Chapter 45:

[(King's Landing Palace Courtyard, 289 AC - King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella walk through the sunlit gardens, the weight of recent decisions lingering between them. The scent of winter roses mixes with salt air from Blackwater Bay as they pause near a marble fountain.)

Rhaella: (plucking a rose petal) "So. We've made a lord of Rhaegar's bastard and given his trueborn son sheep pastures. This should make family dinners delightfully awkward."

Aegon VI: (rubbing his temples) "It's balance. The North gets the Iron Islands, Dorne gets Crownlands territory. Everyone wins."

Rhaella: "Except House Stokeworth, who apparently lose their name, lands, and dignity in one royal decree."

Aegon VI: (smirking) "They backed the wrong stag. They're lucky to keep their heads."

(A servant approaches with two goblets of spiced wine. Rhaella takes both, handing one to Aegon.)

Rhaella: "And what of our other grandchildren? Shall we parcel out the realm like a harvest feast?"

Aegon VI: (sipping wine) "Baelon gets the Iron Throne, Maekar likely gets Casterly Rock thanks to Tywin's scheming, Steffan has Storm's End..."

Rhaella: "And sweet Aemon? Our Summerhall princeling with no lands to his name?"

Aegon VI: "He's a second son. His inheritance is not getting eaten by a dragon."

(They stroll past a courtyard where young Princess Daenerys chases her dragon Rhaegal, the small creature flapping just out of reach.)

Rhaella: (watching them) "At least we've secured the succession. Though I do wonder..."

Aegon VI: "If giving Pyke to Lyanna's son will come back to haunt us?"

Rhaella: "I was going to say if Viserys will survive his first month playing nursemaid to ironborn. But yes, that too."

Aegon VI: (grimacing) "The boy needs to learn responsibility. And what better test than herding squid?"

Rhaella: "A test he'll likely fail by setting something on fire."

(Their quiet moment is interrupted by the sound of clanging metal. They turn to see Prince Daemon sparring with Ser Barristan in the training yard, their blades flashing in the sunlight.)

Aegon VI: (watching them) "At least one of our sons isn't currently making terrible life choices."

Rhaella: "Give him time. It's barely noon."

(As they laugh, a shadow passes overhead - Prince Daeron's dragon Drogon circling the keep before landing in the outer courtyard.)

Rhaella: "Speaking of terrible choices... How long do you think before Tywin convinces Daeron to name another Lannister to the council?"

Aegon VI: (sighing) "I give it until Cersei's next nameday. Now come - we've a realm to run and at least three more political disasters to prevent before supper."

(They walk toward the keep, the weight of crowns momentarily forgotten in the simple comfort of shared duty - and shared amusement at their family's endless dramas.)

[(Hand of the King's Office, Red Keep – 289 AC. Tywin Lannister stands by the window, his golden hand brooch glinting in the afternoon sun as he stares at the courtyard below. The door opens without knock or announcement – only one person would dare.)

Cersei: (sweeping in, one hand resting on her swollen belly) "Father. I heard the council meeting was... eventful."

Tywin: (without turning) "You heard correctly."

Cersei: (pouring herself wine despite her condition) "So. The king has decided to reward Rhaegar's trueborn son with... what was it? A sheep farm?"

Tywin: (finally turning, his voice icy) "House Stokeworth's lands. And the right to rename it. A foothold in the Crownlands for Dorne."

Cersei: (sipping) "How generous. And my sweet nephew Aegon Snow gets an entire kingdom. How... balanced."

Tywin: (moving to his desk) "The bastard gets rocks and saltwater. The trueborn gets fertile land a day's ride from King's Landing. Make no mistake – this was a message."

Cersei: (smirking) "Oh, I know. 'Look how we reward trueborn heirs over bastards.' A pointed little jab at my children, isn't it?"

Tywin: (ignoring her dramatics) "Baelon remains Daeron's heir. Maekar..."

Cersei: (leaning forward) "Maekar should be your heir. Jaime will never rule Casterly Rock, not while he wears that white cloak. Tyrion is..."

Tywin: (sharp) "Do not finish that sentence."

(A tense silence. Cersei swirls her wine, the ruby liquid catching the light like blood.)

Cersei: "You haven't asked the king's permission yet."

Tywin: "No."

Cersei: "Why? Because you're still hoping Jaime will come to his senses? Or because you can't bear the thought of—"

Tywin: (slamming a hand on the desk) "Because I do not ask for what is mine by right!"

(Cersei doesn't flinch. She never does.)

Cersei: (softly) "Then take it. Make Maekar a Lannister in truth. Secure our legacy."

Tywin: (calmer now, but no less dangerous) "And when Daeron objects? When the king decides my grandson is too Lannister for his liking?"

Cersei: (smiling) "Then remind them that lions do not ask for scraps. We take what we're owed."

(They hold each other's gaze – two golden predators weighing the same ruthless calculus. Outside, a raven cries, its shadow passing over the Tower of the Hand like an omen.)

Tywin: (finally) "You should rest. The babe—"

Cersei: (standing abruptly) "The babe will be another son. Another piece on the board. And when he's born, we'll have three Lannister-blooded princes. Let the king play at balancing scales. We'll be the weight that tips them."

