestine inquisitor under the patronage of Larys Graceford and the tacit approval of Prince Aemond, was now a potentially fatal liability.
His first priority was damage control. Larys Graceford, that sniveling, ambitious fop, was the weakest link. The man knew too much. When the city fell, Larys had, predictably, gone to ground, likely cowering in some forgotten bolthole. Rico tasked Finn, whose network, though shaken by the regime change, was still remarkably effective (aided by the absorbed investigative instincts of Ser Tommen Lannister and the underworld savvy of The Scales), with locating him.
"Find Lord Larys, Finn," Rico had ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "He is a loose thread that needs to be… tidied." He left the method to Finn's imagination, though he knew his spymaster would understand the implication. Larys Graceford could not be allowed to fall into Black hands and sing of The Razor's services to the Greens.
While Finn hunted Larys, Rico turned his attention to the new power structure. King's Landing was now Daemon Targaryen's city, in all but name. Queen Rhaenyra remained, for the moment, on Dragonstone, preparing for her formal entry and the reconvening of her own court. But Daemon, as Protector of the Realm (a title he claimed with far more gusto and immediate effect than Aemond ever had), was the iron fist crushing Green resistance and reshaping the capital. His reputation preceded him: the Rogue Prince, the Blood Wyrm's rider, a brilliant commander, a ruthless politician, and a man who knew the city's gutters as intimately as its palaces. He would be a far more formidable entity to deal with than the often-complacent Greens.
Rico knew he needed to make a move, to establish his value to the new regime before they decided he was simply another Green remnant to be purged. He couldn't offer fealty; his power lay in his perceived neutrality, his utility. He would offer control.
Through Mathis, who still had carefully cultivated contacts within the merchant guilds (many of whom were now desperately trying to curry favor with the Blacks), Rico sent a discreet message to the new interim Master of Coin appointed by Daemon – a pragmatic Volantene named Tregar Ormollen, known more for his ability to fill depleted coffers than for his noble lineage. The message was simple: the underworld of King's Landing, which had descended into chaos with the fall of the city, could be… stabilized. Certain supply lines, vital for feeding the populace and Daemon's army, could be… secured. For a price. And under the discreet management of a single, capable hand who preferred anonymity.
The response came not from Ormollen, but from a more shadowy figure: Mysaria, the Lady Misery, Daemon's Essosi paramour and, it was widely whispered, his mistress of whispers. She was the White Worm, her network of spies rivaling anything Rico had encountered, save perhaps the one he now commanded. An invitation arrived via a terrified urchin: a meeting, at midnight, in the ruins of a burned-out sept near the Street of Silk – a place known for its neutrality in past gang wars.
Rico went, flanked by Shiv and Vorian, his new sword Anādrag a comforting weight at his side. Lyra had provided him with a subtle antidote to several common Essosi poisons, just in case. Mysaria awaited him, a pale, enigmatic figure shrouded in dark silks, her eyes holding an ancient, knowing weariness. Several of her own silent, tattooed Essosi guards lurked in the shadows.
"So, The Razor finally shows his edge," Mysaria said, her voice a low, accented murmur. "The city bleeds, and the rats grow bold. Prince Daemon requires order. You claim you can provide it?"
"Order is my trade, Lady Misery," Rico replied, his voice equally soft, drawing on the courtly nuances absorbed from Kellen and Patrek, yet underpinned by the iron of The Scales. "Flea Bottom, the docks, the black markets… they answer to me. Their chaos, or their calm, is of my choosing. I can ensure the provisions flow, that the smallfolk do not starve to such an extent they riot against their new Queen. I can ensure… discretion… for certain activities the Prince might deem necessary."
Mysaria's eyes narrowed. "And your price, Razor?"
"My continued autonomy," Rico stated. "And a… reasonable percentage… of the city's less visible commerce. In return, Prince Daemon will find King's Landing's underbelly surprisingly… manageable. And my network, which hears many whispers, might occasionally learn things of value to him."
It was a bold gamble. He was offering to be the Blacks' underworld enforcer, much as he had been for the Greens, but on his own terms. Mysaria listened, her expression unreadable. "Prince Daemon is not as… trusting… as the Hightowers. He will expect results. And loyalty. Or he will feed you to Caraxes, piece by piece."
