Maekar Kings Landing
Maekar read through the report from one of his new informants in the castle. He had begun building a small network of spies and informants in the Red Keep. Ros had been a great help as she had already begun training girls, teaching them to read and write before he arrived in the city. After he arrived, he simply had them hired as servants in all parts of the castle.
"Lords of House Bulwer and Bushy are in the capital," he read from the paper in his hands.
There is a storm brewing between House Bulwer and House Bushy. An alliance had been agreed upon by the two houses and was sealed in marriage. The bride, a fair lady of Bushy, fled her betrothed, proclaiming cruel treatment at the hands of her intended family. House Bushy cried dishonor and demanded reparation, while House Bulwer swore these accusations were false. Each house now rallies for support in the capital so they could approach the king or the Hand.
'Why did ros teach them to write such flowery words' he thought as he picked up the next piece of paper.
Members of both houses of Fossoways were here, Green and Red; they clash over inheritance.
'Ah, the Fossoways,' he mused, 'always fighting over something.' He picked up the next one.
House Inchfield and House Kidwell have come into conflict centered on a ruined castle near their borders. Both houses lay claim to its stones and the land it commands, leading to skirmishes and sabotage. Excavation efforts are met with hostility, each side seeking to undermine the other.
'I didn't even know these houses existed,' he thought as he discarded the piece. He looked over the remaining ones, hoping to see any information useful for his current predicament. Most of them were centered around the Reach, with houses fighting and feuding over inane matters.
'I wonder if this is how the Tyrells keep them in line, having them waste time on such trivial matters,' he mused as he took the final piece of paper from the table.
Lord Langward had come to King's Landing seeking an audience with the Hand of the King, to no avail. Lord Langward loudly proclaimed the grievances of his house, asserting that House Hayford had unlawfully annexed villages on their border. Men sent by Langward to investigate had met with death, and his pleas for justice had fallen on deaf ears. Despite his persistence, no official had granted him an audience. Moreover, during his stay in the city, he was set upon by ruffians.
'Now this is interesting,' he thought. Had Hayford grown that confident to make moves like this outside the city with such blatant and open provocations?
'He must have a powerful ally,' he muttered.
As he put the final piece of the paper down, he heard a knock on the door.
"You can come in, Robin," he said, predicting it would be Robin Arryn.
In walked an eight-year-old boy with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, dressed in a gray tunic. He carried a training sword with him, the wooden blade swinging slightly as he walked.
"Ah, I see you are already dressed for your lessons," he said with a smile, "and on time as well," he added.
"I did as you asked, my prince," Robin said.
"Yes, yes you did," he said, standing up.
He knew that Lysa Arryn, Robin's mother, had lost her mind a year after giving birth to him. Aunt Catelyn had not taken it well and had even traveled to the Eyrie to visit her, she suspiciously returned with a small scar on her face, which he later found out from a drunk Uncle Brandon that Lysa had attacked.
He had always wondered why Lysa had gone completely mad here, other than how she was in the books. He was able to finally solve that mystery two years ago when Aunt Catelyn told stories about her childhood to him and his cousins one afternoon. She offhandedly mentioned how her foster brother had died in a shipwreck. When the dates matched up with when Lysa went mad, he knew that Littlefinger's death had made her completely lose her mind.
But on the bright side, Robin Arryn was healthy and acted like a regular eight-year-old and now was his page.
"Come, Robin, I want to test what your former teacher has been teaching you," he said.
"Hugh was a terrible teacher. He kept me doing the same thing over and over again," Robin said angrily.
"Oh, did he now? Do you believe that you are more advanced than Hugh believed you to be?" he asked.
"Yes, I am, Prince Maekar," Robin said earnestly.
"Show me," he said, leading the young falcon to the training yard.
.
.
.
Robin showed off his practiced stances and strikes, each movement fluid and precise. He began with a basic guard position, transitioning smoothly into a series of high and low strikes, his training sword cutting through the air with a controlled grace. He pivoted on his feet, maintaining balance and demonstrating an impressive understanding of footwork.
