[(King's Landing Small Council Chamber - Evening. King Aegon VI sits at the head of the table, reviewing scrolls from the royal tour while Tywin Lannister paces like a caged lion. The faint sounds of the city drift through the open balcony as Tiamat circles overhead.)
Tywin: (slamming down a report) Your son is making a mess of the Vale.
Aegon VI: (not looking up) Daeron has a talent for that.
Tywin: First he upends the Greyjoy succession, then he strong-arms Brynden about Riverrun's heir, and now he's plucking Arryn children like ripe fruit—
Aegon VI: (mildly) Robert Arryn will be well cared for.
Tywin: (snarling) That's not the point! He's rewarding rebels—
Aegon VI: (finally meeting his gaze) He's preventing another war. Something you'd understand if you stopped thinking like a lion long enough to see the board.
[(A tense silence. Somewhere in the Red Keep, a servant drops a tray with a clatter.)
Tywin: (cold) And what of Hoster Tully's ambitions? His daughter still rules Winterfell while his blood sits one misstep from Riverrun and the Vale.
Aegon VI: (leaning back) Ah. Now we reach the heart of it. You're not angry about Daeron's methods—you're furious House Lannister didn't get concessions.
Tywin: (smirking) My grandson is heir to Casterly Rock. I've made my peace.
Aegon VI: (dry) How terribly convenient that Maekar looks just like his mother.
[(Tywin's hand twitches toward his wine goblet. The king's dragon screeches outside, as if sensing the tension.)
Aegon VI: (standing) The matter is settled. Robert Arryn goes to Dragonstone. Elbert keeps the Vale. And Brynden... (sighing) well, the Blackfish will outlive us all out of spite alone.
Tywin: (standing stiffly) As you say, Your Grace.
[(As Tywin storms out, Queen Rhaella enters from the side door, her expression amused.)
Rhaella: Still winning friends, I see.
Aegon VI: (rubbing temples) At least Daeron inherited your diplomacy.
Rhaella: (kissing his brow) Poor man. Come, Fenrir wants to hunt and you need the air.
[(They exit onto the balcony as the sun sets over King's Landing—the game of thrones continuing beneath them, move by calculated move.)]
[(King's Landing Courtyard - Twilight. King Aegon VI strokes Fenrir's massive snout as the golden dragon purrs like a contented cat. Nearby, Queen Rhaella feeds Tiamat strips of smoked meat, the silver-blue dragon nibbling delicately from her palm. The last light of day paints the Red Keep in hues of fire.)
Rhaella: (brushing scales from her gown) The Northern ravens grow more frequent. Another village gone silent near the Shadow Tower.
Aegon VI: (frowning) And still the lords scoff. "Old Nan's tales," they say.
Fenrir: (snorting smoke)
Tiamat: (echoing the sentiment with a huff)
Rhaella: (dry) Our children seem more convinced.
Aegon VI: (grunting) Daeron stockpiles dragonglass like it's Dornish wine. Daemon's turned Summerhall into an armory. Even Viserys sent word from Pyke about "pointy sticks."
[(Tiamat sneezes, accidentally frosting a nearby bush. A passing servant yelps and scurries away.)
Rhaella: (patting Tiamat's muzzle) Careful, darling. We've enough rumors without you freezing the gardeners.
Aegon VI: (leaning against Fenrir) I've ordered more Valyrian steel from Qohor.
Rhaella: (raising a brow) At what cost?
Aegon VI: (wry) Our grandchildren's inheritance, likely.
[(A comfortable silence falls. Somewhere in the city, a bard begins a bawdy tune about "the cold winds rising.")
Rhaella: (softly) Do you truly believe? After eight thousand years?
Aegon VI: (watching Fenrir's eyes glow in the dusk) I believe in preparing for storms. Even those that sound like bedtime stories.
Tiamat: (suddenly snapping her head northward, growling)
Fenrir: (echoing the motion, flames licking his teeth)
Rhaella: (exchanging a look with Aegon) ...Or perhaps our dragons know something we don't.
[(High above, the first stars twinkle - indifferent watchers as the last dragons of House Targaryen scent an ancient enemy on the wind.)]
[(King's Landing Courtyard - Morning. King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella are grooming their dragons when Prince Daemon bursts in, covered in soot and grinning like a madman. Smaug's distant roar echoes from the Dragonpit.)
Daemon: (spreading his arms) Good news! The Stokeworths have officially vacated their castle!
Rhaella: (sighing) Let me guess—there were flames involved?
Daemon: (innocently) Only light scorching. Mostly for dramatic effect.
Fenrir: (snorting smoke in what might be dragon laughter)
Aegon VI: (pinching the bridge of his nose) How many "dramatic effects" did it take this time?
Daemon: (counting on fingers) Well, first we did a low flyby during breakfast. Then we burned their favorite haystack. Then—
Rhaella: (cutting in) Gods spare us the details.
Aegon VI: (dry) And the castle?
Daemon: (grinning) Pristine! Well... mostly. There might be some new "skylights" in the stables.
Tiamat: (chuffing as if amused)
Aegon VI: (sighing) So House Dawncrest now officially holds lands that smell of dragon smoke.
Daemon: (clapping) Exactly! Little Aegon VII can move in whenever he likes. Though he might want to bring air fresheners.
Rhaella: (muttering) I'm surrounded by pyromaniacs.
Daemon: (kissing her cheek) You love us anyway.
[(Fenrir suddenly sneezes, setting a nearby bush aflame. Daemon whoops while servants scramble with buckets. The royal family watches the chaos—another normal day in King's Landing.)]
[(Storm's End Bedchamber - Evening. Alyssa Targaryen sits propped against pillows, exhausted but smiling as she cradles newborn Shirleen Baratheon. The room smells of herbs and candle wax. Suddenly the door bursts open as the Baratheon men pile in, led by a stiff-backed Stannis.)
Stannis: (grimacing at the noise) Quietly.
Steffon: (booming anyway) Another Baratheon! Strong as a bull!
Renly: (peering at the bundle) She's... very wrinkled.
Stefan: (age 6, solemn) Like Father.
Stannis: (ignoring this) You're well?
Alyssa: (smirking) Aside from being trampled by a herd of stags? Perfect.
Steffon: (leaning in) Good lungs on this one! Heard her screaming from the training yard!
Shirleen: (as if on cue, wailing)
Renly: (wincing) Definitely a Baratheon.
Stannis: (awkwardly patting Alyssa's hand) You... did adequately.
Alyssa: (dry) Such praise. I may swoon.
Stefan: (tugging Stannis' sleeve) Can I hold her?
Steffon: (scooping him up) Aye, but sit down first! Last time you dropped your practice sword on your foot.
[(As the Baratheons arrange themselves into an improbably careful baby-passing chain, Alyssa exchanges an amused look with Stannis—this chaotic, loud family is hers now, for better or worse.)]