[(The King's chambers are heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and burning candles. King Jaehaerys II lies propped against silk pillows, his once-strong frame now gaunt beneath the blankets. Queen Shaera sits at his bedside, her embroidery forgotten in her lap as she watches her husband's labored breathing. The door creaks open, revealing Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaella, their faces schooled into calm masks despite the tension in their shoulders.)
Queen Shaera: (softly, looking up) You came.
Prince Aegon: (bowing slightly) Of course, Mother.
Princess Rhaella: (moving to her father's side) How is he?
King Jaehaerys II: (coughing weakly, eyes fluttering open) Still alive. Though the Grand Maester seems... disappointed by that.
(Despite everything, Rhaella smiles faintly, taking his frail hand in hers.)
Princess Rhaella: You've never been one to follow expectations, Father.
King Jaehaerys II: (chuckling, then wincing) No. And neither have you. (studies them both) You've come to tell me something.
(Aegon exhales, stepping forward. He meets his father's gaze steadily.)
Prince Aegon: Rhaella and I have made a decision.
King Jaehaerys II: (raising a brow) Oh?
Princess Rhaella: (firmly) We will marry. As you wished.
(The king's breath catches—not from illness, but surprise. Even Queen Shaera looks up sharply.)
Queen Shaera: (whispering) Rhaella... are you certain?
Princess Rhaella: (nodding) I am.
King Jaehaerys II: (searching her face) Why now?
(Prince Aegon answers before she can.)
Prince Aegon: Because Rhaegar must be protected. If I wed outside the family, any future wife would see him as a threat. (grim) We remember what happened to Rhaenyra.
King Jaehaerys II: (leaning back, eyes closing) The Dance.
Queen Shaera: (softly, to Rhaella) And you? Is this truly what you want?
(Princess Rhaella hesitates only a moment.)
Princess Rhaella: I want Rhaegar safe. I want our house strong. And... (glances at Aegon) I trust my brother.
(The king's frail hand tightens around hers.)
King Jaehaerys II: (voice thick) Then it is done. The bloodline remains pure. The dragons... (coughs) The dragons may yet return.
Prince Aegon: (firm) And Rhaegar will remain my heir. No matter what children Rhaella and I have.
King Jaehaerys II: (nodding slowly) You swear it?
Prince Aegon: (without hesitation) By the old gods and the new.
(The king exhales, some of the tension leaving his wasted frame. He looks between them—his last living children—and something like peace settles over his face.)
King Jaehaerys II: Then I can rest.
Queen Shaera: (sharply) Don't say such things.
King Jaehaerys II: (smiling weakly) I'm a dying man, my love. Let me have this victory.
(Outside, the wind howls against the Red Keep's towers. Inside, a family—broken and reforged—finds a fragile moment of understanding. The future looms, uncertain and heavy, but for now, in this quiet chamber, there is only relief. Scene fades as Queen Shaera begins to weep silently, her tears falling onto her husband's hand, while Aegon and Rhaella stand together—two pillars of a dynasty that refuses to fall.)
[(The palace courtyard buzzes with activity as servants rush to prepare for the royal wedding. Garlands of winter roses and golden banners are being hung between the colonnades, while a team of stewards carefully unroll a long carpet of Targaryen black-and-red. Prince Aegon stands near a marble fountain, watching the commotion with a pensive expression. His longtime friend Tywin Lannister, golden-haired and sharp-eyed, observes the preparations with detached interest, while their cousin Steffon Baratheon leans against the fountain's edge, his booming laughter cutting through the courtyard's clamor.)]
Steffon Baratheon: (grinning) Gods, Aegon, I never thought I'd see the day you'd willingly walk into a wedding twice. And to the same woman, no less!
Prince Aegon: (dry) She's not the same woman, Steff. And it's not the same marriage.
Tywin Lannister: (coolly) No. The first was Northern ice. This one is dragonfire. (glances at Aegon) Though I wonder—will it burn or warm you?
Prince Aegon: (ignoring the jab) The realm needs stability. My father's health... (trails off, jaw tightening)
(A servant scurries by with an armful of silver candlesticks, nearly tripping over a loose flagstone. Steffon steadies him with a chuckle.)
Steffon Baratheon: Easy there, lad! Save the acrobatics for the fool's performance.