"He has talent," Oswell said from his side.
"Yes, yes he does," he replied, watching his page with keen interest.
Robin's strikes were not only accurate but also carried a surprising amount of force for someone his age. His movements were confident, each swing of his sword executed with a focus that belied his years. He moved with the natural agility of someone who had been training for much longer than he actually had.
Robin transitioned into a defensive stance, parrying imaginary blows and countering with quick, precise thrusts. His eyes were sharp, scanning his surroundings as if he were facing an invisible opponent.
'Not bad at all,' he thought, impressed.
It was his first time in the training yard of the Red Keep. This area was reserved for the nobles, while the soldiers trained in the larger yard outside the castle. The yard had raised balconies for spectators, their stone railings worn smooth from years of use. The muddy ground was trampled from countless sparring sessions, and racks of weapons lined the perimeter, holding swords, spears, and other implements of combat. Nobles and knights filled the yard, some practicing their skills while others observed and offered advice.
He had not been very active since he arrived, preferring to practice with his warhammer in the early morning when he was alone in the godswood. He valued the quiet, but he was beginning to miss having a sparring partner.
Looking up to the balconies, he saw his sister and her cousins. They had been focused on some Dornish knights when he arrived with Robin and Ser Oswell. His sister, Rhaenys, occasionally glanced his way discreetly. She was dressed more modestly, yet still beautifully, in a gown that emphasized her regal bearing without being ostentatious. Her dark hair was braided intricately, and her violet eyes sparkled with curiosity and subtle concern.
Arianne, however, was not so subtle. She watched him instruct Robin with rapt attention, her dusky skin glowing in the sunlight. Arianne wore revealing clothes, though not too scandalous for King's Landing. Her dress clung to her luscious curves, accentuating her ample breasts. Her long, flowing hair framed her face, highlighting her pouty lips and large, expressive eyes. She exuded a sensual confidence, her gaze unwavering as she observed him.
In his previous life, he had two weaknesses. One was that he trusted too easily, and when he woke up here as Maekar, he worked on that by keeping his distance from people at first, only fully trusting them after years of knowing them. He had been burned a lot in his past life because of that trusting nature.
His second weakness was women. He loved women. He had also tried to work on this when he woke up here in his second life—the emphasis on 'tried.'
He could see some of the Dornish knights and nobles giving him looks.
'Very insecure, these men,' he thought. He laughed internally. Who would be foolish enough to openly insult a prince?
"Prince Maekar," a voice drawled from behind him.
Apparently, there was a fool. He turned to see a handsome man with a clean-shaven face, an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, dark purple eyes, and collar-length thick silver hair divided by a streak of midnight black. He wore clothes in the colors of House Dayne.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage," the man said, introducing himself.
He noticed his sister looked worried while Arianne looked annoyed. Nymeria, Obara, and Tyene, however, appeared excited.
"Well, you already know who I am," he said.
"Yes, we all do," Gerold said with a forced smile. "It's great that you have acclimated yourself to the city, considering you lived in a savage land like the North."
He sighed internally. It was going to be one of those days.
"We haven't seen you in the yard since you arrived in the city, my prince," Gerold further probed.
"I prefer training alone," he replied, his eyes falling on Gerold's sheathed sword. "Though I have been wanting to spar with someone," he added, issuing a challenge.
"Well, I am the best sword in all of Dorne," Gerold boasted.
He smiled and turned to Oswell. "Ser Oswell, is Arthur Dayne not from Dorne?" he asked loudly.
"To my knowledge, yes, my prince. Arthur Dayne is from Dorne," Oswell answered with a grin.
"Well, Gerold, unless you have bested your cousin, I think that title is already filled," he said.
"Yes, Darkstar," Oswell said in a mocking tone. "Prince Maekar is correct."
"Do you want to spar or not?" Gerold asked, his anger barely contained.
"Sure," he answered.
They began walking to the center of the yard as everyone else stopped what they were doing to watch. Gerold's eyes never left Arianne, who looked increasingly annoyed.
