Chapter 7: A Whisper to a Stallion, A Roar in the Crowd
The task Larys Graceford had set for him – to subtly lame Ser Steffon Fossoway's prized warhorse, Stormcloud – was a delicate piece of villainy, a far cry from the brutal alleyway executions that had thus far paved Rico's ascent. It required not just force, but finesse, a surgeon's touch rather than a butcher's. And Rico, ever the pragmatist, saw it as another opportunity to diversify his portfolio of skills, both his own and those of his burgeoning crew.
Harl, the erstwhile horse thief turned riding instructor and now, chief equine consultant, was central to the plan. His terror of Rico had slowly been overlaid with a grudging respect and the undeniable lure of consistent meals and relative safety. When Rico explained the objective, Harl's eyes, usually darting with fear, lit up with a craftsman's interest.
"Lame 'im, boss? Subtly, you say?" Harl had mused, scratching his chin. "Not easy with a well-groomed warhorse. Grooms ain't usually fools. But aye, it can be done. Something that'll make 'im favor the leg under strain, but not look like outright foul play. A stone cleverly wedged? Too obvious. A specific pressure point, held for a time? Mmm, risky to get that close for that long." He paused, then a sly look crossed his face. "There's a paste, boss. Old stablehand's trick. Certain herbs, ground fine, mixed with a bit o' hog grease. Irritatin' to the skin, makes a horse favor the leg somethin' fierce after a few hours, 'specially if it's applied just right, hidden in the fetlock. Washes off clean, leaves no mark, but the memory o' the discomfort lingers in the animal."
Rico listened intently. This was the kind of specialized knowledge he valued. "Can you make this paste, Harl?"
"Got most o' what I need from the herb-wives in the market, or growin' wild by the Blackwater, boss. Just need a bit o' coin for the rarer bits."
Rico provided it. While Harl procured his ingredients, Rico focused on reconnaissance. The Inn of the Seven Swords was a bustling hub of activity. Knights, squires, merchants, and hangers-on crowded its courtyard and common room. Security was tighter than at the Dragon's Flagon, with liveried guards of various noble houses much in evidence. Getting to Ser Steffon's prized Stormcloud would not be simple.
This was where Shiv, the silent, wiry ex-Rat Alley Boy with an uncanny talent for throwing knives, came into play. Rico had been observing Shiv. The man was a loner, quiet and observant, his movements economical. He rarely spoke, but his eyes missed little. Rico had seen him practice in the dead of night, sending slivers of sharpened metal thudding into targets with deadly accuracy from surprising distances.
"Shiv," Rico said one evening, as the man was meticulously cleaning his collection of throwing blades. "You're good at moving unseen. And you're good with those." He nodded at the knives.
Shiv just looked at him, his expression unreadable.
"I need someone to get a small package into a stable, near a specific horse, without being seen. There will be grooms, possibly guards. Distraction might be needed. Precision, more so."
Shiv ran a thumb along the edge of a blade. "When?"
"Two nights before the jousts begin. That's when Ser Steffon is least likely to be overly concerned, and when the paste will have maximum effect for his first tilt."
The plan solidified. Finn, with his network, would confirm the layout of the stables at the Seven Swords and the grooms' routines. Harl would prepare the paste. Shiv, under the cover of darkness, would infiltrate the stables. His task wasn't to apply the paste himself – that was too risky if he wasn't familiar with the specific horse. Instead, he was to create a subtle diversion, drawing the grooms away for a critical minute or two, allowing Harl, who would slip in separately, to do his work on Stormcloud's left foreleg. Jax and Grok would be positioned outside, a heavy reserve in case things went sour, though Rico stressed that stealth was paramount. Failure and capture were not options.
Rico himself would oversee the operation from a nearby rooftop, a vantage point he'd identified that offered a clear view of the inn's stable yard. He was learning to delegate, to use his assets effectively, like a true Don. But he also knew the value of being present, of being able to intervene or call an abort if necessary.
