Baelon's words fell upon the hall like a thunderclap.
For a heartbeat, no one stirred. The gathered lords simply stared, as if uncertain they had heard aright.
In the Seven Kingdoms, lands and honors had long since been divided and divided again, parceled out until little remained to grant. The hierarchy was ironbound. Even the greatest houses could not provide keeps and incomes for every son born beneath their banners. Younger sons were burdens as often as blessings.
Thus most second sons were driven to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Some rode to war in the hope of plunder and renown. Others crossed the narrow sea to hire out their swords. A few sought service in distant courts, clinging to the faint promise of patronage. Anything to earn coin. Anything to carve out a holding. Anything to found a branch that might endure.
The realm had known years of unrest. Even when Baelon himself had once led men to seize the Stepstones, those barren rocks had not remained in private hands for long. The Iron Throne had claimed them in the end.
All the nobles present understood the lesson.
And yet now Prince Baelon stood before them and calmly shattered those old limits.
"No, All seven of my bastards will ride north and join the Watchers. They will earn their spurs beneath my command as swiftly as they are able."
Near the edge of the hall, a minor knight of the Crownlands beckoned urgently to his steward. He leaned close, breath hot with wine.
"Send word home at once," he whispered. "Drive my sons north. All of them. If they have any ambition at all, this is their hour."
He was no lord of ancient lineage, merely the head of a modest landed household. Yet even he could see the narrow door that had opened before him.
How could he not gamble?
Across the chamber, other lords bent their heads together, voices hushed but eager. They were men bred to power. What they cherished most was blood and its continuance. Few among them lacked sons. There were heirs to secure their seats, younger sons to trouble their patience, and bastards quietly acknowledged when convenient. Boys enough to spare.
The wealthy might send five or six north. The poorer at least two or three.
If even one distinguished himself. If even one earned Prince Baelon's notice and rose high among the Watchers.
A house might climb with him.
And if calamity ever befell the main line, those distant branches would remain. The blood would not fail.
A northern lord barked a laugh and clapped a companion upon the shoulder with rough affection. "You sly old goat. Three sons, is it not? One safe at home, the other two already sharpening blades for the snows. With the way your brood trains, it is only a matter of time before one of them wins his knighthood."
The other man straightened, chest swelling with pride. "Do you take me for a fool? I did not toil half my life for a single heir, as you did. Gods pity your poor lady wife."
The older lord's eyes gleamed. He reached forward with sudden speed, fingers digging hard into the younger man's ribs.
"Careful," he said softly. "I might see that you father no more sons at all."
The younger lord went rigid, color draining from his face. "I yield," he blurted, twisting away. "I yield."
Laughter burst from those nearby. The grip released at once.
Yet when the older man's gaze drifted across the hall and lingered on the many lords whispering of opportunity, something darker flickered there.
Who would not desire another safeguard for his house?
But not all men possessed the means.
"Enough."
Baelon's voice rang out from the high platform.
He lifted both hands, palms turned downward in command.
The murmuring died at once.
"From this day forward," he declared, his tone firm as hammered steel, "the Watchers stand formally established."
The hall erupted.
Applause thundered against the stone walls. Boots struck the floor. Tankards were raised high.
The roar was loud enough to rouse Tyraxes from his slumber where the great dragon lay coiled beyond the open doors. One molten eye cracked open. The beast regarded the clapping nobles with what could only be disdain before lowering his head once more to rest.
Within the hall, no one noticed.
They understood what had been given to them.
Opportunity, Power and Land.
Forty golden dragons would not have sufficed to purchase what had just been laid before them.
Many in the hall felt a quiet thrill of vindication. Whether they had come out of curiosity, caution, or courtesy, their presence here had proven wise. Those who had chosen to remain in their keeps and towers would soon be cursing their own caution, pounding their stone walls in bitter regret.
The nobles were flushed with anticipation.
And Prince Baelon, standing above them, felt his own satisfaction settle like warm steel in his chest.
Yes, he had granted wide tracts of land. Yes, he had spoken of titles yet to be won.
But those lands had once belonged to the Night's Watch.
For generations the black brothers had guarded them, tilled them, bled for them. That legacy stirred sentiment in some corners of the realm. It did not stir him.
He had no need of a handful of frozen fields.
He needed men. He needed the allegiance of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms.
By flinging open the gates of advancement, he had not weakened his authority. He had strengthened it. Invisible chains had been forged in that hall, links hammered by ambition and hope.
Why would those lords send their sons north?
For the prosperity of their houses.
For the survival of their bloodlines.
And in doing so, they would bind their futures to his.
Second sons in Westeros were seldom cherished as heirs were. They inherited little beyond a sword and their father's name. Without lands or prospects, they drifted.
But grant them rank within the Watchers. Place command in their hands. Set them over keeps and garrisons.
Everything changed.
Their fathers would spend silver freely to see them properly armed. Their mothers would write letters seeking favor. Their uncles would offer men-at-arms and grain in quiet support. Knightly households would strain every sinew to secure advancement.
And when those sons rose, they would rise because Prince Baelon had opened the path.
Knights were not to be dismissed.
Among them stood farmers who had grown wealthy, seasoned captains who had led men in battle, sworn swords who had gathered retinues of their own. They possessed sprawling estates, stout stone keeps, even villages that owed them fealty. Some commanded more swords than lesser lords of ancient name.
Many smallfolk called such men "lord" regardless of what the rolls of heraldry declared.
Consider Ser Gregor Clegane, known throughout the realm as the Mountain. Though only a knight, he ruled Clegane's Keep, with lands, mill, and village beneath him. His name carried more dread and weight than that of many a titled lord.
Titles were ink upon parchment.
Land and steel were substance.
Beyond the Wall, the cold bit hard and the winds howled without mercy. Yet the lands once held by the Night's Watch had been cultivated for centuries. Fields had been cleared. Villages had stood. Roads, rough though they were, had been laid.
Those holdings could sustain a household.
In plain truth, to become a landed knight beneath Prince Baelon meant more than a ribboned honor.
It meant soil to stand upon and it meant men to command. It meant a keep whose stones would outlast flesh and bone.
A legacy.
A future that might endure for generations.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???