"I'll take this."
Gaemon was the first to make his choice, pointing firmly at the map before King Jaehaerys.
His finger traced a territory that encompassed the mouth of the Wendwater and the first half of the river basin—a sprawling tract of roughly four hundred square miles.
Jaehaerys studied the chosen land in silence, offering only a slow nod of acknowledgement.
The King then turned his gaze to Baelon, who was still staring intensely at the map, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
"There is no need to rush your decision," Jaehaerys said steadily. "You may ride out and inspect the lands yourself first. But remember this: once your choice is made, there is no room for regret. This is the path you are choosing to walk. How you survive it will be entirely up to you. No one will be there to hold your hand."
Hearing his father's grave words, Baelon looked up. His expression was dead serious as he met the King's eyes and gave a firm, resolute nod.
Queen Alysanne, who had been sitting quietly through the heavy exchange, finally broke the silence.
"Well then," she said softly, raising her goblet. "Since the hardest decisions have been settled, let us simply enjoy our meal tonight. May House Targaryen grow ever stronger."
"To House Targaryen, ever stronger!"
"To House Targaryen, ever stronger!"
The royal family raised their cups as one, their voices echoing in perfect unison across the intimate dining hall.
---
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was built of unforgiving gray stone. Blazing torches flickered violently along the walls, casting the twisted, jagged shadow of the Iron Throne across the cold floor.
The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, rusted iron, and old blood.
King Jaehaerys I sat upon the towering, monstrous seat of Aegon the Conqueror. He wore a heavy cloak of black and red, the diamond-studded crown resting upon his brow. One hand casually tapped against a broken, blackened blade fused into the armrest.
His piercing gaze fell upon the two figures kneeling at the base of the iron steps: his sons, Baelon and Gaemon Targaryen.
"In the name of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," Jaehaerys's voice boomed, carrying undeniable absolute authority as it echoed off the cavernous ceiling.
"You bear the blood and fire of the dragon. It is your duty to uphold the terrifying glory of our house."
The King raised a hand. A royal squire immediately stepped forward, presenting a ceremonial wooden bowl containing scorched earth and a charred branch.
"The legacy of our bloodline favors the firstborn, but a true dragon must forge its own strength to honor our name. Today, by the supreme authority of blood and fire, I grant you the domains of the Wendwater Basin and the Stag Plains. From the high hills to the river's mouth, all that the sun touches shall be yours to rule. You are commanded to build your keeps upon the rock, draw your swords to defend your borders, and reap the harvest in absolute loyalty to the Iron Throne."
Hearing the formal decree, Baelon and Gaemon simultaneously bowed forward, pressing their foreheads to the cold stone floor.
With a sharp metallic ring, the King drew Blackfyre from its scabbard. The Valyrian steel rippled with dark, smoky patterns. He descended the steps and lightly tapped the flat of the legendary blade against each of their shoulders.
"Rise," Jaehaerys commanded softly, looking down at his kneeling sons. "When your castles are completed, new titles shall be bestowed upon you."
"May you face the trials ahead without fear. Let the dragon banner burn bright upon your lands, like dragonfire descending from the heavens."
Throughout the Great Hall, the assembled nobility held their breath. Many kept their eyes downcast, their faces a complex mask of deep envy and quiet awe.
After days of agonizing deliberation, Baelon had finally selected the Stag Plains—also known as the Hero's Domain—as his fiefdom.
The draw was obvious: the sprawling, endless grasslands were a perfect, natural breeding ground for warhorses. For Baelon, a man born with the burning soul of a legendary knight, possessing territory capable of sustaining a massive heavy cavalry was an irresistible prize.
But beyond the grass, the Hero's Domain was a terrifying strategic chokepoint.
It sat dead center between the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach, while its southern edge opened directly toward the hostile borders of Dorne. If Baelon could fortify this land, his castle would act as an impenetrable shield for King's Landing, single-handedly absorbing any military threat moving north from the southern kingdoms.
The future fortress would be a colossal iron spike driven straight into the heart of southern Westeros by House Targaryen.
Why hadn't any other noble house ever built a castle and claimed such vital land?
Precisely because it was so critical. The Hero's Domain was the ultimate meat grinder. Since the Dawn Age, it had been a ceaseless theater of war. The blood spilled over this specific patch of dirt was incalculable.
Conflict and slaughter had plagued the region for thousands of years, earning it the grim moniker of the "Hero's Domain"—the ultimate graveyard of ambitious men.
However, the millennia of rotting corpses had left the soil sickeningly fertile. As long as Baelon survived long enough to cultivate it, the land would yield staggering agricultural wealth.
When asked if he was worried about the region's bloody history sparking yet another war, Baelon's answer had been brutally simple.
"Vhagar's fire will burn away any disputes. I will bring peace to that land in ash."
---
Following the investiture, King Jaehaerys summoned Aemon, Baelon, and Gaemon into his private solar.
"The land is yours," Jaehaerys said bluntly the moment the heavy doors shut. "Whether you harvest grain or starve in the mud is entirely up to you. But if you find yourselves genuinely overwhelmed, Aemon will provide you with assistance."
Prince Aemon stepped forward instantly. "Baelon, Gaemon. Whatever you need, you only have to ask. If I can help, I will."
Aemon couldn't entirely shake the guilt over his brothers being effectively expelled from the Red Keep. He understood the brutal political necessity of decentralizing the family, but it still felt like Baelon and Gaemon were being handed a raw deal.
To protect the absolute supremacy of the main royal line, the Crown was giving them very little actual support.
On paper, granting them massive tracts of land sounded incredibly generous. But if they had remained in the capital, the sheer volume of resources and wealth at their immediate disposal would have dwarfed whatever they could scrape out of the dirt for the next decade.
In Westeros, raw, undeveloped land was practically worthless.
The continent was staggeringly massive and horribly underpopulated. Across millions of square miles, the total population barely scraped forty million—and that included the wildlings beyond the Wall and the unbowed Dornishmen in the south.
Spread across Westeros, humanity was nothing but a sparse scattering of isolated lights in a vast, dark ocean.
Seeing the deep concern etched into Aemon's face, Baelon and Gaemon immediately understood his guilt.
"Brother, don't worry about us," Baelon said, his tone steady and reassuring. "We chose this path. It's the best possible outcome for us both."
"He's right," Gaemon chimed in, flashing a bright, predatory grin. "But if you're really desperate to compensate us... well, I certainly wouldn't refuse a few chests of gold."
The brazen comment made Aemon laugh, the heavy tension instantly draining from the room. "You two are impossible," he sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile.
"It is settled, then," King Jaehaerys stated, his voice carrying a final, absolute authority. "This will be the standard for our house moving forward. No more second-guessing."
With those final words, the meeting concluded. And with it, House Targaryen officially entered a new era of royal expansion.