'Were they lovers' he wondered.
He saw Arianne glance away from Gerold and then towards him, which seemed to infuriate Gerold further.
'Ah, they were lovers...poor Gerold wants to get back together, it seems' he thought.
"Are you going to fight bare-handed?" Gerold mocked, shedding whatever fake respect he had shown.
His eyes fell on a knight in the yard. He had seen him training with a warhammer, a bit larger than he was used to, but it would do.
"Good knight, would you please lend me your warhammer? Mine is still at the smith's." he requested.
This action caused murmurs to spread among the crowd. Not because he asked for a weapon, but because of the weapon itself. The warhammer had become a symbol of defiance in the Stormlands after Robert died, as over the years, Robert Baratheon had become a folk hero of sorts.
The knight bowed. "It would be an honor, my prince," and walked over, handing him the warhammer.
He took the warhammer in his hands, feeling the weight and giving it a few swings.
"Come, Gerold. I have been wanting to test myself against a good opponent."
They began fighting, and to his surprise, he found himself quite adept with the warhammer. Gerold, too, looked surprised by the speed and skill with which he wielded it. He moved with a swiftness that astonished the crowd, some even whispering, "The demon reborn."
The fight began with a clash of steel, Gerold's sword meeting his borrowed warhammer with a resounding clang. Gerold circled cautiously, looking for an opening, while he advanced with a series of quick, powerful strikes. The weight of the warhammer seemed almost negligible in his hands as he swung it with practiced precision.
Gerold parried and dodged, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he tried to find a gap in his defenses. The sound of metal against metal filled the air, accompanied by the gasps and murmurs of the onlookers. His strikes were relentless, each one aimed with deadly accuracy, forcing Gerold to stay on the defensive.
With a grunt of effort, he brought the warhammer down in a powerful arc. Gerold barely managed to deflect the blow, his sword vibrating from the impact. Taking advantage of Gerold's momentary distraction, Maekar followed up with a swift, sweeping strike to the side. Gerold jumped back, his feet slipping slightly in the mud.
He pressed his attack, moving with surprising agility for someone wielding such a heavy weapon. Gerold found himself struggling to keep up with his relentless assault. Each swing of the warhammer seemed to drive him further back, closer to the edge of the training yard.
Gerold tried to counterattack, lunging forward with a thrust aimed at his midsection. But Maekar twisted to the side, the sword missing him by inches. With a quick pivot, he swung the warhammer upward, catching Gerold's sword and sending it flying from his hand. The blade spun through the air before landing in the mud several feet away.
Gerold stumbled, his balance lost, and fell to the ground, mud splattering around him. He lay there, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with shock. Maekar stood over him, his chest heaving, the warhammer held loosely at his side. The crowd was silent for a moment, then erupted into applause and cheers.
Arianne cheered loudly, her voice echoing across the yard. Even Rhaenys clapped, a small smile playing on her lips.
Gerold got up first, looking at the cheering Arianne with shame and then at him with a look of utter hatred. Without another word, he turned and walked off, his shoulders tense with anger and humiliation.
He was quickly surrounded by some of the knights who congratulated him.
"Well fought, my prince,"
"A display worthy of the greats,"
"You showed him Your Grace."
He nodded his thanks, acknowledging their compliments with a modest smile. He then made his way to Robin and Ser Oswell, who were waiting at the edge of the training yard.
"Ha, finally someone humbled the darkfucker," Oswell said with a grin.
"Oswell, there's a child here," he playfully scolded.
Robin looked up, confused. "Darkfucker? I thought you said his name was Darkstar."
Oswell laughed heartily
He chuckled and ruffled Robin's hair. "Come on, Robin. We are done here, and it's also time for me to meet your father. We have to attend the small council meeting today."
With that, he quickly led Robin and Oswell away, leaving the training yard behind.
.
.
.
"It is a good plan, but without royal support..." Jon Arryn trailing off with a worried expression.
"We will have royal support. Something like this won't raise too much suspicion," he replied confidently.
"But..." Jon began again.
