A Crown for Aegon (ChatGPT)

[King's Landing Palace Courtyard, 277 AC. King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella stroll through the sunlit gardens, having just returned from inspecting the newly completed Dragonpit. The distant roars of Fenrir and Tiamat can still be heard as the dragons settle into their restored home. Rhaella absently rubs her pregnant belly while Aegon surveys the courtyard with a satisfied expression.]

AEGON VI: Well, that's one monumental task finally completed. Now we just have four weddings to plan.

RHAELLA: (laughing) Only four? I was certain you'd find a way to squeeze in a fifth.

AEGON VI: (grinning) Don't give the Small Council ideas. Lord Tywin's already sent three ravens this week about Daeron and Cersei's wedding arrangements.

RHAELLA: (raising an eyebrow) And how many of those ravens included passive-aggressive comments about the Lannister gold paying for everything?

AEGON VI: (counting on fingers) All three. Though the last one was particularly creative - something about "the honor of House Targaryen being measured in gold dragons."

[They pause near a marble bench as a servant brings them chilled wine. Rhaella settles carefully while Aegon remains standing, gazing toward the Dragonpit in the distance.]

RHAELLA: We'll need to be strategic about the order. Rhaegar and Elia's wedding in Dorne first, then Daeron and Cersei here in King's Landing...

AEGON VI: (nodding) Followed by Daemon and Ashara in Starfall, then Alyssa and Stannis in Storm's End. Seven help us, we'll be living in wedding feasts for a year.

RHAELLA: (smirking) You say that like it's a bad thing. Free food, free wine, and all our children safely married off.

AEGON VI: (chuckling) You forget - free food means free opportunities for political disasters. Remember what happened at our wedding when Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood both reached for the same roasted boar?

RHAELLA: (groaning) Don't remind me. I still find bits of that gravy stain on the tapestries.

[They're interrupted by the arrival of Prince Rhaegar, looking unusually harried for the normally composed heir.]

RHAEGAR: Father, Mother - forgive the interruption, but Elia's uncle Oberyn just arrived with six Dornish wedding planners. They're currently arguing with the Lannister stewards about seating arrangements.

AEGON VI: (pinching the bridge of his nose) Let me guess - the Martells want the high table facing south, and the Lannisters want it facing west?

RHAEGAR: Worse. They're debating whether the lemon cakes should be served before or after the main course.

RHAELLA: (standing abruptly) Right. That's it. (turning to Aegon) My love, we're instituting a new royal decree: Anyone who mentions wedding planning before supper gets thrown in the Black Cells.

AEGON VI: (grinning) Seconded. Rhaegar, tell them the king has declared a moratorium on all wedding discussions until tomorrow. And if they protest, remind them we have dragons now.

RHAEGAR: (smirking) That usually works. (pauses) Though Oberyn did bring his spear...

AEGON VI: (sighing) Fine. Tell him I'll personally spar with him later if he behaves.

[As Rhaegar departs, Aegon offers his arm to Rhaella. They continue their stroll, the sounds of distant wedding arguments fading behind them.]

RHAELLA: (softly) Can you believe it? All our children grown and marrying. Even little Daemon, who used to hide in the dragon skulls when it was time for lessons.

AEGON VI: (smiling) And now he's marrying the most beautiful woman in Dorne. Though I still maintain Ashara only accepted because she thinks she can civilize him.

RHAELLA: (laughing) Poor girl doesn't know what she's in for. (pats her belly) At least this one will give us a few more years before we have to worry about weddings.

AEGON VI: (leaning down to kiss her forehead) Our little miracle. Though if it's a girl, we should probably start building another Dragonpit now. Between potential suitors and dragonriders, we'll need the space.

[They share a laugh as the sun sets over King's Landing, the dragons' distant songs mixing with the sounds of a kingdom preparing for celebrations - and the delicate dance of politics that comes with them.]

[King's Landing Small Council Chamber, 277 AC. The circular table gleams under the afternoon light streaming through stained glass windows. King Aegon VI sits at the head, fingers steepled, as his council members settle into their usual seats. Queen Rhaella, heavily pregnant, shuffles ledger books as Master of Coin. Tywin Lannister's golden hand pin glints as he arranges reports with military precision. Steffon Baratheon chuckles at some private joke while Jon Arryn rubs his temples. Gwyneth Hightower's armor creaks as she leans forward, while Varys materializes from the shadows with his customary eerie timing.]

AEGON VI: (clapping hands) Right then. Before we begin - does anyone have wine? No? Grand Maester, make a note: Small Council meetings shall henceforth include wine.

PYRCELLE: (scribbling) "His Grace decrees alcohol essential to governance." A historic precedent.

TYWIN: (dryly) We'll need it. The wedding planners from Dorne and the Westerlands nearly came to blows in the outer yard this morning.

