Fighting a Storm

Maekar sat on a sturdy wooden chair overlooking the yard in the East Barracks of the City Watch. Before him, the training yard was alive with activity—dust kicking up beneath the boots of two knights locked in combat. Their swords clanged against each other with precision, each strike sending ripples of tension through the air.

The yard was a wide, open space enclosed by the high walls of the barracks. Along the edges, other knights and guards stood watching, but Maekar's gaze was only partially focused on the duel. His thoughts were more on the broader purpose of this small tournament he had orchestrated.

The two knights below were skilled, but neither was exceptional. One, a knight of House Butterwell, seemed to have the upper hand. He moved with the confidence of someone who had seen battle, his strikes calculated and precise. The other knight, a bastard of some lesser house, was holding his own but lacked the finesse needed to truly impress.

The Butterwell knight lunged forward, his sword connecting with the other's shoulder, causing him to stumble. A few moments later, the fight was over, with Butterwell standing victorious. The spectators clapped politely, but Maekar's expression remained unchanged.

He needed more than just a competent fighter. He needed someone exceptional—someone who could match, if not surpass, his own skill. This knight would need to impress not just him, but his father and the court during the upcoming tourney.

Two spots in the Kingsguard were available, possibly a third if Ser Gerold Hightower's health continued to decline. He knew Aegon would be pushing for his own candidate, and he suspected that Gerold Dayne, the 'Darkstar' as he called himself, might be at the top of that list. Gerold's obsession with becoming the next Sword of the Morning was well-known, and Maekar could see the appeal of having a man like him in the Kingsguard.

Maekar needed someone who would be loyal to him—someone who could serve as his eyes and ears within the Kingsguard, ensuring that he remained a step ahead of his brother. The knights here today were vying for that chance, though they had no idea of the true stakes involved.

"My prince," he heard Basil's voice from behind him.

Maekar turned slightly in his chair, glancing over his shoulder. "What is it, Basil?" he asked.

Basil stepped forward. "The merchants who requested an audience with you are here."

"Ah, yes," Maekar said, nodding. "Bring them in."

Moments later, Basil returned, leading five men into the chamber. Maekar observed them closely as they approached, each of them a distinct figure representing the various facets of King's Landing's merchant class.

The first was a rugged-looking man with a muscular build. His strong, chiseled jawline was marred by a scar running across his left cheek, giving him an air of danger and experience. His clothing was practical and worn, indicative of someone who had worked hard for his wealth.

Next was a man of average height but solidly built, with a square jaw and a perpetually serious expression. His clean-shaven face and simple attire suggested a no-nonsense approach to business.

The third man was tall and lanky, with a stern, almost gaunt face. He was immaculately dressed in dark, finely cut clothes, every seam and button in place. His appearance screamed of someone who valued order and precision above all else.

Beside him stood a stout man with a round face and a ruddy complexion. His hair was a curly mop of auburn, and his beard was thick but neatly trimmed. Unlike the others, he dressed in colorful, flamboyant clothing that made him stand out—a man who perhaps enjoyed the finer things in life.

Finally, there was a burly man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He wore a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed his face, but his size alone commanded attention. His clothing was sturdy, made for someone who was used to dealing with the rougher aspects of trade.

They all knelt before him, lowering their heads in respect.

"My prince," Basil began, "allow me to introduce Aldric," he pointed to the rugged man, "Varric," the average-height, serious-looking man, "Merrick," the tall, gaunt one, "Willem," the stout, flamboyantly dressed man, "and Gareth," the burly man with the hat.

"Rise," Maekar said, gesturing for them to stand. As they did, he studied them intently.

These men represented the reborn merchants' guild of King's Landing, a guild that had been nearly torn apart by the late Harrold Hayford's schemes. Under Hayford's corrupt rule, favoritism had run rampant. A select few merchants had grown rich under his protection, forming their own powerful faction within the city. These privileged few had thrived while many others suffered, their businesses squeezed or crushed under unfair trade practices and exorbitant taxes.

Hayford's death had brought an end to his corrupt practices, but the damage had been done. The merchants' guild had been fractured, its unity shattered. In the aftermath, Maekar had taken steps to mend the rift. He had punished those merchants whose hands were undeniably dirty, yet there were many more whose guilt was uncertain. Rather than destroy what remained of the city's economy, he had worked to reestablish the guild as a unified entity.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the five men before him. They had come with their grievances, seeking restitution for the losses they had suffered under Hayford's corrupt rule. He could sense their desperation, their need for stability and a way to recover what they had lost. And Maekar knew that he held the key to their future.