"Results are my specialty, Lady Misery," Rico said. "As for loyalty… my loyalty is to the stability that allows my enterprises to flourish. A stable city under Queen Rhaenyra is… acceptable." For now.
An understanding was reached, unspoken but clear. Rico would keep the city's criminal element in check, ensure vital supplies moved, and provide intelligence. In return, Daemon's regime would largely turn a blind eye to his operations, so long as they did not directly challenge Black authority. It was a pact with a dragon, and Rico knew dragons were fickle, deadly beasts.
Finn, meanwhile, reported success. Larys Graceford had been found cowering in the wine cellar of a minor Lysene pillow house he frequented. His end had been swift, silent, and attributed to "grief and excessive drink" upon the fall of his Green patrons. Rico felt a brief, almost negligible flicker of something – perhaps the echo of Ser Tommen Lannister's Lannister loyalty, or simply the pragmatist's satisfaction at a problem solved. Larys's essence, had he taken it, would have been a watery mix of cowardice, vanity, and courtly gossip. Not worth the effort. His silence was payment enough.
With his flank secured and a tentative understanding reached with the new regime, Rico turned his attention to the Dragonpit. The fall of King's Landing had thrown it into turmoil. Many of the Hightower guards had been slain or had fled. The Dragonkeepers were terrified, unsure of their fate under the Blacks. Rhaenyra and Daemon, with their own dragons, would have little patience for any perceived Green loyalty within the Pit's ancient walls.
Vorian and Harl, Rico's eyes and ears, reported that Daemon himself had visited the Dragonpit, his dragon Caraxes landing on its vast dome like a crimson harbinger of the new order. He had personally interrogated the senior Dragonkeepers – Garth, Cley, and the Cargyll twins, Arryk and Erryk. Arryk, it was said, had reaffirmed his loyalty to Aegon II, even in Daemon's fearsome presence, and had been summarily imprisoned. Erryk, long troubled by the Greens' actions, had reportedly declared for Queen Rhaenyra and had been instrumental in helping Daemon secure the Pit and its dragons.
This was critical intelligence. Erryk Cargyll, now a favored Dragonkeeper of the Blacks, was a potential asset, or a formidable obstacle. And Kennard, the old egg-master whose essence Rico now possessed, had known Erryk well, had understood his quiet integrity, his deep love for the dragons.
Rico, using the knowledge from Kennard's essence, began to subtly feed information and advice to Erryk through Harl, who, with his genuine affinity for animals and his quiet diligence, had managed to earn a measure of trust from the now-ascendant Keeper. Small things: a suggestion for a specific herbal balm for one of the younger dragons showing signs of stress, a reminder of an old Valyrian lullaby Kennard had used for Dreamfyre when she was agitated (as she surely was, with Queen Helaena now a prisoner in the Red Keep, her grief a palpable miasma). These small acts of "wisdom," passed through Harl as "ancient Keeper lore remembered," began to elevate Erryk's own standing and, unknowingly, made him receptive to the unseen influence of The Razor.
Rico's primary concern was Sunfyre. King Aegon's magnificent golden dragon, gravely wounded at Rook's Rest, was still hidden somewhere within the Dragonpit's deepest vaults. The Greens had hoped for his recovery; the Blacks would see him as a potent symbol of their enemy, a threat to be neutralized. Maegor's essence, and now Kennard's, gave Rico an almost visceral connection to the suffering dragon, a deep understanding of his critical condition. If Sunfyre died, Aegon II's spirit would surely break. If he lived, he remained a terrifying weapon.
Under the guise of ensuring no "Green sabotage" lingered in the Dragonpit – a task Daemon, via Mysaria, had grudgingly approved given Rico's earlier "success" with Tessarion – Rico gained limited, heavily supervised access to some of Sunfyre's outer pens. He couldn't get close to the dragon himself, not yet. But he could observe. He saw the desperate efforts of the few remaining Keepers loyal to Aegon (or simply to Sunfyre himself) to tend to his horrific burns. He saw the fear in their eyes, the dwindling hope.
And he saw an opportunity.
The obsidian mirror, Vējesy Kēlio, became his most vital tool. He began to scry Aemond Targaryen. The One-Eyed Prince, with Vhagar, was a terrifying, untethered force now, his brother a captive, his mother and sister prisoners. The Greens' main hope rested on his shoulders, and on Vhagar's immense power. Rico needed to know Aemond's movements, his plans. If he could provide Daemon with actionable intelligence on Aemond's whereabouts, his value to the Black regime would skyrocket.
