Chapter 8: Amidst the Carnage, A Fell Harvest
The grand melee was the bloody jewel in the crown of King Viserys's nameday tourney. It was a brutal spectacle, a chaotic symphony of clashing steel, splintering lances, horses' screams, and the roar of a crowd baying for action and, often, for blood. For Rico Moretti, it was the prime hunting ground he'd been anticipating, a maelstrom where the deaths of skilled men could be attributed to the fortunes of war, and where a cunning predator could reap a grim harvest.
His target list, refined with Elric's help deciphering the official parchments and Finn's relentless gathering of back-alley whispers, was short but ambitious. Ser Duncan the Short, the surprisingly successful hedge knight, was high on it. His unorthodox style and stamina made his essence particularly appealing. Silas the Myrish sellsword captain, with his two-handed greatsword and rumored experience in the Disputed Lands, was another. There were a few other knights, known for specific martial skills rather than overall renown, whom Rico had marked as secondary opportunities.
Larys Graceford, predictably, had his own agenda, primarily centered around betting. He'd approached Rico with a list of knights he wanted to see "suffer misfortune" to swing wagers in his favor. Some of Larys's targets overlapped with Rico's own, or were at least inconsequential enough that Rico could accommodate the fop's desires while pursuing his primary goal: potent, high-quality essence.
The plan was audacious, relying on the inherent chaos of the melee and the specific talents of Rico's crew. They wouldn't be entering the lists as participants; they were far too lowborn, and their skills were not those of chivalric contest. Instead, they would be part of the grim ecosystem that thrived on the edges of such events: the water-boys, the gear-menders, the body-draggers, the looters who inevitably descended when the fighting was thickest.
Jax, Grok, and a few other of the toughest ex-Morgo men, disguised in rough leather jerkins and carrying bludgeons and heavy knives, would aim to be near the fray, ostensibly as "field attendants" ready to pull fallen men (and their valuable gear) clear. Their real task was to exacerbate injuries, to ensure that a knight who was merely unhorsed and winded became a knight who was unhorsed and fatally trampled, or who suffered a "mishap" with his own dagger while struggling on the ground.
Shiv, with his throwing knives, had a more specialized role. From a carefully chosen vantage point amongst the cheaper stands – close enough to the action but offering anonymity within the throng – he would look for opportunities to create "accidents." A thrown knife could startle a horse at a crucial moment, cause a knight to lose his balance, or even sever a strap on a piece of armor, making the wearer vulnerable. Precision was key; overt assassination was too risky.
Finn and his network of urchins would act as spotters and messengers, relaying information on the flow of the melee, the locations of targets, and any unwelcome attention from Gold Cloaks or tourney marshals. Harl, with his equine knowledge, was tasked with identifying any horses that looked particularly vulnerable or agitated, information that could be used by Jax's team to engineer "accidents."
Rico himself, dressed in the nondescript garb of a battlefield scavenger, a hood pulled low over his face, would be as close to the action as he dared. He carried his new bastard sword concealed beneath a ragged cloak, and Krayn's old dagger. His objective was to be near his chosen targets when they fell, ready to absorb their essence in the chaotic moments when one more corpse on the field would scarcely be noticed. This was the riskiest part. The absorption required proximity to death, ideally at the moment of its occurrence. He would need to be quick, unseen, and utterly ruthless.
The day of the grand melee dawned hot and heavy. The roar of the crowd was a physical presence, pressing in on Rico as he moved through the throngs towards the Tourney Meadow. His men were already in position, invisible threads in the vast, chaotic tapestry of the event.
The melee began with a thunderous charge. Two large teams of knights and men-at-arms smashed into each other, lances splintering, swords ringing, men and horses screaming. The dust rose in choking clouds, occasionally parting to reveal scenes of brutal, close-quarters combat.
Rico watched, his senses heightened, his mind a cold, calculating machine. He saw Ser Duncan the Short, smaller than many of his opponents but fighting with a tenacious fury, his movements unpredictable, his flail a whirlwind of leather and iron. He saw Silas the Myrish sellsword, his massive two-handed sword carving bloody paths through the lesser combatants, his dark armor seemingly impervious.
