Tywin always knew exactly where to stab.
Daeron's smile vanished.
The old lion pressed harder. "Your Grace, Prince Rhaegar already has a son and two daughters. You have none. That is not good for the realm."
Varys took one quiet step backward, suddenly very interested in the floor tiles.
Daeron stormed out of the throne room, jaw tight, heading straight for the queen's apartments. He needed to find Shaena and get to work making babies.
"Damn Tywin and his foul mouth," he muttered under his breath.
Betrothed for two years, married for three—five years total—and still no child. It wasn't normal. Not in a world without reliable birth control. New wives usually got pregnant fast. But Shaena hadn't even had a scare.
He'd had Maester Aemon and the Yi Ti healer check both of them. Healthy. Completely healthy. Especially him—almost unnaturally so.
"Too healthy?" he wondered for the hundredth time. "Is that even a thing?"
If it wasn't him, then why hadn't Lady Sylla of Summerhall gotten pregnant either? She already had one child. And Rhaegar—Rhaegar had a daughter with Lyanna five years ago. A beautiful little girl with silver-gold hair and violet eyes. Daeron had sent a gift like any good uncle should.
Barristan followed behind, sensing the storm. "Your Grace, there's no need to rush. Look at me—I'm an old man and I never had children."
Daeron stopped dead and gave him a flat, murderous stare.
Barristan's eyes flicked to the white cloaks behind them and offered a sheepish grin. Right. Kingsguard. No children. Except…
Daeron leaned in, voice low. "Prince Lewyn's mistress. She gave him a bastard, didn't she?"
Barristan blinked, caught off guard. "Your Grace—"
Daeron jabbed a finger at his chest. "You all think you can keep secrets from Varys? Really?"
Six of the seven Kingsguard took their vows seriously. Even hot-blooded Jaime handled things himself and stayed away from women. Only Lewyn, the Dornishman, had kept a mistress on the side. The rest of the white cloaks knew and stayed silent out of brotherhood.
But walls had ears.
Barristan looked ashamed. "It's true, Your Grace."
Daeron felt worse. Even the Kingsguard were getting heirs while he had nothing.
Barristan tried again, gentler this time. "You don't need to worry so much. We're High Knights. It's different for us."
He flexed his arm. "Ever since I reached that rank, I've felt it. Ser Arthur feels it too. You must as well."
Daeron looked inward. In his chest sat a young sprout—fifteen centimeters tall, delicate stem and all. The new growth from the Gemstone Sweetberry after he'd broken and reformed his Life Seed. Only three High Knights existed in the world: him, Barristan, and Arthur. Rhaegar and Lewyn were still just Knights.
"Pity Shaena isn't a warrior," Daeron said. "She never learned to control life force."
Would two people who both held life force have an easier time? Or harder?
Barristan saw the king thinking clearly again and relaxed. "Truly, Your Grace, Rhaegar was older than you when Rhaenys was born. He wasn't even married yet."
Daeron sighed. "But I got married early."
"Children are the gods' gift," Barristan said, the perfect knight. "They come when the time is right."
"Time, huh?"
Daeron latched onto that. In Stardew Valley, there was a chance a married couple could trigger a "have a child or adopt" request after sleeping together. What if he and Shaena moved into the farmhouse cottage? Would the odds go up?
He liked the idea. The Red Keep felt too drafty and cold. The cottage was warm. Cozy.
"Barristan, you're a genius."
Barristan puffed up. "You'll have a healthy, beautiful little prince before you know it, Your Grace."
---
Hand's Tower.
Tywin signed documents with practiced ease, but there was no satisfaction in it. His face was thunder.
A fool obsessed with honor. A daughter with no sense. And a twisted little monster for a second son. What sin had he committed in a past life to deserve this?
Daeron's lack of an heir was inconvenient. Tywin's problem was far worse.
He had no one.
Jaime had chosen the white cloak. Cersei had refused every match he offered and thrown tantrums when sent home. Tyrion was… Tyrion.
"If the gods gave me one decent heir, I'd hand back the Handship tomorrow," Tywin thought bitterly.
Five years of watching Daeron reshape the Crownlands, build a real bureaucracy, and strengthen the throne had left Tywin quietly restless. Two problems kept him up at night: who would inherit Casterly Rock, and whether House Lannister could still cow the Westerlands lords once he was gone.
He slammed the quill down. "Sandor! Fetch Jaime."
Moments later Jaime entered in silver armor and white cloak, reading his father's mood and moving carefully.
"You sent for me?"
"Of course I did," Tywin snapped. "Send word to Casterly Rock. Tell my idiot daughter she can come back to King's Landing."
Jaime froze. "Father… when she left, you said if she ever returned you'd treat her as dead. You forbade—"
"I was protecting her," Tywin cut in, eyes hard. "The king had just married. She had no chance left. Staying here would have turned her into a jealous fool or a whore. I sent her home to save her from herself."
Jaime hesitated. Cersei was miserable at the Rock—locked in her rooms, watched by septas like a prisoner. Her obsession with Daeron had only grown.
"I want her here," Tywin said flatly. "If she won't marry some lord, then she'll serve the family another way."
Tywin had been planning this for years. Daeron still had no heir. The Stepstones war was winding down. Signs pointed to bigger conflicts ahead, and the Iron Throne would come out stronger. Rhaegar had taken two wives with almost no backlash. If the old custom returned, Cersei could be placed at Daeron's side.
House Lannister needed that dragon-blooded grandchild. Badly.
Velaryon was rising fast. Hightower's star was bright. Lannister could not afford to fall behind.
Jaime left with orders he didn't like. Cersei back in King's Landing meant trouble. But his father's mind was set.
Tywin returned to his papers, face carved from stone. The old lion was done waiting.
---
Half a month later.
A column of horses and carriages bearing the burning tower of House Hightower rolled toward King's Landing.
Jaehaerys rode at the head on a white horse, silver hair catching the light. He looked up at the three-headed red dragon banners snapping above the Lion Gate and felt his chest tighten with something close to homesickness.
"Been too long," he said.
Ser Jon rode beside him. "The city's changed."
They paid the gate tax and rode the wide stone road past the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill. Jaehaerys scanned the sky for any sign of dragons, but none appeared.
"This way, Prince," came a familiar voice.
Alliser Thorne stepped forward with a squad of Gold Cloaks to escort them in.