Chapter 50:

[(Summerhall Palace Dining Room - Evening. The grand hall is lit by flickering torchlight as Prince Daemon, Ashara Dayne, and their son Prince Aemon sit around an ornate table laden with roasted meats and Dornish red. Outside, the distant roar of Smaug echoes through the Stormlands night.)

Daemon: (raising his goblet) To family reunions, political headaches, and my brother marrying his dead brother's wife!

Ashara: (dryly) You have the subtlety of a warhammer, my love.

Aemon: (pushing food around his plate) Is it true Aunt Elia cried when Father told her about the wedding?

Daemon: (grinning) Only a little! Then she threatened to stab me.

Ashara: (sipping wine) I taught her well.

Daemon: (leaning back) In all seriousness, the court's buzzing like a kicked beehive. Half think this marriage is brilliant, the other half think it's blasphemous.

Ashara: (raising an eyebrow) And you?

Daemon: (shrugging) I think Daeron needs a drink. And possibly a new face. The man looks like he's chewing lemons.

Aemon: (bluntly) He always looks like that.

Ashara: (ignoring them) Elia wants me there early. She's bracing for the storm.

Daemon: (snorting) Oh, it's not just a storm—it's a full-blown tempest. The Stokeworths are wailing, Tywin's scheming, and Rhaenys hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks.

Ashara: (sharp) And whose fault is that?

Daemon: (holding up hands) Not mine! Blame Father's "brilliant" plan to balance power by shuffling children like cyvasse pieces.

Aemon: (tilting head) Do I get shuffled?

Daemon: (ruffling his hair) No, my little scholar. You're stuck with Summerhall—no lands, just a fancy title and a library full of dusty scrolls.

Ashara: (softly) And that bothers you?

Aemon: (shrugging) I like scrolls.

Daemon: (grinning) That's my boy!

Ashara: (serious) We leave at dawn.

Daemon: (groaning) Must we? I was hoping for at least one morning where Smaug doesn't wake me by setting something on fire.

Ashara: (standing) You can sleep on the ship.

Daemon: (mock horror) A ship? Like some common merchant?

Ashara: (smirking) Unless you'd prefer to explain to Elia why we're late.

Daemon: (shuddering) Point taken.

[(Aemon watches his parents bicker with detached amusement, then quietly slips a book into his sleeve—preparing for the chaos ahead. Outside, Smaug sneezes, igniting a bush. The guards sigh, already reaching for buckets.)]

[(Summerhall Palace Dining Room - Night. The clatter of cutlery and low conversation is suddenly shattered by a thunderous roar as Meraxes lands outside, shaking the palace walls. Aemon barely blinks, used to the chaos, while Ashara sighs and rubs her temples. Moments later, a very pregnant Princess Alyssa storms in, her silver-gold hair windswept, clutching a stack of ledgers under one arm and a half-eaten chicken leg in the other.)

Alyssa: (dropping the ledgers with a thud) Seven hells, Daemon, why is the Gulltown spice tariff report in your handwriting? You were supposed to audit the Stormlands lumber shipments!

Daemon: (grinning with a mouth full of wine) Because numbers are boring, and spices smell nice?

Ashara: (deadpan) Your brother, ladies and gentlemen. The pride of House Targaryen.

Aemon: (without looking up from his book) Uncle Daeron does the numbers better anyway.

Alyssa: (pointing her chicken leg at Daemon) Exactly! And I was the one stuck explaining to Father why our profits dropped last quarter because someone—(she jabs the chicken at Daemon's chest)—thought "rounding up" meant "guess and hope for the best."

Daemon: (mock offense) I was optimistic!

Ashara: (dryly) You were drunk.

Alyssa: (flopping into a chair) Gods, I miss when Daeron handled all of this alone. At least he pretended to care about trade routes.

Daemon: (leaning forward) Oh please, you don't miss Daeron's management—you miss his face when we used to sneak out of meetings to go hawking.

Alyssa: (grinning despite herself) Okay, fair.

Ashara: (raising an eyebrow) So let me understand. For twenty years, Daeron ran Summerhall and the Guild alone. Then the rebellion happened, Father split the duties between you two, and now… what? You're both pretending to work while actually just making each other's lives harder?

Alyssa: (gesturing wildly) He started it!

Daemon: (gasping) She left me with the Braavosi delegation last month! Do you know how many times I had to hear "It is known" before I threatened to feed someone to Smaug?

Aemon: (bluntly) Three times.

Ashara: (pinching the bridge of her nose) This is why the realm nearly collapsed after the Trident.

Alyssa: (grinning) Oh please, the realm nearly collapsed because Rhaegar couldn't keep it in his breeches. We're just… creatively delegating.

Daemon: (raising his goblet) To creative delegation!

Ashara: (ignoring him) Alyssa, you're pregnant. Should you really be flying around on Meraxes this late?

Alyssa: (shrugging) The baby likes it. Besides, Stannis is off brooding in Storm's End, and someone has to keep this idiot—(jerks thumb at Daemon)—from bankrupting us.

Daemon: (grinning) Admit it, you just missed me.

