Chapter 29 — New Year's Day Celebration, Magic and Dragons
The end of 97 AC crept upon Westeros like the final breath of a long, peaceful dream.
In King's Landing, bells tolled from the Sept of Remembrance, echoing over the rooftops and rippling through the fog-laden morning. With that sound came the approach of a new century of rule — the fiftieth year of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen's reign.
Half a century had passed since he inherited a realm broken by Maegor's cruelty and ambition. From that bloodstained throne of swords, Jaehaerys had built peace — patient, measured, unyielding peace.
But peace, like all things, grows old.
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At the Small Council table that day, beneath the painted ceiling of stars, Archmaester Yalar stroked his snow-white beard and said solemnly,
> "Your Grace, the coming of your fiftieth year as ruler should not pass quietly. The Seven themselves would demand celebration for so rare and blessed a reign."
Jaehaerys regarded him with eyes dulled not by weakness but by the weariness of memory.
> "Celebrations only remind me how many years I've buried, Archmaester," he murmured. "I am not so vain as to summon music for my own decay."
A ripple of polite laughter followed, broken by Ser Ryam Redwyne — silver-haired now, yet still every inch a knight of song and legend.
> "Your Grace, even if you feel the years' weight, the realm does not. The people hunger for joy. A tourney would gladden their hearts, and perhaps, for a moment, make them forget that time spares no one."
At that, Lord Corlys Velaryon — the Sea Snake, master of driftwood thrones and deep waters — smiled thinly.
> "Ser Ryam loves his tourneys as sailors love storms. In both, he finds a chance to prove his courage — and win gold."
The chamber filled with faint amusement, but Daemon Targaryen said nothing. He stood behind his father, Baelon, crimson eyes half-lidded, hands clasped behind his back. To most, he seemed disinterested — another Targaryen prince bored of politics.
But behind his silence simmered a different thought: How easily these men mistook motion for rule, and cheer for loyalty.
For fifty years, his grandsire's peace had tamed the realm — but it had also dulled it. Daemon could see it in every lord's face: contentment, softness, decay.
---
The conversation shifted.
Queen Alysanne, pale and graceful despite her years, spoke softly,
> "If there must be a tourney, let it be at year's end, upon the anniversary of His Grace's ascension. New Year's Day need not drown in feasts and drunken revelry."
Hand of the King Maester Barth adjusted his spectacles and added,
> "Perhaps, then, the princes might undertake a royal progress in your stead — to show the King's justice and his sons' strength to the realm."
The Sea Snake's eyes glinted.
> "A fine notion. Prince Baelon may ride mighty Vhagar, Prince Daemon his crimson Caraxes… and young Prince Viserys, well — a fine warhorse shall do."
Laughter rose, gentle and cruel in equal measure.
Daemon's gaze lingered on his elder brother, Viserys, who smiled nervously at the jest.
He spoke then, voice smooth as oiled steel.
> "The realm needs not pageantry but presence. Let my father lead the progress on Vhagar's wings, as he once did. Viserys and I will remain in King's Landing to aid His Grace and Maester Barth. The kingdom grows vast — and its council grows old."
King Jaehaerys looked up, truly seeing his grandson for the first time that day. A hint of pride — or perhaps warning — flickered in his gaze.
> "You speak wisely, Daemon. A royal progress is for hearts, not for crowns. Remember that."
Daemon bowed, a gesture more mocking than humble.
---
The New Year dawned cold and golden. From Dragonpit Hill to the Blackwater Rush, the city awoke in festival. Mummers pranced, boats drifted with ribbons trailing, and even the foul alleys of Flea Bottom smelled faintly of roast meat and cheap wine.
In the Dragonpit Square, banners unfurled — red, black, and gold — and trumpets blared for the great tourney. Knights from every corner of the realm gathered to test themselves before the eyes of gods and dragons.
Daemon entered the lists clad in armor the color of drying blood. Each plate was shaped like a dragon's scale; the helm bore three snarling drakes wrought of ruby and gold. He looked less like a prince than a prophecy of war.
His first opponent, Ser Diego Reyes of Lannisport, charged in silver armor marked with a crimson lion. Their lances shattered thrice — wood and fury and the crowd's roar — before Daemon's final strike sent Reyes tumbling to the dust.
He did not celebrate. Victory meant little when it came easily.
---
In the waiting yard, Daemon found Ser Criston Cole polishing a battered breastplate. The young knight's armor was old, but his eyes were bright — sharp, ambitious, and dangerously earnest.
> "You'll take the championship, my prince," Criston said. "You ride as if born for the lists."
Daemon's smirk was faint.
> "Born for dragons, not horses."
When he asked about Criston's allegiance, the man replied with pride,
> "I serve Lord Corlys Velaryon now. The Princess Rhaenys speaks kindly of me. Her daughter, Lady Laena… she reminds me of the songs of old Valyria. I hope to be her sworn sword one day."
Daemon's laughter came low and amused.
> "Careful, Ser Criston. Dragonfire burns even those who dream too close to it. Perhaps guard her brother instead — you may keep your skin longer."
Criston blinked, uncomprehending, as Daemon turned away.
---
Outside, beneath the watch of the Dragonpit's bronze gates, Maester Barth stood with Captain Delaine of the Dragon Guard.
Before them loomed Caraxes and Dreamfyre — crimson and pale blue — their breath steaming in the cool air, their wings whispering like banners in a coming storm.
Daemon approached, his expression softening in the dragons' presence. For a moment, the din of the city seemed to fade away.
> "You do not watch the jousts, Maester?" Daemon asked.
> "No, my prince," the old man replied. "Tourneys are the playthings of men. Dragons, though… dragons are the pulse of magic itself."
He placed a wrinkled hand upon Caraxes's flank, as if feeling for a heartbeat beneath the scales.
> "Magic still stirs within this one. I can feel it — a power older than men or kings."
Daemon frowned slightly.
> "Magic. You believe dragons possess such a thing?"
Barth smiled, eyes gleaming behind glass.
> "How else would they breathe fire? How else would the very seasons tremble at their coming? The maesters speak of logic, yet logic cannot forge Valyrian Steel, nor can it summon flame from wind."
He hesitated, then said quietly,
> "Some claim dragons came from the moon — cracked by the sun's fire and spilling flame upon the world. Others, that they crawled forth from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai."
Daemon's voice carried both disdain and curiosity.
> "If the shadowlanders tamed them, why did they vanish into their own darkness? No — dragons are no gift. They are creation itself, molded by Valyria, bound in blood and fire."
Barth studied him thoughtfully.
> "You have the mind of a maester — and the heart of a conqueror. Should dragons ever fade, so too will the world's magic. The winters will grow longer. The forges of Valyrian Steel will cool. Even the prayers of the red priests will go unanswered."
Daemon looked toward Caraxes — the dragon's red eyes reflecting his own.
> "Then perhaps," he murmured, "we must ensure dragons never fade."
Barth smiled sadly.
> "That, my prince, is a dangerous wish. Magic always exacts a price."
Daemon did not reply. His hand rested upon Caraxes's neck, feeling the faint hum of heat beneath the scales — alive, ancient, waiting.
Somewhere in the distance, trumpets sounded again, calling knights to the next round. But Daemon stood still, lost in the whisper of fire and prophecy that only he could hear.
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