Chapter 41:

[(King's Landing Palace Common Room, 289 AC. King Aegon VI sits by the hearth, staring into the flames, while Queen Rhaella reviews ledgers at the table. The weight of eight years since Rhaegar's death lingers in the air.)

Aegon VI: (sighs) "Eight years. Has it truly been so long?"

Rhaella: (glances up) "Time does not stop for grief, brother. Nor for ruling."

Aegon VI: (rubs his temples) "No. And yet, I still hear his voice in these halls. The boy who should have been king."

Rhaella: (softly) "He was your heir, but not your son. You've done right by his children—Rhaenys safe in Dorne, Aegon with Elia. Even the other one…"

Aegon VI: (grimaces) "Aegon Snow. A name that still tastes bitter. Lyanna's folly, hidden away in the North."

Rhaella: (closes the ledger) "Better there than here. The realm has enough bastards causing trouble."

Aegon VI: (chuckles dryly) "Speaking of trouble—Daeron writes from Pyke. Balon Greyjoy grows bolder. He's raided three merchant ships this moon alone."

Rhaella: (frowns) "And Daeron? Does he still hesitate?"

Aegon VI: (shakes his head) "No. He's learning. But Cersei's influence lingers. She's with child again."

Rhaella: (scoffs) "Fifth time. And yet only two live. The gods are cruel."

Aegon VI: (grim) "Or just. Tywin's blood is strong, but so is ours. Baelon will be a better heir than his mother would have made him."

Rhaella: (leans forward) "You still fear the Lannisters?"

Aegon VI: (eyes darken) "I've let them too close. Daeron was a spare—I never thought he'd be heir. Now Tywin's grandson sits a dragon's breath from the throne."

Rhaella: (firmly) "Then we balance the scales. Daemon in Summerhall, Viserys at sea, Alyssa in Storm's End. Our children are where they need to be."

Aegon VI: (nods) "For now. But the Ironborn are a distraction. The real storm is coming."

Rhaella: (raises an eyebrow) "The White Walkers? You still believe those old tales?"

Aegon VI: (serious) "I've seen dragons return, sister. Why not nightmares?"

Rhaella: (sighs) "Then let's pray Daeron learns quickly. The realm will need a strong king."

Aegon VI: (smirks) "He will. Or I'll haunt him from the grave."

Rhaella: (rolls her eyes) "Dramatic as ever."

Aegon VI: (grinning) "A Targaryen trait."

(They share a rare, quiet laugh as the fire crackles between them.)

[(Hand of the King's Office, King's Landing, 289 AC. Tywin Lannister sits behind a heavy oak desk, reviewing reports, while Cersei paces restlessly, one hand resting on her swollen belly.)

Tywin: (without looking up) "Sit down, Cersei. Your pacing is distracting."

Cersei: (stops, scowling) "I'm not some anxious child. I'm carrying your grandson—again."

Tywin: (sets down the parchment) "And yet, you act as though this is your first. You've done this before."

Cersei: (scoffs) "Twice successfully. Twice not. The gods enjoy their little jests."

Tywin: (coldly) "The gods have nothing to do with it. You are a Lannister. You endure."

Cersei: (leans on the desk) "And what do I endure for? Baelon and Maekar are already born. Dragonstone has its heirs. What does this one bring me?"

Tywin: (eyes sharp) "Influence. Security. Another piece on the board."

Cersei: (laughs bitterly) "Your board. Your game. And yet, here I am, wed to a man who was never meant to be heir, playing mother to princes while my brothers fail you."

Tywin: (voice low, dangerous) "Careful."

Cersei: (undeterred) "Jaime has daughters. Tyrion has bastards. And you—you still cling to the hope that one of my sons will wear the lion's crown."

Tywin: (leaning forward) "Maekar is a Targaryen in name, but his blood is Lannister. If Jaime continues to disappoint, then yes, I will see my legacy secured through him."

Cersei: (smirks) "And if Daeron objects? If the king decides Casterly Rock should pass to some distant cousin instead?"

Tywin: (calm, ruthless) "Then we remind them why lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep."

Cersei: (raises an eyebrow) "Even sheep with dragons?"

Tywin: (almost amused) "Especially then. Fire is flashy, but gold is eternal."

Cersei: (sighs, rubbing her stomach) "This child had better be a girl. I grow tired of sons and their inheritances."

Tywin: (ignoring her dramatics) "Speaking of heirs—Baelon's betrothal to Rhaenys. Has Daeron mentioned any changes?"

Cersei: (waves a hand) "No. The Dornish girl is still his intended, no matter how much she glares at me."

Tywin: (nods) "Good. That alliance keeps Dorne in check. And the dragons?"

Cersei: (shrugs) "Still seven. Still not breeding. The king frets over it, but what can be done? Dragons are not livestock."

Tywin: (thoughtful) "A problem for another day. For now, we focus on what we control."

Cersei: (mockingly) "Ah, yes. Gold, power, and the endless disappointment of your children."

Tywin: (stands, dismissing her) "Get some rest, Cersei. Your wit is as sharp as ever, but your judgment falters when you're tired."

Cersei: (smirking as she turns to leave) "And yours falters when you forget that even lions can burn."

(She exits, leaving Tywin alone in the dim light, his expression unreadable.)

[(The courtyard of Winterfell, North, 289 AC. A crisp autumn afternoon settles over the castle as Ned Stark and his sister Lyanna sit on a weathered stone bench, watching their children play. Robb and Aegon Snow spar with wooden swords, Sansa braids flowers into Arya's hair (much to Arya's annoyance), while Bran and Rickon chase each other around the heart tree. The tension between Ned and Lyanna is unspoken but palpable.)