"I have heard your grievances," he began, his voice steady and commanding. "And I understand the impact the traitor commander's actions have had on your businesses and the city's economy as a whole. However, I do not intend to merely listen to your concerns—I intend to offer a solution."

The merchants exchanged glances, their interest piqued. Maekar's reputation had grown rapidly in King's Landing, and they knew that any solution he offered would carry weight.

"To help you recover from the losses inflicted upon you by Hayford's meddling, I propose a number of loans. These loans will be given to you to rebuild your businesses and, in turn, revitalize the economy of King's Landing. I want to see this city thrive once more, and I believe you can play a significant role in that."

Aldric, the rugged man, nodded thoughtfully, clearly intrigued by the idea. "Loans, my prince? What would be the terms?"

Maekar allowed a small smile to curve his lips. "The terms will be more favorable than anything you could find elsewhere. The interest rates will be lower, and the repayment schedules will be flexible, allowing you the time and resources to get back on your feet. Additionally, the collateral options will be designed to benefit both you and the city. I want you to succeed because your success is tied to the prosperity of King's Landing."

Varric, the serious-looking man, spoke up next. "That sounds more than fair, my prince. But what would you ask in return?"

Maekar's gaze sharpened. "I'm not merely offering you a handout. I want to ensure that the city's wealth is managed wisely. Therefore, instead of solely charging interest, I will be negotiating for stakes in your ventures. This way, your success becomes my success. It's a partnership—one that benefits us both."

The merchants exchanged surprised looks.

Merrick, the tall, gaunt man, cleared his throat. "Your plan is... unusual, my prince. But what if some of us are unable to repay these loans?"

"The flexibility in repayment," Maekar explained, "will allow you to recover at your own pace. I'm not looking to cripple you with debt; I'm looking to ensure that your businesses can stand strong and contribute to the city's growth. Failure to repay would only harm our mutual interests, and that is not something I intend to allow."

Willem, the flamboyantly dressed man, grinned. "A partnership with the prince himself—now that's a deal worth considering."

Gareth, the burly man, nodded in agreement. "We're with you, my prince. Whatever you need."

Maekar leaned forward slightly, his expression serious. "There is another venture I wish for you to be a part of, but the details of that will be discussed at a later time. For now, focus on rebuilding your businesses. Strengthen your foundations, and ensure that your operations are running smoothly. When the time is right, I will call on you again."

The merchants bowed deeply. "We are at your service, my prince," Aldric said on behalf of the group.

"Good," Maekar said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

===============

As the last of the merchants departed, Basil remained, his brows furrowed in thought. "I must admit, my prince," he began hesitantly, "I still don't fully understand your plan. What exactly are you aiming to achieve with these loans?"

Maekar turned to Basil, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I'm laying the groundwork for something much larger—a bank, of sorts."

"A bank?" Basil repeated, confused.

Maekar smiled. "The only institution resembling a bank in Westeros exists in Oldtown, run by the Hightowers. But King's Landing needs its own financial power. The merchants in the city, especially those who've suffered under Hayford, are ripe for an opportunity to rebuild and prosper. But rather than just handing out money, I'll encourage them to form a council."

Basil nodded, though he still seemed uncertain. "A council? How would that work?"

"This council," Maekar explained, "would be composed of merchants—those who have the wealth and the vision to see beyond their individual gains. They would oversee a collective pool of resources, ensuring fair trade practices and providing mutual support within their respective industries. I would remain a silent partner or benefactor, with my investments granting me influence over the council's decisions."

Basil frowned slightly. "But isn't this council just another guild? The city already has those."

Maekar shook his head. "No, Basil. It's not the same. A guild, as you know, focuses on the specific needs and regulations of a particular trade or craft. It's inclusive, bringing together all those who practice that trade, and it governs their day-to-day activities. The council, on the other hand, would have a much broader scope. It's about guiding and managing different parts of the economy from a broader perspective. The membership would be exclusive, based on influence or wealth, not just skill in a particular trade."

Basil's eyes widened with understanding. "So the council would regulate trade practices and make economic decisions for the entire city, not just manage a single industry?"

"Exactly," Maekar confirmed. "And as they grow in power and wealth, they'll need a place to manage their resources. That's where the bank comes in."

