[The sun hangs high over King's Landing, casting a warm glow over the Red Keep's courtyard. King Aegon VI stands beside his dragon, Fenrir, running a hand along the beast's scaled neck. The dragon rumbles contentedly, its golden eyes half-lidded in the afternoon light. The peace is interrupted as Prince Daeron of Dragonstone strides into the courtyard, his boots clicking against the stone.]
Daeron: (bowing slightly) Father. Fenrir looks well-rested.
Aegon VI: (turning with a small smile) He is. The skies have been calm lately - no need for him to stretch his wings beyond short flights.
Daeron: (folding his hands behind his back) A rare peace, these days. Though I imagine that won't last.
Aegon VI: (chuckling) When has it ever? But come, walk with me. I've been meaning to speak with you about your siblings.
[They begin strolling along the courtyard path, Fenrir lazily trailing behind them like an overgrown hound.]
Daeron: Viserys and Daenerys? What of them?
Aegon VI: (sighing) They're of an age where marriage alliances must be considered. Viserys has been dutiful in the Iron Islands, but he cannot play overseer forever. And Daenerys... well.
Daeron: (raising a brow) You have matches in mind.
Aegon VI: (nodding) Robb Stark.
Daeron: (pausing) Lyanna's nephew?
Aegon VI: (grimacing slightly) A bitter irony, I know. But the boy is strong, loyal, and it would finally mend things with the North.
Daeron: (thoughtfully) And Viserys?
Aegon VI: (smirking) Ah, now that's where it gets interesting. The Tyrells have been... persistent. Margaery is a clever girl, and they've made no secret of wanting her wed to Baelon.
Daeron: (snorting) Even though he's already betrothed to Rhaenys?
Aegon VI: (shrugging) Ambition makes men bold. The other option is Arianne Martell.
Daeron: (frowning) Elia's niece. That would please Dorne.
Aegon VI: (nodding) It would. But I want your thoughts. You know the players better than most.
Daeron: (crossing his arms) Margaery would bind the Reach tighter to us, but the Tyrells are already well-favored. Arianne secures Dorne completely, and gods know we've strained that alliance enough.
Aegon VI: (grinning) Spoken like a true Prince of Dragonstone.
Daeron: (dryly) I live to serve.
[Fenrir lets out a huff, nudging Aegon's shoulder impatiently.]
Aegon VI: (patting the dragon's snout) Yes, yes, I know. You want to fly.
Daeron: (watching them) You're still taking him out today?
Aegon VI: (smirking) Unless you'd rather do it for me.
Daeron: (holding up his hands) I'll leave the dragon-riding to you, Father. I have enough to manage with my own.
Aegon VI: (laughing) Wise man. Go on, then. We'll speak more on this later.
[Daeron bows again before turning to leave, while Aegon VI climbs onto Fenrir's back. With a powerful beat of wings, dragon and king take to the skies, leaving the courtyard in shadow for just a moment before the sun returns.]
[The morning sun glints off the black scales of Drogon as Prince Daeron fastens the last strap of his saddle, his squire handing him a travel satchel. Just as he's about to mount, the sharp click of hurried footsteps interrupts him. Princess Daenerys stands there, arms crossed, her silver-gold hair slightly windswept as if she had rushed here.]
Daenerys: (breathless) You're leaving again?
Daeron: (pausing, turning to her) It's called ruling, sister. Dragonstone doesn't govern itself.
Daenerys: (scowling) And what am I supposed to do here? Sit in the gardens and pretend I enjoy embroidery?
Daeron: (raising a brow) You could focus on finishing your dragonrider training. Then maybe Father would let you take Rhaegal beyond the city.
Daenerys: (muttering) I would be done if Ser Barristan wasn't so insufferably slow with his lessons.
Daeron: (snorting) Or if you didn't keep sneaking off to the Dragonpit when no one's looking.
Daenerys: (defensive) I'm better than half the so-called riders at court!
Daeron: (patting Drogon's flank) And yet, here you are, grounded.
Daenerys: (grumbling) It's not fair. Viserys got to leave.
