Chapter 32:

[Setting: The Small Council chamber in the Red Keep, where King Aegon VI sits at the head of an ornate table, fingers steepled before him. The afternoon light filters through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the maps spread before him. The door swings open as Prince Daeron, Princess Alyssa, and Prince Daemon enter, their respective baby dragons - Drogon, Meraxes, and Smaug - perched on their shoulders or curled at their feet.]

Aegon VI: (without looking up) Took you long enough. I was beginning to think your dragons had eaten the servants again.

Daemon: (grinning as Smaug nips at his ear) Only one servant. And he was being rude.

Alyssa: (rolling her eyes) He dropped a tray. Hardly worth being Meraxes' snack.

[Meraxes chirps proudly from her shoulder, a scrap of fabric - likely from said servant's uniform - still dangling from her jaws.]

Daeron: (serious, stroking Drogon's head) You summoned us urgently, Father?

Aegon VI: (finally looking up) Varys' little birds bring troubling news. Robert and Rhaegar's forces are converging... at the Trident.

[A heavy silence falls. Even the dragons seem to sense the gravity, going still.]

Alyssa: (leaning forward) Then it's coming to an end. Half a year of war, and it all comes down to one battle.

Daemon: (raising an eyebrow) And which outcome worries you more, Father? Robert's hammer or Rhaegar's harp?

Aegon VI: (grimacing) Both. If Robert wins, he won't stop at Rhaegar. Not with Lyanna still missing and only us knowing the truth of her... departure.

Daeron: (frowning) He'll come for the throne itself.

Aegon VI: (nodding) And if Rhaegar wins... (sighs) Well, my guilt keeps him heir, you remain spare, and Robert's allies face the consequences.

[Alyssa's dragon suddenly sneezes, sending a small flame across the table. Aegon absently pats out the embers on the map of the Riverlands.]

Alyssa: (ignoring the minor arson) So what's your play?

Aegon VI: (standing) I'm taking Fenrir to observe the battle from a distance. If things go ill...

Daeron: (sharp) You'll intervene. With dragonfire.

Aegon VI: (meeting his son's gaze) Only if necessary. You'll serve as regent in my absence.

Daemon: (grinning) Try not to burn down the city while we're gone, brother.

Daeron: (dry) I make no promises. (Turning serious) Father, if you're going to the Trident... should we prepare the other dragons?

Aegon VI: (shaking his head) They're barely weaned. Fenrir is battle-ready. The rest of you stay here and keep your fire-breathing children from destroying the Red Keep.

[A sudden commotion outside - the sound of clanking armor and hurried footsteps. The door bursts open to reveal a breathless guardsman.]

Guardsman: Your Grace! Prince Viserys has taken his dragon to the training yard - he's trying to teach it to joust!

Aegon VI: (pinching the bridge of his nose) Seven hells.

Alyssa: (already standing) I'll handle it. Last time he tried this, he nearly lit the stables on fire.

[As Alyssa strides out, Daemon's dragon Smaug belches a small flame, illuminating the map of the Trident - as if marking the coming battleground.]

Daeron: (quiet) You really think it ends at the Trident?

Aegon VI: (staring at the map) One way or another... yes.

[Fade to the sound of distant dragon wings and Viserys' delighted shouts from the training yard, the calm before the storm.]

[Setting: The war tent of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in the Riverlands, where the silver-haired prince stands over a battle-worn map with his allies - Lords Jon Connington, Lewyn Martell, and Myles Mooton. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows across their tired faces as they study the grim disposition of forces. Outside, the distant sounds of armor clanking and horses neighing fill the night air.]

Jon Connington: (slamming his fist on the table) We cannot keep losing ground like this! Robert's forces push us back at every turn!

Lewyn Martell: (coolly) And yet, here we stand. The Trident will be different, my prince. The Dornish spears will make sure of that.

Myles Mooton: (rubbing his temple) That's what you said at Stoney Sept. And we all remember how that ended.

[The tent flaps suddenly part as Ser Arthur Dayne enters, his white cloak pristine despite the war. The Sword of the Morning gives Rhaegar a meaningful look.]

Rhaegar: (nodding) Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us. We'll continue our strategy at dawn.

[The lords exchange glances but file out obediently. When the tent is empty save for Rhaegar and Arthur, the prince sags slightly, his violet eyes weary.]

Arthur: (quietly) You should sit. You haven't slept in days.

Rhaegar: (waving him off) Sleep is for men who aren't losing a war. What news from King's Landing?

Arthur: (hesitating) The rumors are true. All five eggs have hatched. Your siblings are now dragonriders. Even... (pauses) even the babe Daenerys.

[Rhaegar goes very still. The torchlight flickers across his face, revealing the tightening of his jaw.]

Rhaegar: (softly) All but me. The gods do enjoy their jests.

Arthur: (leaning forward) But there's more. Elia has given birth. A son. Prince Aegon VII.

[For the first time in months, Rhaegar's face lights up with genuine joy.]

Rhaegar: A son... (then sobering) And Lyanna?

Arthur: (glancing toward the tent entrance before lowering his voice) Safe. At the Tower of Joy. The pregnancy... progresses. But Rhaegar, you must know - if Robert reaches her before this war ends...

Rhaegar: (sharp) He won't. The Trident will decide everything. (Pacing now) If I win, I return to King's Landing with my honor restored, my position as heir secured. Elia and Aegon will be safe. And Lyanna...

Arthur: (grave) And if you lose?

[Rhaegar stops pacing. The distant howl of a wolf carries through the night.]

