Chapter 62: King's Mountain, Daemon's Son
The bells of King's Landing had barely ceased tolling for Maester Barth before the city began to exhale.
The Golden Jubilee was over — the feasts ended, the singers silenced, and the visiting lords and merchants slowly drifted home across the Seven Kingdoms.
The capital, once a whirl of banners and laughter, fell back into the rhythm of labor and intrigue.
Mercenaries and hedge knights returned to their roads, mummers to their stages, and whores to their brothels. The streets smelled again of sweat, tar, and the smoke of the Blackwater Rush.
At the Red Keep, however, one last banquet remained.
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The Banquet of Departure
In the candlelit hall of the Small Council Tower, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne sat at the high table beside Prince Baelon, Prince Viserys, and Prince Daemon.
The guests of honor were Lord Quenton Hightower of Oldtown, the High Septon, and Archmaester Vaegon — the King's estranged son, returned to the capital for the first time in years.
Grand Maester Yalar, Lord Lyman Beesbury, and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, completed the table of notables.
The air shimmered with the fragrance of roasted quail and Myrish fire wine.
Golden torches flickered upon silk and silver as servants carried platters of honeyed suckling pig, seasoned peacock, and bowls of glistening pretzels.
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"Where is Ser Ryam Redwyne?" the High Septon asked, glancing about the table. "The Hand of the King should break bread with his liege."
Corlys smiled faintly. "Our good Ser Ryam wears two cloaks — the Hand's and the Lord Commander's. He likely has little time for either feast or prayer."
Grand Maester Yalar adjusted his chain of office. "Aye, he spends his nights buried in ledgers and scrolls, seeking wisdom from parchment. He still lodges in the White Sword Tower instead of the Hand's chambers. It seems the warrior's cloak sits more comfortably than the steward's."
A murmur of agreement ran down the table. The High Septon's brows furrowed.
"The late Maester Barth was beloved and wise. Many whisper that the new Hand may not be fit for his burden."
King Jaehaerys raised a hand. "The realm breeds few like Barth. But Ryam is honest, loyal, and brave. That is enough. Wisdom may yet come."
Daemon hid a faint smile behind his cup of Arbor red. Honesty and loyalty make good knights, not good Hands, he thought.
Indeed, Ser Ryam Redwyne — for all his valor — struggled beneath the weight of governance. He knew the names of every knight to have ridden in a tourney since his youth but could not recall the borders of Dorne or the history of the Free Cities.
He once mistook the marshes of the Crab Claw Peninsula for the Neck, and claimed that the Ironborn were the smiths of the Seven's temples.
He studied by candlelight each night, determined to improve — yet his mind was better suited for lances than for ledgers.
Still, Jaehaerys had chosen him not as a scholar, but as a sword of conscience. As he once said, "When the quills grow too sharp, it is well to have a man who still knows the weight of steel."
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The Hightower's Farewell
Lord Quenton Hightower raised his goblet. His coat of pale green silk shimmered with pearls forming the blazing lighthouse of his House.
"Your Grace," he said, "King's Landing grows into a wonder. The Great Sept rises upon Visenya's Hill, and your son's Dragon Academy takes shape across the Blackwater. The Faith and the learned shall both flourish under your reign."
The High Septon nodded piously. "Before we depart, we shall pray within the Great Sept of Baelor, that the Seven bless its completion."
Daemon's squires — young Tylan Lannister, Mathos Tyrell, and Tommard Staunton — poured wine for the guests, careful not to spill a drop.
The Hightowers glowed with the pride of Oldtown — that ancient city of temples, quills, and gold.
For centuries, they had ruled the south not merely through arms but through faith and learning.
The Citadel forged the mind, the Starry Sept the spirit — and both bent toward the flame of the Hightower.
Oldtown was rich, perhaps the richest city in all Westeros save Lannisport. The Sea Snake's eyes glinted when he looked upon Quenton — a merchant recognizing another master of trade.
When the meal was done, Baelon, Viserys, and Daemon escorted the guests to the hill where the Great Sept was rising like a pale mountain against the sky.
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The Great Sept and the King's Mountain
The Great Sept of Baelor was Daemon's vision — and his monument. Seven crystal spires already pierced the air, catching the sun like blades. Below them, the massive plaza of the Faithful stretched outward, where artisans carved statues of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters.
Even unfinished, the Conqueror's foot towered above a man's height.
And behind it, upon the slope of King's Mountain, rose colossal busts of the Targaryen line — Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys, Aenys, and even Maegor the Cruel.
