In the days that followed, Baelon moved with ruthless speed.
Any City Watch soldiers who had already sworn loyalty to Otto were dragged before him, judged, and executed without mercy. The gallows rose at dawn, and by dusk the bodies were gone, carted away before the crowds could gather. Word spread quickly. Loyalty was no longer a matter of convenience.
At the same time, Baelon ordered a fresh levy drawn from the able-bodied youths of King's Landing. Boys barely past their sixteenth nameday stood beside hardened dockhands and tavern bruisers, all sworn into service under watchful eyes. Those who hesitated were dismissed at once. Those who swore did so with trembling voices and clenched jaws.
With the new recruits counted and assigned, the City Watch was barely restored to its former strength. Two thousand men in all, the same number it had possessed before Daemon Targaryen departed the city.
The truth was that the City Watch had always reflected its commander.
Before Daemon's tenure, they had not even been called Gold Cloaks. They wore patched tunics and rusted helms, carried blunted swords and crooked spears, and looked more like beggars than soldiers. The smallfolk mocked them openly. Criminals laughed at them.
When Daemon took command, everything changed. He paid from his own purse to arm them with proper short swords and heavy batons, clad them in black mail, and outfitted officers in full plate. To give them pride, he issued each man a cloak of gold-dyed wool. The sight of those cloaks marching through the streets had been enough to quiet the city.
Thus the Gold Cloaks were born.
After Daemon left, the new Master of Laws saw no reason to spend gold on arms or armor. Coin was saved, contracts were cut, and maintenance neglected. Worse still, the veteran guardsmen loyal to Baelon had followed him out of the city when he departed. By the time Baelon returned, the City Watch had once again fallen into decay. Rusted mail hung loosely on thin shoulders. Discipline existed in name only.
Baelon did not tolerate decay.
To stabilize morale and secure loyalty, he ordered the Watch rearmed from top to bottom.
Common soldiers received mail hauberks fitted to their frames, sturdy helmets, short swords buckled at their belts, and long spears placed firmly in their hands. Officers were given full armor polished to a dull sheen, warhorses stabled at the Dragonpit, and longswords worthy of command.
Yet Baelon knew that steel alone did not shape men.
As a new commander, he burned his first fires decisively.
The golden cloaks were abolished.
In their place, Baelon issued blood-red mantles emblazoned with the sigil of Tyraxes. The dragon was stitched in dark thread, wings spread wide, its head lowered as if ready to strike.
These cloaks had originally been intended for Baelon's personal forces. They bore his mark unmistakably.
When the order was announced, murmurs rippled through the ranks. Some looked down at the red cloth with uncertainty. Others straightened, fingers brushing the dragon sigil as if drawing strength from it.
Thus, the Gold Cloaks passed into history.
They would now be known as the Red Cloaks.
After Baelon's sweeping reforms, the City Watch was utterly transformed. Though many were new recruits, their stances were squared, their eyes alert. They marched in step, spears angled as one. Fully equipped and uniformly armed, they projected authority that could not be ignored.
The blood-red cloaks stamped with Tyraxes' likeness cut a striking figure as they moved through the streets. Doors closed more quickly. Voices lowered. Even seasoned criminals found their courage faltering at the sight.
Baelon did not stop at appearances.
He reformed the Watch's laws and discipline as well. Several inhumane punishments were abolished. Flogging for minor offenses was replaced with confinement and labor. At the same time, stricter codes were introduced, emphasizing order, restraint, and accountability. Any guardsman caught extorting merchants or abusing civilians was punished publicly.
The results spoke for themselves.
The people of King's Landing welcomed the new City Watch with rare unanimity. Mothers no longer pulled their children aside when patrols passed. Shopkeepers nodded in greeting instead of watching their coin purses.
Criminals, however, were cowed by the Watch's equipment and their crimson cloaks. And because Baelon enforced discipline without compromise, crimes such as the rape of civilians and the extortion of merchants fell sharply. Fear shifted sides.
Gradually, those with ears to the ground learned the truth. The new commander was none other than the Dawn Prince, Baelon, once exiled from the city.
