Chapter 46:

[(King's Landing Palace Common Room, 289 AC - King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella sit by the hearth, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows across their weary faces. The weight of recent events hangs heavy in the air as they sip their wine.)

Rhaella: (staring into her goblet) "A bastard lord of Pyke, a trueborn prince of Stokeworth, and now our son a widower with a newborn daughter. The gods do enjoy their little jests."

Aegon VI: (rubbing his temples) "At least the succession is secure. Baelon remains heir, Maekar may yet get Casterly Rock, and now both of Rhaegar's sons have lands of their own."

Rhaella: (raising an eyebrow) "Yes, how very tidy. Though I suspect Tywin sees it less as 'balance' and more as 'insult'."

(A servant enters with a platter of honeyed figs. Rhaella takes one, studying it absently.)

Aegon VI: "Daeron will need to remarry eventually. The future king must have a queen."

Rhaella: (dryly) "After Cersei? I'd suggest we find him someone dull. Perhaps a nice, quiet girl from the Vale with no political ambitions whatsoever."

Aegon VI: (snorting) "And where would we find such a mythical creature in Westeros?"

Rhaella: "The North? Lyanna's niece might be of age soon." (grinning at Aegon's horrified expression) "Too soon?"

Aegon VI: "I'd rather face another rebellion than explain that match to Tywin."

(They fall into comfortable silence, the fire popping between them. After a moment, Rhaella sighs.)

Rhaella: "Do you ever wonder what Rhaegar would think of all this? His bastard son ruling the Iron Islands, his trueborn son given lands taken from traitors..."

Aegon VI: (staring into the flames) "I try not to wonder what Rhaegar would think about anything. It rarely leads anywhere pleasant."

(A knock at the door interrupts them. A nursemaid enters, cradling the sleeping Princess Myrcella.)

Nursemaid: (curtsying) "Your Graces, the princess wouldn't settle without seeing her grandsire first."

(Rhaella takes the babe, her expression softening as the child nestles against her.)

Rhaella: (murmuring) "She has her mother's golden hair... but thank the gods, her father's temperament."

Aegon VI: (leaning to look) "Let's hope she keeps it. The realm could use a peaceful generation after all this."

Rhaella: (smirking) "With our bloodline? Unlikely. But we can hope."

(As the fire crackles on, the three generations of Targaryens sit together - the old rulers, the sleeping future, and all the tangled politics in between.)

[(King's Landing Palace Courtyard, 289 AC - The clang of steel rings across the training yard as Prince Daeron and Prince Daemon spar beneath the midday sun. Sweat glistens on their brows as their practice swords clash, the rhythm of their duel speaking of years of brotherly competition.)

Daemon: (grinning as he parries a strike) "You're slowing down, brother. Too much time counting coins, not enough time swinging swords."

Daeron: (panting, resetting his stance) "And you're still reckless. One day, that flourish will get you killed."

Daemon: (laughing) "But what a way to go!" (He feints left, then sweeps low—only for Daeron to block at the last second.)

(A moment of quiet exertion, blades locked, before they break apart. Daemon wipes his brow with his sleeve.)

Daemon: (catching his breath) "So. When's the wedding?"

Daeron: (freezing mid-swing) "What?"

Daemon: "Oh, don't play dumb. You're heir to the throne, freshly widowed, and Father won't let you stay unmarried for long. The vultures are already circling."

Daeron: (grimacing) "It's barely been a moon's turn since Cersei—"

Daemon: "And? The realm doesn't stop for grief. You know that better than anyone."

(Daeron exhales sharply, stabbing his practice sword into the dirt. He grabs a waterskin and takes a long drink before answering.)

Daeron: "I've had… suggestions."

Daemon: (raising an eyebrow) "Let me guess. Tywin's already pushing some distant Lannister cousin?"

Daeron: "Naturally. Along with half the Reach, a few ambitious Stormlanders, and—gods help me—Lord Redwyne's twelve-year-old daughter."

Daemon: (snorting) "At least she'd come with a fleet."

Daeron: (dry) "And a decade of waiting before she could bear an heir. No, thank you."

(They lean against the training yard fence, watching squires drill across the yard. Daemon picks at the hilt of his sword.)

Daemon: "What about Elia?"

Daeron: (blinking) "What about Elia?"

Daemon: "Oh, don't give me that look. She's Rhaegar's widow, yes, but she's also the mother of your niece and nephew. Marrying her would secure Dorne completely, and it's not like you two hate each other."

Daeron: (frowning) "She's still in mourning."

Daemon: "It's been eight years."

Daeron: "Some grief doesn't fade."

(A pause. Daemon studies his brother's face, then shrugs.)

Daemon: "Fine. Then pick someone boring. A Hightower, maybe. Or a Royce. Someone who won't stab you in your sleep."

Daeron: (smirking faintly) "I'd almost prefer someone who would. At least it'd be interesting."

Daemon: (grinning) "Now that's the spirit!" (He claps Daeron on the back, nearly knocking him over.) "Come on. Let's get drunk and critique your potential brides. I'll even make a betting pool."

Daeron: (sighing) "Seven hells..."

Daemon: (already walking away) "I'll give you three-to-one odds on the Tyrell girl!"

(Daeron watches his brother go, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he follows—because if nothing else, at least the wine will be good.)