"Lord Arryn, I think you have grown more pessimistic in your years in the capital," he interrupted.
Jon laughed a mirthless laugh. "Perhaps you are right."
They arrived at the doors to the small council chamber. Oswell opened it for them, and they entered. Inside, he saw his father, the king, seated at the head of the table. Alongside him were Jon Connington, the Hand of the King; Kevan Lannister, the Master of Coin; Paxter Redwyne, the Master of Ships; Grand Maester Pycelle; and Varys, the Master of Whispers.
"Ah, Maekar, Lord Arryn, you are here," Rhaegar said warmly.
"You are late, Lord Arryn," the Hand said testily.
"Nonsense. I just arrived; he is not late at all," Rhaegar countered.
As they walked to take their seats, his eyes met Lord Kevan's, and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Jon Arryn sat next to Paxter, and he took the chair beside him.
"Let us begin then," Rhaegar said, starting the meeting.
"Yes, let's," Connington said, albeit reluctantly. "First order of business is the taxes from..."
Rhaegar interrupted, "Jon, my son has requested to present the first topic today, so I shall grant that request."
"As you say, Your Grace," Connington said, sitting down with a barely concealed look of displeasure.
"Maekar," Rhaegar said, granting him the floor.
He shared a glance with Jon Arryn, then stood up. He felt the weight of the room's attention on him, the varying degrees of skepticism, curiosity, and anticipation from the council members.
"As you know, I have been working under Lord Arryn, the honorable Master of Laws, so that I can better understand and study the administration in the capital," he began, standing up to address the small council. "Yet something has caught my eye, something I believe we are neglecting. This neglect has caused countless numbers of city folk—your people, Father—to suffer and even die."
Rhaegar leaned forward, intrigued. "What is it, my son?"
The other councilors, including Jon Connington, were equally intrigued, their attention now fully on him.
"A few days ago, while returning to the Red Keep, I encountered a fire in one of the baker's shops in the city," he continued, his voice steady but filled with a sense of urgency. "The scene was harrowing—people screaming, dragging out the burned bodies of men, women, and children. The air thick with smoke and the stench of charred flesh. The flames consumed not just the shop but threatened to spread to nearby homes and businesses."
A murmur spread through the room, expressions of shock and horror evident on the faces of the council members.
"I helped as best as I could, ordering those with me to assist in putting out the fire. After some time, we managed to control it, but the damage was done. The baker's shop was reduced to ashes, and lives were lost."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "I investigated the matter further and discovered that these fires are becoming more frequent. More people are losing their homes, their businesses, and their lives."
"The city watch is tasked with putting out fires," Connington began.
"Yes, they are," Paxter said, agreeing with Connington.
"Therein lies the problem," he interjected. "The city watch is completely overwhelmed. They cannot be running around the city and putting out fires as well."
"It has always been that way," Pycelle chimed in.
"Well, I believe it is time for a change," he asserted. He turned to Rhaegar. "Father, I propose we create a new order in the city, an order to watch for fires and put them out. A fire watch, if you will."
"That is an excellent idea, Prince Maekar," Varys said, agreeing.
"I have already prepared everything we need to create such an organization. I only need gold, men, and a place for the barracks, a central location to organize everything," he explained.
"This is a fine proposal, Prince Maekar, but I do not think the treasury can bear such an expense," Connington said.
"Lord Hand, I thought I was the Master of Coin," Kevan Lannister spoke up.
"And can the treasury bear such an expense?" Rhaegar asked.
"Yes, it can. Also, Prince Maekar has assured me he will bear some of the cost himself," Kevan replied.
"No, there is no need for that," Rhaegar said.
"Your Grace, you cannot be considering this," Connington asked, shocked.
"Maekar, you will be given everything for this fire watch to be made," Rhaegar decided.
"Thank you, Father," he said. "And the barracks?" he asked.
"Do you have a place in mind?" Rhaegar inquired.
"Yes, I believe I do," he said with a smile.
"Where?" Rhaegar asked.
"The Dragonpit," he said, locking eyes with his father.