Chapter 33:

[Setting: The Red Keep courtyard at dawn, where King Aegon VI fastens the last strap on Fenrir's saddle. The massive dragon shifts impatiently, his golden eyes watching the bustling servants load supplies. The morning mist swirls around them as Prince Daeron and Prince Daemon approach, their own baby dragons - Drogon and Smaug - flapping clumsily behind them.]

Daeron: (adjusting his regent's chain) Father, you're leaving earlier than planned. The Small Council hasn't even—

Aegon VI: (without turning) I know. Change of plans. I'm stopping at Dragonstone first.

Daemon: (grinning) Checking on Mother? Or making sure Viserys hasn't burned down the castle with his new toy?

[Fenrir snorts a puff of smoke at Daemon's dragon, making Smaug scurry behind his rider's legs.]

Aegon VI: (finally facing them) Both. And to see Elia and the children. If this battle at the Trident goes ill...

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

Aegon VI: (nodding) Only if necessary. The realm can't afford Robert running wild if he wins, nor Rhaegar's... peculiarities if he prevails.

Daemon: (leaning against Fenrir's scaled leg) So we're just to sit here? While history happens without us?

Aegon VI: (raising an eyebrow) You have a kingdom to run, Daeron. And you, Daemon—(gestures to Smaug)—have a dragon that still thinks my boots are chew toys. That's responsibility enough.

[A servant rushes up, panting, holding a raven scroll.]

Servant: Your Grace! Word from Dragonstone! Queen Rhaella reports Princess Daenerys' dragon has finally been named—Rhaegal!

[Silence falls. Even Fenrir stills at the name.]

Daeron: (quietly) After Rhaegar. That will... complicate things.

Aegon VI: (taking the scroll) Or make them painfully simple. (Turns to mount Fenrir) Keep the peace here. And Daeron—(pauses)—don't let Tywin convince you to do anything... dramatic.

Daemon: (mock-gasping) Father! Are you suggesting the great Tywin Lannister would—

Aegon VI: (cutting him off) Yes. (To Fenrir) Soves!

[With a mighty beat of wings, Fenrir launches skyward, sending servants scattering as the gust flips over a cart of apples. Daeron and Daemon watch as the king and dragon become a speck against the rising sun.]

Daeron: (sighing) Well. Shall we go see what disaster the Small Council has cooked up in Father's absence?

Daemon: (grinning as Smaug sets a banner smoldering) After we put this out. Maybe.

[Fade to the sound of flapping wings and distant dragon cries, the Red Keep shrinking below.]

[Setting: The windswept courtyard of Dragonstone, where the massive dragon Fenrir lands with a thunderous beat of wings. King Aegon VI dismounts as Queen Rhaella approaches, baby Daenerys in her arms. Prince Viserys bounces excitedly nearby while Princess Rhaenys clutches her mother Elia's skirts. The newborn Prince Aegon VII sleeps peacefully in Elia's arms, oblivious to the tension in the air.]

Rhaella: (adjusting Daenerys' blanket) You're early. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow.

Aegon VI: (kissing her forehead) Plans changed. The Trident calls sooner than expected.

Viserys: (tugging Aegon's cloak) Father! Did you see? Rhaegal breathed fire today! Real fire!

Rhaenys: (rolling eyes) It was just a little spark. Not like Grandfather's dragon.

[Fenrir huffs in agreement, sending a warm gust over the children.]

Elia: (quietly) You're going to the battle then.

Aegon VI: (nodding) To observe. Not interfere. Unless...

Rhaella: (sharp) Unless Robert wins and decides one crown isn't enough.

Aegon VI: (meeting her gaze) Exactly.

[Baby Daenerys chooses this moment to sneeze, her tiny dragon Rhaegal mimicking the motion with a puff of smoke from its nostrils.]

Viserys: (delighted) See! They do everything together!

Elia: (rocking Aegon VII) And if Rhaegar wins? What then for my husband? For our son?

Aegon VI: (gentle) Then he remains Prince of Dragonstone. And this little one grows up knowing his father's honor was restored.

Rhaella: (noticing Aegon's hesitation) There's more. What aren't you saying?

[A beat of silence. The wind howls through Dragonstone's towers.]

Aegon VI: (lowering voice) The Tullys are playing both sides. If the battle turns... certain parties may need extraction.

Elia: (tightening grip on her son) You think Rhaegar could lose.

Aegon VI: I think my nephew is brilliant, melancholic, and currently fighting a war without the one advantage all his siblings suddenly have. (Gestures to Rhaegal)

[Viserys' dragon Viserion chooses this moment to swoop down, landing clumsily on the boy's head. Rhaenys giggles as Viserys shrieks.]

Rhaella: (ignoring the chaos) You'll take Tiamat with you?

Aegon VI: (shaking head) She stays here. Dragonstone must be protected. Fenrir is enough.

[Baby Aegon VII stirs, his tiny hand grasping at empty air. Elia looks down, her face unreadable.]

Elia: (softly) Tell him... if you see him... tell him his son has his eyes.