Rhaegar: (quietly) Then you must get to Lyanna before Robert does. The child she carries... it's more important than you know.

Arthur: (frowning) This again? Your obsession with prophecy will be your undoing, my friend. You have a trueborn son now. A future king.

Rhaegar: (touching the rubies at his chest) "The dragon must have three heads," Arthur. Aegon... and the babe Lyanna carries. They're part of this. I know it.

[Outside, a sudden commotion erupts - shouts, the clang of steel. Both men tense, hands going to their swords. A young squire bursts in, panting.]

Squire: My prince! Robert's scouts have been spotted less than a day's ride from here! They're moving faster than we anticipated!

Rhaegar: (exchanging a look with Arthur) Then we make our stand at the Trident. Ready the men.

[As the squire rushes out, Arthur lingers, his face troubled.]

Arthur: Rhaegar... about the dragons...

Rhaegar: (bitter smile) What use is a dragon prince without a dragon? Perhaps the gods mean for me to face Robert the old way - steel against steel.

[Fade to the sound of war horns in the distance, the Ruby Ford awaiting its fate.]

[Setting: A smoky war tent in the Riverlands, where Robert Baratheon lounges in a makeshift chair, his warhammer resting against the table strewn with maps and half-empty ale horns. His allies – Jon Arryn, Rickard Stark, and Hoster Tully – stand around him, their faces grim in the flickering torchlight. Outside, the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for battle echo through the camp.]

Robert: (grinning, raising his ale) Another victory, another step closer to crushing that damned silver-haired prince! The Trident will be the end of Rhaegar Targaryen!

Jon Arryn: (stern) Robert, do not underestimate him. Half a year of war, and still, we do not know where Lyanna is. And now these rumors of dragons…

Rickard Stark: (grimacing) My daughter is missing, and all you care about is your next battle, Baratheon.

Robert: (slamming his fist on the table) I care about Lyanna more than anyone! That bastard Rhaegar stole her, and I'll rip him apart for it!

Hoster Tully: (raising a hand) Enough. Whether Rhaegar kidnapped her or not, the fact remains—House Targaryen has stayed out of this fight. If we push too far, we risk King Aegon and his dragons turning against us.

Robert: (snorting) Dragons? Those overgrown lizards? Let them come! I'll crack their skulls open like eggs!

Jon Arryn: (pinching the bridge of his nose) Robert, you fool. You've been lucky so far. Aegon VI has stayed his hand out of guilt, not fear. But if we march on King's Landing after killing his heir, do you truly think he'll remain neutral?

Robert: (defiant) Then let him try! I'll take his throne too!

Rickard Stark: (cold) And what then? You'll rule over ashes? The realm will burn, and Lyanna—if she's even alive—will be caught in the flames.

[A tense silence falls. Robert glowers, his fingers tightening around his warhammer's grip.]

Jon Arryn: (softer) Robert, listen to reason. We fight Rhaegar for justice, not conquest. If we win at the Trident, we demand Lyanna's return and Rhaegar's surrender. But we do not challenge the throne itself. Not unless we have no choice.

Robert: (grudging) Fine. But when I find Rhaegar, I'll make sure he never touches another woman again.

Hoster Tully: (exchanging a look with Jon) Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Because if it does… (glancing toward the tent flap, as if expecting fire to rain from the sky) …none of us may survive what follows.

[Fade to the sound of distant thunder—ominous, like the beat of dragon wings.]

[Setting: The Tully family tent in Robert's war camp, its blue-and-red banners fluttering in the evening breeze. Lord Hoster Tully enters, his face weary from the day's war council, to find his children—Edmure, Catelyn, and Lysa—waiting for him. A single lantern casts flickering shadows across their faces as the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for battle echo outside.]

Edmure: (eagerly) Father! What news from the war council? Will the battle be soon?

Hoster: (removing his gloves) Soon enough, son. The Trident will decide everything. (Glances at his daughters) And we must be ready for any outcome.

Catelyn: (lowering her voice) You mean… no matter who wins?

Hoster: (nodding) Robert fights for pride. Rhaegar fights for… whatever madness drives him. But House Tully fights for survival.

Lysa: (nervously twisting her betrothal ribbon) Jon Arryn suspects nothing. He still believes we are loyal to Robert.

Catelyn: (firm) And Brandon Stark trusts me completely. If the tide turns, we will know before the rest of the camp.

Edmure: (frowning) But isn't this… dishonorable?

Hoster: (sharp) It's practical. The Tullys rule the Riverlands by knowing which way the current flows. If Robert falls, we cannot be caught on the wrong side. And if Rhaegar falls… (sighs) Well, our ties to the Starks and Arryns will spare us Robert's wrath.

[Outside, a loud cheer erupts—Robert's booming laughter unmistakable even from a distance.]

Catelyn: (grimacing) They grow more confident by the hour. Robert truly believes the gods favor him.

Lysa: (whispering) And if they do? If he kills Rhaegar and marches on King's Landing? What then?

Hoster: (leaning in, voice barely audible) Then we pray Aegon VI's dragons remain leashed. Because if not… (glances at the tent flap) …fire will be the least of our concerns.

[A long silence. Somewhere in the camp, a bard begins singing The Rains of Castamere—an ominous choice.]

Edmure: (shifting uncomfortably) So we just… wait? Pretend?

Hoster: (placing a hand on his son's shoulder) We do what Tullys have always done. We survive.

[Fade to the sound of the distant river, its currents as unpredictable as the war to come.]