[The grand living quarters of Dragonstone are bathed in the warm glow of hearthlight as Prince Daeron strides in, followed by a still-defiant Daenerys and his three children. Elia Martell sits near the fire, gently rocking a drowsy Princess Myrcella in her arms. She looks up as the group enters, her dark eyes flickering with amusement at the sight of Daenerys' disheveled hair and Daeron's exasperated expression.]
Elia: (smirking) Let me guess—she flew here without permission.
Daeron: (throwing his hands up) Thank you. At least someone understands.
Daenerys: (crossing her arms) I'm a dragonrider, not a prisoner.
Baelon: (grinning) You're definitely something.
Maekar: (nodding) Something reckless.
Rhaenys: (laughing) And loud.
[Elia shakes her head, adjusting the sleeping Myrcella in her arms before rising gracefully.]
Elia: (dryly) Well, since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. Baelon, your arithmetic scrolls are waiting. Maekar, your uncle Oberyn sent another letter about your spear training—
Maekar: (groaning) Again?
Elia: (smirking) He says you have the reflexes of a sleepy cat.
Maekar: (muttering) I hate Dorne.
Baelon: (clapping him on the back) No, you don't.
Daeron: (raising a brow) And you—(pointing at Daenerys)—are going to write Father before he sends the Kingsguard after you.
Daenerys: (grumbling) Fine. But I'm not apologizing.
Elia: (chuckling) Stubborn as your brother, I see.
Daeron: (mock-offended) I'm not stubborn.
Rhaenys: (snorting) You once argued with Uncle Stannis about taxes for three hours.
Daeron: (defensive) He was wrong.
[Elia rolls her eyes, shifting Myrcella to her hip as the toddler stirs, blinking sleepily at the sudden noise.]
Myrcella: (rubbing her eyes) Papa…?
Daeron: (softening immediately) Hello, little lion.
[He takes her from Elia, pressing a kiss to her golden curls as she nestles against his shoulder. Daenerys watches, her defiance melting slightly at the sight.]
Daenerys: (quietly) She looks like Cersei.
Elia: (gently) She has her smile.
[A beat of silence. Then—]
Baelon: (clapping his hands) Right! Who's hungry? I'm starving.
Maekar: (dryly) You're always starving.
Rhaenys: (grinning) Like a bottomless pit.
Daeron: (laughing) Go on, then. Kitchen's that way.
[The children scatter, their bickering fading down the hall. Daeron exhales, shifting Myrcella in his arms as he turns to Elia.]
Daeron: (lowering his voice) We need to talk about Maekar.
Elia: (raising a brow) Casterly Rock?
Daeron: (nodding) Tywin's… impatient.
Elia: (scoffing) Tywin's always impatient.
Daenerys: (leaning against the hearth) So the little lion's really leaving?
Daeron: (grimacing) He has to. The West won't wait forever.
[Elia studies him for a long moment before sighing.]
Elia: (softly) He'll be fine. He's your son, after all.
Daeron: (smirking) Poor Lannisters won't know what hit them.
[Myrcella yawns, her tiny fist gripping Daeron's cloak as she drifts back to sleep. Daenerys watches, an unreadable expression on her face.]
Daenerys: (muttering) Everyone's leaving.
Elia: (gently) Not everyone.
[Daeron meets her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. Then, with a shake of his head, he gestures toward the hall.]
Daeron: Come on. Let's eat before Baelon devours everything in sight.
[As they walk, the fire crackles behind them, casting long shadows against the ancient stone walls of Dragonstone.]
[The docks of Dragonstone bustle with activity as servants load supplies onto the royal vessel. Prince Daeron stands at the helm, overseeing preparations, while Elia Martell adjusts the straps of little Myrcella's traveling cloak. Nearby, Princess Daenerys leans against a crate, arms crossed, watching as Baelon and Maekar bicker over who gets the better cabin. Princess Rhaenys, ever the peacemaker, rolls her eyes and shoves them both toward the gangplank.]
