"I've watched it," I said into the phone, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my temple with two fingers. Maria Watney, the casting director for DC Studios, practically burst through the speaker. "Then you understand he's perfect for the part.
"I don't know," I replied, not entirely convinced. "Maybe."
"Daniel, come on," she pressed. "Damson is great. Even Dave agrees."
"What does Joseph think?" I asked, referring to Joseph Kosinski, the newly hired director for the Green Lantern film.
Kosinski came recommended by Tom Cruise himself, someone Tom wanted to direct Top Gun 2 when it was time for that. It was weird that Tom seemed to appear more in my life since I met him.
"He loves the choice," Maria answered without hesitation. "Just like he immediately knew Chris Pine was right for Hal."
I made a face, even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah… I'm not sure about that either."
"Look, have I ever been wrong about something like this? Remember Iris West you were skeptical. You asked, 'Can she even do an American accent?' And now, from what I hear, she's one of the best parts of that movie," she said.
"Nathalie Emmanuel was a great choice; that I concede to you. But I don't know about this," I insisted.
Maria sighed. "Take some time to think it over. We'll revisit it next week when we meet."
"Alright," I said, preparing to end the call.
"Daniel this is the best choice," she added one last time.
"We'll see," I said, and hung up.
Maybe the guy will surprise me, I thought as I leaned back. Damson Idris—at first I'd wondered if he was Idris Elba's son or something, but he wasn't. He is a good actor; I won't lie. Maybe I need to see him in person to understand what Dave, Maria, and the others see.
I turned my attention back to the document on my desk—the pilot script for a TV series titled A Song of Ice and Fire. It wasn't written by me but by two writers who had reached out a month ago, saying they'd taken a shot at adapting A Song of Ice and Fire for television.
Their names were Cal Reinhart and Elias Rourke.
I'd looked into them after they first reached out. Cal was in his late thirties—a seasoned writer with the kind of résumé that makes you feel bad for him: so many projects, so much good work… and almost none of it properly credited. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Elias, a decade younger, was hungry and eager. He'd pitched a few shows before, gotten close, but never stuck the landing. Now he was banking on this to break through.
We'd met a month ago, and I'll admit—I'd expected little. But they surprised me. They weren't just writers; they were fans. Real fans. They knew their stuff. We talked for hours, and I could see the story meant something to them.
When I explained my own plans, they were visibly stunned; they'd assumed the studio would force massive changes to adapt the story to television.
"Budget isn't an issue," I had told them.
I'd already begun talks with Netflix: ten full seasons, ten episodes each. I was asking for $15 million per episode for the first season. It raised eyebrows—some people at the company thought I was insane—but Reed Hastings, Netflix's CEO, was in my corner. Mostly. I just needed to nudge a few more key execs who were still unsure.
And now, reading through the pilot script again, I was convinced. They could be the perfect showrunners, ready to see this through the entire next decade.
My phone buzzed. Julie's voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Reinhart and Mr. Rourke are here."
"Perfect. Tell them to wait downstairs—I'm on my way."
I made my way downstairs and spotted them waiting for me.
"Cal, Elias," I greeted them as I crossed the lobby.
They stood at once. Cal offered a polite smile. "Hello, Mr. Adler."
"Good to see you again," Elias added, nervously straightening his coat.
"Let's not waste time," I said, gesturing toward the exit. "Let's go."
They nodded, and the three of us headed to the company car waiting outside. As soon as we were inside, the driver pulled away, bound for the airport and our flight to San Francisco—straight to Netflix HQ.
"So," I said, turning in my seat as we merged onto the freeway, "you'll be meeting the development team I set up there."
Cal glanced over. "So it's really happening?" His voice was cautious, hopeful but afraid to believe it.
"I mean, you did say yesterday that they still haven't—"
I cut him off with a grin. "Cal, I own about four percent of Netflix."
Elias let out a low whistle. "Damn."
"I didn't become a billionaire just from just movies and my books," I added casually.
They both stared, as if suddenly grasping how I'd made my fortune. My net worth had skyrocketed over the past year. Sure, the production company, the publishing house, and my other investments helped—but that early stake in Netflix had vaulted me into another league. I was closing in on two billion dollars and might pass that mark next month. At the rate the company and my other ventures were growing, hitting double-digit billions by decade's end no longer felt absurd.
