When Baelon arrived with his family and two dragons in tow, the people of the city bent the knee as one. Steel rang softly as helms were lowered. Then, as if drawn by the same tide, they pressed forward to greet him with reverence.
Baelon moved among them with measured grace. He inclined his head when courtesy required it, accepted praise with a faint, knowing smile, and never lingered too long in any one lord's company. A prince must be seen. He must never seem eager.
Aegon stood apart, hands folded behind his back, watching.
Only then did he understand the meaning behind Baelon's earlier lessons.
When he had first stood before Tyraxes, pride had burned hot in his veins. He had mistaken awe for mastery, and fear for obedience. Now, observing Baelon's quiet command of men, that arrogance cooled into something steadier.
Awkwardly at first, he began to follow his cousin's example. When a lord approached, Aegon inclined his head just enough. When addressed, he answered with courtesy, but never warmth.
The nobles noticed.
The Targaryens were no longer few dragonriders clinging to fading glory. Their numbers had grown. Their sons were trained beneath Baelon's eye. Even the younger generation bore themselves with polish.
Whispers moved through silk sleeves.
Would Prince Baelon accept a ward? A son fostered at his side? A nephew instructed in the arts of rule?
"Lords," Baelon called.
He ascended the high platform, hands clasped lightly before him. Sunlight caught in his silver hair as he surveyed the sea of gathered banners.
"Your journeys were long. You have come to the Wall to witness the completion of the nineteen castles and the founding of a new legion."
His voice carried easily across the square.
"In gratitude, I shall host an open feast tomorrow night in Dawnstar. Meat and wine shall be set before you. I will share with you what I value most."
He paused, letting anticipation take root.
"And each of you will depart with a gift. I trust you will find it worthy."
A roar of approval answered him.
They had not ridden for food or trinkets. Yet if Prince Baelon named something precious, it would not be common fare.
Amid the swelling clamor, Baelon withdrew to the inner area of the City. Servants scattered at once to prepare the feast and assemble the promised gifts.
"Aegon." Baelon's tone shifted, quieter now.
Aegon stepped forward and bowed his head.
"The gifts are yours to oversee. Go to the steward. Confirm the guest list and numbers. When it is done, return to me."
Baelon's gaze sharpened slightly.
"I will give you a written order. Present it at the warehouse and take what I have prepared."
"Yes." Aegon's voice was steady. "It will be done."
He turned without haste and followed a servant toward the administrative offices.
"Helena," Baelon continued, glancing toward her.
She met his eyes.
"Inform the Maester of the library that I will retrieve the food and wine stored there."
Helena inclined her head in silent assent and departed.
Baelon then regarded young Aemond, who straightened instinctively beneath his cousin's gaze.
"Go to the Dragonpit. Ensure the Dragonkeepers provide the freshest meat for Tyraxes and the others. If they fail in their duty, you may correct them in my name."
Aemond swallowed and nodded sharply. "Yes, cousin."
When the three had gone, Baelon's expression hardened.
The feast was spectacle. The ceremony was the blade beneath it.
It must be grand enough to awaken ambition. Stirring enough to kindle loyalty. The first recruits to his legion must not be common rabble, but men who believed.
Belief was the true foundation of power.
The next morning, dawn spilled gold across Dawnstar City. Baelon stood upon a platform at the center of the stone square, two yards above the gathered crowd.
Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms stood assembled. Banners of House Stark, House Karstark, House Glover, and House Whitehill stirred in the cold air drifting down from the North.
Their faces were solemn. Their eyes fixed upon him.
"Lords of Westeros," Baelon began.
He rested both hands upon the railing before him and leaned forward slightly, not in weakness, but in earnest appeal.
"You have heard the tales. The wildlings move south. Giants walk again. Stranger things stir beyond the Wall."
A murmur passed through the northern ranks.
"To see hope is to guard it," Baelon said quietly. "To watch is to protect."
He let silence gather.
"I grieve for the fall of the Night's Watch."
His jaw tightened, just enough.
"They stood against the southern advance and were broken."
The northern lords shifted. Some bowed their heads. Others stared ahead with set jaws. Beyond them, many southern lords remained impassive. To them, the Night's Watch had long been little more than a prison in black.
Baelon's gaze swept across them.
"Perhaps you do not know this," he continued, his voice steady but firm. "In their final battle, every man of the Watch held his ground. Not one fled. Not one cast aside his cloak."
He lifted his chin slightly.
"They were outnumbered two and three to one. Still, they chose death over retreat. That is not the conduct of criminals. It is the conduct of brothers."
The murmurs grew louder now.
Some lords exchanged uneasy glances.
Under such odds, would they themselves have stood?
Baelon knew the truth of that battle was harsher. The wildlings, driven by hatred for the black-cloaked crows, had spared none.
But truth, like a sword, could be honed to purpose.
And in Baelon's hands, it would carve the future he intended.
"Therefore," Prince Baelon declared, his voice ringing clear across the stone square, "to defend against the threat that gathers in the far North, I have been named Warden of the Wall, vested with full military and civil authority over these lands."
He let the weight of that authority settle upon them.
"As its lord, I now proclaim the founding of a new legion."
A brief silence followed.
"It shall be called the Dawn Watchers."
He turned slightly and lifted one hand.
"The rising sun is hope," he said, his tone steady but resonant. "To stand watch beneath its light is to guard the future of the realm."
At his signal, attendants stepped forward and unfurled the banner.
The cloth snapped sharply in the morning wind.
It was blood-red.
Baelon had once considered white, the color of new beginnings. Yet white could be stained. Red proclaimed allegiance and sacrifice without apology.
Across the crimson field blazed a golden sun, held aloft in the curved grasp of two dragon claws. The image was stark and unmistakable. Sacred radiance. Coiled strength. Blood and fire bound together.
A murmur swept the gathered lords.
"The Dawn Watchers shall number ten thousand men," Baelon continued. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back now. "They will be divided into four ranks. Recruits. Veterans. Officers. Knights."
He paced a step along the platform, gaze passing over banners of House Stark and House Karstark.
"Like the Night's Watch, they shall not cast aside their vows at whim. Oaths sworn before gods and men shall bind them."
He paused, then allowed a faint shift in his expression.
"But unlike the old order, they shall not be denied life."
Several brows lifted.
"They may wed. They may father sons and daughters."
The square stirred more audibly now.
"When a man earns the rank of veteran, he shall be granted land and a dwelling for his household."
Whispers broke out among the lesser lords and landed knights. Even some greater lords leaned closer to hear.
"Recruits," Baelon went on, raising one hand to still the noise, "shall receive weekly wages and be armed properly. Spear. Dagger. Short sword. Two black robes bearing the sigil of the Dawn Watchers."
His voice remained even, almost matter-of-fact.
"Veterans shall receive double that pay. Their arms shall be improved. Longsword. Leather and mail. Helm and spear. And they shall be housed."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"Officers shall earn ten silver stags each week. They shall ride warhorses and bear full harness. Their dwellings shall reflect their station."
At the mention of silver stags, several southern knights exchanged quick glances. That was coin enough to tempt even second sons of noble blood.
Baelon stopped pacing.
"As for knights…"
His eyes hardened, and when he spoke again, his voice lowered slightly, forcing the crowd to listen.
"They shall draw no wages."
A flicker of confusion crossed a few faces.
"But they may swear their swords directly to me."
He rested one hand lightly against the rail before him.
"In return, they shall be granted lands within Harrenhal. They shall hold them as landed knights, owing fealty to me and to the realm."
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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Send the stones this way. Okay???