Maekar rode out with Ser Dickon and a small escort of ten gold cloaks, their cloaks bright against the morning sun as they left the Red Keep behind. The ride was brief, ending before the Dragon Gate at the East Barracks.
Ser Dickon dismounted first, turning expectantly toward Maekar. The prince swung down from his horse, following the commander through the gates and into the yard. Within, the clang of steel and the bark of orders filled the air as gold cloaks trained in the open ground.
"My prince," Ser Dickon said, lowering his voice,
"We should inform the others of your presence."
Maekar nodded. "Very well."
The commander strode into the center of the yard, Maekar beside him, hands folded neatly behind his back. In a commanding tone, Ser Dickon called,
"Attention!"
The noise died at once. Men dropped what they were doing and hurried to gather around, forming a rough half-circle. They lacked the rigid precision of a drilled army, but their quick obedience and steady expressions spoke of discipline hard-earned.
"Today," Ser Dickon announced, his voice carrying,
"we are honored with the presence of a prince. He has chosen to stand with you—to serve and protect this city alongside you."
He gestured toward Maekar, though every man there had already fixed his eyes on him from the moment he entered.
"This is Prince Maekar," Dickon declared, "rider of Morghul."
The title rippled through the ranks. Ser Dickon turned slightly, offering Maekar the chance to speak.
The prince stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the faces before him. "Men of the City Watch," he began, pausing long enough to let silence settle.
"I have joined you not in search of merit, nor for the sake of experience. I stand with you because I recognize your worth—your hard work, your burden, and your importance. You are the peacekeepers of this great city. You are its first line of defense against all who would harm its people, its walls, and its royal house. For that, I thank you."
A moment of stillness followed, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the yard. Then, as if released all at once, the gold cloaks erupted into cheers, voices rising in unison, chanting his name.
The cheers of the yard soon faded as Ser Dickon barked orders for the men to return to their duties. The gold cloaks scattered, the clang of steel and the shuffle of boots quickly replacing their chants.
"Come, my prince," the commander said, leading Maekar across the yard and into the barracks. They climbed to the second floor, their steps echoing off the stone until they reached the largest and furthest chamber. A gold cloak stood guard before its heavy oak door.
The man bowed deeply to Ser Dickon, then glanced at Maekar. At the sight of his silver hair, he bent even lower.
Ser Dickon gave only a curt nod before pushing the door open. Maekar followed him inside.
The chamber was functional, not ostentatious—shelves lined with ledgers and manuals, a large desk cluttered with papers, maps, and half-finished parchments.
Maekar took in the room, then turned to the commander.
"Lord Commander, I am not yet familiar with the full scope of your duties. Do explain them to me."
Ser Dickon inclined his head.
"Of course, my prince. As Lord Commander, I am responsible for all that occurs within these walls and beyond them. My mornings begin with a brief drill to keep the edge from dulling. After that, the true work begins—the administration."
He gestured toward a wide map of King's Landing pinned upon the wall, its districts carefully divided and marked.
"I assign the patrols. It is my duty to decide not only who walks the streets, but which streets they walk, and at what hour. Our routes change constantly. Were they predictable, the city's gangs would use that against us, and ambushes would follow. Randomness keeps us strong."
Moving back toward his desk, he continued, "I also manage pay. The Crown sends the coin, but it is through my hand that each cloak receives his due."
He straightened, his tone firm but not boastful. "That, my prince, is the gist of my work."
"I see," Maekar said thoughtfully.
"Then I will train with you each morning and afterward assist with the administrative work."
Ser Dickon inclined his head. "Of course, my prince."
"Shall we begin, then?" Maekar pressed.
The commander nodded and gestured toward the map spread across his desk. His finger tapped a district marked Muddy Way, then slid to another quarter labeled the Hook.
"These are the areas slated for patrol next." He looked at Maekar expectantly. "How do you think we should proceed, my prince?"
Maekar leaned over the desk, both palms pressing against the map. His eyes scanned the districts while his thoughts sharpened.
'He truly does take his duty seriously.'
"No single patrols," Maekar said at last.
"But neither should we march too many men at once and spook those with something to hide. Five or six in a group will do. Each with a leader to ensure discipline and clear orders. Rally points should be set in advance so that reports can flow back cleanly."
He paused, fingers tracing the lines of the streets before resting his chin upon his hand.
"The city will always suffer its share of petty thefts and drunken brawls. Routine patrols must be established to create the illusion of a constant gold cloak presence. If they believe eyes are always upon them, crime will wither. And…"
—his gaze flicked toward the commander—
"We will need mounted men, swift and ready, for pursuit when trouble flees faster than boots can follow."
The Lord Commander could not hide his amazement. To hear such thoughts from a boy of only ten-and-three name days was startling. Of course, every measure Maekar suggested had already been implemented for a long time, yet the clarity of his reasoning was impressive nonetheless.
"Good ideas, my prince," Ser Dickon said at last.
"Since patrols cannot begin without my order, we must prepare the papers for those assigned today."
Maekar gave a short nod as the commander reached into a chest, pulling forth a thick stack of parchment.
"These," Ser Dickon explained, placing them on the desk,
"Hold the records of every sworn brother of the City Watch."
He slid one sheet across the table. Maekar picked it up, scanning its neat columns of script: ten names listed, each with place of origin, age, height, appearance, and a brief description of skill or temperament.
Far more orderly than the gold cloaks of Robert Baratheon's time, Maekar thought.
He set the parchment down as Ser Dickon produced another handful, about ten in all.
"These will be the men patrolling today," the commander said. "
I choose them mostly at random, to lessen the risk of bribes influencing the selection."
Maekar's eyes lingered on the sheets.
'Ten parchments—ten men each. A hundred for two districts. Quite low for a city this crowded.'
Looking up, he asked evenly,
"Do you patrol Flea Bottom regularly?"
The Lord Commander grimaced.
"That place, my prince, can never truly be brought under control. We only march there when an incident is reported. Routine patrols are rare."
Maekar inclined his head slowly. "I see."
Maekar worked beside the Lord Commander, dividing the hundred names into neat groups. Each parchment bore its own list, organized with care. When they were finished, Ser Dickon drew out his official seal, pressed it into hot wax, and stamped each sheet with practiced precision.
Rising, he called to the guard standing outside the door. The man stepped in quickly, saluting.
Ser Dickon handed him the stack. "You know what to do."
The guard gave a firm nod, tucked the parchments under his arm, and departed without a word.
As the door shut, Ser Dickon turned back to Maekar.
"The men will be called in by their groups and told which district they've been assigned. By the hour's end, each will know his post."
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