After formally proclaiming the founding of the Guardians of the Realm, Prince Baelon wasted no time in reshaping his strength.
The original Bloodflame Legion, all one thousand eight hundred and seven men, were absorbed whole into the new order. Each man was elevated to the rank of veteran.
They had come to him as reward, it was true. Yet Prince Baelon did not see numbers when he looked upon them. He saw scarred hands, weathered faces, eyes sharpened by hunger and battle. Pride and Ambition burned in them.
Men who had sworn him their lives would never be treated as coin.
Because the soldiers of the Bloodflame Legion already bore their own arms and armor, the stores that would have been issued to them were instead converted into contribution tallies. These could be redeemed freely through the quartermaster. It was a practical measure, but also a message. Service would be rewarded with fairness.
The former captains of the Legion were promoted as well, appointed as sworn officers within the Guardians. They would form the spine of Prince Baelon's authority, binding old loyalty to new structure.
Then he spoke again.
"Step forward."
A towering figure emerged from the ranks.
He wore the blackened plate of the Bloodflame Legion. A crimson cloak streamed from his shoulders, and a scarlet plume crowned his helm. He halted before Prince Baelon and dropped to one knee, the impact ringing against the stone of the yard.
He had come to Prince Baelon as part of the same reward. Not merely a warrior, but a commander born.
At first, the gathered nobles did not understand what they were witnessing.
Then comprehension dawned.
Silence fell heavy across the yard.
Most present were scions of lesser branches. Noble in blood, perhaps, but unlikely to inherit more than a tower, a patch of fields, or a modest keep somewhere in the North or along the Bay of Seals. If fortune favored them, they might one day hold land as sworn knights to House Stark, House Karstark, or House Glover.
But how many true houses existed in the Seven Kingdoms. How many lords commanded walls, fields, silver, and sworn swords of their own.
A landed knight was master of something.
And now, before them, such a man was being made.
Prince Baelon's voice carried clear and steady.
"As commander of the Bloodflame Legion, you followed me to reinforce the last stronghold of Duncan. When the wildlings and the Giants counterattacked and sought to reclaim the Night's Watch fortress, your valor turned the tide. Your deeds were not forgotten."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"Before the Old Gods and the New, in my name as Prince of Harrenhal, Lord of the Bay of Seals, and Warden of the Wall, I name you a Knight of the Wall."
A murmur stirred through the watching lords.
This was no hedge knight's honor, no courtly title granted for tourney display. The Knights of the Wall were martial nobility, raised by merit, bound by land and steel.
"You commanded the Bloodflame Legion," Prince Baelon said, stepping closer. His gaze was intent, measuring. "From this day forward, you shall carry that legacy as your name. Rise as Taish Bloodflame."
The kneeling man bowed his head deeper, gloved fist pressed against his breastplate.
Prince Baelon drew his longsword. The whisper of steel leaving scabbard stilled even the faintest rustle of cloth.
He rested the flat of the blade against Taish's left shoulder.
"In the name of the Old Gods and the New, be just."
The sword shifted to the right.
"In the name of your prince, be loyal."
He withdrew the blade and returned it to its sheath in a single smooth motion.
Attendants stepped forward. Prince Baelon himself removed the crimson cloak of the Legion and replaced it with a new mantle, heavy and dark, embroidered with the blazing sigil of the Guardians.
As the fabric settled across Taish Bloodflame's shoulders, Prince Baelon spoke once more.
"I grant you Queensgate and five square miles of the lands surrounding it. Govern the refugees. Raise villages. Build towns. You shall also serve as Commander of my Survey Corps and oversee the development of the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall."
Taish bowed his head again, voice rough but steady. "I will not fail you, my prince."
Prince Baelon regarded him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly.
"As your liege, you shall always have a place at my hearth."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then the yard erupted.
Some cheered in admiration. Others clapped with tight smiles and narrowed eyes. Envy burned as bright as praise.
More than a few fathers imagined their own sons kneeling where Taish Bloodflame had knelt.
Even for those who never earned knighthood, a captaincy within the Guardians promised land, coin, and purpose. Far better than fading into obscurity in some forgotten holdfast of the North.
And all understood the lesson Prince Baelon had set before them.
Serve well, and Rise high
When the investiture was complete and the cheers had faded to a low murmur, Prince Baelon remained upon the dais.
He did not leave.
Instead, he lifted a hand, and the yard fell quiet once more.
Now came the second rite.
It was not as ornate, nor as stirring, as the making of a knight. Yet its weight was no less profound.
The nineteen abandoned strongholds of the Night's Watch had been restored.
Broken towers stood whole again. Gatehouses had been rebuilt. Hearths long cold now burned. Stone that had crumbled beneath centuries of neglect rose once more beneath banners newly sewn.
What had been a crumbling frontier was becoming a realm.
Baelon's voice carried across the yard.
"Let it be known that the abandoned castles of the Wall stand restored."
The declaration was brief. No long sermon followed.
But the names did.
Castle Black, ancient seat of the Night's Watch, was no more.
"It shall henceforth be known as Dawn City," Prince Baelon said, his tone measured, leaving no room for dissent.
The Shadow Tower was renamed the Hall of Radiance.
Greyguard became Sunrise Keep.
One by one, the old names were stripped away.
Night. Shadow. Grey.
They vanished beneath words of dawn, flame, and light.
A few maesters exchanged glances, brows furrowed in scholarly uncertainty. Some northern lords shifted their weight, unused to such bold defiance of tradition.
Yet none spoke against it.
Prince Baelon's gaze lifted toward the Wall itself, pale and immense against the sky.
Was the Long Night coming?
He did not know.
But he would not sit idle and await prophecy.
In the original story, House Targaryen had devoured itself in civil war. Dragon fought dragon. Blood drowned blood. The dynasty fractured, weakened, and in time fell from glory.
In the end, it had been a boy of House Stark who stood against the darkness.
Dragons, Prince Baelon thought, should never require saving.
His jaw tightened, though his expression remained calm to those who watched him.
This time would be different.
He would grow strong, swiftly and without hesitation. And when the hour of reckoning came, he would ride north himself.
Not as a desperate king clinging to a dying crown.
But as fire.
By the time the ceremonies drew to their close, the sun had begun its descent. Golden light slanted across the yard, catching upon polished helms and newly raised banners.
Prince Baelon gave a small nod.
Servants hurried forward, bearing heavy platters and iron spits.
"This," he said, as a vast carcass was borne into view, "is a great unicorn hunted upon Skagos."
The beast had been roasted whole. It resembled a monstrous goat, larger even than a destrier, thick-muscled and broad of chest. From its skull rose a single spiraled horn, long as a lance and pale as old ivory.
Gasps rippled through the southern nobles.
"A true unicorn," one lord whispered, leaning forward despite himself. "I had thought them no more than sailors' tales."
Another swallowed hard, eyes bright with astonishment.
The northern lords were more restrained. A few inclined their heads in acknowledgment. They had glimpsed such creatures before on the cold shores of Skagos, though few had tasted their flesh.
Prince Baelon allowed the murmurs to swell for a heartbeat before lifting his hand again.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"This is not the prize I would have you remember."
He turned slowly, his cloak stirring behind him, and looked toward the Wall.
"Bring forth the mammoth," he commanded, his voice steady but edged with unmistakable anticipation.
A stir ran along the ramparts.
"And present it upon the battlements."
The nobles followed his gaze upward, their curiosity sharpened into expectation.
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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.
www.patreon.com/Baelon
Btw can ya'all recommend some Daemon SI Fanfics? i want some inspiration for my next fanfic.