[(The bustling docks of House Dawncrest's port are alive with activity as sailors prepare the royal vessel for departure. Prince Daeron stands near the gangplank, checking provisions with the ship's captain while Elia Martell adjusts Princess Myrcella's suncloak. Nearby, Princess Daenerys leans against a stack of crates, watching as Prince Baelon and Prince Maekar engage in a last-minute sparring session on the dock. Princess Rhaenys sits on a barrel, swinging her legs while teasing both brothers. Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal circle lazily in the clear blue sky. Prince Aegon VII and Ser Arthur Dayne approach from the castle path.)]
Aegon VII: (smirking) I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind about leaving.
Daeron: (grinning) And miss seeing Tywin's face when we deliver his new heir? Never.
Maekar: (groaning while parrying Baelon's strike) I still think this is a terrible idea.
Baelon: (laughing) Oh come on, little brother! Think of all the gold you'll get to count.
Elia: (adjusting Myrcella's cloak) Be nice to your brother. He's about to endure Grandfather Tywin's... particular brand of hospitality.
Daenerys: (snorting) I'd rather face the Dothraki sea than be alone with that man for a moon's turn.
Arthur Dayne: (chuckling) He's not that bad once you learn to appreciate his... directness.
Rhaenys: (hopping down from the barrel) You mean his complete lack of humor and overwhelming arrogance?
Aegon VII: (grinning) She's not wrong.
Daeron: (checking the ship's manifest) Regardless, we need to make tide. Maekar, are you packed?
Maekar: (sheathing his practice sword) Unfortunately. Though I still don't understand why I need twelve different ceremonial doublets.
Baelon: (clapping him on the back) Because Lannisters love pointless displays of wealth, little brother.
Elia: (handing Myrcella to a nursemaid) You'll do fine. Just remember - you're a prince of House Targaryen first, a Lannister heir second.
Aegon VII: (walking to stand beside Maekar) And if Tywin gives you too much trouble, just remind him you have a dragon-riding family.
Arthur: (raising an eyebrow) I wouldn't recommend that exact phrasing.
Daenerys: (grinning) I would.
Daeron: (shaking his head) Enough. We sail within the hour. Aegon - (clasping his stepson's shoulder) - you have everything you need here?
Aegon VII: (nodding) Arthur's been an excellent teacher. And the smallfolk seem to appreciate not being Stokeworths anymore.
Rhaenys: (hugging her brother) Write often. And don't let Arthur work you too hard.
Arthur: (mock-offended) I'm the soul of restraint.
Baelon: (snorting) Says the man who made me do footwork drills for six hours straight.
Daeron: (checking the sky) Drogon and Rhaegal will follow by air. (Turning to Daenerys) Try not to set anything on fire this time.
Daenerys: (crossing her arms) That was one time! And it was barely a small fire!
Elia: (smiling) Our definition of 'small' may differ, dear sister.
[As the family shares a laugh, the ship's horn sounds, signaling final boarding. The group exchanges farewells - backslaps between the brothers, a rare hug from Maekar to Aegon VII, and Elia pressing a kiss to Rhaenys' forehead. Daeron gives final instructions to Arthur before leading his family up the gangplank. On the dock, Aegon VII and Arthur stand watching as the ship prepares to depart, the two dragons circling above. The sails unfurl, catching the wind as the vessel begins its journey westward, toward Casterly Rock and Maekar's new future as a Lannister heir.]
[(The courtyard of the Red Keep bustles with activity as servants load the last of Lord Tywin's belongings onto his wheelhouse. The aging Hand of the King adjusts his leather gloves, surveying the preparations with his characteristic stern expression. Just as he's about to mount his horse, King Aegon VI approaches, his dragon-riding boots clicking against the stone pavement. Fenrir, the king's massive dragon, lounges nearby, eyeing the proceedings with lazy interest.)]
Tywin: (without turning) Your Grace. Come to see me off personally? How touching.
Aegon VI: (smirking) Someone needs to make sure you actually leave. I hear the Rock has been missing its lion.
Tywin: (finally facing the king) The Rock has been perfectly managed in my absence. Unlike certain other kingdoms I could mention.
Aegon VI: (chuckling) Ah yes, because the Westerlands are such a paragon of peace and prosperity. How many rebellions was it last year? Two? Three?
Tywin: (coldly) They won't be repeating their mistakes.
