Chapter 13: The Myrish Serpent and the Valyrian Whisper
The arrival of The Sea Serpent in King's Landing harbor was, to most of the city, just another merchant vessel come to trade. To Rico Moretti, it was a treasure chest floating invitingly, rumored to contain not just silks and spices, but a key – however small – to the arcane secrets of this world. Captain Drako Malatesta, its Myrish master, was the lock.
Intelligence gathering began immediately, a finely tuned instrument now under Rico's command. Finn's network of dockside informants, cultivated through a steady stream of coin and carefully instilled fear, worked tirelessly. They learned that The Sea Serpent was a swift, well-armed trading galley, its crew a mix of Myrish sailors and a core of hardened Essosi sellswords who served as Malatesta's personal guard. The captain himself was rarely seen ashore, preferring the security of his vessel, and was known for his shrewdness, his ruthlessness in trade, and a paranoid distrust of strangers.
The "exotic artifacts," including the coveted scrolls, were reportedly kept in Malatesta's own cabin, under heavy lock and guard. The ship was due to depart with the evening tide in five days, giving Rico a narrow window.
Maester Alaric, his eyes gleaming with scholarly fervor at the mere mention of "Valyrian lore," delved into his own obscure sources. "Myrish captains who trade in such antiquities are often more than mere merchants, Master Razor," he explained, his voice hushed. "They are collectors, explorers of forgotten places, sometimes even dabblers in the lesser arts themselves. Malatesta might possess knowledge beyond simple navigation or trade. His essence, should you acquire it, could be… illuminating."
Harl, disguised as a hopeful dockworker, spent two days observing The Sea Serpent from afar, noting the watch patterns, the placement of gangplanks, the routines of the crew. He reported that security was indeed tight, with armed guards visible on deck at all hours. However, he also noticed a potential vulnerability: a small, seldom-used cargo hatch near the stern, often left unbolted during the bustle of daytime loading and unloading of legitimate cargo, and poorly watched at night due to its awkward positioning.
The plan began to form in Rico's mind, a daring fusion of stealth and overwhelming force. A night boarding. Risky, but the potential rewards were too great to ignore.
He convened his inner circle in the secure cellar of the warehouse, the scent of salt fish now permanently overlaid with the metallic tang of their armory and the musty odor of Alaric's ancient texts.
"We hit The Sea Serpent two nights from now," Rico announced, his voice resonating with cold authority. "Our primary objective: the scrolls in Malatesta's cabin, and Malatesta himself. Secondary objective: any other valuables that can be easily… liberated."
Jax, ever the pragmatist, grunted. "Boarding a ship full of Essosi sellswords? That's a bloody hornet's nest, boss."
"Hornets can be swatted, Jax," Rico replied. "Especially when they don't see the swatter coming."
The plan was intricate:
Finn and a few of his nimblest urchins would create a significant diversion at the main docks further down the wharf – a fire, perhaps, or a large, staged brawl – to draw the attention of the Gold Cloak patrols and any City Watch vessels.
Harl, using his knowledge of the stern hatch, would lead a small infiltration team: Shiv, for silent takedowns of any immediate sentries, and Rico himself.
Once aboard and below decks, their goal was to reach Malatesta's cabin undetected. If stealth failed, they would transition to a swift, brutal assault.
Jax, Grok, and a larger force of their toughest men, armed with swords, axes, and Shiv-supplied crossbows, would be concealed on a hired cog, a small, unassuming merchant vessel Mathis had discreetly chartered for a "night shipment of spoiled goods." At Rico's signal – a single, hooded lantern flashed from The Sea Serpent's deck – the cog would move in, and Jax's force would board, overwhelming any remaining resistance.
Perwyn had forged customs clearance documents for the cog, allowing it to be near the docks at night without undue suspicion. Mathis had calculated the potential value of typical Myrish cargo, advising on what to prioritize if looting became an option.
Rico would personally confront Malatesta. He wanted the captain's essence, and he wanted to be the one to lay hands on those scrolls.
The night chosen was moonless, the harbor shrouded in a damp, clinging fog that reeked of fish and bilge water. The sounds of the city – distant music, drunken shouts, the lapping of water against stone – seemed muffled, conspiratorial.
Rico, Shiv, and Harl, their faces and hands darkened with soot, slipped through the dockside shadows like wraiths. Rico's heart beat a steady, predatory rhythm, his senses hyper-alert. He wore dark, silent leather, his bastard sword strapped to his back, Krayn's dagger and Morgo's meat hook at his belt. The essences of the men he'd killed felt like coiled power within him: Gorm's strength, Duncan's tenacity, Kellen's (albeit limited) swordsmanship, Rat's stealth, and now, Tobin's strange affinity for the unseen currents of the night.
As they neared The Sea Serpent, a sudden blaze of orange erupted further down the wharf, followed by shouts and the clang of alarm bells. Finn's diversion. Perfect timing. Gold Cloaks could be heard running towards the commotion.
Harl led them to the stern of the Myrish galley. The small cargo hatch was, as he'd predicted, unlatched. Shiv, with the silence of a falling leaf, slipped the hatch open. A faint light and the smell of stale wine and unwashed bodies drifted up from below.