[A long silence. Even the dragons seem to still. Then—]

Viserys: (from beneath his dragon) Can I come? I can help! Viserion and I—

Rhaella & Aegon: (simultaneously) No.

[Fade to the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs, the weight of the coming storm heavy in the air.]

[Setting: The dimly lit bedchamber of the Tower of Joy in Dorne's red mountains, where Lyanna Stark sits propped against silk pillows, her swollen belly visible under light bedclothes. Morning light filters through narrow windows as servant Wylla adjusts the tray of lemon water and dates beside the bed. Outside the door, the faint clink of armor reveals the ever-present Kingsguard.]

Lyanna: (pushing away the tray) I don't want more dates. I want news. Has there been word from Rhaegar?

Wylla: (avoiding her gaze) The ravens come seldom, my lady. The war makes travel dangerous—

Lyanna: (slamming her hand on the mattress) Don't lie to me! I may be with child, not blind. Gerold's been whispering with Oswell all morning. Something's happened.

[A sudden gust rattles the shutters. Somewhere outside, a desert hawk cries.]

Wylla: (nervously adjusting the sheets) Perhaps... perhaps Prince Rhaegar sends word of his victory. They say the final battle nears—

Lyanna: (laughing bitterly) They say? Who's "they," Wylla? The scorpions outside my window? (Gesturing to her belly) This child will be born before I see another living soul besides you three sworn to silence!

[Outside, Ser Gerold's deep voice murmurs something to Ser Oswell. Boots shift on stone.]

Wylla: (lowering voice) My lady, you must stay calm. The babe—

Lyanna: (interrupting) The babe will be a bastard if Rhaegar falls. And if he wins? What then? Does he mean to set aside Elia? (Bitterly) Or am I to be his hidden northern rose forever?

[Wylla pales, glancing at the door. The temperature seems to drop despite Dorne's heat.]

Wylla: (whispering) You mustn't speak so! The Kingsguard—

Lyanna: (mocking) Ah yes, our noble protectors. Tell me, do they guard me? Or this child and its cursed prophecy?

[A heavy knock at the door. Ser Oswell's voice, tense:]

Oswell: (through door) My lady? All is well?

Lyanna: (sweetly venomous) Wonderful, ser! Just discussing how many more weeks I'll be imprisoned in this sandy hell!

[Silence. Then retreating footsteps.]

Wylla: (horrified) My lady!

Lyanna: (leaning back, exhausted) Oh spare me. We all know the truth. (Placing hands on belly) This tower isn't named for joy. It's a gilded cage for Rhaegar's third head of the dragon.

[The hawk cries again. Somewhere in the distance, a sandstorm begins to howl.]

Wylla: (desperate) Let me fetch more tea. For your nerves.

Lyanna: (turning toward the window) Fetch a raven instead. Or a horse. Or anything that isn't more silence and dates.

[Fade to the sound of wind whistling through the tower's stones, the desert swallowing all protests.]

[Setting: The banks of the Trident at dawn, where the ruby ford glints crimson in the rising sun. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stands armored in black plate with ruby accents, his silver hair whipping in the river breeze. Across the shallow waters, Robert Baratheon hefts his warhammer, his booming voice carrying over the murmur of two assembled armies. The air smells of wet earth and impending bloodshed.]

Robert: (roaring across the water) THERE HE IS! THE DRAGON WHO THINKS HE CAN STEAL WHAT'S MINE!

Rhaegar: (calm but firm) This was never about theft, Robert. Only destiny.

Robert: (spitting) Destiny? You mean the whore's prophecy that made you abandon your wife and children? (Gesturing wildly) Where's Lyanna, Rhaegar? Locked in some tower while you play at war?

[The rebel forces cheer. Rhaegar's grip tightens on his sword.]

Rhaegar: (raising voice) Lyanna came willingly! She's safe—

Robert: (interrupting with a thunderous laugh) SAFE? From what? Being your queen? (Mocking bow) Oh wait—you already have one of those! How many women does a prince need to fulfill his precious prophecy?

[Laughter ripples through the rebel lines. Rhaegar's knights shift uneasily.]

Rhaegar: (cold) You know nothing of what's coming. The Long Night—

Robert: (hefting warhammer) I know THIS night will be long for you, dragon spawn! (To his men) SEE HOW HE FIGHTS WITHOUT A DRAGON? EVEN HIS OWN KIN DENIED HIM ONE!

[The taunt hits its mark. Rhaegar's violet eyes flicker toward the southern sky—where no winged shadow comes to his aid.]

Rhaegar: (quietly to Lewyn Martell) Enough words. Sound the advance.

Robert: (overhearing, grinning savagely) FINALLY! COME THEN, PRINCE! LET'S SEE IF YOU FIGHT BETTER THAN YOU LOVE!

[War horns blare from both sides. The waters of the Trident churn as thousands of boots and hooves hit the shallows. Steel meets steel as the two cousins charge toward each other, the fate of the realm hanging in the balance.]