[The two old friends fall into step together as servants scatter from their path. Fenrir huffs a small puff of smoke that makes a stableboy yelp.]
Aegon VI: (sobering) Maekar should arrive within the fortnight. I trust you'll go easy on him at first?
Tywin: (raising an eyebrow) He's half Lannister, half Targaryen, and a prince besides. I expect nothing less than excellence.
Aegon VI: (grinning) So the usual unreasonable standards then.
Tywin: (ignoring the jab) Jaime's daughters are bright, but...
Aegon VI: (nodding) The Rock needs a proper heir. I understand. Though I still think you're being too hard on Tyrion.
Tywin: (snorting) My son has done everything in his power to prove himself unworthy of Casterly Rock. Whoring, drinking, that ridiculous theater troupe he funds...
Aegon VI: (raising a hand) Yes, yes, we've had this discussion before. Still, the boy's clever. Could be useful if you'd let him.
Tywin: (coldly) I'd sooner see Casterly Rock crumble into the sea than let that drunken imp inherit.
[An awkward silence falls. Somewhere nearby, a servant drops a chest with a loud clatter, earning a glare from both men.]
Aegon VI: (changing the subject) Daeron tells me Maekar has been studying your letters on governance.
Tywin: (slightly mollified) The boy shows promise. More discipline than his brother, less... flamboyance than his father.
Aegon VI: (laughing) Gods help us if we had another Daeron. One is quite enough.
Tywin: (almost smiling) Your son does have a certain... dramatic flair.
[They reach Tywin's waiting horse. The Hand tests the stirrup with his boot before turning back to the king.]
Tywin: You'll manage the Small Council well enough without me?
Aegon VI: (waving a hand) Please. I ruled for decades before you became Hand. Though I'll miss your cheerful disposition at meetings.
Tywin: (dryly) How will you cope without my sunny optimism?
Aegon VI: (grinning) I'm thinking of replacing you with a mummer's monkey. About the same conversational skills, but better entertainment value.
[Tywin actually snorts at this, a rare show of amusement. He swings up into his saddle with practiced ease.]
Tywin: Expect ravens weekly. And don't let that fool Connington talk you into any of his fool schemes.
Aegon VI: (mock-saluting) Yes, my lord Hand. Safe travels. And Tywin? (more seriously) Take care of my grandson.
Tywin: (nodding) He'll be a lion when I'm through with him. Just with better table manners than most.
[With that, Tywin signals his escort and the column begins moving out. Aegon VI watches them go, Fenrir lifting his head to watch the procession with mild interest. The king sighs, knowing the capital will be quieter - and perhaps duller - without his old friend's acerbic presence.]
[(The Red Keep courtyard grows quiet as Tywin Lannister's retinue disappears through the gates. King Aegon VI stands watching, hands clasped behind his back, when the soft rustle of silk announces Queen Rhaella's arrival. Her dragon Tiamat pads behind her like an overgrown housecat, occasionally sniffing at Fenrir who huffs in response.)]
Rhaella: (smoothing her skirts) Brooding over Tywin's departure, or just enjoying the sudden peace?
Aegon VI: (chuckling) A bit of both. Though I suspect the Small Council will be far less... efficient now.
Rhaella: (smirking) You mean less terrifying. Poor Lord Varys nearly jumped out of his skin last week when Tywin cleared his throat.
[Fenrir shifts his massive bulk, nudging Aegon's shoulder like an impatient hound. The king absently scratches the dragon's snout.]
Aegon VI: He did have a particular talent for dramatic pauses.
Rhaella: (growing serious) Did you send the letter to Viserys?
Aegon VI: (sighing) This morning. Though I doubt he'll appreciate being given an ultimatum from across the continent.
Rhaella: (raising an eyebrow) You framed it as an ultimatum?
Aegon VI: (grinning) Of course not. I very diplomatically told our son he has until the next moon to choose between two brilliant political matches or I'll let Daenerys pick for him.
[Tiamat lets out a sound suspiciously like a laugh, earning a reproachful look from Fenrir.]
Rhaella: (shaking her head) You're terrible. And let me guess - you made your preference for Arianne abundantly clear?
Aegon VI: (innocently) I may have mentioned how wonderfully... stabilizing a Martell alliance would be. Repeatedly. In three separate paragraphs.
Rhaella: (laughing) Poor boy. Between your not-so-subtle hints and Oberyn's inevitable interference, he'll be married before he realizes what's happening.