Lyanna: (smirking as Aegon disarms Robb) "He fights like Rhaegar. All grace, no brute force."

Ned: (grimacing) "Aye. Let's hope that's the only thing he inherits from him."

Lyanna: (glances at him, sharp) "You think I regret it?"

Ned: (sighs) "I think the realm bled for it. And now you both pay the price."

Lyanna: (soft, bitter) "Aegon pays the price. He's the one confined here, called a bastard, when he's as much a prince as Daeron or Daemon."

Ned: (firm) "He's a Stark in the eyes of the North. That's enough."

Lyanna: (studying Aegon's dark hair, so unlike Rhaegar's silver) "At least he looks like me. Small mercies."

(They fall into silence, watching as Arya steals Robb's wooden sword and starts swinging it wildly, making Bran shriek with laughter.)

Ned: (suddenly) "Catelyn still won't break bread with you at meals."

Lyanna: (dry) "I noticed. Eight years, and she still looks at me like I'm a wildling who tracked mud into her hall."

Ned: (rubbing his temples) "Her father lost Riverrun. Her sister lost the Vale. You can't blame her for—"

Lyanna: (cutting him off) "For blaming me? Oh, I can. It wasn't my war. Rhaegar and Robert chose their own fates."

Ned: (wearily) "And yet, here we are."

(Before Lyanna can retort, Catelyn Stark appears at the courtyard entrance, her posture rigid, hands clasped tightly in front of her.)

Catelyn: (coolly) "Dinner is ready. The children should wash up."

Lyanna: (raising an eyebrow) "Am I invited this time, good-sister? Or shall I take my meal in the stables again?"

(Catelyn's jaw tightens, but Ned stands before she can reply.)

Ned: (firm) "We'll all dine together. As a family."

Catelyn: (icy) "Of course. Wouldn't want to defy the King's orders."

(She turns sharply and leaves. The children, sensing the tension, slow their play. Aegon Snow—quiet, watchful—drifts toward Lyanna.)

Aegon Snow: (softly) "Do we have to go?"

Lyanna: (ruffling his hair) "Afraid so. But don't worry—if it gets too dull, I'll start a food fight."

Ned: (groaning) "Don't."

Arya: (grinning) "I'll help!"

Sansa: (horrified) "Arya!"

(As the children bicker and Ned sighs, Lyanna allows herself a small, defiant smile. The game isn't over yet.)

[(House Stark Bedchamber, Winterfell – Night, 289 AC. Lyanna Stark sits by the hearth, brushing out her long dark hair, while Aegon Snow, now a boy of eight, climbs into his bed. The firelight flickers across the stone walls, casting long shadows. Aegon hesitates before speaking, his young face troubled.)

Aegon Snow: (quietly) "Mother?"

Lyanna: (glancing over) "Hmm?"

Aegon Snow: (fidgeting with the furs) "Why does Aunt Catelyn hate me?"

(Lyanna's hand stills mid-brush. She exhales slowly, then sets the brush down and moves to sit beside him.)

Lyanna: (carefully) "She doesn't hate you."

Aegon Snow: (flatly) "Yes, she does. She never looks at me. Not like she looks at Robb or Sansa. And when she does, it's like I'm… something she stepped in."

Lyanna: (suppressing a snort) "Well, that's a colorful way to put it."

Aegon Snow: (serious) "It's true. And the other children at court whisper about me. They say I'm a bastard. That I don't belong here."

Lyanna: (firm) "You belong where I say you belong. And I say you're a Stark."

Aegon Snow: (frowning) "But I'm not. Not really. I'm a Snow. That's why Father—I mean, Uncle Ned—can't give me his name."

Lyanna: (softening) "Names are just words, little wolf. Blood is what matters. And you have my blood. That makes you part of this family, no matter what anyone says."

Aegon Snow: (muttering) "Aunt Catelyn doesn't think so."

Lyanna: (sighing) "Catelyn… has her reasons. Her family lost much because of the war. She blames me. And by extension… you."

Aegon Snow: (looking down) "Because of my father?"

(Lyanna stiffens slightly. This is dangerous ground.)

Lyanna: (carefully) "What do you know about your father?"

Aegon Snow: (shrugging) "Only that he's dead. And that no one will say his name."

Lyanna: (quietly) "One day, I'll tell you everything. But not yet."

Aegon Snow: (frustrated) "Why not?"

Lyanna: (cupping his face) "Because some truths are like swords, Aegon. Too heavy for little hands to carry."

Aegon Snow: (grumbling) "I'm not little."

Lyanna: (smirking) "You are to me."

(He scowls, but she tugs him into a hug. After a moment, he relaxes against her.)

Aegon Snow: (muffled) "Will I ever leave the North?"

Lyanna: (stroking his hair) "Someday. When the king allows it."

Aegon Snow: (pulling back) "And if he never does?"

Lyanna: (smiling faintly) "Then we'll make our own fun here. Maybe teach Bran how to actually hold a sword. Or help Arya hide frogs in Sansa's bed."

(Aegon snorts, finally grinning.)

Aegon Snow: "She'd scream louder than the time Rickon put a spider in her hair."

Lyanna: (laughing) "Exactly. Now sleep. Tomorrow's another day for mischief."

(She tucks him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. As she moves back to the hearth, Aegon's voice stops her.)

Aegon Snow: (quiet) "Mother?"

Lyanna: "Yes?"

Aegon Snow: "I'm glad I'm yours."

(Her throat tightens. She doesn't trust herself to speak, so she just nods and blows out the candle, leaving only the fire's glow to watch over them.)