Tywin Lannister: (The servant bows profusely before hurrying off. Tywin watches with distaste.) The state of this palace. Your father let things decay.
Prince Aegon: (sharp) My father ruled through three tragedies. Forgive him if the cobblestones weren't his priority.
Steffon Baratheon: (Steffon sobers, swirling the wine in his goblet.) How bad is it, truly? The king?
Prince Aegon: (low) Grand Maester Pycelle says the coughing has worn holes in his lungs. Like parchment held too close to a flame. (grimaces) He won't see another winter.
(A tense silence falls. Nearby, a group of seamstresses argue over the bride's cloak—should it bear the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen or the quartered arms of Aegon and Rhaella's lineages? The debate dissolves into hushed whispers.)
Tywin Lannister: (breaking the silence) You'll need a strong Hand when the time comes. The lords will test you—especially with Rhaegar as heir over your future sons.
Prince Aegon: (meeting his gaze) I know. That's why I want you.
(Tywin's eyes gleam with satisfaction, but Steffon nearly chokes on his wine.)
Steffon Baratheon: Seven hells, Aegon! Giving the lion the keys to the kingdom? What's next—arming the Dornish with scorpions?
Tywin Lannister: (smirking) Jealous, cousin? There are other positions. Master of Laws, perhaps—though I doubt you know any.
Steffon Baratheon: (grinning) I know enough to throw troublesome Lannisters in black cells. (sobers) But ships... now there's a thought. The royal fleet's been neglected since Daeron's War.
Prince Aegon: (nodding) Then it's settled. Tywin as Hand, you as Master of Ships. (raises a warning finger) But understand—Rhaegar's succession is not negotiable. Not even with you, Tywin.
Tywin Lannister: (Tywin studies him for a long moment, then inclines his head slightly.) A ruler must keep his word. Even when it's unwise. (glancing at the bustling servants) Though I hope your sister-wife appreciates the precedent you're setting.
(A sudden commotion erupts as Princess Rhaella enters the courtyard, trailed by young Rhaegar and Alyssa. The children dart toward the fountain, their laughter ringing out. Rhaella meets Aegon's gaze across the distance, her expression unreadable.)
Steffon Baratheon: (whistling low) Well. At least your heirs will be pretty. Silver hair and violet eyes as far as the eye can see.
Tywin Lannister: (dry) Let's hope they inherit their father's sense and their mother's patience. The realm will need both.
(As Rhaegar tugs at Aegon's sleeve, demanding to be lifted to see the fountain's statues, and Alyssa challenges Steffon to a mock duel with twigs, the weight of the future presses down—a kingdom on the brink of change, a dynasty balancing between tradition and upheaval. But for now, in this sunlit courtyard, there is only the sound of children's laughter and the quiet understanding between men who will shape the Seven Kingdoms' fate.)
[(The King's chambers are dimly lit by flickering candles, the heavy drapes drawn against the afternoon sun. King Jaehaerys II sits propped against a mountain of pillows, his once-commanding frame now swallowed by furs and blankets. The scent of medicinal herbs hangs thick in the air as Prince Aegon enters, his boots silent on the Myrish carpet. The king's breathing is labored, but his violet eyes remain sharp as they track his son's approach.)
King Jaehaerys II: (rasping) Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in your own wedding preparations.
Prince Aegon: (bowing slightly) My apologies, Father. The Master of Coin had opinions about the feast expenses.
(The king barks a laugh that dissolves into wet coughing. Aegon moves swiftly to pour him a cup of watered wine, but Jaehaerys waves it away.)
King Jaehaerys II: (wheezing) Enough coddling. Sit. (gestures to the chair beside the bed) We've matters to discuss.
Prince Aegon: (Aegon obeys, his posture rigid. Outside, distant shouts echo as servants erect banners along the courtyard.) The Grand Maester says you should be resting.
King Jaehaerys II: (snorting) The Grand Maester thinks a poultice of crushed snails will cure lung rot. (leans forward with effort) Listen well—I'm naming you Regent. Effective immediately.
Prince Aegon: (Aegon goes very still.) That isn't necessary. You're still—
King Jaehaerys II: (cutting him off) Dying. Say it. The realm needs a strong hand, and mine shakes too badly to hold a quill, let alone a scepter. (gestures to a nearby parchment) The decree is already signed. The Small Council will be informed at dawn.