Larys's targets were dealt with first, with brutal efficiency. A portly Reach knight, whom Larys had wagered heavily against, found his saddle girth mysteriously cut (a well-aimed knife from Shiv) at a critical moment. He tumbled from his horse and was promptly "trampled" by what looked suspiciously like Jax and Grok, who then dragged his lifeless body towards the edge of the field with feigned concern. Rico, moving swiftly through the chaos near the edge of the designated combat zone, managed to brush against the knight's cooling hand as he was carried past. The essence was weak, diluted by wine and soft living, offering little more than a faint reinforcement of basic horsemanship and a surprising knowledge of hawking. A minor acquisition, but a successful test of the method.
Another of Larys's marks, a brash young Stormlander, was unhorsed and, in the ensuing confusion, seemed to "fall" on his own dagger. Again, Jax's crew were the helpful attendants. Again, Rico was conveniently close. This one offered a bit more raw strength, but little finesse.
These were appetizers. The main courses were still fighting.
Ser Duncan the Short was a whirlwind. He unhorsed two larger knights through sheer audacity and relentless attack. Rico, maneuvering closer to the section of the field where Duncan fought, felt a thrill of anticipation. This was the kind of essence he craved – skill forged in hardship, not just inherited through noble birth.
Duncan, however, was proving frustratingly resilient. He took blows that would have felled an ox, yet he kept fighting. Rico's men couldn't get close enough to engineer an "accident" without drawing undue attention.
Then, opportunity. Duncan, overextended after a furious exchange, was isolated for a moment. A massive knight bearing the sigil of a charging bull – Ser Harrold 'the Bull' Bulwer, another formidable fighter – bore down on him. Duncan met the charge, but his smaller stature and lighter horse were a disadvantage. He was unhorsed, crashing heavily to the ground.
Before Bulwer or anyone else could press the advantage, Shiv acted. A single, almost invisible glint of steel through the dust. It wasn't aimed at Duncan, but at Ser Harrold's horse. The blade found its mark in the fleshy part of the warhorse's unprotected hind leg. The beast screamed, reared, and bucked violently, throwing Ser Harrold and momentarily disrupting the knights around them.
In that instant of chaos, Jax and Grok, who had been inching closer, moved in on the downed Ser Duncan. It wasn't subtle. They fell upon him like wolves, their bludgeons rising and falling. Duncan, dazed from his fall, managed to raise an arm, but it was hopeless.
Rico was there, a shadow amidst the dust and confusion, his hand outstretched as if to help the fallen knight. As the last breath left Duncan's body under the brutal assault, Rico's fingers brushed the hedge knight's mailed glove.
The influx was staggering. It wasn't the refined knowledge of Kellen or Patrek. This was raw, practical, battle-honed skill. The unorthodox, relentless fighting style, the incredible stamina and resilience, a deep understanding of how to fight against larger, better-equipped opponents. With it came a stubborn sense of honor, a surprising gentleness beneath the rough exterior, and a wave of melancholy memories of a life spent on the road, dreaming of glory. For a moment, Rico felt an almost alien pang of something akin to respect, even regret. He ruthlessly suppressed it. Sentiment was a weakness. The power, however, was undeniable. He felt his own stamina surge, his body absorbing the knight's incredible endurance. His understanding of unconventional combat expanded dramatically.
He signaled his men to withdraw with the "body." They would strip it of valuables later, as was the scavenger's due.
The melee raged on. Silas the Myrish sellsword captain was a butcher, his greatsword a gleaming arc of death. He fought with a cold, methodical fury, his dark armor deflecting blows that would have crippled lesser men. He was too dangerous, too well-protected by his own knot of sellsword companions who fought alongside him, for Rico's crew to target directly with their current methods. Silas would have to wait for another day, another opportunity. Rico was ambitious, not suicidal.
As the number of combatants dwindled, the tourney marshals and Gold Cloaks became more active in policing the edges of the field, making further "scavenging" too risky. Rico gave the signal for his men to pull back completely, to melt back into the Flea Bottom warrens. They had reaped a grim but profitable harvest.
Later that evening, in the cellar of The Leaky Dinghy, they counted the spoils. Larys Graceford, ecstatic at his winnings (several of his other targeted bets had also, coincidentally, paid off thanks to the melee's natural attrition and a few subtle nudges from Rico's crew), had been even more generous this time. The pouch of gold was substantially larger. Added to that was the salvaged armor and weapons from the knights they had… assisted. Even damaged, it would fetch a decent price, or could be used to equip their own growing force.
But for Rico, the true treasure was the essence of Ser Duncan the Short. He spent hours that night alone, moving in the confines of Morgo's old cellar, not with the bastard sword this time, but simply feeling the new power within him, the enhanced stamina, the intuitive understanding of leverage and unconventional tactics. He felt like a different man, stronger, more resilient, his capacity for violence now complemented by a deeper, more versatile skill set.