"How will the bank be formed?" Basil asked, now genuinely intrigued.

"The loans I've provided will be the foundation of a central fund managed by the merchant council. The profits generated from their businesses will contribute to this fund, which in turn can provide further loans to other merchants or be reinvested in growing businesses. Over time, this central fund will evolve into a bank."

"But how will you legitimize this arrangement?" Basil inquired.

Maekar smiled, sensing Basil's growing interest. "I'll have to create a legal framework that recognizes the council and its fund as an official entity within King's Landing. This will give our pseudo-bank a formal structure, making it easier to enforce contracts and attract more merchants. Eventually, we can diversify the services offered, like the Iron Bank."

Basil nodded, his eyes gleaming with newfound understanding.

"This is only the beginning. It will take years, but eventually, a fully functioning bank can be established in King's Landing. One that is loyal to me."

"A remarkable plan, my prince."

Maekar nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Indeed, Basil... indeed."

.

.

.

Maekar turned his attention back to the yard, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the next knight preparing to duel. This knight was an imposing figure, standing as tall as himself, with broad shoulders and a solid build. His black hair hung loose around his face, contrasting sharply with his bright blue eyes that gleamed with intensity. He wielded a morning star in one hand and a large, battered shield in the other. His armor, though sturdy, was rusted and worn, bearing the marks of countless battles.

'Too young to have been in any big battles—this armor must have belonged to someone else,' he thought.

The announcer's voice rang out over the yard. "Ser Lyonel Storm!"

Maekar leaned forward slightly, curious to see what this knight could do.

As the fight began, it became immediately clear that Ser Lyonel was no ordinary knight. His movements were deceptively swift for someone of his size, the morning star whipping through the air with frightening speed. The other knight, a smaller man who had shown promise in previous rounds, barely had time to react. Ser Lyonel's first strike sent the smaller knight's sword flying from his grasp, and his second blow, a brutal swing of the morning star, smashed into the knight's shield, shattering it. The smaller knight staggered back, only to be knocked to the ground by a powerful shield bash from Lyonel. The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun.

Maekar's eyes widened in surprise. The sheer power and precision of Ser Lyonel's strikes were impressive, and his speed was nothing short of remarkable for a man of his size.

Standing up, Maekar began to applaud, his voice carrying across the yard. "Well done, Ser Lyonel! Well done indeed!"

The other knights in the yard murmured among themselves, clearly impressed by the display. Maekar's praise was rare, and for him to show such enthusiasm meant Ser Lyonel had truly caught his attention.

'This might be the man I'm looking for,' Maekar thought as an idea formed in his mind.

Maekar called down to the yard. "Ser Lyonel, you've proven yourself a formidable warrior. But I wonder, can you best the three knights who have won before you?"

Lyonel looked up at Maekar, a humble smile on his face. "I will do my best, my prince."

The first knight to step up was Ser Ryam Butterwell, who had won the previous bout.

The fight began with Butterwell cautiously advancing, his sword held at the ready. He circled Lyonel, looking for an opening. But Lyonel, with his spiked mace, didn't wait for Butterwell to make the first move. With a sudden burst of speed, Lyonel charged forward, his morning star whooshing through the air. Butterwell barely managed to raise his shield in time, but the impact was tremendous, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The crowd gasped as Lyonel pressed his advantage, striking again and again with relentless force. Butterwell tried to parry, but each blow from Lyonel's morning star pushed him further back. Within moments, Lyonel landed a crushing blow that sent Butterwell sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering away. The match was over, and the victor was clear.

Maekar couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. This knight was not only strong but also swift and cunning—a rare combination. Standing up, Maekar called down to the yard, his voice filled with energy. "Impressive! Let's see how you fare against two opponents at once!" as he called for the other two.

The crowd, made up of City Watchmen and a growing number of curious onlookers, gasped at Maekar's command. Two knights, the previous victors before Butterwell, stepped forward, exchanging uneasy glances.

Lyonel simply nodded, his calm demeanor unchanged. As the two knights approached, he shifted his stance slightly, his grip on the morning star tightening. The fight began, and it was immediately apparent that Lyonel was in a class of his own. The two knights attempted to flank him, attacking from opposite sides, but Lyonel anticipated their movements with uncanny precision.

