[(The royal dining hall is bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the long table set with roasted duck, honeyed figs, and Arbor gold. King Jaehaerys II sits at the head of the table, his breathing slightly labored, while Queen Shaera fusses with his wine goblet. Three-year-old Alyssa and Rhaegar play quietly in the corner under a nursemaid's watchful eye. Prince Aegon methodically cuts his meat, avoiding the heavy glances from his parents, while Princess Rhaella pushes food around her plate. The air is thick with unspoken tension - three years to the day since Summerhall burned.)]
Queen Shaera: (forcing cheer) Alyssa, darling, don't feed your carrots to the cat. Again.
Alyssa: (stubbornly) But Balerion likes them!
Rhaegar: (serious for a three-year-old) Cats eat mice. Like in the song. (starts humming "The Rat Cook")
King Jaehaerys: (wheezing chuckle) Gods help us, he's got Aerys' tone-deafness. (immediately regrets the mention)
(A heavy silence falls. Rhaella's knife clatters against her plate.)
Prince Aegon: (quickly) He's got your ear for politics though, Father. Yesterday he negotiated an extra bedtime story from Septa Lenore by threatening to tell you about her napping during prayers.
Queen Shaera: (grateful for the diversion) That's our grandson! (hesitates) Though perhaps we should discourage blackmail as a diplomatic tool...
King Jaehaerys: (coughing) Nonsense. It's the Targaryen way. (takes a labored breath) Speaking of... (nods to the children) Shouldn't they be discussing their future marriage?
Rhaella: (sharp) They're three.
Prince Aegon: (simultaneously) They're cousins.
King Jaehaerys: (waving a hand) And you were siblings. The blood must—
Queen Shaera: (placing a hand on his arm) Not tonight, my love. (to servants) Take the children to the nursery, please.
(As the nursemaids gather the protesting toddlers, Rhaegar pauses at the door.)
Rhaegar: (solemnly) Uncle Egg? Will you come tell the dragon story?
Prince Aegon: (softening) Later, little prince. (exchanges a look with Rhaella) The one about the knight, not the... other one.
(When the door closes, the atmosphere shifts.)
King Jaehaerys: (pointedly) Three years. The council grows restless. The realm needs stability.
Prince Aegon: (dry) The realm survived Maegor. It'll survive our mourning period.
Queen Shaera: (gentle) Aegon... we don't have the luxury of time. (glances at Jaehaerys' shaking hands)
Rhaella: (whispering) I know what you're asking. But every time I think of... of sharing a bed again, I smell smoke. (looks at Aegon) Even with you, brother.
Prince Aegon: (reaching for her hand) And I won't have you live that nightmare again. Not for any throne.
King Jaehaerys: (slamming his goblet) Then what? Shall we let three centuries of tradition die because of bad dreams? (coughs violently)
Queen Shaera: (rubbing his back) Enough! (to both) Can't you see what this is doing to him? To all of us?
(A long silence. Aegon studies his father - the once-proud prince now diminished by grief and illness.)
Prince Aegon: (quiet) What if... there were another way? (stands) The North remembers Jocelyn fondly. Lord Rickon might consent to betroth Alyssa to his heir when she comes of age. (pacing) And Rhaegar could wed—
King Jaehaerys: (hoarse) No! The blood must stay pure. The dragons—
Prince Aegon: (exploding) The dragons are GONE, Father! For over a hundred years! (calming) We have living children to protect. Let them marry for politics, not prophecy.
Rhaella: (surprised) You'd break tradition?
Prince Aegon: (smirking) I named my nephew heir over my future sons. I think tradition and I have an understanding.
(A sudden wheezing laugh escapes Jaehaerys, turning into coughs.)
King Jaehaerys: (when he recovers) Damn you, boy. You sound just like me arguing with Father. (shakes head) Very well. A year more. But then—
Queen Shaera: (interrupting) Then we'll discuss it. Like a family. Not a council meeting. (meaningfully) Now, who wants lemon cakes? I had the kitchen make extra.