Alyssa: (throwing a bread roll at him) I missed competence.

[(The bread bounces off Daemon's forehead as Aemon finally looks up from his book, watching his aunt and father bicker like children. Ashara exhales, long-suffering, and refills her wine. Outside, Meraxes and Smaug screech at each other, their rivalry mirroring their riders'. The candles flicker—another night of chaos in Summerhall.)]

[(Casterly Rock Courtyard - Twilight. Jaime and Tyrion Lannister lounge on a stone bench, passing a wineskin between them as the setting sun paints the cliffs red. Below, the sea crashes against the rocks, a rhythmic counterpoint to their bickering.)]

Tyrion: (taking a swig) So. Another daughter for you, brother. That's what, three now?

Jaime: (grinning) Four, actually. Rosamund had twins last month.

Tyrion: (choking on wine) Seven hells, Jaime. At this rate, you'll repopulate the Westerlands single-handedly.

Jaime: (stretching lazily) What can I say? Father's orders. "Secure the Lannister line," he says. Never specified how many attempts it should take.

Tyrion: (snorting) And yet, all these wives - the Florent girl, the Marbrand widow, even that poor Crakehall lass - and not a single son. Almost poetic, really.

Jaime: (raising an eyebrow) Says the man whose "bastards" may or may not exist.

Tyrion: (mock offense) My bastards are artfully theoretical. Unlike yours, who keep showing up with Lannister gold hair and suspiciously green eyes.

[(A beat. The unspoken name Cersei hangs between them like a ghost.)]

Jaime: (quietly) She'd have hated this, you know. Daeron remarrying so soon.

Tyrion: (sighing) She'd have set the Red Keep on fire. But then again... (gesturing with wineskin) Elia Martell? After everything? That's not just a marriage, it's a statement.

Jaime: (grimacing) Father's already writing passive-aggressive letters about "Lannister legacy." As if Maekar isn't practically his clone.

Tyrion: (grinning) Oh, he is. All scowls and no humor. Poor boy didn't stand a chance with our blood.

Jaime: (leaning back) Still. Baelon's heir to the throne, Maekar's heir to Casterly Rock... who'd have thought our family's future would rest on Targaryen shoulders?

Tyrion: (raising wineskin) To incestuous inevitability!

Jaime: (clinking his own skin against it) To nephews who'll hopefully be less screwed up than their uncles!

[(They drink in comfortable silence, the weight of legacy and past sins momentarily forgotten. Somewhere in the castle, a baby cries - Myrcella, the last piece of Cersei in the world. The sea wind carries the sound away.)]

[(King's Landing Palace Courtyard - Morning. King Aegon VI stands beside his massive dragon Fenrir, running a hand along the creature's shimmering scales as it purrs like a contented cat. The peace is shattered by the crisp footsteps of Tywin Lannister approaching, his golden cloak sweeping behind him with characteristic precision.)]

Tywin: (coolly) Your Grace. A word.

Aegon VI: (without turning) Tywin. Fenrir was just telling me how much he enjoys these quiet mornings. Before interruptions.

Fenrir: (releasing a puff of smoke in Tywin's direction)

Tywin: (unfazed) I'll be brief. It's time we settled the matter of Casterly Rock's succession.

Aegon VI: (finally turning, eyebrow raised) Oh? I thought we had settled it. My grandson inherits.

Tywin: (stiffly) Prince Maekar is half Lannister. He carries my blood, my name—

Aegon VI: (interrupting gently) —And my son's eyes, and my house's name. He's a Targaryen, Tywin.

Tywin: (steely) Yet you've allowed him to be groomed as my heir for years. The boy trains in the Rock, speaks of its histories as his own. This is no mere rumor—it's your tacit approval.

[(Fenrir shifts, sensing tension. Aegon pats the dragon's snout absently.)]

Aegon VI: (sighing) What exactly are you asking?

Tywin: (clipping each word) Official decree. That when the time comes, Maekar takes the Lannister name with Casterly Rock.

Aegon VI: (amused) And if I refuse?

Tywin: (cold smile) Then I suppose the wealthiest house in Westeros will pass to... let's see. My brother Kevan's line? Or perhaps my cousin Daven? Neither known for their enthusiasm in funding royal endeavors.

[(A long pause. Somewhere in the distance, a servant drops a platter with a clatter.)]

Aegon VI: (chuckling) You always negotiate like a banker with a dagger, Tywin. Very well. Maekar may inherit—if he wishes it when he comes of age.

Tywin: (tight nod) That's all I ask.

Aegon VI: (cheerfully) Oh, and one more condition.

Tywin: (wary) Which is?

Aegon VI: (patting Fenrir) You finally take a ride on dragonback. Fenrir's been dying to show you the view.

Tywin: (glancing at the dragon's razor-sharp teeth) ...I'd rather walk.

Aegon VI: (laughing as Tywin strides away) That's what I thought!

[(Fenrir sneezes, nearly knocking over a hedge. The King grins, watching his Hand's retreating back with the satisfaction of a man who's won without drawing steel.)]