Chapter 47:

[(Sunspear Palace Common Room, Dorne – 289 AC. The scent of citrus and spice lingers in the air as Doran Martell (INTJ) sits by the open balcony, reviewing scrolls. Oberyn Martell (ESFP) lounges nearby, sharpening a dagger, while Elia Martell (ISFJ) quietly sews, her son Prince Aegon VII playing with wooden knights at her feet.)

Oberyn: (flipping the dagger) "So. When do we evict the Stokeworths from our new lands?"

Doran: (not looking up) "Patience, brother. The king's decree gives us the right, but we must move carefully."

Elia: (softly) "Aegon is still young. We'll need a regent to oversee the transition."

Oberyn: (grinning) "Volunteering, dear sister? Or shall I do it? I'd love to see the look on Lady Tana's face when a Dornishman takes her castle."

Doran: "You'd start a war within a week."

Oberyn: "And end it within two."

(Before Doran can retort, a servant enters, bowing deeply with a sealed letter.)

Servant: "My prince. A raven from King's Landing."

(Doran takes the letter, his expression unreadable as he reads. Then—)

Doran: (slowly) "Well. It seems Prince Daeron has chosen his new bride."

Elia: (pausing her sewing) "Oh?"

Doran: (meeting her eyes) "You."

(Oberyn's dagger clatters to the floor. Aegon VII looks up, sensing the sudden tension. Elia's hands still, the needle frozen mid-stitch.)

Oberyn: (laughing sharply) "Seven hells. First Rhaegar, now his brother? The Targaryens really can't quit you, can they?"

Elia: (ignoring him, voice steady) "Why?"

Doran: "Politics. Stability. And, I suspect, a quiet apology for the past."

Oberyn: (scoffing) "A poor apology. 'Sorry my son ruined your life—here, marry my other one.'"

Elia: (standing abruptly) "I need air."

(She strides to the balcony, gripping the railing. Doran watches her, then turns to Oberyn.)

Doran: "Leave us."

Oberyn: (raising his hands) "Fine, fine. But if she says yes, I'm demanding a very large wedding gift."

(He saunters out, whistling. Doran joins Elia at the balcony, the warm Dornish wind ruffling their hair.)

Doran: "You don't have to accept."

Elia: (bitterly) "Don't I? Rhaenys is still betrothed to Baelon. Aegon's future depends on Targaryen favor. What choice do I have?"

Doran: (quietly) "The same choice you always had. The one Rhaegar stole from you."

(She exhales, watching the children play in the gardens below—Aegon VII now chasing Rhaenys, their laughter floating up like music.)

Elia: (finally) "Daeron is... not like Rhaegar."

Doran: "No. He's colder. More calculating. But perhaps that makes him safer."

Elia: (smiling faintly) "Or more dangerous."

(They stand in silence, the weight of crowns and consequences hanging between them. Then—)

Elia: "I'll do it. But on one condition."

Doran: "Name it."

Elia: "Rhaenys and Baelon meet before the wedding. I won't have her bound to a stranger."

Doran: (nodding) "Wise. And the Lannisters?"

Elia: (her voice hardening) "Let Tywin choke on his pride. The lion may roar, but the sun still rises."

(Doran smiles, clinking his goblet against hers—a silent toast to games yet to be played, and battles yet to be won.)

[(Sunspear Palace Courtyard, Dorne – 289 AC. The afternoon sun bathes the orange trees in golden light as Prince Aegon VII (INFJ) and Princess Rhaenys (INTJ) spar with wooden swords under the watchful eyes of their cousins, Arianne (ENFJ) and Trystane (ISFP) Martell. Elia Martell (ISFJ) and Doran Martell (INTJ) observe from a shaded terrace, their expressions unreadable.)

Arianne: (grinning) "Rhaenys, you fight like a Dornish viper! Where did you learn that move?"

Rhaenys: (panting, blocking Aegon's strike) "From Uncle Oberyn. He said Northern swordsmanship is too... stiff."

Aegon VII: (rolling his eyes) "And yet, you still can't beat me."

Trystane: (laughing) "Only because you cheat!"

Elia: (calling out) "Enough, children. Come here."

(The cousins exchange glances before trudging over, still breathless from their mock battle. Aegon wipes sweat from his brow, while Rhaenys adjusts her braid, already looking every inch the princess she is.)

Elia: (soft but firm) "We must prepare for a journey. We leave for King's Landing in a fortnight."

Aegon VII: (frowning) "Why? I thought we were staying in Dorne until my lands were secured."

Doran: "They are secured. But now there are... other considerations."

Rhaenys: (crossing her arms) "Let me guess. My beloved betrothed finally wants to meet me?"

Elia: (ignoring her sarcasm) "Prince Baelon will be there, yes. But more importantly..." (She hesitates, then straightens.) "I am to marry his father, Prince Daeron."

(A beat of stunned silence. Then—)

Arianne: (delighted) "Aunt Elia, you're going to be queen?"

Rhaenys: (flatly) "Wonderful. So now I'm to marry my stepbrother."

Aegon VII: (muttering) "Targaryens."

Trystane: (confused) "Is that... normal?"