[(King's Landing Palace Dining Room, 289 AC – The long table is laden with roasted duck, honeyed figs, and Dornish red wine. King Aegon VI sits at the head, Queen Rhaella to his right, while their children—Daeron, Daemon, and young Daenerys—are arranged along the sides. The atmosphere is tense despite the fine meal.)

Aegon VI: (cutting into his duck) "Daeron. We need to discuss your future."

Daeron: (pausing mid-bite) "Let me guess. Remarriage."

Daemon: (grinning) "Oh, this should be good."

Rhaella: (shooting Daemon a look) "This isn't a jest. The future king needs a queen."

Daenerys: (innocently, playing with her food) "Can't he just marry a dragon?"

Daemon: (laughing) "See? The child has better ideas than all of us."

Aegon VI: (ignoring them) "This time, you will choose your bride. But choose wisely. We cannot afford another... divisive match."

Daeron: (dry) "You mean like Cersei?"

Rhaella: (sipping wine) "We mean like anyone who might spark another Dance of Dragons. Your sons already have powerful backing—Baelon as your heir, Maekar possibly inheriting Casterly Rock. The wrong wife could turn them against each other."

Daemon: (leaning back) "So no Velaryons, no Hightowers, and definitely no second Lannisters."

Aegon VI: (nodding) "Precisely. The realm needs stability, not another succession crisis."

Daeron: (thoughtful) "Elia Martell, then."

(A beat of silence. Rhaella's eyebrows rise. Daemon whistles lowly.)

Rhaella: "Rhaegar's widow?"

Daeron: "She's already mother to Rhaenys and Aegon VII. Marrying her would fully reconcile Dorne to our house, and she's... familiar with court."

Aegon VI: (considering) "It's not the worst idea."

Daemon: (grinning) "Plus, she already knows how terrible Targaryen husbands can be. That's valuable experience."

Rhaella: (ignoring Daemon) "And Tywin?"

Daeron: (coldly) "Tywin can choke on his own ambition."

Aegon VI: (almost smiling) "Careful, Daeron. That's your goodfather you're speaking of."

Daenerys: (blinking) "Why doesn't Daeron just marry me? Then we can have more dragons!"

Rhaella: (choking on her wine) "What?"

Daemon: (delighted) "Now there's a solution! Truly, the purest Valyrian tradition!"

Aegon VI: (pinching the bridge of his nose) "We are not having this conversation."

Daeron: (deadpan) "Thank the gods."

Rhaella: (muttering) "I need stronger wine."

(As the servants bring in the next course, the family lapses into tense but thoughtful silence—each weighing futures, alliances, and the ever-present shadow of history.)

[(King's Landing Palace Common Room, 289 AC – The fire crackles in the hearth as King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella wait in silence, the remnants of their dinner cleared away. The door opens, and Tywin Lannister strides in, his face unreadable as always, but his green eyes sharp as daggers.)

Tywin: (coolly) "You summoned me, Your Grace?"

Aegon VI: (gesturing to a seat) "Sit, Tywin. We have matters to discuss."

(Tywin remains standing, his hands clasped behind his back.)

Tywin: "If this is about Daeron's remarriage, I assume you've already made your decision."

Rhaella: (sipping her wine) "Perceptive as ever, Lord Tywin."

Aegon VI: "Daeron has chosen Elia Martell."

(A beat of silence. Tywin's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.)

Tywin: (icy) "Rhaegar's widow."

Aegon VI: (nodding) "A match that secures Dorne completely. And given that her daughter is already betrothed to your grandson Baelon, this binds our houses tighter than ever."

Tywin: "It binds Martell blood to the throne. My daughter is barely cold in her grave, and already you replace her with the woman whose husband stole—"

Rhaella: (sharply) "Enough. We are not here to relitigate the past."

Aegon VI: (calm but firm) "Tywin, you have no cause for concern. Baelon remains Daeron's heir. Maekar is still your preferred successor for Casterly Rock. Nothing changes—except that the realm grows more stable."

Tywin: (coldly) "And if Dorne decides that Aegon VII—Elia's son—would make a better king than Baelon?"

Aegon VI: (leaning forward) "Then they will find that dragons do not take kindly to treason. But it won't come to that. Rhaenys and Baelon will meet soon. Let them forge their own bonds."

Tywin: (quietly furious) "You gamble with my grandchildren's futures."

Rhaella: (smiling without warmth) "Welcome to the game, my lord. You've played it masterfully for years."

(Another silence, heavier this time. Tywin's gaze flicks between them, calculating.)

Tywin: (finally) "Very well. But know this—if any harm comes to Maekar's claim, or if Baelon is ever slighted in favor of Elia's children…"

Aegon VI: (raising a hand) "Spare the threats, Tywin. We understand each other."

(Tywin gives a curt nod, then turns on his heel and leaves without another word. The door shuts behind him with a soft but decisive click.)

Rhaella: (exhaling) "Well. That went better than expected."

Aegon VI: (dry) "He didn't set the room on fire. I'll take that as a victory."

(They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the fire crackle. Then Rhaella smirks.)

Rhaella: "Do you think Elia will actually say yes?"

Aegon VI: (chuckling) "After Rhaegar? She might prefer a vow of chastity and a quiet life in Dorne."

Rhaella: "Then let's hope Daeron's charm has improved since his last marriage."

(They share a rare, genuine laugh—two old players in a game that never ends, finding humor where they can.)