One by one, they descended into the cramped, dark hold. It was filled with crates and barrels. Two sellswords were slumped against a bulkhead, dice in hand, a flickering lantern between them, grumbling in a dialect of Low Valyrian that Rico, thanks to the linguistic fragments absorbed from various victims, could surprisingly comprehend.
Before they could react to the intruders, Shiv moved. Two flickers of his wrist. Two soft thuds. The sellswords slumped over, throwing knives embedded in their throats. No sound but the soft gurgle of their dying breaths. Rico was there instantly, a hand on each as their lives ebbed, absorbing their essences. They were lesser men, their skills crude, but they added to his reserves of strength and provided a more solid, if still broken, understanding of Low Valyrian and some basic Essosi fighting techniques.
Harl, his part in the infiltration done, was to secure their entry point and await Jax's signal, or provide a warning if their escape was compromised. Rico and Shiv pressed on, moving through the lower decks like shadows. The ship was alive with the snores and mutters of sleeping crewmen, the creak of timbers, the ever-present smell of the sea.
They reached the companionway leading to the officers' quarters. A single guard stood at the base, a powerfully built man with a curved Essosi scimitar. He was alert, his eyes scanning the corridor.
This time, Rico took the lead. He signaled Shiv to hold. Drawing his bastard sword, he stepped into the faint lamplight. The guard tensed, his hand flying to his scimitar.
"Kessa? (Who?)" the guard hissed.
Rico didn't answer with words. He moved with the speed and precision he'd honed in countless hours of practice, Duncan's unorthodox agility blending with Kellen's more formal training. The narrow corridor favored his straight blade over the guard's curved one. The Essosi was skilled, his scimitar a blur, but Rico parried, deflected, and then, with a move he'd learned from no single essence but forged from the amalgamation of them all, he feinted high and thrust low, his blade sliding beneath the guard's ribs with a sickening, wet sound.
Another essence absorbed: this one stronger, a seasoned warrior, his mind filled with the brutal realities of sellsword life, knowledge of Myrish fighting styles, and a surprising understanding of shipboard carpentry.
Malatesta's cabin was at the end of the corridor, a heavy, iron-banded door its only entrance. Two more guards flanked it, alerted by the faint sounds of the scuffle. They were veterans, their faces scarred, their eyes hard.
There was no more time for stealth. Rico met Shiv's gaze. "Now."
They exploded into action. Shiv's knives flew, forcing one guard to stumble back, a blade quivering in his shoulder. Rico engaged the other, his bastard sword a whirlwind of steel. The fight was desperate, brutal, confined in the narrow space. These men were elite, Malatesta's personal guard. They fought with a savage skill that tested Rico to his limits.
He took a cut to his arm, felt the sting of a dagger graze his ribs. But his enhanced stamina, his ability to read his opponents gleaned from countless absorbed conflicts, gave him the edge. He dispatched his opponent with a thrust to the throat, while Shiv, after a fierce, close-quarters struggle, silenced the wounded guard.
Their essences flooded Rico – more martial skill, a broader understanding of Essosi dialects, intimate knowledge of The Sea Serpent's layout and crew. He now knew exactly where Malatesta would be, and what defenses he might have.
He kicked open the cabin door.
Captain Drako Malatesta was not asleep. He stood in the center of his opulent cabin – a room filled with charts, strange artifacts, and the rich scent of exotic spices – a brace of Myrish long-pistols in his hands, his dark eyes glittering with a cold, reptilian fury. He was a man of middle years, lean and wiry, with a neatly trimmed black beard and the predatory stillness of a viper.
"So, the rats of King's Landing have sharp teeth tonight," Malatesta said, his voice a silken rasp, his Common Tongue heavily accented. He gestured with one pistol towards a heavy, iron-bound chest in the corner. "You seek my baubles, is that it? Or the whispers of dead empires?"
"Both, Captain," Rico said, his own sword steady, his eyes locked on Malatesta's. Shiv flanked him, knives ready. "But mostly, your… cooperation."
Malatesta laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Myrish captains do not cooperate with thieves. They make them into shark bait."
He fired. Not at Rico, but at an oil lamp hanging near a stack of parchments. The lamp shattered, and flames instantly licked up the dry paper, threatening to engulf the cabin. A diversion.
In the same instant, Malatesta lunged, not with his remaining pistol, but with a wicked-looking stiletto that seemed to appear from nowhere. He was incredibly fast, his movements belying his age.
Rico reacted instinctively, his absorbed combat reflexes taking over. He parried the stiletto with his sword, the clang of steel echoing in the suddenly smoke-filled cabin. The fire was spreading rapidly, casting dancing, demonic shadows.
Shiv threw a knife, aimed at Malatesta's pistol hand. The Myrish captain hissed, dropping the firearm as the blade bit into his wrist, but he didn't falter, pressing his attack on Rico with the stiletto. He fought with the desperate skill of a cornered animal, his movements quick and unpredictable, laced with dirty tricks Rico recognized from his own street-fighting days.