RHAELLA: (without looking up from ledgers) Let me guess - was it over floral arrangements or which house gets more gold leaf on the invitations?

VARYS: (smiling) Both, Your Grace. Though the real conflict arose when someone suggested serving Arbor gold before Dornish red.

STEFFON: (laughing) Gods be good, we're going to war over wine service now?

GWYNETH: (deadpan) I'll have the Kingsguard sharpen their tasting spoons.

[Chuckles ripple around the table as Aegon gestures for the first report.]

JON ARRYN: (clearing throat) The Riverlands report is first. Lord Tully requests additional grain shipments to offset-

AEGON VI: (holding up hand) Jon, my friend, before we drown in logistics - let's address the dragon in the room. We have four royal weddings to survive. How do we prevent this from becoming the most expensive disaster in Targaryen history?

RHAELLA: (tapping quill) By not letting Tywin and Oberyn Martell within fifty feet of the treasury.

TYWIN: (smirking) You wound me, Your Grace. I merely suggested the Lannister wedding could serve as the template for the others. For efficiency's sake.

STEFFON: (snorting) "Efficiency" meaning solid gold tableware?

VARYS: (interjecting smoothly) The Spider's humble observation: perhaps we stage the weddings by region? Dorne first, then the West, then Stormlands, then the capital. Allows each region to showcase its... unique charms without direct comparison.

PYRCELLE: (muttering) And prevents open warfare between competing feasts.

AEGON VI: (nodding) Sensible. Rhaegar and Elia in Sunspear first, then-

GWYNETH: (leaning forward) With all due respect, Your Grace - security concerns. Four royal processions in one year? My knights will need to hire additional squires just to polish all the armor.

RHAELLA: (scribbling) Noted. Add "polishing budget" to expenses. (looks up) Along with "bribe fund" for when Robert Baratheon inevitably starts a drinking contest during Alyssa's wedding.

STEFFON: (grinning proudly) That's my boy!

TYWIN: (ignoring them) The real concern is precedent. If we allow Dorne excessive liberties in their ceremony, the Westerlands will demand equal concessions. Then the Stormlands. Soon you'll have lords expecting gilded chamber pots at every-

AEGON VI: (holding up hand) Tywin. My old friend. Do you remember what happened the last time we let you plan a celebration?

PYRCELLE: (reading from scroll) "Tourney of 272 AC. Twelve injuries, one fatality, and a hedge knight who still claims you owe him a castle."

[Awkward silence. Tywin sips water.]

TYWIN: ...Point taken.

AEGON VI: (clapping hands) So! We'll use Varys' regional approach. Jon, you'll liaise with Dorne. Steffon, handle Storm's End. Tywin... (sighs) you can oversee King's Landing preparations. But no gold-plated doves this time.

RHAELLA: (muttering) Or living lion centerpieces.

VARYS: (brightening) Oh! But the doves were quite memorable when they-

GWYNETH: -started attacking the guests. Yes. Very memorable.

PYRCELLE: (scribbling) "Council unanimously bans avian-based entertainment."

AEGON VI: (standing) Excellent. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go reassure Oberyn Martell that no, we won't be serving Lannister wine at his niece's wedding. (pauses) Gwyneth, perhaps have your knights standing by.

GWYNETH: (drawing sword slightly) Already positioned outside, Your Grace.

[As the council rises, Rhaella catches Aegon's arm, whispering urgently.]

RHAELLA: (hushed) We forgot to discuss the most important matter!

AEGON VI: (concerned) The budget? Security? Dragon accommodations?

RHAELLA: (gravely) Who gets to tell Cersei her wedding won't be first?

[Tywin, overhearing, freezes mid-step. The council collectively pales.]

[King's Landing Small Council Chamber, 277 AC. The room is now quiet, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind the last departing council member. King Aegon VI slumps back in his chair, rolling the tension from his shoulders, while Queen Rhaella massages her swollen belly with a tired sigh. The afternoon sun slants across the scattered parchment and half-empty wine glasses left on the table.]

AEGON VI: (rubbing temples) Seven hells. Four weddings. A possible war over wine service. And I'm fairly certain Tywin is already having golden wedding invitations minted.

RHAELLA: (laughing, then wincing) Don't make me laugh. This little dragon seems determined to kick their way out already. (pauses) You know... we never did decide who tells Cersei about the wedding order.

AEGON VI: (mock-serious) I hereby invoke my royal privilege and appoint the Master of Coin to that most sacred duty.

RHAELLA: (gasping dramatically) The betrayal! And here I thought you loved me. (playfully swats his arm) I'm revoking your wine privileges for that.

AEGON VI: (grinning) Too late. I already had the kitchens stock my chambers with Dornish red. (leans forward) Though if you'd like to negotiate...

