Chapter 99: The Royal Lazy Game vs. The Naming Crisis

Chapter 99: The Royal Lazy Game vs. The Naming Crisis [Lavinia’s Pov] Lady Evelyne, with her lovely pink hair and dangerous brain, had floated out of the garden like an elegant whisper of doom. Meanwhile, I slumped onto the velvet chair beside Papa like a wilting flower in a royal tragedy, dramatically flopping my arms over the sides and sighing like the ghost of a tired duchess. "I can’t believe I’m going to study again," I muttered to no one in particular, staring into the middle distance as if knowledge itself had betrayed me in a past life. Then I turned my big, hopeful eyes to the nearest maid and said, with the sweetest possible voice: "Can I get a tea? Please? With honey. And maybe a tiny pastry on the side. Or seven." Before the poor maid could even blink— "NO." Papa’s voice thundered from his chair like the royal boom of doom. I turned to him, scandalized. "What?! Why not?! I want to drink tea too! You’re drinking it like it’s holy water!" Papa didn’t even look at me. He just calmly flicked to another article titled "Camouflage Shrubs and How to Disappear Behind Them During Awkward Diplomatic Events." To the maid, he said simply, "Give her some milk." "Milk?! Papa, milk is for babies!" "And you are," he said, still not looking up, "too young to drink such strong tea, Lavinia." I gasped like I’d been personally betrayed. "Too young?! Didn’t you just now say I’m grown up enough to start education?!" Papa lifted one regal eyebrow. "Yes. But not grown up enough to drink imperial-grade lavender Earl Grey and combust your tiny royal heart." Ughhhhhhhhhh. I flopped harder into the chair, nearly sliding off it like a sad pudding. "This monarchy is unfair and clearly ageist." But fine. If I couldn’t have tea, then I would have my freedom. I spun to Marshi, who was lounging by the pillars like the overgrown divine tiger pillow he is, and declared, "Marshi! Let’s go! It’s time to play our favorite game." His ears perked up, tail swishing like he already knew what time it was. I hopped down onto the marble floor with all the grace of a half-melted biscuit and marched out of the imperial hall toward the garden, my fluffy slippers squeaking dramatically with every stomp. Behind me, I heard Papa murmur to Ravick, "Is she going to play that same ’being lazy’ game again?" Ravick, ever the traitor, replied with a slow, concerned nod. "It... it seems so, Your Majesty." Tch. They don’t understand anything. "Being lazy" is not a game. It is an art form. A lifestyle. A philosophical rebellion against the crushing weight of expectations. Marshi and I reached our sun-drenched spot in the Petal Garden—a cozy patch of petal-covered grass under the cherry trees. Marshi flopped down with a majestic huff, and I immediately dove onto his soft, fluffy belly like a true warrior of naps. "Ahhh... yes," I whispered, stretching like a cat on vacation. "This... this is the peak of civilization." Sun? Check. Warm tiger tummy? Check. Dramatic sighing to make the maids concerned? Check. Truly, nothing beats playing The Royal Lazy GameTM — the greatest pastime of our glorious empire. Honored by generations. Perfected by yours truly. And best enjoyed while half-baked under the sun on the divine fluffiness of a tiger belly. But of course... of course...My papa, destroyer of peace, enemy of naps, Emperor of Unnecessary InterruptionsTM... decided today was the day he had too much time on his hands. And thus, exactly forty-two seconds into my blissful, sun-soaked retirement, I felt his imperial shadow loom over me like a solar eclipse of doom. "You..." he said. I cracked one eye open. He sighed, rubbing his forehead as if I was the one interrupting his meditation. "I don’t know where she learns all these nonsense games." CAN A ROYAL GIRL NOT EVEN FAKE A SUNNAP IN PEACE?! "It’s the best game, Papa," I said and dramatically turned my face away, nose in the air. "Get up," he added. "Or else your forehead will sizzle like a steak." "I am under the tree!" I argued with the righteous fury of a wronged child. "This is shade! I am in the shade! Scientifically verified!" He squinted up at the tree. One petal fluttered down. Then he looked down at me. He said nothing. I grinned. Hah. Victory. Except—NOPE. Before I could savor my royal triumph, whoosh—he scooped me up like I was nothing but a decorative pillow with opinions. Now I was dangling in the air like a sack of royal potatoes. A very cute sack. But still. This was my life now. "I think," Papa muttered as he adjusted his hold like a professional father-weightlifter, "I need to assign you some real work. Something to stop you from playing these ridiculous games." "WHAT?! BUT PAPA...I AM ENJOYING IT!" I kicked my legs in the air like a betrayed raccoon. Before I could launch a formal protest or start composing a sad ballad titled "Unjustly Uprooted," he planted me