(A long silence stretches between them, broken only by the king's rattling breath. Somewhere in the palace, a choir begins rehearsing the wedding hymns, their voices drifting through the half-open window.)
Prince Aegon: (quietly) You planned this. The timing. Making me Regent just before the wedding.
King Jaehaerys II: (smirking) A king's last duty is to ensure a smooth succession. (coughs) The lords will accept you as Regent more easily than they'd accept a grieving widower ascending the throne mid-ceremony.
(Aegon's jaw tightens. The implication hangs between them—when the king dies, not if.)
Prince Aegon: And Rhaella?
King Jaehaerys II: (softening) Will be your queen in truth, not just name. (studies him) You've grown into this, Aegon. More than I expected.
(Outside, a sudden commotion erupts—Rhaegar's high-pitched laughter, followed by Rhaella's gentle scolding as they pass beneath the chamber windows. The sound seems to breathe life back into the king.)
King Jaehaerys II: (suddenly urgent) Protect them. All of them. The dragons may be gone, but our blood—
Prince Aegon: (firmly) —endures. I know.
(The king leans back, satisfied. The wedding hymns swell louder as the choir reaches the final refrain—a song of unity and renewal. Aegon rises, but pauses at the door.)
Prince Aegon: (without turning) I'll make you proud, Father.
King Jaehaerys II: (smiling faintly) Oh, I know. That's what worries me.
[Scene fades on the king's chamber door closing, the choir's voices rising in triumph as banners snap taut in the wind outside—black and red against a cloudless sky.]
[(The palace courtyard is bathed in golden afternoon light, the air alive with the sounds of preparation—servants stringing garlands of winter roses between pillars, stableboys brushing down ceremonial horses, and the distant clatter of the royal kitchens working overtime. Princess Rhaella sits on a marble bench beneath a flowering plum tree, watching as five-year-old Rhaegar carefully shows Alyssa how to hold a wooden practice sword. The girl, ever the Stark, frowns in concentration before swinging wildly, making Rhaegar yelp and duck. Rhaella's laughter is cut short as she spots Aegon striding toward them, his expression unreadable.)
Princess Rhaella: (raising an eyebrow) You look like a man who just lost an argument with Tywin Lannister.
Prince Aegon: (running a hand through his hair) Worse. I just had a conversation with Father.
Princess Rhaella: (Rhaella's smile fades. She gestures for the children's nursemaid to take them to the gardens, then pats the space beside her. Aegon sinks onto the bench with a sigh.) How bad is it?
Prince Aegon: (watching Rhaegar scamper off) He's named me Regent. Effective immediately.
Princess Rhaella: (Rhaella inhales sharply. A breeze sends plum blossoms fluttering around them like pale pink snow.) That's… not entirely unexpected.
Prince Aegon: (grim) No. But it means the wedding will double as a coronation rehearsal. The moment Father— (he can't finish the sentence)
Princess Rhaella: (Rhaella reaches for his hand, her fingers cool against his calloused palm. They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the distant clang of the blacksmith shaping new wedding goblets)" Do you remember when we were children, and Aerys convinced us that Father's crown was cursed? That it gave him headaches on purpose?
Prince Aegon: (snorting) And you hid it in the stables for a week. The entire court turned upside down searching. (sobers) He never even punished us.
Princess Rhaella: (soft smile) No. He just made us polish every piece of silver in the Red Keep until it shone. (squeezes his hand) He trusts you, Aegon. As do I.
(A sudden shriek of laughter erupts from the garden—Alyssa has apparently stolen Rhaegar's practice sword and is now brandishing it like a Northern warlord. Rhaegar, ever the diplomat, tries to negotiate its return with promises of extra lemon cakes.)
Prince Aegon: (shaking his head) Gods help us. Between her Stark stubbornness and his… whatever that is (gestures at Rhaegar's dramatic hand gestures), the realm will never be the same.
Princess Rhaella: (leaning into his shoulder) Good. Maybe it's time for something new.
(The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Somewhere, a bard begins tuning his lute for the evening's feast—a song of dragons and direwolves, of endings and beginnings. Scene fades on the two of them sitting there, shoulders touching, as the first stars of evening blink awake above King's Landing—silent witnesses to the quiet moments before history turns its page.)