Doran: (dryly) "For this family? Unfortunately, yes."

Rhaenys: (to Elia) "Do we have to go?"

Elia: (firm) "Yes. This is not just about me. Aegon, you must be formally presented as the future Lord of Stokeworth—or whatever you choose to rename it. And Rhaenys..."

Rhaenys: (scoffing) "I know, I know. 'Secure the alliance.' 'Make nice with the golden prince.'"

Aegon VII: (grinning) "At least you'll get to see the dragons."

Rhaenys: (perking up slightly) "...Fine. But if Baelon is as dull as they say, I'm feeding him to one."

Doran: (pinching the bridge of his nose) "Why do I bother?"

Elia: (smirking) "Because you love us."

(As the children resume their bickering—now debating who gets which room in the Red Keep—Doran and Elia exchange a look. The game continues, the pieces move, and Dorne prepares to step back onto the board.)

[(Dragonstone Courtyard, 289 AC – The black shadow of Drogon darkens the courtyard as Prince Daeron (ISTJ) dismounts, carefully cradling infant Princess Myrcella in one arm. His sons, Prince Baelon (ENFJ, 10) and Prince Maekar (ISTJ, 8), stand waiting—Baelon bouncing on his heels, Maekar standing stiffly proper.]

Baelon: (grinning) "Father! Did you bring me anything from King's Landing?"

Maekar: (elbowing him) "Don't be rude. He brought Myrcella."

Daeron: (exhausted but amused) "No gifts this time. Only news."

(He hands Myrcella to a waiting nursemaid, then kneels to face his sons.)

Daeron: "Baelon, you remember your betrothal to Princess Rhaenys?"

Baelon: (nose scrunching) "The Dornish one? Grandfather says I have to marry her so they don't rebel again."

Maekar: (deadpan) "Romantic."

Daeron: (ignoring that) "She's coming to court soon. Along with her mother... who will be your new stepmother."

(A beat. Baelon blinks. Maekar's eyebrows shoot up.)

Baelon: (delighted) "You're getting married? Does that mean I get two namedays now?"

Maekar: (suspicious) "Her mother? You mean Aunt Elia? Uncle Rhaegar's—"

Daeron: (cutting him off) "Yes. It's... complicated."

Baelon: (grinning) "Does this mean Rhaenys is my sister and my wife now? That's weird!"

Maekar: (muttering) "Welcome to the family."

(Daeron sighs, rubbing his temples. Somewhere above, Drogon sneezes a puff of smoke, as if laughing at him.)

Daeron: "Just... be polite when they arrive. And Baelon?"

Baelon: "Yes, Father?"

Daeron: (dead serious) "Do not mention the 'two namedays' thing to your grandfather Tywin."

Maekar: (nodding sagely) "Or he might turn you into a no nameday boy."

(Baelon pales slightly. Daeron makes a mental note to have someone explain Targaryen family dynamics to these children before they cause an international incident.)

[(Storm's End Courtyard, 289 AC – Princess Alyssa Targaryen (ESTP) lounges in a cushioned chair beneath a shade canopy, her pregnant belly prominent as she sips lemon water and scans a stack of letters. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and pine as Stannis Baratheon (ISTJ) approaches, his usual stern expression firmly in place.)

Stannis: (grunting) "You should be inside resting, not reading court gossip in the sun."

Alyssa: (not looking up) "And miss this delightful drama? Cersei's dead, Daeron's remarrying Elia, and Tywin's probably plotting to poison someone as we speak. This isn't gossip, husband—it's survival intelligence."

Stannis: (sitting stiffly beside her) "Survival. Right." (He eyes her stomach.) "How's the babe?"

Alyssa: (patting her belly) "Kicking like a stallion. Definitely another future Master of Whispers with these reflexes."

(Stannis exhales through his nose, but before he can retort, the courtyard erupts with noise as their son Steffan Baratheon (ESTP, 9) and Stannis' younger brother Renly Baratheon (ESFP, 12) burst in, wooden swords clacking.)

Steffan: (laughing) "Uncle Renly fights like a girl!"

Renly: (mock-offended) "I fight like a Baratheon—which means I actually know how to parry, unlike some oafs."

Alyssa: (grinning) "Ah, the dulcet tones of my kin. Tell me, Stannis, does the phrase 'doomed house' mean anything to you?"

Stannis: (ignoring her) "Steffan. Renly. Training is over. Clean up before supper."

Renly: (flopping onto a bench) "Ugh, you're worse than Father. At least he lets me drink wine at dinner now."

Steffan: (gasping) "Wine?! Can I—"

Stannis & Alyssa: (in unison) "No."

(Steffan pouts. Alyssa tosses him a honeyed fig from her plate.)

Alyssa: "Cheer up, little storm. When you're Lord of Storm's End, you can drink all the wine you want."

Steffan: (brightening) "Really?!"

Stannis: (flatly) "No."

Renly: (laughing) "Face it, nephew. You're doomed to be as joyless as your father."

Alyssa: (snorting) "Gods help us all."

(As the sun dips lower, casting the Baratheon sigil in shadow, the family bickers on—united, as always, in their shared talent for making even peace feel like war.)