The High Septon halted, awed and uneasy.
"These are… vast," he murmured. "Surely such works drain the treasury."
Viserys laughed. "A little coin for a little glory. Daemon has ways of filling the coffers."
Daemon smiled, his silver hair gleaming in the light. "These statues honor both gods and kings. The Seven watch over House Targaryen, and we, in turn, protect their faithful."
But when the Septon's eyes lingered upon Maegor's face, he frowned.
"That one… he butchered our brothers of the Faith."
Baelon answered evenly, "And yet he was a king. Let his image stand as warning — that strength without mercy breeds ruin."
Daemon watched the priest's discomfort with quiet satisfaction. He knew the Faith adored the gentle King Aenys and reviled Maegor, yet it was Maegor's ruthlessness that had broken the Faith Militant, allowing Jaehaerys's peace to endure.
Even piety, Daemon mused, stands upon bones.
As they ascended the hill, Vaegon shaded his eyes to the sunlight.
"Daemon," he said dryly, "you build gods in your own image. These Targaryens loom higher than the Seven themselves."
"That," Daemon replied, "is precisely the point."
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Faith, Flame, and Rivalry
When the party reached the sept's summit, Daemon gestured toward the unfinished dome.
"Once this is complete," he said to the High Septon, "its size will surpass the Starry Sept of Oldtown. Perhaps, in time, it will become the seat of the Faith."
The High Septon nodded thoughtfully. "It shall be the holiest place in Westeros. I foresee that future High Septons will make their seat here."
Lord Quenton Hightower's smile tightened. The Faith had long been the pride of Oldtown — if the High Septon were ever to move his seat, the city's heart would dim.
Vaegon, ever the cynic, turned his gaze to the statues. "They lack their dragons. If you must build gods of stone, at least give them their beasts."
Daemon chuckled. "If we carved dragons to scale, they would swallow the city whole. The Dragonpit holds all the living ones the world needs."
"Stone dragons are safer," Vaegon muttered.
The others laughed, but beneath the jest lay truth.
Daemon's Dragon Academy, already rising along the southern bank of the Blackwater, was his true legacy — a place to gather scholars, mages, engineers, and riders from across the Narrow Sea. A counterweight to Oldtown's Citadel, and a forge for minds loyal not to the Hightowers, but to the Targaryens.
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Departures
That evening, as the sun sank red beyond the city, the Hightower fleet loosed its moorings.
Lord Quenton, the High Septon, and Archmaester Vaegon boarded the Glory of Oldtown, a sleek paddle warship with lanterns blazing from her decks.
They departed down the Blackwater toward the sea, vanishing into mist and starlight.
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The Birth of Fire
Weeks passed. Summer lingered hot over King's Landing.
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Princess Gael — fair and nervous — was heavy with child.
Daemon rarely left her side. Mysaria, Sister Anne, the witch Terra, Alys Rivers, Mona Darklyn, and Ser Myria Hogg attended her constantly. Even Queen Alysanne visited daily, her kind eyes shadowed by memories of daughters lost in childbirth.
When the pains came, they came hard.
Dragonfire roared outside the windows — Dreamfyre and Caraxes, their cries shaking the castle as if the beasts themselves labored in sympathy.
Gael clutched Daemon's hand. "Am I going to die?" she whispered. "Two of my sisters did."
"You will live," Daemon said — but in his mind flickered the dream he had long feared: a dying babe beside a bronze dragon, its eyes fading in smoke.
The midwives bustled, Grand Maester Yalar barked orders, and the King and Queen waited outside, their faces pale. Hours passed in screams and prayers.
Then — a cry, bright and strong as a trumpet.
The doors burst open. Yalar stepped forth, sweat gleaming on his brow. "A healthy boy, my prince. The mother lives."
Daemon exhaled a breath he had not known he held. He entered and took the child — red-faced, wriggling, alive.
King Jaehaerys smiled with pride, and Queen Alysanne's eyes filled with tears.
Prince Baelon lifted the newborn high. "My first grandson!" he declared. "What will you name him, Daemon?"
Daemon looked upon the babe, his silver hair catching the firelight. "Aegon," he said. "For the Conqueror. May he rule dragons as Aegon did."
Viserys laughed. "Then if Aemma bears me a son, I'll name him Jaehaerys. Let the realm have two princes to honor its fathers."
And as laughter filled the chamber, Daemon looked toward the window, where Caraxes wheeled through the crimson dusk.
His son slept in his arms — but in the prince's eyes burned the reflection of dragonfire.
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