Aegon VI: (sobering) The Tyrells won't be pleased.
Rhaella: (waving a hand) Let Mace Tyrell sulk. His daughter will find another lord to ensnare. Probably poor Edmure Tully if he's not careful.
[They begin walking toward the royal apartments, their dragons trailing behind like oversized shadows.]
Aegon VI: Viserys should be thanking us. Arianne is beautiful, clever, and...
Rhaella: (smirking) Not Margaery Tyrell?
Aegon VI: (shuddering) That girl frightens me. Last time she visited, I swear she had half the court wrapped around her little finger before breakfast.
Rhaella: (teasing) And here I thought nothing frightened the great Aegon the Rebuilder.
Aegon VI: (grinning) Besides my wife's temper? Very little.
[As they disappear into the keep, Fenrir and Tiamat exchange what can only be described as an exasperated look before settling in to sun themselves in the courtyard - two ancient creatures resigned to the endless drama of their human companions.]
[(The salty air of Pyke's courtyard rings with the clash of steel as Prince Viserys and Lord Aegon Snow circle each other, practice swords flashing in the grey Ironborn light. Lyanna Stark watches from a weathered stone bench, her sharp eyes missing nothing while Asha Greyjoy leans against a pillar, smirking at every near-miss. Benjen Stark referees with arms crossed, occasionally calling out advice. The massive form of Viserion dozes nearby, his pale gold scales blending with the overcast sky. The sparring match is interrupted when a harried servant named Wex hurries into the courtyard, clutching a sealed scroll.)]
Wex: (panting) M'lord! Urgent raven from King's Landing!
[Viserys lowers his sword, wiping sweat from his brow as Aegon Snow straightens up, both breathing heavily.]
Viserys: (reaching for the scroll) From Father? This ought to be good.
Lyanna: (dryly) I'm sure it's just a loving father's greeting. Nothing ominous at all.
[Viserys breaks the seal and scans the contents, his expression cycling from confusion to disbelief to outright horror.]
Aegon Snow: (grinning) That bad?
Viserys: (voice rising) He wants me to choose a bride! By next moon!
Benjen: (chuckling) Took him long enough. You're what, twenty-four?
Asha: (snatching the letter) Let me see... (scanning quickly) Oh ho! Arianne Martell or Margaery Tyrell? Your father has expensive tastes, princeling.
Lyanna: (leaning over Asha's shoulder) He's clearly favoring the Martell match. Look how he describes Arianne - "exceptionally clever, politically astute, from an ancient and noble line..."
Viserys: (groaning) He might as well have written "MARRY THIS ONE" in giant letters.
[Viserion lifts his head at his rider's distress, letting out a curious rumble that sends seabirds scattering.]
Aegon Snow: (clapping Viserys on the back) Look on the bright side - both are reportedly beautiful. And you could do worse than Dorne or the Reach.
Viserys: (running a hand through his hair) I'm not ready to be married! I'm perfectly happy here overseeing... whatever this is. (Gesturing vaguely at the Iron Islands)
Asha: (snorting) Overseeing? You spend half your time drinking with my uncles and the other half complaining about the smell of fish.
Benjen: (grinning) And yet you've grown on us, like a particularly persistent barnacle.
[Lyanna takes the letter back, studying it with a practiced eye.]
Lyanna: (muttering) He's not giving you much choice, is he? The phrasing here... "should you find yourself unable to decide, your sister Daenerys has graciously offered to provide counsel."
Viserys: (horrified) Seven hells! Daenerys would pick whichever choice would annoy me most!
Aegon Snow: (laughing) So basically you have until the next raven arrives to make up your mind, or your life becomes infinitely worse.
[Viserys flops dramatically onto a nearby bench, covering his face with his hands as Viserion pads over to nudge him sympathetically with his snout.]
Viserys: (muffled) Why can't I just marry someone from the Iron Islands? At least they understand me!
Asha: (raising an eyebrow) My uncles would skin you alive if you tried courting any of their daughters. Bad enough a Stark-blood rules us, never mind a dragonrider.
Lyanna: (smirking) Face it, Viserys. You're doomed to political matrimony like every other noble. The only question is - do you want roses or suns?
[The group dissolves into laughter as Viserys groans louder, while above them, the ever-present seabirds seem to caw in mocking agreement.]