With a powerful swing, Lyonel deflected a sword strike aimed at his head, simultaneously using his shield to block the second knight's attack. He then spun on his heel, his morning star coming down in a vicious arc that struck one knight's shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. Without missing a beat, Lyonel turned to the second knight, parrying his sword and then delivering a swift, brutal blow that knocked the knight's helmet clean off.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps as Lyonel stood victorious once more, the two knights lying defeated at his feet.

'Gods, he is good. Where has this man been? And his looks... he looks far too much like a…,' 

"Ser Lyonel," he called out, his voice carrying through the yard his excitement growing, "you are a warrior unlike any I've seen." he smirked, "But there is one final test of your strength."

The crowd fell silent, everyone straining to hear what he would say next. "Your next opponent," Maekar continued, "will be me."

The shock was palpable. Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd, the knights and guards exchanging wide-eyed glances. Almost all of them knew of his martial prowess, and for him to challenge this unknown knight was unexpected.

Maekar walked briskly into the barracks, his heart still pounding from the thrill of what he had just witnessed. He quickly donned a padded gambeson, lacing it up with practiced efficiency. One of his Varangians entered the room and handed him a warhammer. It wasn't his own, but it would suffice for now. Maekar took it in hand, feeling the weight of the weapon as he turned to head back out into the yard.

As he stepped into the sunlight once more, he saw Lyonel sitting on a bench, resting after his victorious bout. But the moment Lyonel noticed Maekar, he rose to his feet, grabbing his large shield and morning star.

"Ser Lyonel," Maekar called out, walking toward him. "It's been some time since I've faced a formidable opponent like you."

Lyonel inclined his head humbly. "The honor is mine, my prince. To stand against the Demon Slayer himself is a privilege."

Maekar chuckled at the title—the title he had been given after killing Euron and saving Aegon.

The crowd around the yard grew silent as he and Lyonel faced each other. Lyonel raised his shield, gripping his morning star tightly, while Maekar twirled the warhammer in his hand, testing its balance.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser," he said with a grin.

Lyonel nodded, stepping forward with surprising speed. He swung his morning star in a wide arc, aiming for Maekar's side. Maekar parried the blow with the haft of his warhammer, the impact ringing out across the yard. The two circled each other, testing and probing with their weapons. Maekar launched the first series of attacks, his warhammer coming down in powerful, crushing blows. Lyonel blocked each strike with his shield, though the sheer force of Maekar's attacks pushed him back.

Despite Maekar's initial advantage, Lyonel's counter attacks were swift and precise. He darted in and out of Maekar's range, his morning star lashing out with speed that belied his size. Maekar was forced to adjust, stepping back and reevaluating his approach. He had expected a strong opponent, but Lyonel was proving to be more than that—he was fast, too fast. Maekar barely had time to deflect a blow aimed at his head when Lyonel's morning star came crashing in again, this time targeting his legs.

Maekar felt the sting of the impact through the padding as he staggered back, his balance momentarily disrupted. Lyonel pressed the advantage, his strikes coming in rapid succession. Maekar managed to block and parry, but the relentless assault was overwhelming. Sweat dripped down his brow as he struggled to keep up with Lyonel's speed.

Despite his superior strength, Maekar found himself on the defensive, forced to fend off Lyonel's expertly timed attacks. He gritted his teeth, pushing back with everything he had. His warhammer connected with Lyonel's shield, shattering it into splinters. But in that moment of triumph, he made a critical mistake.

The force of the blow had thrown him off balance, and Lyonel, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. He dropped what remained of his shield and swept his leg under Maekar, tripping him. Maekar stumbled, and before he could recover, he found himself on the ground, Lyonel's morning star poised dangerously close to his face.

The yard fell into a stunned silence. Lyonel, breathing heavily but still composed, looked down at him with a mix of respect and relief. Maekar, lying on his back, stared up at the morning star hovering inches from his nose. He knew he had been bested.

Lyonel stepped back, offering Maekar a hand to help him up. Maekar took it, rising to his feet. His pride was wounded, but there was no denying the skill of the man who had just defeated him.

"You fought well, Ser Lyonel," Maekar said, clasping the knight's shoulder with a firm grip. "You've more than earned your place by my side."

Lyonel bowed his head. "Thank you, my prince."

The crowd erupted in applause, and he couldn't help but smile. He lifted the knight's hand in triumph; he had found the man he was looking for. He had also found someone to train with and better himself as well.