Daeron: (dryly) Viserys is babysitting a rebellious island and a bastard with a claim. You call that freedom?
Daenerys: (throwing her hands up) At least he's doing something! Meanwhile, I'm stuck here with Mother fussing over my dress fittings and Father treating me like I'm still a child.
Daeron: (sighing) You are the youngest.
Daenerys: (muttering) And the most capable.
Daeron: (grinning) Modest, too.
[She glares at him, but there's no real heat in it. Drogon shifts impatiently, his tail flicking like an annoyed cat.]
Daeron: (sobering) Look, if you're that desperate for something to do, go bother Daemon in Summerhall. Or visit Alyssa in Storm's End.
Daenerys: (wrinkling her nose) And listen to Stannis drone on about tariffs and grain stores? No, thank you.
Daeron: (shrugging) Then stay here and practice. Or—(smirking)—you could always volunteer to join Viserys in the Iron Islands. I hear the salt air does wonders for the complexion.
Daenerys: (grimacing) I'd rather marry a Dothraki.
Daeron: (laughing) Careful. Father might take that as a suggestion.
[She huffs, kicking at a loose pebble. After a beat, her expression softens.]
Daenerys: (quietly) It's just… lonely.
Daeron: (pausing, studying her) …You miss him.
Daenerys: (not meeting his eyes) Viserys is insufferable. But at least he's here. Now it's just me and the courtiers, all of them whispering about who I'll be sold off to next.
Daeron: (sighing) No one's selling you, Dany.
Daenerys: (raising a brow) Robb Stark? Really?
Daeron: (grinning) Ah. So you've heard.
Daenerys: (dryly) The whole kingdom has heard.
Daeron: (shrugging) It's politics. But if you hate the idea that much, tell Father.
Daenerys: (muttering) He won't listen.
Daeron: (firmly) He will. He always does.
[She doesn't look convinced. Drogon lets out a low rumble, nudging Daeron's shoulder as if to say hurry up.]
Daeron: (climbing into the saddle) I have to go. But if you're truly bored… (grinning) sneak out. Take Rhaegal for a short flight. Just don't get caught.
Daenerys: (eyes lighting up) You're encouraging treason now?
Daeron: (winking) Call it… royal initiative.
[With that, Drogon spreads his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking Daenerys back a step. She shields her eyes as her brother and his dragon take to the skies. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face as she turns on her heel—heading straight for the Dragonpit.]
[The Red Keep's balcony offers a sweeping view of the city below, the Blackwater Rush glittering under the midday sun. King Aegon VI leans against the marble railing, watching the distant shapes of Drogon and Rhaegal grow smaller against the horizon. Beside him, Queen Rhaella sighs, her silver-gold hair stirring in the breeze.]
Rhaella: (shaking her head) She actually snuck out.
Aegon VI: (chuckling) Daeron probably dared her.
Rhaella: (raising a brow) And you're not sending the Kingsguard after her?
Aegon VI: (grinning) Why? She's with her brother, flying her own dragon. Let her have this.
Rhaella: (muttering) You spoil her.
Aegon VI: (smirking) And you don't?
[She swats his arm lightly, but there's no real reproach in it. Below them, the city bustles—merchants shouting, children laughing, the distant clang of steel from the training yard. A rare quiet moment for the king and queen.]
Rhaella: (sobering) They're all leaving, aren't they?
Aegon VI: (nodding) It was always going to happen. Daeron has Dragonstone. Daemon and Alyssa have their own seats. Viserys is in the Iron Islands. And now Daenerys…
Rhaella: (softly) …Might be the future Lady of Winterfell.
Aegon VI: (glancing at her) You don't approve?
Rhaella: (sighing) It's not that. It's just… (gesturing vaguely) Snow. Starks. After everything.
Aegon VI: (leaning back) Lyanna's son is half-Targaryen. And Robb Stark is Ned's blood. If this mends the North to us, it's worth it.
Rhaella: (raising a brow) And Viserys? Arriane Martell?
Aegon VI: (grinning) Oh, he'll hate that.
Rhaella: (laughing) He'll sulk for a year.