It was a deadly dance amidst the growing inferno. Rico felt the heat, smelled the acrid smoke, but his focus was absolute. He was stronger than Malatesta, his reach longer, his combined skills more versatile. He finally saw an opening, a fractional overextension as Malatesta lunged. Rico sidestepped, brought his sword hilt crashing down on the Myrishman's temple, then followed with a swift, fatal thrust.
Drako Malatesta crumpled to the deck, his dark eyes wide with surprise and then… nothing.
The essence that surged into Rico was the most complex, the most alien he had yet absorbed. It was a torrent of information: decades of navigating the treacherous waters of Essos and the Jade Sea; fluency in half a dozen languages, including High Valyrian and several obscure dialects of the Free Cities; a profound knowledge of trade routes, secret harbors, and the shifting political landscapes of the East. There was the cunning of a master merchant, the ruthlessness of a pirate, the discipline of a ship's captain.
But there was more. Mingled with this was a genuine, scholarly understanding of ancient history, a collector's passion for rare artifacts, and, crucially, a rudimentary but very real understanding of certain forms of lesser magic – wardings, glamours, the reading of portents, and the identification of magically imbued objects. Malatesta had indeed been more than a mere trader. He had been a seeker of forgotten lore.
The fire was now raging. "The chest, Shiv! Get the scrolls!" Rico choked out, his lungs burning.
While Shiv wrestled with the heavy, iron-bound chest, Rico quickly scanned the cabin, his newly enhanced senses and Malatesta's absorbed memories guiding him. He snatched a few smaller, intriguing artifacts – a dark, obsidian mirror that felt cold to the touch, a small, intricately carved ivory box, a leather-bound codex written in a language he now vaguely recognized as a precursor to High Valyrian.
Shiv finally wrenched open the chest. Inside, nestled amongst silks, were several cylindrical scroll cases of polished weirwood and bronze. He grabbed them.
"Signal Jax!" Rico ordered. "We need to get out of here before this whole ship goes up!"
On deck, the battle was already joined. Jax and his men, alerted by the growing blaze, had boarded The Sea Serpent and were engaged in a fierce fight with the remaining Myrish crew and sellswords. The element of surprise was gone, replaced by the brutal chaos of a shipboard melee.
Rico and Shiv burst onto the fiery deck, joining the fray. Rico, now wielding Malatesta's cunning and a touch of his arcane understanding, fought like a man possessed. He saw weaknesses in his opponents' stances, anticipated their moves, his bastard sword a blur of deadly precision. He directed his men with a new level of tactical acumen, exploiting openings, shoring up defenses.
The Myrish crew, leaderless and demoralized by the fire and the ferocity of the assault, soon broke. Some surrendered, others leaped overboard. Jax and his men were ruthless in the pursuit.
As the last pockets of resistance were mopped up, Rico surveyed the scene. The Sea Serpent was heavily damaged, parts of it now a raging inferno. They had the scrolls, a chest full of Malatesta's personal valuables, and a few other easily portable treasures. They had also taken casualties – three of his men were dead, several more wounded. The price of forbidden fruit.
"Load the wounded and the loot onto the cog!" Rico commanded. "Then scuttle this damn ship! Leave no trace that can be easily identified. Let the harbor rats think it was an accidental fire and looting by common pirates."
It took another hour of frantic, brutal work. They transferred the wounded and their spoils, then set more fires, ensuring The Sea Serpent would burn to the waterline and sink into the harbor's grimy embrace. As their cog slipped away into the pre-dawn gloom, the first true light of morning revealed a pillar of black smoke rising over the docks of King's Landing.
Back in the secure depths of the warehouse, the air thick with the smell of smoke, blood, and triumph, Rico finally unrolled one of the weirwood scroll cases. Maester Alaric, his hands trembling with excitement, leaned over his shoulder. Elric, Mathis, and even Jax looked on with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
The parchment was ancient, brittle, covered in elegant, spidery script – pure, High Valyrian. And as Rico's eyes scanned the text, Drako Malatesta's absorbed knowledge, combined with his own hard-won literacy, allowed him to comprehend it.
It wasn't a spellbook for raising dragons or smiting enemies. Not directly. It was a treatise, a philosophical and historical exploration of blood magic, the very source of the Valyrian Freehold's power, detailing its principles, its applications, its limitations, and its terrible costs. It spoke of the bond between dragonlords and their mounts, of rituals used to enhance bloodlines, of the forgotten arts of shaping flesh and stone through will and sacrifice.
Alaric gasped, his eyes wide. "By the Old Gods and the New… Master Razor, do you know what this is? This is… this is knowledge lost for centuries. The very foundations of Valyrian supremacy!"
Rico felt a profound, chilling resonance within him. His power, the ability to absorb the essence of what he killed – was it not a form of blood magic itself, a primal, instinctive manifestation of the very principles detailed in these ancient scrolls? The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The path to the pinnacle of this world had just taken a sharp, dark turn. He was no longer just a ruthless gangster climbing the rungs of power. He now held a fragment of the knowledge that had once made Valyria the master of the world. And with his unique ability, he might be able to not just understand it, but to embody it.
The whispers of Valyria were now his. And the game of thrones had just become infinitely more dangerous, and infinitely more interesting.