In gratitude for his mercy, the smallfolk gave the red-cloaked watchmen a new name.
The Dawn Iron Guard.
Like the Kingsguard who protected the king, the people of King's Landing hoped these Dawn Iron Guards would protect their benevolent Dawn Prince as well.
"Look at this, Baelon," Viserys said one afternoon, his tone warm with approval. He gestured toward a ledger on the table, then toward the open window where disciplined patrols could be seen below. "Since you took command of the City Watch, the city's order has improved dramatically. They are fulfilling their duties flawlessly."
Viserys leaned back in his chair, fingers resting on his stomach, a rare smile softening his tired features. A king who truly cared for his people, he delighted in such peace and prosperity.
Baelon inclined his head slightly. "They are only doing what they should have been doing all along," he replied. His voice was even, but his shoulders remained straight, as if he refused to relax fully even here.
Viserys nodded, clearly pleased.
Nearby, Alicent sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap. She wore a pale blue gown, the fabric soft and unadorned. The green was gone.
Her expression was complicated. Pride warred with unease, and beneath it all lingered a mother's instinctive fear.
Even now, she could not entirely shed her tenderness toward Baelon. Though he was not her own son, it had been his companionship that had helped her endure her darkest early days as queen. In those years, when Viserys was distant and the court cold, Baelon had been a steady presence.
Being queen, she had learned, was far less blissful than others imagined.
Yet after Otto Hightower had driven Baelon from the capital, Alicent had been left isolated. Step by careful step, she had leaned on House Hightower, building what would become the Greens. It had been survival at first. Habit after.
"By the way," Baelon said, his tone deliberately casual, "Aegon and the others have hardly ever left the city. Why not let them stay with me at Harrenhal for a time?"
Alicent stiffened. Her fingers tightened, knuckles whitening as her head snapped toward him. Alarm flashed across her face before she could hide it. Her children were everything to her.
"Oh?" Viserys glanced at her instinctively, sensing the tension. He neither agreed nor refused at once. "Why?"
Baelon met the king's gaze steadily. "They're being raised like Hightowers," he said bluntly. "If this continues, I do not know what they will become."
Alicent's breath caught. Her lips parted as if to speak, but Baelon did not pause.
"What will they call themselves one day? Hightower or Targaryen?" His voice hardened. "Must the Small Council eventually be filled entirely with Hightowers?"
"No matter what," he continued, his hand resting on the table now, fingers spread, "they are Targaryens. They were before, they are now, and they must remain so in the future."
The words struck Viserys deeply.
For a moment, he was no longer in the chamber. He was back at that banquet night, seeing his three children dressed head to toe in green. Green, the favored color of House Hightower and the Reach.
Targaryens wore black or red. The banner bore a red three-headed dragon on black, and tradition allowed no deviation.
Baelon's crimson robes did not break that tradition. Fire and Blood was the creed. Blood-red honored it well enough.
Viserys hesitated, fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair.
He knew all too well that as long as Alicent remained queen and Otto remained Hand, their influence over Aegon and the others would never change. The children were young. Their minds were still malleable.
Parting with them would pain him. The thought tightened his chest. Yet he trusted Baelon to act for the good of the house, to set the boys' loyalties and beliefs straight.
"Very well," Viserys said at last, his voice steady despite the weight of the decision. "From today onward, Aegon and the others are in your care."
"No!" Alicent cried out, rising from her seat so quickly that her chair scraped loudly against the floor. Her eyes shone, and her voice trembled. "They are my children. How can you decide this without even asking me?"
Baelon turned toward her, his expression unreadable, lips parting as if to respond.
Viserys cut him off.
"No," the king said sharply, the softness gone from his voice. He leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the table. "They are Targaryens. Not Hightowers."
He held Alicent's gaze without flinching.
"Or do you mean to raise them only to serve House Hightower in the end?" His words were measured, but each one landed like a blow. "If that is the case, you might as well seat Otto on the Iron Throne tomorrow. It would save us all the trouble."
Alicent froze, color draining from her face.
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