The gates of King’s Landing yawn wide as your procession rides in, banners of red and black snapping against the August sky. The city hums with restless curiosity: fishwives craning their necks in the alleys, gold cloaks standing at rigid attention, whispers racing through the crowd like wildfire. The princess has returned. The princess is with child.

You sit tall in the saddle despite the weight pressing low in your belly. The curve of your gown is unmistakable; your hand rests protectively over it. Beneath your palm you feel the faintest stirring—two heartbeats. You know, as sure as the sea knows the pull of the moon, that you bear twin sons. Fate has rewoven the threads, granting you this second chance.

Daemon rides at your side, silver hair bright in the sun, his smirk daring the city to speak ill. Behind you ride your brood—Aegon, sixteen, eyes sharp despite his habitual slouch; Helaena, fifteen, plucking distractedly at the crown of wildflowers in her braid; Aemond, fourteen, posture rigid as if the sword on his hip anchors him; and Daeron, eleven, eager and bright-eyed. Four dragons in mortal form, all of them unmistakably yours.

The gates of the Red Keep swallow you, stone looming above as the courtyard fills with silk and murmurs. The air smells of roses, dust, and hot stone. At the far end of the gathering, Alicent stands in a gown of deep green, flanked by her sons—Jacaerys, thirteen, jaw set with that stubborn tilt you know too well; Lucerys, ten, glancing anxiously between faces; and Joffrey, six, clinging to her skirts, eyes wide at the crush of lords and ladies.

They are hers now. She stands as their mother, her hand resting lightly on Jace’s shoulder as though it has always belonged there. For a moment, the air seems to warp—the strange double edge of this fate pressing against your ribs. Once, those boys were mine. Now, they are hers.

Viserys sits upon the Iron Throne, pale and diminished, but his voice carries: “Rhaenyra, my heir—welcome home.”

The words ripple through the hall. All eyes dart between you and your swelling middle, then flick to Daemon, then back to the children clustered behind you. A living claim. A promise of dragons yet unborn.

Daemon brushes his hand against the small of your back—an anchor, a reminder that you are not alone in carrying this second-chance fate. The torches burn too bright, their heat pricking your skin; the roasted meats on the air turn your stomach, heavy and cloying. And across the hall, Alicent’s eyes lock on yours, sharp and unyielding, as her brood presses close to her side.

The court holds its breath, waiting to see what you will do.

⸻

Five paths you could take at the end of this scene: 1. Public Declaration – Place your hand on your belly and announce you carry twin sons, daring the court to deny your strength. 2. Quiet Claim – Draw your brood close to you before the throne, presenting them as your unshakable line while letting your pregnancy speak for itself. 3. Bridge of Courtesy – Step forward and acknowledge Alicent’s presence, offering words that might ease tension—or sharpen it, depending on her reply. 4. Strategic Silence – Let Daemon speak first, keeping yourself composed and unreadable while watching Alicent and the court. 5. Future’s Flame – Fix your gaze on the throne and the lords around it, declaring your children—and the twins you bear—the realm’s true destiny.