Chapter 36:

[(The Small Council chamber is quiet, the weight of recent decisions lingering in the air. King Aegon VI sits at the head of the table, his fingers steepled before him. Prince Daeron, newly named Prince of Dragonstone, stands stiffly near the window, while Prince Daemon leans against the wall with his usual irreverent posture. The faint sounds of the city below drift through the open balcony.)

Aegon VI (exhaling slowly): "It is done. The realm will heal—if given time."

Daeron (nodding): "The punishments were fair, Father. Harsh enough to deter future recklessness, but not so cruel as to breed resentment."

Daemon (grinning): "Oh, I don't know. I think Jon Arryn might resent losing the Vale just a little."

Aegon VI (ignoring Daemon's quip): "Fair or not, the work is not finished. Daeron, your first task as Prince of Dragonstone will be to rebuild trust with Robert's former allies—particularly the Stormlands and the Vale."

Daeron (raising an eyebrow): "After stripping Jon Arryn of his title?"

Aegon VI (firm): "Especially because of it. Ronnel Arryn will need support to secure his rule, and Stannis—"

Daemon (interrupting): "Ah, Stannis. The man who could make a funeral seem lively."

Daeron (shooting him a look): "Stannis is honorable. If we treat him fairly, he will not seek conflict."

Aegon VI (nodding): "Precisely. The Stormlands now answer to Alyssa and Stannis. Ensure they remember that House Targaryen does not punish without reason—nor without mercy."

Daeron (bowing slightly): "I will ride to Storm's End within the fortnight."

Aegon VI (turning to Daemon): "And you. Dragonstone awaits."

Daemon (pushing off the wall): "Ah, yes. The joyous task of telling Mother and Elia that Rhaegar is dead, his son has been passed over for the throne, and oh, by the way, would she like to stay or flee back to Dorne?"

Daeron (dryly): "You do have a way with words."

Daemon (shrugging): "I'll manage. Though I doubt Elia will be pleased about her daughter's betrothal to Baelon."

Aegon VI (firm): "It is the best I can offer. Rhaenys will one day be a queen. That is no small thing."

Daemon (sighing): "I'll phrase it more diplomatically."

Aegon VI (leaning forward): "See that you do. And Daemon—" (his voice softens slightly) "Rhaella... this will grieve her deeply. Be kind."

Daemon (unusually solemn): "I know."

(A brief silence falls. The weight of Rhaegar's death, the war, and the fractures left behind hangs between them.)

Daeron (breaking the quiet): "And what of Lyanna Stark?"

Aegon VI (grimacing): "Ned will retrieve her. She will live out her days in the North, far from politics. Her son will be safe there—but no one will use him as a pawn."

Daemon (muttering): "A Targaryen bastard raised as a Snow. How poetic."

Aegon VI (sharply): "Enough. What's done is done. Now, we move forward."

(Daeron straightens, his expression resolute. Daemon, for once, doesn't argue. The path ahead is clear—rebuild, reconcile, and secure the realm. The game continues, but the players have changed. Scene fades as the three Targaryens prepare for their tasks, the future of the Seven Kingdoms resting in their hands.]

[(The Prince of Dragonstone's chambers are lavishly appointed, with sunlight streaming through tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Cersei Lannister stands near a carved crib where their youngest son, Prince Maekar, sleeps, while their elder son, Prince Baelon - a serious boy of six - practices letters at a small desk. The door opens, and Prince Daeron enters, still wearing his formal court attire. Cersei turns, her emerald eyes alight with satisfaction.)]

Cersei (smugly): "My Prince of Dragonstone. How does the title suit you?"

Daeron (removing his riding gloves): "Heavier than expected. Though not as heavy as your father's stare during the announcement."

Cersei (chuckling): "Father will adjust. A Lannister daughter becoming Queen outweighs any temporary loss of influence." (She gestures to Baelon) "Our son will sit the Iron Throne one day. That's worth any price."

Daeron (moving to their sleeping son's crib): "Speaking of our sons... There's a matter concerning Baelon."

Cersei (instantly alert): "What matter?"

Daeron (straightening): "He's been betrothed. To Princess Rhaenys."