on the ground again like a tiny carrot. "I’m handling a very important task to you," he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves like he was about to enter a meeting with destiny. "Thanks. But no thanks." I turned toward Marshi, ready to dramatically flop on his belly again out of spite—but Papa swooped in and picked me up again. This time, not like a dainty princess. No. Like a sack of potatoes. A slightly wiggly, very grumpy, sparkle-clad sack of potatoes. And just like that, we were moving. Inside the palace. Down the marbled hallway. My slipper almost flew off and hit Ravick in the knee, which would’ve been a bonus. Marshi followed behind us with a slow, tail-swishy waddle, looking like he, too, was deeply exhausted by the drama. "You have to decide," Papa said in that imperial tone that made palace ministers cry and horses bow, "on a name for your new East Wing." I blinked. "...But it already has a name," I said, peeking up from my potato position. "It’s called... East Wing." Ravick chuckled, and Papa let out a sigh so long and ancient, I think I heard the ghosts of past emperors joining in. "It’s a wing made of diamonds and gold, Lavinia. Actual diamonds. The name ’East Wing’ does not suffice. It needs a name... a name that echoes through history. Something bold. Iconic, and you’re going to name it." I frowned. "But why do I have to do it? That sounds like a job for... a royal architect. Or the Naming Department. Or someone who wants to think." He turned, stepping through the grand doors into the scroll hall like a dramatic wind had summoned him. "IT IS NOW YOUR BUSINESS." His voice echoed dramatically across the golden walls. "FROM. NOW. ON." I stared. I blinked. I flailed. "Whaaaaaat?! I said, I am not doing it!" "You are the owner of that wing," he said, spinning me around to face the long golden corridor lined with statues of Important Dead People. "You are the princess of that wing. You are the living embodiment of ’excessively sparkly real estate.’ You name it. Today." I pouted. "But my creativity’s broken. It went on vacation. With my tea." He ignored me. Ravick cleared his throat behind us, trying very hard not to laugh loudly. "You need to decide something strong," Papa continued, gesturing like he was unveiling the next Chapter of the constitution. He is clearly not listening to me. And Papa continued, "A name worthy of a future empress. A name that scholars will whisper and poets will sob about." I folded my arms. "Hm....Then what about ’The Shiny Bit’?" "Rejected." "’The Diamondy Sparkle Zone’?" "No." "’East Wing But Better’?" Papa gave me a look. The royal eyebrow raise of doom. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. This was going to be a long day. Papa strode into his enormous, over-decorated office like a man with too much authority and not enough hobbies, and I—his unwilling, overworked, tragically adorable daughter—was unceremoniously plopped onto a velvet couch. And then— I saw him. Theon. The poor, overworked, perpetually exhausted creature. He was slumped in the corner chair like a dying plant that had given up on photosynthesis. His quill was still in hand. His glasses were crooked. And he looked, in every way, dead. I pointed dramatically. "Is... is he dead?" Papa didn’t even glance at him. "Don’t worry. He’s okay." "I... see," I muttered, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. "But... is he breathing though?" Papa ignored me. Instead, he pulled out the holy trinity of doom — paper, ink, and quill. He placed them before me with the finality of a judge delivering a life sentence. "Start thinking," he declared. "And decide on a name." I stared at the quill like it had personally insulted my bloodline. Sigh. Fine. What can I even do? I am but a powerless princess... held hostage by a very tall, very sparkly tyrant father. Denied tea. Robbed of my right to sun-laze. Forced into a life of creative labor I did not consent to. But if I was going to be dragged out of my blissful Lazy GameTM, kidnapped into this imperial torture chamber, and assigned a task fit for ten poets and three royal committees— Then by the glory of my sparkly sandals, I was going to do it with full. royal. sass. I leapt up from the couch like a tragic ballerina about to perform her final solo. Swished my dress. Twice. Turned towards Papa and said, "Fine. But if I’m naming this wing... I demand cookies. And juice. And veto power over all statutes." Papa didn’t even blink. "Two out of three." "Done." Ravick chuckled and said, "I’ll ask the maid to get the juice." "WITH the tiny umbrella in it!" I shouted after him. Marshi flopped beside Theon, sniffing to see whether he was alive or not. And I sat down cross-legged on the giant rug, twirled the quill in my fingers, and stared at the blank paper like it had asked me to do math. "Alright," I mumbled to myself, "Let’s begin the naming ceremony..."