Harrenhal stood scarcely a day's ride from King's Landing. The royal escort set out at first light, banners snapping in the morning wind, and by nightfall the black towers of the cursed castle loomed before them.
Princess Rhaenyra had scarcely finished stating her purpose when word reached her that her father wished to see her at once. She did not linger. Within the hour she was astride her dragon, the great wings beating the air as she turned south for the Red Keep, another dragon pacing her through the clouds.
What passed between father and daughter inside the king's hall was known to no one.
The Kingsguard on duty would later say only this: Princess Rhaenyra arrived in haste, her riding leathers unfastened, her face tight with resolve. She strode into the hall without ceremony, the doors booming shut behind her. For nearly twenty minutes, raised voices echoed through stone and timber. King Viserys's voice, usually mild and weary, rang sharp with anger. Rhaenyra answered him just as fiercely, her words quick and unyielding.
Then the doors flew open.
Rhaenyra emerged with tears streaking her cheeks, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She did not look at the guards as she passed, only brushed at her face with her sleeve and strode down the corridor, boots striking stone in uneven rhythm.
Not long after, King Viserys appeared. He looked older than before, shoulders slumped, his mouth drawn into a hard line. He paused, drew a breath as if steadying himself, then thrust a sealed parchment into the hands of the waiting Kingsguard.
"Carry my order," he said, his voice flat and cold. "To Baelon."
The guard knelt, head bowed.
"The Targaryens have rendered distinguished service in defeating the wildlings and reclaiming the Wall," Viserys continued, each word measured. "With the Night's Watch wholly destroyed, Baelon Targaryen is hereby named Warden of the Wall. He is granted full military and civil authority over the Wall and its lands."
The king's fingers tightened briefly on the parchment before he released it.
"Tell him he may rule there as he sees fit. One report to King's Landing each year will suffice. And tell him this as well," Viserys added, turning away. "He is not to trouble me again."
With that, the king left them, his cloak trailing behind him as he disappeared into his chambers.
The Kingsguard had never seen Viserys so openly enraged. Yet duty was duty. The decree was delivered without delay to Prince Baelon's quarters.
At last, Baelon had rooms of his own within the Red Keep.
They lay inside Maegor's Holdfast, set diagonally across from the king's chambers and just to the left of Princess Rhaenyra's apartments. Thick walls and narrow windows shut out the noise of court, a rare pocket of stillness.
Baelon sat alone, deep in thought, weighing once more how he might overcome Tyraxes's physical limits, when a sharp knock broke the silence.
He opened the door to find a Kingsguard standing rigid at attention, white cloak falling straight as a blade. In his hands was a parchment sealed with the three-headed dragon.
"Your Highness," the guard said, lowering his head. "By command of King Viserys I."
Baelon took the decree, breaking the seal with careful fingers as his eyes scanned the words. When he finished, his brows drew together.
"Warden of the Wall," he murmured.
"The Wall, fifty leagues south of it, and all newly granted lands are now yours to govern," the Kingsguard recited. "The king further instructed that you are not to disturb him unless the need is dire. One annual report will suffice."
The guard spoke every word precisely, neither adding nor withholding anything.
Baelon let out a slow breath. "Such a sudden change of heart," he said quietly, more to himself than to the man before him.
He had expected opposition. Otto Hightower, the Small Council, perhaps even open confrontation. Instead, the Wall had been placed in his hands outright, unbound by conditions.
After a moment, his confusion gave way to resolve. His hand tightened around the parchment.
"Very well," he said. "This could not have come at a better time."
Once the guard had gone, Baelon turned toward the narrow window, gazing northward as if he could already see the ice and stone of the Wall rising against the sky. With authority secured, he would remake it into an unbreakable bastion.
Viserys had forbidden further intrusion, so Baelon chose restraint. He would rest this night. At dawn, he would mount Tyraxes and return to Harrenhal. Supplies would be gathered, ships readied, and construction materials sent north by sea to the Wall.
There would be negotiations to conduct as well. The northern lords would need convincing, laborers recruited in great number to rebuild the nineteen abandoned castles of the Night's Watch.
Baelon had no love for white cloaks or vows sworn under threat of hunger. If men were to labor for him, they would be paid properly, with fair wages and honest contracts, not bound by oaths that offered little but cold stone and early graves.
During the rebuilding, he intended to make the Dawn watchers known throughout the North for their generous terms. Word would be carried from hearth to hearth, from Last Hearth to Karhold, that service at the Wall no longer meant a life cut off from kin and hope. Young men would come of their own will, and those who did would bind themselves to him with gratitude rather than fear.
For the first generation of Dawn watchers, Baelon planned something more ambitious still. Villages would be raised in Brandon's Gift and the New Gift, their timber halls and stone cottages clustered close to the Wall itself. Wives, children, and aging parents would be settled there, within sight of the great fortifications their sons and husbands defended.
Once a man had proven himself and risen to veteran standing, Baelon would allow him to bring his household north. Land, a roof, and steady work would be provided for every dependent.
Such roots would deepen loyalty more firmly than any oath. Discipline would harden, desertion would dwindle, and the Wall would no longer be a place men vanished into, but a land where families endured. When the benefits became known, others would follow. That advantage alone would be impossible for rivals to ignore.
The realm, for now, lay in an uneasy peace, yet misery still festered beneath it. Across the Seven Kingdoms wandered countless dispossessed souls, peasants driven from their homes by war, cruelty, or ruin. The streets of King's Landing were thick with them, especially after Otto Hightower's purges had left whole districts in ashes.
Baelon did not recruit such people out of simple mercy. Left to drift, they would become bandits, smugglers, or poachers, a threat to any lord's peace. Given work, land, and purpose, they could become something else entirely.
Under his banner, they would have all three.
Of course, none of this could be achieved without gold.
Harrenhal's revenues were vast by any normal measure, but even its cursed towers could not fund the Wall's rebirth forever. Without steady external support, the costs of garrisons, construction, and settlement would bleed the treasury dry within a few short years.
At least for now, Baelon could still draw upon the grain, timber, and coin of King's Landing and the North. How long that favor would last was another matter.
He exhaled slowly and pressed his fingers to his brow.
"Enough," he murmured. "Sleep first."
The king's letter was folded and set away with care. Baelon washed the day from his hands and face, then lay down at last, the stone chamber quiet around him.
During his time beyond the Wall, sleep had been a scarce and fragile thing.
Lately, he had noticed something else as well. The cold gnawed at him more than it once had. A strange aversion had taken root in his blood, sharp and instinctive, as if some part of him recoiled from the deep freeze of the far North.
That unsettled him.
In his mind's design, Tyraxes was meant to be perfected. A warrior without flaw in body or will, unburdened by weakness of flesh or spirit. The thought of any inherited limitation sat ill with him.
Lying in the darkness, Baelon turned his thoughts inward, examining the strange marks of fate he carried, those rare signs of accomplishment he had earned through blood and endurance. One in particular lingered in his thoughts, its nature still half-concealed, its potential unrealized.
If one such mark could bring change, could others deepen it further?
The idea followed a logic he knew well, one he had relied upon in another life. Progress came not in leaps, but in steps, each ascent unlocking the next.
He had been careless these past years. Aside from the hard-won understanding he had gained of himself in the North, he had achieved little else of note.
No new milestones. No further signs of growth.
That, he resolved, would change.
---------
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.
www.patreon.com/Baelon
Send the stones this way. Okay???