Elias broke the silence. "Then why did you say there were problems?"
I shrugged. "Some people are still balking at the budget."
Cal blinked. "How much are you asking for?"
"Fifteen million per episode."
Elias almost choked. "Fifteen million? We were thinking eight or ten!"
I laughed. "No. Like I said, if we're going to do this right, we have to spend."
I leaned back. "Actually, scratch that. I might push for twenty million now."
"I know it's a pipe dream," I added, "but imagine Charlize Theron as Cersei."
They both sat there, gobsmacked hearing me speak.
"I mean, it's only fair to ask that much," I said, leaning back in the seat. "Considering how much the company's going to make off it."
"But… twenty million?" Cal repeated, still stunned.
"Don't worry," I said with a casual wave. "They'll sign off after today's meeting. And if they make a fuss like I told you, I have a lot of pull at Netflix."
They both nodded, though their expressions showed they were still processing everything.
We soon arrived at the private terminal. The car rolled up to the plane and, within a few minutes, we were airborne, heading straight for San Francisco.
Two hours later we walked through the sleek glass doors of Netflix HQ.
I left Cal and Elias with the development team I had assembled, and a handler led me to Reed's office.
Reed Hastings, the CEO, greeted me warmly as I entered. "Daniel," he said, reaching out to shake my hand. "All well, I hope?"
"Never better," I replied, settling onto the couch in his office.
We got right down to business.
"I assume you've seen the latest report," I began. "The study outlining how much this project could generate?"
Reed nodded. "Yes. I've gone through it, and so have the others. But they have… concerns. You know how it is after what happened with our last big swing."
"Marco Polo," I said flatly.
He nodded again, more somber now.
Reed was referring to Marco Polo, the lavish Netflix original that had launched amid high expectations but failed to connect with audiences. It had cost roughly ten million dollars per episode—twenty episodes over two seasons—boasted gorgeous production values and a fascinating premise, yet generated almost zero traction with subscribers.
Worse, it had spooked the board.
It spooked them that the figure I was asking for echoed Marco Polo's price tag. I already knew the show wouldn't be renewed—first, because it never drew viewers, and second, because one of its main production partners was the Weinstein Company. Harvey's shadow still loomed large. Add to that the fact that Benedict Wong, the series lead, had signaled he wanted out, and its fate was sealed.
"Reed, Marco Polo isn't A Song of Ice and Fire. You and I both know that."
Reed nodded, though his expression stayed guarded. "The content team is projecting massive returns—that's helping. Some of the execs are starting to come around. But most of them were huge backers of Marco Polo; they felt burned when it flopped."
"Well," I said with a shrug, "if they don't come around, I can always go around them."
Reed gave me a warning look. "Daniel—"
"Yes, yes," I said, grinning as I raised my hands. "No ruffling feathers. I'm sure once today's meeting is over and we show them they can trust the numbers in the report, they'll fall in line."
"But if they don't…" I let the sentence trail off.
A few minutes later the executives arrived, and an hour after that I walked out of the boardroom wearing a calm, satisfied smile.
Twenty million per episode approved. The moment they saw the billions in potential revenue, every doubt vanished. Fear faded; greed kicked in.
Marco Polo, sadly, was finished…for now anyway. I'd had some ideas for it, but that was for another time.
I headed back to where Cal and Elias were. They were still deep in conversation with the development team.
"Well," I said, clapping my hands once, "it's done."
They looked up at me, wide-eyed.
"We've got the money for the pilot," I continued. "Now all we have to do is make it—and impress."
After a round of congratulations and handshakes, I spotted the script on the table: a printed copy of their pilot draft.
I walked over, picked it up, and said, "Ah there's one thing I forgot."
Grabbing a red marker that was lying nearby, I uncapped it and, with a confident stroke, crossed out the title on the cover page:
A Song of Ice and Fire
Beneath it, in bold letters, I wrote:
Game of Thrones
"There," I said, capping the pen. "Much better title for the series, don't you think?"
Cal and Elias studied the page, then glanced at each other and nodded, smiling.
October 2016 was the date I had in mind. The date Game of Thrones will premiere on Netflix.