(The tension eases slightly as desserts are served. Through the high windows, the first stars of evening appear - the same stars that shone over Summerhall three years past, watching over a family still picking up the pieces. Scene fades on Rhaella silently passing her untouched cake to Aegon, their fingers brushing briefly - a small comfort in the long shadow of the past)
[(The palace courtyard basks in the golden light of late afternoon, its manicured hedges framing a scene of childish delight. Princess Alyssa, her dark Stark hair whipping in the breeze, chases Prince Rhaegar around a marble fountain, their laughter mingling with the splash of water. Prince Aegon leans against an apple tree, absently polishing a silver stag with his thumb, while Princess Rhaella sits nearby embroidering a cloak with twin dragons - one black, one white. The peaceful moment shatters as Tywin Lannister strides into the courtyard, his crimson cloak snapping behind him like a war banner.)]
Tywin Lannister: (dryly) How touching. The future of the realm, decided by a game of tag.
Prince Aegon: (not looking up) Careful, Tywin. Your cynicism is showing. And after all that gold you spent polishing it.
(Rhaella hides a smile in her embroidery as Tywin comes to stand beside Aegon, watching the children.)
Tywin Lannister: (lowering voice) The Small Council convened an emergency session. Without you.
Prince Aegon: (still focused on the coin) Let me guess - Lord Redwyne proposed wedding Rhaella to his stuttering nephew, and Beesbury calculated the dowry before the poor boy could finish saying "Y-y-your Grace."
Princess Rhaella: (needle pausing) They're betting on my hand like it's a horse race at the Reach tourney.
Tywin Lannister: (grim) Worse. Bar Emmon suggested legitimizing one of Aegon the Unworthy's bastards as your bridegroom. Said "the blood's still fresh enough."
(Aegon's coin freezes mid-spin. Rhaella's needle snaps against the hoop.)
Prince Aegon: (dangerously quiet) Tell me you're joking.
Tywin Lannister: (raising an eyebrow) When have I ever joked about succession crises?
(The children's laughter grows louder as Rhaegar dramatically "dies" from Alyssa's stick-sword, his silver hair fanning across the grass. Tywin watches them with calculating eyes.)
Tywin Lannister: There's a simpler solution. One that protects the boy. (nods to Rhaegar)
Prince Aegon: (wary) I'm listening.
Tywin Lannister: (leaning in) Marry Rhaella. Keep Rhaegar as heir. The realm accepts Targaryen traditions, however... unorthodox. (glances at the children) But if you wed outside the family and still name him heir? That future wife will poison his wine before her first nameday as queen.
Princess Rhaella: (sharply) You speak of murdering children rather casually, my lord.
Tywin Lannister: (unfazed) I speak of history, princess. Aegon the Second. Rhaenyra. The Dance. (turns to Aegon) Your house barely survived last time dragons fought dragons. Will you risk it again for sentiment?
(A long silence. Alyssa helps Rhaegar up, brushing grass from his doublet with surprising gentleness for a five-year-old.)
Prince Aegon: (finally) And your marriage to Joanna? Was that politics or sentiment?
Tywin Lannister: (mouth tightening) A Lannister always pays his debts. Even to love. (straightens) But we're not discussing me.
Princess Rhaella: (standing abruptly) Perhaps we should be. You wed your cousin for love yet counsel us to wed for duty. Why is your house allowed happiness while ours must bleed for tradition?
(Tywin's gaze flicks to Aegon, something almost like pity in his eyes.)
Tywin Lannister: Because lions need no dragons to rule. (turns to leave, then pauses) The king coughs blood now, Aegon. Decide soon - as prince or as king.
(As Tywin's footsteps fade, Rhaegar runs up, clutching a crown of blue winter roses.)
Prince Rhaegar: (solemnly) For you, Uncle! Like the song!
Prince Aegon: (taking it with forced cheer) "The Winter Rose"? Clever lad. (places it on Rhaella's head) Though I think it suits your aunt better.
Princess Alyssa: (tugging Rhaella's sleeve) Can we play dragons now? I'll be Queen Visenya!
Prince Rhaegar: (serious) No, I'm the dragon. You're the wolf. Wolves are brave too.
(Rhaella watches Aegon's face as he studies the children - the weight of centuries pressing down on a man who never wanted a crown.)
