Chapter 11: The Cathedral Project
The moon hung over Driftmark, its pale light spilling through the arched windows of Sea Snake Corlys Velaryon's study. Maps of distant seas and fleets adorned the walls, the scent of salt and ink thick in the air. Princess Rhaenys laughed softly, her violet eyes glimmering with amusement as her husband spoke.
"Corlys, besides ships, storms, and sails, is there anything else you truly understand?" she teased. "You want to ask the King and Queen to marry their precious daughter, Princess Gael, to your nephew David? My grandmother was over forty when she conceived Gael—how could she possibly wed David?"
Corlys frowned, folding his arms. "David's father sailed beside me on my great voyages. He died on the Thousand Islands, slain by a snow bear. Before he passed, he made me promise to find a worthy wife for his son."
Rhaenys's smile faded into patience. "My grandparents would never agree to such a match. My grandmother, Queen Alysanne, takes pride in elevating women through marriage. She would never allow her youngest daughter to wed a man without lands or title. You should let this matter rest, my love."
Corlys sighed deeply. "You think me a fool, yet sometimes the sea favors those who dare to sail against the wind."
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The Red Keep's council chamber was heavy with the scent of melted wax and candle smoke. Shadows flickered across the faces of the realm's most powerful men — King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, Prince Baelon, Maester Barth, Archmaester Elysar, Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury, Sea Snake Corlys, and finally Prince Daemon Targaryen, standing a little apart, watching them all with quiet calculation.
King Jaehaerys's voice broke the silence.
"Prince Daemon proposes building a grand sept upon Visenya's Hill — one to rival Oldtown's Starry Sept and Highgarden's Great Sept. I would hear your thoughts."
Lord Commander Redwyne was the first to speak.
"A grand idea, Your Grace. A sept worthy of knighthood vigils, instead of those crumbling chapels littering King's Landing."
But Lyman Beesbury winced as though struck.
"Your Grace, forgive me, but the treasury bleeds gold. Roads, the City Watch, the Red Keep, the Dragonpit — everything drains us dry."
Corlys chuckled under his breath. "Then perhaps the problem lies not in the treasury, but in the treasurer."
Beesbury glared. "Even the wisest steward cannot conjure gold from dust."
Daemon's lips curved faintly. "And yet, gold always finds its way to those with imagination."
Baelon leaned forward. "Even so, the project will cost a fortune. We'd have to borrow from the Iron Bank again."
Daemon took a measured sip of wine. "A sept on Visenya's Hill would draw pilgrims from across the Crownlands and beyond. The faithful would flock to King's Landing, and with them — their purses. One day, even the High Septon himself might seek his seat here."
Archmaester Elysar's aged fingers stroked his white beard.
"Perhaps. But Oldtown will not surrender the Faith easily. The Hightowers will guard the Starry Sept like their own heart."
Baelon nodded thoughtfully. "Still, a Great Sept would make the possibility real. Without one, we remain unworthy of the title 'holy capital.'"
King Jaehaerys's gaze grew distant.
"When I was young, Magna devoted herself to the Faith. Every visit to Oldtown took months by ship. Had there been a Great Sept in King's Landing, she might have spent her days near home."
Alysanne frowned, her expression clouded with old memory.
"I agree to the sept — but must it be upon Visenya's Hill? To me, that name reeks of blood. When I was a girl, my grandmother Rhaenys told me of Queen Visenya — her cruelty, her contempt for the gods. It was she who urged Maegor to burn the Sept of Remembrance."
Jaehaerys chuckled gently. "My love, half a century has passed. Let us not fight Visenya's ghosts. Time has turned her hill from curse to symbol."
Alysanne sighed. "Very well. Let it stand upon Visenya's Hill. Perhaps the gods will smile upon redemption."
The Hand of the King nodded. "It is poetic, Your Grace — three hills, three powers. Aegon's Hill for the Crown, Rhaenys's Hill for the dragons, and Visenya's Hill for the gods. King's Landing shall embody the realm entire."
Jaehaerys's smile warmed. "Then it is settled. The Great Sept of King's Landing shall rise — but tell me, my lords, from where shall we draw the coin?"
Beesbury wiped sweat from his brow. "We have none, Your Grace. Perhaps… new taxes?"
The King's expression darkened. "You try my patience, Lyman."
Desperate, Beesbury stammered, "We could levy small tithes in the name of the Seven — a warrior's tax for knights, a blacksmith's tax, a maiden's tax, a mother's—"
Daemon interrupted, his voice smooth and edged with mockery.
"And when one dies, will you charge a Stranger's tax as well?"
Beesbury blinked, missing the jest. "A fine suggestion, Prince Daemon!"
Laughter broke around the table. Even the King smiled. "Foolishness. You'd turn the gods into tax collectors."
Alysanne's voice softened with warning. "We once had a Master of Coin who thought as you do. He was dragged from this chamber by an angry mob."
Daemon leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"If gold is what the Faith requires, then perhaps we should tax sin instead of piety."
Corlys raised an eyebrow. "Sin?"
"The brothels of Silk Street, Flea Bottom, Scaly Bay," Daemon said smoothly. "One copper coin for every act of 'worship.' It would both fill the treasury and, ironically, cleanse the city."
Laughter erupted again — except from Corlys, whose amusement faded when Daemon turned his gaze on him.
"And perhaps," Daemon continued, "the wealthiest sailor in Westeros might offer a more devout donation. After all, Sea Snake, your ships pray to every god between Oldtown and Asshai."
Corlys's jaw tightened. "You have a silver tongue, Prince Daemon."
"And you," Daemon replied pleasantly, "have seventy thousand gold dragons, at least. Shall we call it an offering to the Seven?"
A murmur went around the table. Corlys hesitated, caught between pride and piety.
Finally, he forced a smile. "Very well. Seventy thousand. Let the gods see my devotion."
Daemon bowed slightly. "Then let there be a statue of the Sea Snake beside the gates of the Great Sept — to remind all that even those who rule the seas must kneel before the gods."
A flicker of tension passed between them, unnoticed by most — but Daemon saw it and smiled inwardly. Every gold dragon was a nail in the Sea Snake's pride, and every stone laid on Visenya's Hill would whisper his name.
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That night, under the pale moonlight, Daemon stood on the terrace overlooking the city.
He watched the fires of Flea Bottom, the towers of the Red Keep, and the shadowed hill that would soon bear his greatest creation — a monument not to the gods, but to his foresight.
In his mind, the seeds of power were already taking root.
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