[He reaches for her hand just as Rhaella's face suddenly contorts. A sharp inhale. Then—]

RHAELLA: (clutching the table edge) Oh.

AEGON VI: (immediately alert) "Oh"? What kind of "oh"? The "Oberyn brought another spear" oh, or the—

RHAELLA: (through gritted teeth) The "my waters just broke" oh.

[A beat of stunned silence. Then—]

AEGON VI: (leaping up so fast his chair topples) SEVEN HELLS! (rushes to door, bellowing) GUARDS! MAESTERS! EVERYONE! THE QUEEN IS— (pauses, turns back to Rhaella) Wait, shouldn't you be lying down or something?

RHAELLA: (laughing despite the pain) You idiot, fetch the midwives, not the entire Red Keep! (suddenly serious) And Aegon— (grabs his wrist) No matter what happens, you keep Tywin away from the nursery naming scrolls. Last time he suggested "Tyland" for Daeron.

AEGON VI: (kissing her knuckles) I'll bar the door myself. (yelling down hall) GWYNETH! WAKE THE DRAGONPIT KEEPERS! TELL THEM TO PREPARE THE EGG!

[Servants come running as Rhaella is carefully helped to her feet, her laughter mixing with groans of pain. The distant roar of Fenrir echoes through the palace windows—perhaps sensing the impending arrival of a new potential dragonrider. Aegon hovers like an anxious shadow, torn between royal dignity and the urge to carry her himself.]

AEGON VI: (muttering) Four weddings AND a birth. The realm will never let us hear the end of this.

RHAELLA: (smirking through panting breaths) Welcome to House Targaryen's busiest year since the Conquest, my love. Now stop fussing and— (another contraction hits) OH BLOOD OF THE DRAGON, fetch the damn midwives ALREADY!

[Chaos erupts in earnest as the Red Keep prepares for two simultaneous events: the arrival of a new prince or princess, and the very real possibility that King Aegon VI might pass out from sheer nerves before the birth even begins.]

[King's Landing – Royal Chambers, 277 AC. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the heavy drapes drawn to give Queen Rhaella peace after her labor. King Aegon VI sits in a plush armchair beside the bed, cradling the swaddled newborn prince in his arms. The last unhatched dragon egg rests on a velvet cushion nearby, its stony surface faintly warm to the touch. Rhaella, exhausted but smiling, watches them both from the bed, her silver-gold hair still damp with sweat.]

AEGON VI: (softly, to the baby) Viserys. A strong name. A kingly name.

RHAELLA: (smirking weakly) You just didn't want to name him Tywin.

AEGON VI: (grinning) Gods forbid. The man would've claimed it was a political endorsement.

[The baby stirs, tiny fingers curling, and Aegon adjusts his hold, careful not to jostle him. The dragon egg emits a faint, almost imperceptible pulse of warmth.]

RHAELLA: (eyeing the egg) Do you think…?

AEGON VI: (glancing at it) Fenrir and Tiamat took their time. This one might, too.

RHAELLA: (softly) Or it's waiting for him.

[A beat of quiet. The weight of possibility lingers—another dragonrider in the cradle, another piece of their legacy reforged. Then—]

AEGON VI: (teasing) You realize if this egg hatches for him, we'll have to build another addition to the Dragonpit. Daeron will have an aneurysm.

RHAELLA: (laughing, then wincing) Don't make me laugh. My ribs are still recovering from this one's enthusiasm.

[The baby lets out a tiny, indignant noise, as if offended. Aegon chuckles, rocking him gently.]

AEGON VI: (murmuring) Oh, you're going to be trouble, aren't you? Just like your brothers.

RHAELLA: (smiling) At least he waited until after the Small Council meeting.

AEGON VI: (snorting) Small mercies. Though I'm fairly sure Tywin's already drafting a trade agreement in his name.

RHAELLA: (rolling her eyes) Let me guess—Lannister gold for royal favor?

AEGON VI: (mock-serious) Exclusive rights to his first word. If it's "gold," Tywin wins.

[They share a quiet laugh, the kind that comes from years of surviving chaos together. The egg remains still, but the air hums with something unspoken—a future unfolding, one breath at a time.]

RHAELLA: (softly, after a moment) Do you think he'll be the last?

AEGON VI: (gazing at the baby, then at her) After today? Please let him be the last.

RHAELLA: (laughing) You say that now. Wait until he's crawling and you find him trying to ride Fenrir.

AEGON VI: (groaning) I'm abdicating. Daeron can deal with it.

[The baby coos, as if in agreement. The egg, for the first time, emits a faint, almost musical chime—like a promise. Outside, the distant roar of dragons echoes over King's Landing, as if welcoming the newest Targaryen into the world.]