Princess Rhaella: (softly) We can't let them become Aegon and Rhaenyra.
Prince Aegon: (equally quiet) Then what choice do we have?
(The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the courtyard - one set small and bright with promise, the other tall and fractured with duty. Somewhere in the distance, a raven calls, carrying news no one wants to hear. Scene fades on the winter rose crown slipping from Rhaella's hair as she gathers both children close, their futures entwined like the black and white dragons on her abandoned embroidery)
[(The palace courtyard remains bathed in golden afternoon light as Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaella watch their children play. The peaceful moment shatters when a harried servant rushes in, his face pale.)
Servant Gerold: (bowing hastily) My prince, my princess—forgive the interruption, but His Grace King Jaehaerys... he's taken ill again. The coughing... it's worse this time. The queen requests your presence at once.
(Prince Aegon's face darkens, and Rhaella's hands tighten around her embroidery hoop before she sets it aside.)
Prince Aegon: (grim) Of course. (turns to the children) Alyssa, Rhaegar—come. Grandfather needs us.
Prince Rhaegar: (wide-eyed) Is he hurt?
Princess Rhaella: (softly, taking his hand) He's unwell, sweetling. We must be brave for him.
(The family moves swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep, the usual courtly chatter falling silent as they pass. The guards at the king's chamber step aside immediately, and inside, the air is thick with the scent of herbs and sickness. Queen Shaera stands by the bedside, her face drawn, while Grand Maester Pycelle hovers over the king, mixing a foul-smelling tonic.)
Queen Shaera: (voice trembling) He was speaking of Summerhall one moment, then... then the coughing began. He couldn't stop.
King Jaehaerys II: (King Jaehaerys II lies propped on pillows, his face ashen, a blood-speckled cloth clutched in his hand. His breathing is ragged, his eyes glassy with fever. At the sight of his children and grandchildren, he manages a weak smile.) Ah... good. All here.
Grand Maester Pycelle: (grave) Your Grace, you must conserve your strength—
King Jaehaerys II: (waving him off) Enough. (coughs weakly) If this is my time, I'll speak while I can.
(Princess Rhaella rushes to his side, taking his hand, while Prince Aegon stands stiffly, his jaw clenched. Little Alyssa and Rhaegar cling to their mother's skirts, eyes wide.)
Grand Maester Pycelle: (lowering his voice) The illness has taken root deeply. The lungs... they are failing. It is only a matter of time now.
Queen Shaera: (sharply) You've said that before. He recovered then—he can recover now.
Grand Maester Pycelle: (shaking his head) Not this time, Your Grace. The bleeding is worse. The king's body is weary.
(A heavy silence falls. Rhaella's grip on her father's hand tightens, while Aegon exhales slowly, the weight of impending duty settling on his shoulders.)
King Jaehaerys II: (weakly) Aegon... Rhaella... the realm...
Prince Aegon: (firm) Don't speak of that now. Rest.
King Jaehaerys II: (shaking his head) No. Must be said. (struggles to sit up slightly) The dragons... the blood... it must stay pure. Promise me.
(His gaze locks onto Aegon and Rhaella, insistent. Rhaella looks away, but Aegon meets his father's eyes steadily.)
Prince Aegon: (quietly) I've already promised Rhaegar would be my heir.
King Jaehaerys II: (coughing) Not just... the succession. The bloodline. The dragons... they will return. You must... be ready.
(His voice falters, and he slumps back, exhausted. Queen Shaera presses a damp cloth to his forehead, her own eyes bright with unshed tears.)
Queen Shaera: (softly) That's enough. Let him rest.
Prince Rhaegar: (Prince Rhaegar, sensing the tension, tugs at his mother's sleeve.) Will Grandfather be alright?
Princess Rhaella: (Princess Rhaella hesitates, then kneels to his level, her voice gentle but firm.) He is fighting, my love. But we must be strong for him.
Prince Aegon: (Prince Aegon watches them, then turns to the Grand Maester, his voice low and urgent.) Is there truly nothing more to be done?