Baelon: (grinning) Face it, little brother—I'm the heir. I get first pick.
Maekar: (deadpan) And I'm the future Lord of Casterly Rock. So move.
Rhaenys: (shoving them both) You're both annoying. Share a cabin like peasants for all I care.
Daenerys: (snorting) Spoken like a true princess.
Elia: (calling out) Maekar, don't forget your training sword!
Maekar: (groaning) Do I have to?
Daeron: (without turning around) Yes.
[Maekar mutters under his breath but obediently doubles back to grab the blade. Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal circle lazily, their massive shadows drifting over the ship like storm clouds.]
Daenerys: (glancing up) They're getting restless.
Daeron: (following her gaze) They'll follow. Just try not to set any sails on fire this time.
Daenerys: (mock-offended) One time.
Elia: (adjusting Myrcella's cloak) And yet, we all remember it.
[The toddler giggles, clapping her hands as if sensing the jest. Daeron smiles, ruffling her hair before turning to his sister.]
Daeron: You're sure you don't want to ride ahead?
Daenerys: (shrugging) And miss watching you get seasick? Never.
Daeron: (grumbling) I hate boats.
Elia: (smirking) The great Prince of Dragonstone, felled by a little swaying.
Baelon: (laughing) Maybe we should tie him to the mast.
Rhaenys: (brightly) Like in the old tales!
Daeron: (pointing at them) Traitors, all of you.
[The crew finishes loading, and the captain gives the signal. With a final check of the ropes, the ship begins to pull away from the dock. Drogon lets out a booming cry overhead, swooping low as if in farewell, while Rhaegal spirals higher, her emerald scales glinting in the sun.]
Daenerys: (leaning on the railing) So. First stop, Dawncrest?
Daeron: (nodding) Aegon should be expecting us.
Elia: (softly) It'll be good for Rhaenys to see her brother.
Rhaenys: (smiling) And someone has to make sure Arthur hasn't turned him into a stuffy knight already.
Maekar: (dryly) Too late.
[The ship cuts through the waves, Dragonstone shrinking behind them. The dragons soar above, their wings catching the wind as the Targaryens sail toward their futures—some to castles, some to titles, but all bound by blood and fire.]
Baelon: (grinning) Next stop—adventure!
Daeron: (groaning) Next stop—dramamine.
[Laughter rings out across the deck as the sea stretches endlessly ahead.]
[The ship docks at the small but well-maintained harbor of House Dawncrest, formerly Stokeworth. The castle's pale stone walls gleam in the afternoon sun as Prince Daeron leads his family down the gangplank. Before they can take more than a few steps, a familiar voice rings out across the courtyard.]
Aegon VII: (grinning) You're late! I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost at sea.
Daeron: (rolling his eyes) Blame your aunt. She insisted on 'testing the wind patterns' with Rhaegal.
Daenerys: (smug) And we shaved a full hour off the journey. You're welcome.
[Behind them, Drogon and Rhaegal land with earth-shaking thuds, sending a flock of startled birds into the air. Arthur Dayne steps forward, his white cloak fluttering, though his stern expression softens at the sight of Rhaenys.]
Arthur: (nodding) Your Graces. Princess.
Rhaenys: (immediately darting forward) Uncle Arthur! Have you been working Aegon to the bone?
Aegon VII: (mock-offended) Excuse me, I'll have you know I—
Arthur: (deadpan) He still holds his sword like it might bite him.
Maekar: (snorting) Sounds familiar.
Baelon: (grinning) Remember when you nearly took your own toe off?
[Elia hushes them gently as Myrcella squirms in her arms, wide-eyed at the new surroundings. Aegon VII's gaze softens when he sees the toddler.]
Aegon VII: (softly) She's gotten so big.
Elia: (smiling) Just like her father. Stubborn too.
Daeron: (feigning hurt) I'm standing right here.