The scrying was perilous. Aemond's will was formidable, Vhagar's ancient magic a distorting miasma. But Rico, drawing on the combined mental fortitude of countless absorbed souls and the focusing techniques from the Valyrian scrolls, persisted. He caught glimpses: Aemond in the Riverlands, rallying scattered Green loyalists; Vhagar, a colossal shadow, taking to the skies, her roars shaking the very foundations of the land. The intelligence was fragmented, but priceless. He passed carefully selected portions to Mysaria, enough to prove his worth, but never enough to reveal the true extent of his abilities.
His secret forge, meanwhile, continued its work. Anādrag, his Valyrian-Tyroshi sword, felt like a living extension of his arm, its dark blade preternaturally sharp, unnervingly responsive. He began to craft other items: a new suit of armor for himself, not the heavy plate of a knight, but articulated segments of his unique steel, designed for silence and speed, its surface treated with alchemical compounds Lyra had devised to resist heat and absorb light. He also forged a set of exquisite, almost invisible garrotes for Shiv, and reinforced, perfectly balanced axe heads for Jax and Grok that could shear through steel like wood.
The war economy he had fostered now served a new, albeit equally demanding, master. Daemon Targaryen needed supplies for his army, for the city. Rico's smuggling network, now the most efficient in King's Landing, delivered. Grain from the Reach (bypassing blockades), weapons from his own hidden forges and from Essosi contacts, even luxuries to keep the morale of Daemon's officers from collapsing under the strain of occupation – Rico provided it all, at a steep, but always negotiable, price. Mathis, his face a perpetual mask of anxiety and avarice, managed the immense flow of gold, his ledgers now detailing transactions that could finance entire armies.
One day, Alaric, his research into the Valyrian scrolls having taken a new, more focused turn since the fall of the city and Rico's absorption of Kennard's essence, came to him with a startling revelation.
"Master Razor," Alaric said, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear, his finger tracing a complex passage in one of the ancient parchments. "This speaks of the drāedī, the 'dragon-stone' or 'egg-heart.' Not just the physical shell, but the nascent jēdar within. It suggests that under certain conditions, with the correct invocations and a potent will attuned to the blood of Valyria – or a will, perhaps, that can mimic that attunement through… other means…" He looked directly at Rico. "…it might be possible to… quicken… a dormant egg. Or even to subtly influence the temperament, the loyalties, of a newly hatched dragon, before it fully bonds."
To influence a hatchling. To shape its loyalty from the moment of its birth. The audacity of it, the sheer, terrifying potential, struck Rico with the force of a physical blow. This was not about soothing an ailing dragon or gleaning secrets from its keepers. This was a step towards creation, towards mastery.
"The Dragonpit holds many eggs, Alaric," Rico said softly, his mind racing. "Some old, some new. Some Green, some… unclaimed."
"Precisely, Master Razor," Alaric breathed. "Queen Helaena's Dreamfyre is a prolific layer. And with the… disruptions… many eggs may not be receiving the traditional, meticulous care they require. An opportunity…"
The path ahead was fraught with unimaginable peril. To meddle directly with dragon eggs, under the very noses of Daemon Targaryen and the Black Dragonkeepers, was to invite utter annihilation. Yet, the prize… to have a dragon, not just understood, but bound to his will from its first breath…
Rico thought of Sunfyre, broken and grieving. He thought of Vhagar, Aemond's terrifying weapon. He thought of Caraxes, Daemon's Blood Wyrm. These were the ultimate arbiters of power in this world.
The King was dead. A Queen now reigned in King's Landing, her rule bought with blood and fire. The Dance of the Dragons was consuming the realm. And Rico Moretti, the creature forged in the crucible of two worlds, now holding the forbidden knowledge of Old Valyria and the absorbed souls of countless dead, saw his own path illuminated by dragonfire.
He would not just survive this dance. He would lead it. He would find an egg. He would quicken it. He would forge a bond. And he would rise on wings of shadow and fire, a new kind of dragonlord for a new, broken age. The thought was madness. It was power. It was destiny.