Aegon VI: (nodding) And then he'll realize Dorne has better wine.
[They fall into comfortable silence, watching the sky. Then—]
Rhaella: (frowning) The dragons.
Aegon VI: (grimacing) I know.
Rhaella: Fenrir and Tiamat haven't produced an egg in years. And if something happens to one of our children…
Aegon VI: (grim) Their dragons won't accept new riders easily. Not without a fresh clutch.
Rhaella: (dryly) Maybe we should lock them in the Dragonpit together. Light some candles. Play soft music.
Aegon VI: (snorting) If only it were that simple.
Rhaella: (teasing) You're the king. Command them to mate.
Aegon VI: (laughing) "By royal decree, you two will—*"
[Fenrir, sprawled across the courtyard below, lets out a disgruntled snort, as if offended by the very idea. Tiamat, perched on a tower nearby, flicks her tail dismissively.]
Rhaella: (sighing) Even the dragons are stubborn.
Aegon VI: (grinning) They take after their riders.
[She leans into him, and for a moment, it's just the two of them—no court, no politics, no looming wars. Just the wind, the sun, and the distant echo of wings.]
Rhaella: (softly) We did alright, didn't we?
Aegon VI: (kissing her temple) Better than most.
[Below them, Fenrir finally lumbers to his feet, stretching his wings with a yawn. Tiamat watches him, golden eyes unreadable. Then, with a huff, she takes off into the sky—Fenrir following after a beat, as if he'd been waiting for her all along.]
Aegon VI: (smirking) …Maybe there's hope yet.
Rhaella: (laughing) Seven help us all.
[And as the dragons soar into the clouds, the king and queen watch—together, as they always have been.]
[The dark volcanic stone of Dragonstone's courtyard echoes with the heavy beats of dragon wings as Drogon and Rhaegal descend. Prince Daeron dismounts first, his expression stern as he turns to watch his sister land. Princess Daenerys hops off Rhaegal with far less grace, her silver-gold hair windswept and her cheeks flushed from the flight. Before she can even smirk, Daeron points a finger at her.]
Daeron: (irritated) That was reckless.
Daenerys: (rolling her eyes) Oh, please. I've flown Rhaegal a hundred times.
Daeron: (glaring) Without permission. Without guards. If Father—
Daenerys: (cutting him off) If Father didn't want me flying, he shouldn't have given me a dragon.
[Before Daeron can retort, the heavy doors of the keep burst open, and three children come sprinting across the courtyard—Prince Baelon, tall for his age with his mother's golden hair, Prince Maekar, serious and dark-eyed like his father, and Princess Rhaenys, her Dornish features sharp with excitement.]
Baelon: (grinning) You're late!
Maekar: (crossing arms) We've been waiting forever.
Rhaenys: (smirking) Did Aunt Daenerys get you in trouble again?
Daenerys: (mock-offended) Excuse me—
Daeron: (pinching the bridge of his nose) Yes. She did.
Baelon: (laughing) Typical.
[Daenerys sticks her tongue out at him, making Rhaenys giggle. Maekar, ever the dutiful one, steps forward, his expression solemn.]
Maekar: (serious) Father. About Casterly Rock…
Daeron: (softening) I know. We'll discuss it inside.
Rhaenys: (bouncing) And Aegon? You promised we'd visit him!
Daeron: (nodding) And we will. But first—(glaring at Daenerys)—someone needs to explain to your stepmother why she has an unexpected guest.
Daenerys: (groaning) Elia's going to lecture me, isn't she?
Baelon: (grinning) Like a septa with a grudge.
Maekar: (deadpan) You deserve it.
[Daenerys shoves him lightly, but there's no real heat in it. As the children bicker, Daeron exhales, shaking his head. The dragons, now settled in the courtyard, watch the chaos with lazy amusement. Drogon huffs, as if to say you deal with them.]
Daeron: (muttering) I need wine.
Daenerys: (clapping him on the shoulder) Lead the way, brother.
[With that, the Targaryens—young and old—disappear into the ancient halls of Dragonstone, the sound of their laughter echoing off the stone dragons that guard the keep.]