The next day, Elric, his hands trembling slightly more than usual, brought Rico a small, official-looking parchment he'd "found" discarded near the tourney grounds. It was a list of knights who had been seriously injured or killed during the melee. Ser Duncan's name was there, his death attributed to "grievous wounds sustained in combat." Ser Patrek Vance's name from the earlier "sparring session" was also on a separate list of those reported missing by their houses, though few seemed overly concerned about the drunken Riverlander. Ser Steffon Fossoway had withdrawn from the jousts, his horse having gone incurably lame. Larys's machinations, and Rico's actions, were ripples on the surface, disappearing into the larger waves of the tourney's inherent violence. For now.
"The talk in the city, Master Razor," Elric said, his voice barely a whisper, "is that this tourney has been particularly… bloody. Even for a King's Nameday."
Rico merely nodded. "Conflict creates opportunity, Elric."
His literacy was improving by leaps and bounds, further accelerated by the knightly essences he'd absorbed, which seemed to carry with them a greater familiarity with the written word than his previous acquisitions. He could now read not just simple notices, but also more complex documents – bills of lading, guild charters Elric managed to procure copies of, even rudimentary maps of King's Landing and the surrounding Crownlands. This ability was like opening a new set of eyes. He began to see the city not just as a collection of alleys and hovels, but as a complex organism of trade routes, property lines, and power structures.
He put his growing treasury and manpower to work with renewed vigor. The smuggling tunnels beneath his hovel were being expanded under Jax's brutal supervision, aimed at creating a secure route all the way to a dilapidated, seemingly abandoned warehouse Rico had identified near the docks – a warehouse he intended to acquire, one way or another. This would allow him to move goods, people, and illicit gains without navigating the dangers of Flea Bottom's streets or the city gates.
He also began to think about diversifying his "investments." Protection rackets and petty smuggling were a start, but they were low-ceiling. With his growing understanding of trade, he started to consider more ambitious ventures. Perhaps controlling the flow of certain goods into Flea Bottom – ale, grain, even weapons – allowing him to profit at multiple points.
His crew was becoming more than just a gang; it was an organization. Jax was his fist, unquestioningly loyal and brutally effective. Finn, the nervous whisper, was now surprisingly adept as an intelligence chief, his network of informants providing a steady stream of valuable information. Shiv, the silent killer, had proven his worth and was treated with a new level of respect by the others. Harl, having succeeded in the Stormcloud operation, was no longer just a terrified underling but a valued specialist. Elric, despite his frailties, was Rico's gateway to the world of letters and, increasingly, a confidante of sorts, albeit one who knew his life hung by a thread.
Rico knew he needed more than just thugs and specialists in violence or stealth. He needed people who understood numbers, who could manage logistics, who could perhaps even navigate the city's byzantine bureaucracy if he ever hoped to operate beyond the shadows. His essence absorption power was his trump card, but he couldn't be everywhere, kill everyone. A true Don needed capable lieutenants.
The tourney was winding down. The final jousts were being fought, the last celebratory feasts held. King's Landing would soon return to its normal rhythm. But Rico Moretti was a changed man, his power significantly augmented, his ambition stoked to a burning inferno. He had tasted the essence of knights, reaped a bloody harvest from the grand melee, and laid the foundations of a true criminal empire in the heart of the capital.
He stood on the rooftop of his hovel one evening, looking out over the sprawling, stinking, vibrant mass of Flea Bottom, the distant glow of the Red Keep a tantalizing beacon on the horizon. The Dance of the Dragons was still years away, a storm gathering on a distant horizon. But Rico could feel the currents shifting, the world preparing for the cataclysm he knew was coming.
He was no longer just a survivor. He was a player. A dark horse, unacknowledged and unseen by the great lords and ladies, but a player nonetheless. And he was learning, growing, accumulating power with every life he consumed. Dragons, magic beings, even gods… the thought no longer seemed like a distant fantasy from the user's original prompt. It felt like an inevitable, if daunting, trajectory.
His next step, he decided, was to consolidate his gains, refine his organization, and begin to look for ways to extend his influence beyond the mud and grime of Flea Bottom, using the connections he'd made, like Larys, and the knowledge he'd acquired. The Razor of Flea Bottom was sharp, and he was ready to cut deeper into the fabric of this world.