Cersei (face freezing): "...Rhaegar's daughter?"

Daeron (nodding): "A political necessity. To mend ties with Dorne after..."

Cersei (cutting him off, voice sharpening): "You promised I would choose his bride. A Lannister match would secure the West!"

Daeron (holding up a hand): "This wasn't my decision. The King commanded it."

Baelon (looking up from his letters, curious): "Am I to marry cousin Rhaenys?"

Cersei (forcing a smile for her son): "Finish your letters, darling. The adults are speaking." (As Baelon obediently returns to his work, she whirls on Daeron, voice lowered but furious) "She's half-Dornish. And her father nearly destroyed the realm!"

Daeron (equally quiet but firm): "Which is precisely why this match is necessary. Or would you rather explain to my father why House Lannister values its pride over the realm's stability?"

Cersei (eyes flashing): "Don't lecture me about duty. I've done nothing but my duty since the day we wed." (She glances at their sons, then adds bitterly) "Though apparently my opinion matters little when it comes to our children's futures."

Daeron (sighing): "Cersei... this wasn't a slight against you. The King needed to act quickly to prevent another conflict."

Cersei (after a tense pause, smoothing her skirts): "How old is the girl?"

Daeron (relieved at her pragmatic shift): "Nearly two. They'll wed when both come of age - plenty of time to ensure she's raised properly."

Cersei (lips thinning): "I'll see to that myself. If my son must have a Dornish queen, she'll learn proper courtly manners." (Her gaze falls on Baelon) "And he'll understand that some marriages are for duty, not affection."

Daeron (gently): "They may yet find both. Our match was political, and we've managed well enough."

Cersei (giving him a measured look): "Flattery won't soften this, husband. But..." (She exhales sharply) "I suppose a future queen raised under my guidance is better than some simpering Tyrell girl."

Daeron (smirking): "That's the spirit."

Baelon (suddenly piping up): "Mother? Does this mean I'll have to share my toys with Rhaenys?"

Cersei (lips twitching despite herself): "Only your throne, my lion. Not your toys."

[(The tension eases slightly as Daeron chuckles, ruffling his son's hair. The political storm may have passed, but the domestic one is just beginning. Scene fades on Cersei's calculating gaze as she looks between her husband and sons, already strategizing how to turn this situation to her advantage.)]

[(The Tower of Joy stands isolated amidst the red mountains of Dorne, its pale stones glowing in the late afternoon sun. Ned Stark dismounts his horse, his face drawn with exhaustion and grief. Before the tower's entrance, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent stand guard in their white cloaks, their faces grim but not hostile.)

Ser Gerold Hightower (nodding solemnly): "Lord Stark. We've been expecting you."

Ned (voice rough from travel): "Then you know why I'm here."

Ser Oswell Whent (stepping aside): "She's inside. The babe as well."

(Ned exhales sharply and enters the tower. The interior is dim, the air heavy with the scent of blood and roses. In a bed by the window, Lyanna Stark lies pale and weakened, clutching a newborn babe to her chest. Her eyes widen when she sees Ned, filling with tears.)

Lyanna (voice trembling): "Ned..."

Ned (striding forward, his own eyes wet): "Lyanna. Gods, you're alive."

(He kneels beside her bed, pulling her into a careful embrace, mindful of the babe between them. When they part, Lyanna looks up at him, searching his face.)

Lyanna (whispering): "You know, then."

Ned (jaw tightening): "Aye. I know you weren't stolen. I know you left willingly."

(Lyanna flinches but doesn't deny it. She looks down at the babe—a boy with wisps of dark hair and violet eyes.)

Lyanna (softly): "This is Aegon. His father... Rhaegar... he wanted so badly to protect him."

Ned (grimacing): "Rhaegar is dead, Lya. So is Robert. They killed each other at the Trident."

(Lyanna's breath hitches. She closes her eyes, tears slipping free.)

Lyanna: "And Father? Brandon?"

(Ned's silence is answer enough. Lyanna's face crumples, and she clutches the babe tighter.)

Lyanna (grief-stricken): "Oh, gods... It's my fault. All of it."

