The mammoth, known in the North as the fierce elephant, dwelled beyond the Wall and upon the isle of Ibben. Among all beasts that might be ridden, none were larger.
They were cloaked in thick, shaggy hair the color of old snow and frozen mud. Their tusks curved long and pale as ivory scimitars, gleaming even beneath frost. When a mammoth moved across the snowfields, each ponderous step left a crater in its wake, deep and wide, as though the earth itself bent beneath its passing.
In Westeros, such creatures were second only to dragons in might. Some grew so immense that the walls of lesser keeps could not withstand the charge of their bulk. Stone cracked. Gates splintered. Timber shattered beneath their weight.
At the sound of Prince Baelon's signal, the great doors of the hall swung open.
More than a dozen armored soldiers strained beneath the weight of their burden as they bore in the carcass of a mammoth, roasted whole. Even in death, it towered several yards high, its massive form blackened and glistening from the fire. The scent of rich fat and charred meat rolled through the chamber like a warm tide.
The northern lords fell silent.
Many had ridden through blizzards in the Great White Wasteland. Many had fought wildlings in the shadow of the Wall. Yet few among them had ever seen a mammoth felled and brought south for feasting.
To the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, hunting such a beast bordered on madness. Its dense fur and thick layers of fat turned aside blades and arrows alike. A careless swing of its head could break a shield. A single shove of its bulk could crush a seasoned warrior into the snow.
Even House Stark, Wardens of the North, seldom tasted mammoth meat.
"Lords," Baelon said, rising slowly from his seat.
His voice carried easily through the vast hall. He rested one hand upon the high table, the other lifting in a measured gesture toward the feast laid before them. His expression was calm, though satisfaction glinted in his eyes.
"Stand not upon ceremony. Eat. Drink. Make merry."
Servants streamed in at once, bearing bottle after bottle of wine. The glass caught the firelight as they moved, red and gold flickering against the stone walls.
"Golden Arbor," Baelon continued, inclining his head toward a cluster of casks. "Deep red from the Reach. Firewine as well."
At the mention of vintages, several lords stepped forward, cups already in hand. They examined seals and corks with practiced scrutiny, murmuring origins and harvest years to one another. Others leaned in, nodding gravely though they recognized only the names.
"Beyond the choicest wines of the Seven Kingdoms," Baelon said, allowing a faint smile to touch his lips, "I have secured shipments from across the Narrow Sea. Pear brandy. Pepper liqueur. Pale amber wine. Apricot. Blackberry. Taste as you please."
A low murmur of approval spread through the hall.
For this banquet, he had spared no expense. Each bottle had come from his private stores. He meant to leave an impression, wealthy yet approachable, lavish yet generous.
Once such an image took root, his standing in the realm would rise swiftly.
Between a poor lord and a rich one, any man with sense knew which banner promised comfort and advancement.
If he wished men to join his Watch, he must first convince them that service under him offered profit and future. Soldiers did not march for empty purses. They marched for coin, for land, for the hope that their sons might stand higher than their fathers.
Let them believe their commander prosperous, flush with gold and favor, and they would come willingly.
As the feast wore on, dish followed dish. Mammoth meat was carved in great steaming slabs. Grease shone upon beards. Cups clashed together in toasts. Laughter rose until it seemed to shake the rafters.
Praise of Prince Baelon's generosity passed from table to table. Some lords clasped his forearm in gratitude. Others bowed their heads with solemn respect, eyes bright from wine.
By the time revelry finally ebbed, a full day and night had slipped by. Many lords staggered toward their chambers, arms slung over one another's shoulders. A few collapsed beside the hearth, goblets still clutched in slack fingers.
Baelon gestured quietly to his guards.
"See them carried gently," he said. "No man shall wake sore from my hospitality."
The guards bowed and obeyed.
At last the hall stood empty. The roar of voices faded, leaving only the faint crackle of dying embers and the lingering scent of wine and roasted flesh.
*
One month had passed since the founding of the Watch.
With subtle encouragement from certain interested parties, word spread swiftly throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Baelon was recruiting soldiers from every corner of the realm.
From highborn lords seated in their keeps to farmers bent low over winter-hardened fields, the tidings stirred hearts and loosened tongues alike.
When it became known that service under Prince Baelon carried the promise of knighthood, bold and strong commoners began laying aside their hoes and sickles. Word of it passed from market square to sept steps, from dockside taverns to lonely crofts. Men who had never ridden farther than the next village now spoke of marching north.
Few possessed coin enough to hire passage on a merchant cog. Most set out on foot, boots thin against frozen roads, packs slung across weary shoulders. They walked until their heels blistered and split. Still they pressed on.
At inns and crossroads, the same rumors were repeated.
"The prince has opened two recruitment points in the south. One at Harrenhal, the other at Casterly Rock. Enlist at Harrenhal, and you may sail north upon his own warship to the Dragon Port."
"Aye?" another would reply, eyes bright despite the cold. "I have always wanted to see Harrenhal. They say its towers scrape the sky."
In a small village not far from Casterly Rock in the Westerlands, a dozen youths gathered beneath the bare branches of a leafless oak. The wind tugged at their cloaks as they spoke in hushed, eager tones of joining the Watch.
Most were no more than fifteen or sixteen. In another land, they might have been boys still. In Westeros, they were counted men enough to plow, to bleed, and, if need be, to die.
One kicked at a stone, trying and failing to mask his excitement. "They say Prince Baelon knights men himself," he said, lifting his chin. "Not just squires. Any man who proves his worth."
Another laughed, though his hands trembled where they gripped his belt. "Then I will prove it. I will not die a farmer."
When they spoke of the future, their faces shone with untested hope. They imagined glory won upon frozen fields. They imagined kneeling before the prince, steel laid upon their shoulders. They imagined riding home clad in mail and plate, mothers weeping with pride, elder brothers staring in silent envy.
Nearly all were second or third sons.
Under the long and peaceful reign of King Viserys, the realm had prospered. Harvests had been steady. War had been distant. Families had grown large, fields crowded, inheritance thinly stretched. In a land where winter and sickness could steal half a household in a year, many children were a safeguard against sorrow.
To send one son north was a burden. To send two was a risk. Yet it was also an investment.
The rigid hierarchies of the Seven Kingdoms allowed little room for a plowman's rise. But when opportunity appeared, even cloaked in danger, the lowborn seized it with both hands.
To rise from Lowborn to knight. From knight to lord.
For such dreams, men wagered their lives without hesitation.
Prince Baelon understood this truth well. It was why his promises had been crafted with care. Knighthood. Land grants in the North. Coin enough to send home.
Hope was the sharpest lure of all.
Nor were the smallfolk alone in their ambition.
In keeps great and small, second sons of noble houses sought out their fathers in solar and hall, standing stiff-backed before hearthfires as they declared their intent.
"My lord father," one youth said, bowing his head though his jaw remained set, "I would ride north and offer my sword to Prince Baelon."
Some fathers studied their sons in silence, weighing pride against peril. Others gave their blessing readily, seeing in the Watch a path to distinction that inheritance denied.
Few refused outright.
Many offered more than words. Coin for the road. A destrier from the stables. A shirt of mail fitted by the castle smith. A helm polished bright.
Though the Watch issued its own equipment, it was simple and uniform, thick quilted armor meant to ward against cold winds more than tempered steel. No father wished his blood to stand in battle clad only in cloth while another man's son bore castle-forged plate.
In courtyards across the realm, boys tested the weight of new swords. Mothers adjusted straps with trembling fingers. Younger siblings watched wide-eyed as cloaks were clasped and farewells spoken.
Thus armed and provisioned, they began their journeys northward.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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