"I choose this place," Gaimon said, pointing decisively to the map laid before King Jaehaerys.
The location he indicated spanned the mouth of the Wende River and the first half of its basin, covering roughly one thousand kilometers of fertile land, bordered by rolling hills and the winding river. The magnitude of the territory was immense, and its strategic importance undeniable. King Jaehaerys's eyes followed Gaimon's finger. He said nothing at first but nodded slightly, acknowledging the decision.
Baelon Targaryen, still staring intently at the map, frowned in deep thought. The king's voice, calm but firm, finally broke the silence.
"You do not need to rush your choice," King Jaehaerys said, his gaze steady and commanding. "Go see it for yourself, consider its strengths and weaknesses. Once you make your choice, stand by it. Your path is yours alone, and no one can tread it for you. Make it wisely, and do not falter in the face of doubt."
Baelon lifted his head, meeting his father's eyes with a serious expression. Slowly, he nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment.
Queen Alysanne, who had quietly observed the proceedings until now, finally spoke, her voice filled with warmth and authority.
"Very well," she said, raising her glass. "Now that the path is clear, let us conclude our meal in celebration. May our family grow stronger with each passing day."
The nobles echoed her sentiment, lifting their glasses in unison.
"I wish the Targaryen family will become more and more powerful."
"I wish the Targaryen family will become more and more powerful."
The echoes of their toast reverberated off the stone walls, mingling with the scent of incense and the faint tang of old blood. The flickering torches cast long, twisted shadows across the floor, reflecting the jagged contours of the Iron Throne.
King Jaehaerys, clad in a black-and-red cloak adorned with diamonds, sat atop the imposing seat of power, his fingers lightly drumming on the hilt of a broken sword embedded in the throne. His gaze swept over his sons, Baelon and Gaimon, who knelt solemnly before him.
"In the name of the Targaryen dynasty," the king's voice rang out, deep and resonant, echoing through the cavernous hall, "Lords of the Seven Kingdoms and Protectors of the Realm. You bear the blood and fire of House Targaryen. You must honor that heritage, uphold its glory, and wield its power with wisdom and courage."
A servant approached, presenting a small bowl filled with scorched earth and a piece of dead branch, symbols of the land and its trials.
"Family inheritance rests on order and duty," King Jaehaerys continued, "but strength, honor, and courage must be earned. By the power of blood and fire, I grant you dominion over the Wende River Basin and the Hero Territory. From the highest hills to the river's mouth, wherever the sun's rays fall, your authority shall extend. Build a fortress on the rock. Defend the borders with courage and with steel. Uphold your loyalty and demand tribute from those who dwell within your lands."
Baelon and Gaimon bowed deeply, their foreheads touching the cold stone floor in reverence.
The king drew his sword, the Valyrian steel of Blackfyre gleaming darkly in the torchlight, and tapped each of his sons on the shoulder.
"Rise," he said softly. "When the castle is completed, new titles shall be yours. May you face every danger without fear. May your banners fly high, rekindled in the flames of dragons."
The nobles watched silently, some envious, some jealous, but all aware that this moment marked the passing of a legacy, the shaping of the family's future.
After several days of consideration, Baelon finally chose the Hero Territory as his fief. The vast grasslands were perfect for raising horses, an essential asset for any knight aspiring to legendary status. Beyond its utility, the territory's location was of immense strategic importance. Hero's Landing lay at the intersection of the three kingdoms—King's Landing, the Stormlands, and the Reach—and faced Dorne directly to the south. By securing this stronghold, the Targaryens would effectively fortify the southern approaches to King's Landing, a bastion against potential threats from multiple directions.
The Hero Castle, once completed, would be a steadfast nail driven deep into the southern lands of Westeros, a permanent assertion of Targaryen power. Historically, the land had been fraught with conflict. No family had ever successfully settled here, and countless battles had turned its soil into the final resting place of heroes, giving the territory its name. The land was fertile, enriched by the bodies of warriors long past, but its people were few.
"Will bloodshed rise again here?" some whispered.
Baelon's answer was simple yet resolute: "Vhagar's flames will burn away all discord. Peace will come, under the power of dragons."
With the enfeoffment ceremony complete, King Jaehaerys called Aemon, Baelon, and Gaimon into his study.
"Now that the lands are yours," the king said, his tone firm but supportive, "your success depends on your own abilities. Should you require assistance, Aemon will guide you."
Though Aemon felt a twinge of reluctance at the thought of his younger brothers leaving the Red Keep, he understood the wisdom of the king's plan. The Targaryen legacy must be divided strategically, even if it meant giving his siblings less than they might have commanded in the heart of the kingdom. The barren lands heaped on Baelon and Gaimon were, in truth, an opportunity—an empty canvas for their ambitions.
"Brother," Baelon said, his voice calm but firm, "do not worry for us. This path is our choice, and we embrace it fully."
Gaimon, ever the bold and cheerful one, grinned at Aemon. "If you feel the need to compensate us, I will gladly accept it," he said, the light in his eyes suggesting both humor and reassurance.
Aemon sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility lift slightly from his shoulders. "Very well. This arrangement shall stand. From now on, this shall be the norm for our family. Worry no more."
With that, the conversation ended, leaving the Targaryens on the threshold of a new era. The family, once tightly knit within the walls of the Red Keep, was now dispersing, each member tasked with carving their own domain, defending their borders, and ensuring the continued glory of their house.
As the sun set over the Wende River, casting its golden light across the Hero Territory, the air seemed charged with anticipation. This land, once a battlefield of heroes long dead, was poised to witness the rise of new legends. Baelon envisioned knights training in the vast fields, banners fluttering in the wind, and the walls of Hero Castle rising from the rocky ground. Gaimon dreamed of exploring every corner of the territory, understanding the land as only a dragon rider could, and preparing it for the day when it would stand as a symbol of Targaryen might.
King Jaehaerys watched his sons with pride. Each had chosen their path, embracing the trials and opportunities ahead. The division within the family was no longer a sign of weakness but a strategic maneuver, designed to strengthen the Targaryen hold over Westeros.
As night fell over the Red Keep, the Iron Throne gleamed under torchlight, the weight of its power resting heavy in the hall. The echoes of the day's ceremonies lingered in the corridors, mingling with the distant roar of dragons and the whisper of the wind through the high towers. In that silence, the promise of a new chapter for House Targaryen was written—not in scrolls or decrees, but in the hearts and ambitions of its heirs.
The future was uncertain, as always, but for the Targaryens, fire and blood would light the way.
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