Ned (gently but firmly): "Aye. It is."

(She looks up, startled by his bluntness. Ned's expression is pained but unwavering.)

Ned: "You ran. You didn't think. And now thousands are dead—Father, Brandon, Robert, Rhaegar... The North bled for this."

Lyanna (voice breaking): "I never meant—"

Ned (cutting her off): "Intentions don't matter. Only consequences."

(A heavy silence falls. The babe stirs, whimpering, and Lyanna soothes him absently, her hands shaking.)

Ned (softening slightly): "King Aegon has decreed your punishment. You and the boy will return to Winterfell with me. You will never leave the North again."

Lyanna (bitter laugh): "A gilded cage, then."

Ned (firm): "A second chance. One you don't deserve, but one I'll give you anyway—for Mother's memory, if nothing else."

(Lyanna looks down at her son, her tears falling onto his tiny face. When she speaks again, her voice is hollow.)

Lyanna: "And Aegon? What life will he have, as Rhaegar's bastard?"

Ned (sighing): "He'll be safe. He'll be a Snow of Winterfell, not a Targaryen. And he'll never know the throne could have been his."

(Lyanna nods slowly, accepting. Outside, the wind howls through the mountains, a mournful sound. The weight of all that's been lost—and all that might have been—hangs between them. Scene fades on the Stark siblings, reunited but forever changed, as the sun sets over Dorne.]

[(The great hall of Riverrun is bathed in the golden light of sunset, but the mood within is anything but warm. Hoster Tully, his once-proud posture now slumped in a high-backed chair, glowers into his wine cup. His children—Edmure, Catelyn, and Lysa—sit in uneasy silence around the hearth. The absence of the Tully banners from the walls, replaced by Brynden's personal sigil, is a constant, stinging reminder of their fallen status.)

Hoster (slamming his cup down, wine sloshing): "To think Brynden would accept the title over his own brother! That Blackfish always was too proud to swim with the rest of us."

Catelyn (calm but firm): "Father, Uncle Brynden had no choice. The King's decree—"

Hoster (snarling): "The King's decree was a dagger to my back! I played the game as it's always been played—secure alliances, protect our house. And now I'm stripped of Riverrun like some common brigand!"

Lysa (wringing her hands, voice trembling): "Jon has lost the Vale. All because Robert couldn't control his temper over that Stark girl!"

Edmure (leaning forward, eager): "But Uncle Brynden has no heirs. When he dies, Riverrun comes back to our line!"

Hoster (pointing a shaking finger at his son): "If you don't get yourself killed in some fool battle first! You're my only hope, boy. The only hope this family has left."

Catelyn (placing a steadying hand on Edmure's arm): "And you have the North's support, brother. Ned will stand by you."

Hoster (snorting): "A fine consolation—the Starks keep their titles while the Tullys and Arryns are humiliated!"

Lysa (suddenly standing, face flushed with anger): "And whose fault is that, Father? You married me to Jon to secure the Vale, and Catelyn to Brandon Stark—then Ned when Brandon died. You gambled with our lives, and now we pay the price!"

Hoster (rising unsteadily, face purple with rage): "You dare—"

Catelyn (stepping between them, voice sharp): "Enough! What's done is done. We survive now. We adapt." (She turns to Lysa, softening) "Jon still has influence, even without the title. And you are still Lady Arryn in name, if not in power."

Lysa (laughing bitterly): "Oh yes, what a grand prize—a disgraced lord for a husband and a son who will never rule the Vale."

Edmure (clenching his fists): "Then we rebuild. I'll prove myself to Uncle Brynden. I'll make him see I'm worthy to inherit."

Hoster (collapsing back into his chair, suddenly looking every bit his age): "See that you do, boy. Because if you fail... the Tully name dies with me."

[(The fire crackles in the hearth, casting long shadows over the family. The weight of their fallen status hangs heavy, but in Edmure's determined eyes and Catelyn's steady presence, there is the faintest glimmer of hope—for the Tullys are not defeated yet. Scene fades on the rippling reflection of the castle in the Red Fork, the water flowing ever onward, just as House Tully must now do.)]