The night of the operation arrived, cloaked in a nervous energy that seemed to emanate from the entire city as the tourney loomed. Rico, Finn, Shiv, Harl, Jax, and Grok moved through the darkened streets like shadows, a well-oiled team now, each man knowing his role.
From his rooftop perch, Rico watched the stable yard of the Inn of the Seven Swords through a cheap spyglass he'd acquired. Two grooms were on duty, as expected, intermittently checking the stalls, their movements lazy, confident in the inn's general security. Ser Steffon's banner, a red apple on a gold field, hung proudly over one of the larger stalls. Stormcloud.
Finn gave a soft whistle – the signal that the immediate surroundings were clear of patrols. Rico relayed it.
Shiv, a dark wraith, detached himself from the shadows below and scaled the stable wall with an unnerving, spider-like agility Rico hadn't fully appreciated until now. He disappeared onto the stable roof. A few moments later, a small pebble, then another, clattered onto the far side of the stable yard, near a stack of hay bales. One of the grooms looked up, annoyed. Another pebble. He grumbled to his companion and trudged off to investigate the source of the noise.
As the first groom was occupied, Shiv, now at the edge of the stable roof above the entrance, expertly flicked one of his smaller knives. It wasn't aimed to wound, but to distract. The blade embedded itself with a soft thunk into a wooden water trough just outside the stable door, a good twenty feet from where the second groom stood. The man startled, his head snapping towards the sound. He hesitated, then cautiously moved to inspect the trough, peering into the darkness.
That was Harl's cue. Darting from a darkened doorway across the yard, he slipped into the stables like a weasel, carrying his small pot of herbal paste. He was inside for no more than ninety seconds – ninety seconds that stretched into an eternity for Rico. Then, Harl was out, melting back into the shadows just as the second groom gave up on the mysterious knife and the first returned from his fruitless search for the pebble-thrower, both muttering about mischievous street urchins.
Shiv was gone from the roof. The team extracted, leaving no trace but a soon-to-be-uncomfortable warhorse.
Back in their Flea Bottom hovel, Harl was jubilant, a rare sight. "Done, boss! Clean as a whistle. Applied it right into the deep hair of his left front fetlock. He won't feel it for hours, not till the skin gets right raw. By the time Ser Steffon rides 'im in the lists, Stormcloud'll be favoring that leg like it's made o' glass."
Rico nodded, a grim satisfaction settling in. Another piece moved on the board.
The following days were a blur of preparation and intelligence gathering as King's Landing reached fever pitch. The Tourney of King Viserys's Nameday officially began with a grand opening ceremony, a parade of nobles and knights in their finest regalia. Rico, dressed in his most respectable, if still plain, attire, ventured out with Jax and Finn, not as a participant, but as an observer, a predator scouting the herd.
The sheer scale of it was breathtaking. The newly christened Tourney Meadow was a sea of colorful pavilions, fluttering banners, and roaring crowds. Knights in armor that gleamed like polished silver thundered past on magnificent warhorses. The air thrummed with the sounds of trumpets, heralds' cries, and the roar of the commons.
Elric's literacy lessons, combined with Kellen's absorbed knowledge, proved invaluable. Rico could now decipher the lists of competitors posted daily, noting the names of prominent knights and their announced pairings for the jousts. He recognized sigils from his GoT fan knowledge, now augmented by Elric's more grounded Westerosi education: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was everywhere, of course; the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, proud and prominent thanks to Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor; the green hand of House Gardener (though the Tyrells were stewards, the Gardener imagery was ancient and respected in the Reach); the golden lion of Lannister; the direwolf of Stark (though few Northerners ventured this far south for tourneys).
He watched the early tilts from a distance, amidst the common folk, his senses sharp. He wasn't just watching the sport; he was studying the men. Their strength, their skill, their horses, their retainers. He saw knights unhorsed with brutal efficiency, others displaying remarkable grace and precision. Each one was a potential vessel of essence, a walking repository of martial prowess.