(She sweeps out, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts – and the unspoken truth that in this game of thrones, even family is just another move to be made.)

[(CMG Headquarters, Crownlands – 289 AC. The bustling merchant guild hall hums with activity as clerks shuffle parchments and traders argue over ledgers. Prince Daemon (ESTP) lounges atop a desk piled with trade reports, tossing a gold dragon coin in the air while Prince Daeron (ISTJ) stands stiffly nearby, scanning a shipping manifest with a critical eye.)

Daemon: (catching the coin) "You know, brother, if you glare any harder at that parchment, it might burst into flames. Then we'd finally see if all that Targaryen blood actually means something."

Daeron: (not looking up) "The only thing burning will be your share of CMG profits if these numbers don't balance."

Daemon: (grinning) "Ah, but that's why the gods invented creative accounting. Ask our dear sister Alyssa—she's been funneling Stormlands tariffs into her wine cellar for years."

Daeron: (finally setting down the manifest) "Speaking of inheritance… Have you heard about Father's latest balancing act?"

Daemon: (rolling his eyes) "Let me guess. Another royal bastard gets a crown, while the rest of us fight over table scraps?"

Daeron: "Aegon Snow gets the Iron Islands. Aegon Targaryen gets Stokeworth."

Daemon: (snorting) "Ah yes, the prestigious lands of… checks notes… sheep and cabbages. Truly, Rhaegar's trueborn son must be thrilled."

Daeron: (dry) "It's more than we gave him before."

Daemon: (leaning forward) "And what about us? You get Dragonstone, I get Summerhall, Alyssa gets Storm's End—"

Daeron: "—and Viserys gets to babysit squid. Fair's fair."

Daemon: (mock-offended) "Fair? Brother, you were Prince of Summerhall for twenty years. I got stuck with half of CMG and a castle that still smells like roasted Targaryen."

Daeron: (ignoring him) "The point is, Father's trying to clean up Rhaegar's mess. The bastard gets a title, the trueborn son gets land—"

Daemon: (interrupting) "—and we get to explain to Tywin why his grandchildren aren't getting everything. Good luck with that, by the way."

Daeron: (grimacing) "I'd rather face another Greyjoy rebellion."

Daemon: (grinning) "Cheer up. At least your wife is pregnant again. Maybe this one will actually look like a Targaryen."

Daeron: (flatly) "I'm leaving."

Daemon: (calling after him) "Tell Cersei I said hello! Or don't! She'll probably poison my wine either way!"

(As Daeron stalks off, Daemon flips the gold dragon again, watching it spin in the air—a small, shining metaphor for the game they're all still playing.)

[(King's Landing Palace Corridor – 289 AC. Prince Daeron strides through the unusually quiet halls, the weight of an unseen tension pressing against him. Servants scatter like leaves before a storm, their eyes averted. At his chamber door, Maester Creylen stands rigid, his chain clinking with nervous tremors.)

Maester Creylen: (bowing deeply) "My prince... I regret to inform you—"

Daeron: (cutting him off, voice like steel) "Out with it."

Maester Creylen: (swallowing) "The Princess Cersei went into labor this morning. The child lives—a daughter. But Her Grace... did not survive the birth."

(A beat of silence. Daeron's face remains carved from stone, but his knuckles whiten around the hilt of his sword.)

Daeron: "Where is she?"

Maester Creylen: (gesturing weakly) "Inside, my prince. The king and queen are with her. As is... Lord Tywin."

(Daeron shoves past him. The door swings open to reveal the dimly lit chamber. Tywin Lannister stands by the window, his back to the room, a silhouette of controlled fury. Queen Rhaella sits near the bed, her fingers laced together in silent grief. And King Aegon VI—stoic, solemn—cradles a tiny, silent bundle in his arms.)

Tywin: (without turning) "You took your time."

Daeron: (ignoring him, eyes locked on the child) "Father. Mother."

Aegon VI: (softly) "She has her mother's golden hair."

Rhaella: (Rhaella rises, touching Daeron's arm gently. He does not react.) "She needs a name, Daeron."

Tywin: (Tywin finally turns. His eyes are chips of emerald ice.) "A Lannister name."

Aegon VI: (firm) "A Targaryen name."

(The air thickens. Daeron steps forward, taking the child from his father. The babe stirs, a whisper of life in the heavy silence.)

Daeron: (after a long pause) "Myrcella."

Tywin: (bristling) "That is no—"

Daeron: (cutting him off, voice final) "Myrcella Targaryen. Of House Targaryen. My daughter."

(Tywin's jaw clenches. But before he can speak, the king steps between them.)

Aegon VI: "It is decided. The princess will be raised in the Red Keep, under the royal family's care."

(Tywin's gaze burns into Daeron, a silent promise of battles yet to come. Then, with a swirl of crimson cloak, he strides from the room. The door shuts with a sound like a tomb sealing.)

Rhaella: (softly) "Daeron..."

Daeron: (staring down at Myrcella) "Leave me."

(They go. And alone in the chamber with his child—his last piece of a wife he never loved, a marriage he never chose—Daeron Targaryen allows himself one moment of silence. One moment of grief. Then he squares his shoulders. The game continues.)