Daenerys: (patting his shoulder) And we're all very proud.
[The group shares a laugh as servants begin unloading their belongings. Aegon VII gestures toward the keep.]
Aegon VII: Come on, I've had the kitchens prepare everything. There's even lemon cakes—
Rhaenys: (perking up) Lemon cakes?
Arthur: (muttering) I see some things never change.
[As they walk, Daeron falls into step beside Aegon VII, lowering his voice.]
Daeron: How are you finding it? Really.
Aegon VII: (glancing around) It's... quieter than I expected. But good. Arthur won't let me slack, and the smallfolk seem to like me well enough.
Daeron: (nodding) That's what matters.
[Ahead of them, Baelon and Maekar are already racing toward the great hall, Rhaenys hot on their heels shouting about 'proper decorum.' Daenerys shakes her head fondly while Elia adjusts Myrcella's grip on her doll.]
Arthur: (to Daeron) You're staying long?
Daeron: (smirking) Long enough for you to show me what you've taught him.
Aegon VII: (groaning) Not you too.
Daenerys: (laughing) Oh, this I have to see.
[The courtyard fills with the sound of bickering, laughter, and the distant screech of dragons—a familiar, chaotic symphony of House Targaryen.]
[The courtyard of House Dawncrest echoes with the clang of steel as Prince Baelon and Prince Aegon VII circle each other, practice swords flashing in the afternoon sun. Kingsguard Arthur Dayne stands between them, arms crossed, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The rest of the family lounges on a shaded terrace—Prince Daeron leaning against a pillar, Elia Martell bouncing Myrcella on her knee, Princess Daenerys perched on the railing, and Princess Rhaenys cheering loudly while Maekar watches with quiet amusement.]
Rhaenys: (whistling) Come on, Aegon! Or are you going to let Baelon win again?
Aegon VII: (grunting as he parries) I'm lulling him into a false sense of security!
Baelon: (grinning) Is that what we're calling it now?
[Their swords clash again, Baelon pressing forward with quick, aggressive strikes while Aegon VII holds his ground, his defense solid but unpolished. Arthur watches, nodding slightly in approval.]
Arthur: (calmly) Aegon, stop leaning into your back foot. Baelon, stop smirking—it's unbecoming.
Daenerys: (laughing) Oh, this is too good.
Elia: (shaking her head) Boys.
Daeron: (smirking) They're not that bad.
Maekar: (dryly) Says the man who isn't getting bruises.
[With a final clash, Baelon feints left before sweeping Aegon VII's legs out from under him. The future Lord of Stokeworth lands flat on his back with a thud, groaning as Baelon's practice sword taps his chest.]
Baelon: (smug) And that's how it's done.
Aegon VII: (groaning) I hate you.
Arthur: (helping him up) You'll get there. Eventually.
Rhaenys: (grinning) Maybe in another decade.
[The group laughs as Aegon VII dusts himself off, shooting them all a mock glare. Myrcella claps her tiny hands, giggling at the spectacle.]
Daeron: (pushing off the pillar) Alright, enough fun. We leave for Casterly Rock in two days—Maekar, you packed?
Maekar: (grimacing) Unfortunately.
Elia: (softly) You'll do well. Tywin won't know what hit him.
Baelon: (clapping Maekar on the back) Just don't let him talk you into shaving your head.
Aegon VII: (snorting) Or wearing all gold.
Maekar: (deadpan) I'll keep that in mind.
[The mood shifts slightly—lighter, but with the unspoken weight of their impending separation. Daenerys hops down from the railing, stretching.]
Daenerys: (lightly) Well, if you're all done being sentimental, I call next spar.
Arthur: (raising a brow) Against who?
Daenerys: (grinning) You, of course.
Arthur: (sighing) Seven help me.
[As the family dissolves into laughter and new challenges, the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard—a moment of warmth and camaraderie before the paths of House Targaryen diverge once more.]