Grand Maester Pycelle: (shaking his head) The illness is beyond our arts, my prince. All we can do is ease his suffering.
(Aegon exhales sharply, then nods. His gaze shifts to his father, then to Rhaella and the children. The future looms before them—uncertain, inevitable. Scene fades as the king's labored breathing fills the chamber, the last light of day casting long shadows across the room—shadows that seem to stretch like dragon's wings over the gathered family)
[(The dimly lit palace hallway stretches before them, far enough from the king's chambers that the oppressive air of sickness doesn't linger. Prince Aegon walks briskly, his jaw set, while Princess Rhaella keeps pace beside him. Behind them, little Alyssa and Rhaegar trail quietly, their usual playfulness subdued after witnessing their grandfather's suffering. The torchlight flickers against the stone walls, casting restless shadows as they pause near a tall stained-glass window depicting Aegon the Conqueror.)]
Princess Rhaella: (softly, glancing back at the children) Alyssa, sweetling, take Rhaegar to the kitchens. Ask the cooks for honeyed milk and blackberry tarts.
Princess Alyssa: (nodding solemnly, taking Rhaegar's hand) Come on, Rhaegar. Maybe they'll let us stir the batter!
(The children scamper off, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. Only when they're out of earshot does Rhaella turn to Aegon, her violet eyes reflecting the multicolored light from the window.)
Prince Aegon: (leaning against the cold stone) We shouldn't be out here. Father might—
Princess Rhaella: (interrupting) Father is dying, Aegon. (her voice cracks slightly) Grand Maester Pycelle won't say it, but we both know.
(Aegon's hand tightens around the hilt of his dagger, the ruby pommel digging into his palm. The image of Aegon the Conqueror seems to loom over them from the glass.)
Prince Aegon: (grim) Then we prepare. The Small Council will push for immediate marriage the moment he's gone. Tywin was right about that much.
Princess Rhaella: (reaching for his arm) They won't need to push. (deep breath) I'm ready. To marry you. For Father. For Rhaegar.
(Aegon turns sharply, searching her face for any hesitation. The light through the stained glass paints her cheeks blue and red, like bruises.)
Prince Aegon: (low) Three days ago you couldn't stand the thought. What changed?
Princess Rhaella: (gesturing toward the king's chambers) He won't see another winter. And when he's gone... (her voice drops to a whisper) Do you truly believe your future wife, some highborn stranger, would let Rhaegar keep Dragonstone over her own sons? After what happened to Rhaenyra?
(The name hangs between them like a curse. Outside, a gust of wind makes the window rattle in its lead frame.)
Prince Aegon: (running a hand through his hair) So we do it. We marry. And then what? You think you can... (he trails off awkwardly)
Princess Rhaella: (surprisingly firm) I'm not that broken girl from Summerhall anymore. (places a hand on his chest) And you're not Aerys. We'll manage. For the children.
(Aegon covers her hand with his own, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse against his fingers. The ruby at his throat catches the light, glowing like a dragon's eye.)
Prince Aegon: (quiet vow) Rhaegar stays heir. No matter how many sons we have. This I swear by the old gods and the new.
Princess Rhaella: (nodding) Then we tell Father tomorrow. Let him know his line is secure before... (she can't finish)
(Suddenly, childish giggles echo down the hall. Rhaegar comes sprinting around the corner, his mouth stained purple with berries, Alyssa close behind with two overflowing honeycakes.)
Prince Rhaegar: (breathless) Uncle Egg! Auntie! Cook gave us the biggest tarts! Look!
Prince Aegon: (The adults quickly school their expressions. Aegon scoops Rhaegar up, pretending to inspect his berry-streaked face.) By the Seven, lad, did you bathe in the blackberry jam?
Princess Rhaella: (laughing as Alyssa proudly displays her cakes) At least they left some for us. Mostly.
(As the children chatter excitedly about their kitchen adventures, Aegon meets Rhaella's gaze over their heads. The decision is made. Tomorrow, they'll face the king—and their future—together. Scene fades on the stained-glass conqueror's face, his features blending into the gathering dusk as the makeshift family walks down the hall, the children's laughter bouncing off stones that have heard both joy and grief for centuries)