Finn's informants were working overtime, bringing back whispers from the stables, the taverns, the brothels frequented by squires and men-at-arms. Who was injured? Who was drinking too heavily? Who was in debt to gamblers? Who had the best armor, the fastest horse, the deadliest reputation?
One afternoon, as Rico and Jax were observing the archery practice, a discipline Rico was increasingly interested in (precision at range had obvious applications), a commotion near the main lists drew their attention. A large, barrel-chested knight with the sigil of a black boar on his shield was berating a tourney official, his voice booming across the grounds.
"What mean you, I am unhorsed by that… that painted popinjay! His lance barely grazed my shield! This is an outrage! I demand the King's Justice!"
The official, a small, harried man, tried to placate him, but the Boar Knight was having none of it. He was clearly strong, possessed of a powerful physique and a furious temper. Rico watched him, a calculating glint in his eye. Strength, aggression, perhaps some notable combat skill despite his current tantrum. And clearly not one to back down. A potential future acquisition, if the opportunity arose.
Larys Graceford found Rico two days into the tourney, his face alight with greedy triumph. He drew Rico into a secluded tent selling watered-down wine.
"Razor! My man! Stormcloud performed… abysmally!" Larys crowed, keeping his voice low but exuding satisfaction. "Ser Steffon couldn't get him to canter straight, let alone charge. He favored that foreleg so badly, he looked like a drunken crab! Unhorsed in his first pass by a stripling from House Caswell! I won a fortune!" He pressed a heavy pouch into Rico's hand. "Your share, my friend, and a handsome bonus for your impeccable discretion and effectiveness."
Rico weighed the pouch. It was indeed substantial. "A pleasure doing business, Lord Larys."
"The pleasure is all mine." Larys leaned closer. "There will be… other opportunities. Certain wagers are being laid on the grand melee. Knowing who might suffer an… unfortunate accident, or whose equipment might mysteriously fail… such knowledge, or such intervention, could be very profitable."
Rico nodded slowly. Larys was proving to be a reliable, if morally bankrupt, conduit to this world of aristocratic intrigue. "I'll keep my ears open, Lord Larys. And my… services… available."
As Larys scurried off to collect more of his winnings, Rico considered his next move. The tourney was a chaotic, target-rich environment. He needed more than just random opportunities; he needed a plan.
His attention was drawn to the melee. Unlike the structured formality of the jousts, the grand melee was a brutal, chaotic free-for-all, a mass of knights and mounted men-at-arms battling in a cordoned-off section of the field until only one team or individual remained. Injuries were common, fatalities not unheard of. It was, in essence, a royal-sanctioned battlefield where essences could be harvested with less direct culpability, should a participant happen to die from "tourney injuries" that Rico or his men might have… exacerbated.
He began to focus his intelligence gathering on the melee participants. He had Elric painstakingly copy out the names of the knights and prominent sellswords who had enrolled. He cross-referenced this with Finn's street-level gossip. Who were the true talents, hidden beneath layers of bravado? Who were the reckless ones, prone to injury? Who had enemies that might pay to see them eliminated or humiliated in the melee?
One name that kept cropping up was Ser Duncan the Short, a hedge knight of no renown but with a string of surprising victories in smaller tourneys in the Riverlands, known for his unorthodox fighting style and incredible stamina. Another was a Myrish sellsword captain named Silas, whose company was camped just outside the city walls, famed for his skill with a two-handed greatsword. These were the kind of men whose essences would be truly valuable.
Rico knew he couldn't just wade into the melee himself. He wasn't a knight, had no official standing. But his crew… they could be his proxies. He needed to test his men, and himself, in a situation that was more dynamic, more dangerous than their Flea Bottom skirmishes.
He decided on a calculated risk. Not an assassination, not yet. But an… extraction.
One evening, after a particularly brutal day of jousting, a lesser Riverlands knight, Ser Patrek Vance, known more for his drinking than his prowess, stumbled out of a tavern near the Hook, heavily intoxicated and alone, having lost his purse and apparently his squires. He was making a nuisance of himself, trying to pick fights with passersby.
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He wasn't a prime target for essence, likely possessing little more than a hereditary smattering of knightly training and a prodigious capacity for ale. But he was a knight. And he was vulnerable. It would be a live-fire exercise for Rico's new sword skills and a chance to test his crew's ability to conduct a snatch-and-grab.
"Jax, Finn, Shiv," Rico ordered. "Ser Patrek Vance. He's currently embarrassing himself outside 'The Drunken Mudlark.' I want him brought to the Leaky Dinghy's cellar. Intact, if possible, but subdued. No witnesses."
The operation was a swift, brutal ballet of Flea Bottom efficiency. Finn created a diversion down the street, a mock brawl that drew the attention of the few Gold Cloaks in the area. Shiv, appearing from a darkened alley, used the butt of his dagger to render the drunken Ser Patrek unconscious with a single, precise blow to the temple. Jax and Grok, materializing from the shadows, bundled the knight into a heavy canvas sack and carted him off like a side of beef, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys before anyone was the wiser.
In the cellar of The Leaky Dinghy, Ser Patrek Vance awoke with a splitting headache, bound to a chair, facing the cold, appraising gaze of Rico Moretti.
"Wha… where am I? Unhand me, villains! Do you know who I am?" Patrek blustered, his voice still thick with wine and fear.
"I know exactly who you are, Ser Patrek," Rico said calmly, circling him. He held his new bastard sword, its unadorned lethality a stark contrast to the knight's imagined chivalry. "And you, unfortunately, are now my guest. And my sparring partner."
Patrek's eyes widened in terror. "Sparring partner? I am a knight of the Trident! You will hang for this!"
Rico smiled, a chilling sight in the flickering lamplight. "Perhaps. But first, you will teach me. You will show me what a 'knight of the Trident' can do. Or you will simply bleed." He gestured to Jax, who produced a rusty, but sharp, skinning knife.
Over the next hour, in that grim cellar, Rico Moretti had his first true sword fight against a knight, albeit a terrified, hungover, and bound one initially. They unbound Patrek's sword arm, gave him a blunted practice sword taken from Krayn's stash, and Rico engaged him.
Patrek, fueled by fear and a desperate sliver of knightly pride, fought back. He was clumsy, his movements hampered by his recent debauchery and terror, but he possessed a knight's training. He knew the forms, the guards, the lunges.
Rico met him, not with Kellen's somewhat foppish style, but with a focused, predatory intensity, augmenting the absorbed skill with his own growing strength, speed, and ruthlessness. He pressed Patrek relentlessly, analyzing his moves, his weaknesses. He took a few glancing blows, noted the knight's tells, the way he overcommitted to certain attacks.
It wasn't a duel of honor. It was an autopsy of skill, performed on a living subject. When Rico was satisfied he'd learned what he could from Patrek's conscious efforts, he ended it. A swift, disarming move he'd practiced a hundred times in his own cellar, followed by a pommel strike to the jaw that sent the hapless knight sprawling.
Ser Patrek Vance did not leave the cellar alive. His essence, when Rico finally took it, was muddled with fear and alcohol, but it contained a more robust, if less refined, version of the basic knightly training Kellen possessed, along with a surprising knowledge of Riverlands geography and lineage. Every absorption was a layer, adding depth and breadth to Rico's growing repertoire.
He felt stronger, his understanding of mounted and unmounted combat solidifying. He now had the essences of two knights, however mediocre, mingling within him, along with the raw power of street brutes and the cunning of gang leaders. He was becoming a unique blend of high and low, a creature of both the gutter and the tourney field.
The tourney was only just beginning. The grand melee was still days away. Rico now had more coin, more experience, and a chillingly clear vision of how he would use this grand spectacle to further his ascent. The whispers of the stallion had been heeded. Soon, the roar of the crowd would be the backdrop to the Razor's deadliest game yet.