[(Casterly Rock's grand courtyard, bathed in the golden light of early morning. The massive gates creak open as Prince Daeron Targaryen descends from Drogon, his black dragon letting out a low growl before settling. Nearby, a carriage arrives, and Princess Elia Martell steps out, smoothing her gown. Awaiting them are Ser Jaime Lannister, clad in his white Kingsguard armor, Tyrion Lannister with his usual smirk, and Kevan Lannister, stern-faced as ever.)]
Jaime Lannister: (grinning) "Ah, the royal couple graces us with their presence. Tell me, Daeron, does flying in on that beast ever get old, or do you just enjoy making the rest of us feel inadequate?"
Daeron Targaryen: (deadpan) "It never gets old, Jaime. Though I suppose you wouldn't know—being confined to the ground must be terribly dull."
Tyrion Lannister: (chuckling) "Spoken like a man who's never had to endure a Lannister feast on foot. Trust me, riding a dragon would be the only way to survive the wine."
Elia Martell: (smiling faintly) "A sentiment I can agree with. Though I prefer the comfort of a carriage. Less wind in the hair, more dignity intact."
Kevan Lannister: (clearing his throat) "Your Graces, welcome to Casterly Rock. We've prepared chambers for your stay. I trust your journey was… uneventful?"
Daeron: (nodding) "As uneventful as traveling with a dragon can be. Though we did hear some interesting rumors along the way."
Jaime: (raising a brow) "Oh? Do tell. We've been starved for good gossip since Father left for King's Landing."
Tyrion: "Speak for yourself. I've been thoroughly entertained watching Uncle Kevan try to balance the books without Tywin's iron fist."
Kevan: (ignoring Tyrion) "What rumors, Your Grace?"
Elia: (smoothly) "Nothing too concerning. Just whispers about your brother's… preferences in naming heirs."
Jaime: (laughing) "Ah, so you've heard about our dear nephew Maekar being groomed for Casterly Rock. Father always did have a flair for the dramatic."
Tyrion: "Dramatic? More like predictable. He'd sooner hand the Rock to a trained monkey than let me inherit."
Daeron: (dryly) "A shame. I'd have paid good gold to see that."
Jaime: "Don't encourage him. The last thing we need is Tyrion with a crown and a barrel of wine."
Elia: (tilting her head) "And yet, here we are, with your line in question. Jaime, you do have daughters. Why not name one as heir?"
Jaime: (shrugging) "Because Father believes a woman ruling Casterly Rock would be as likely as Tyrion giving up wine. Which is to say—never."
Tyrion: "A cruel but accurate assessment."
Kevan: (stern) "Enough. This is not a matter for jest. The succession has been decided. Prince Maekar is to be Jaime's heir, and that is final."
Daeron: (crossing his arms) "And yet, Tywin is still in King's Landing, whispering in my father's ear. Who's to say he won't change his mind again?"
Jaime: (grinning) "Ah, so that's why you're here. Not just for the wine and scenery. You're scouting the battlefield."
Elia: (smoothly) "We're here to strengthen ties between our houses. Nothing more."
Tyrion: (snorting) "Of course. And I'm here for my charming personality."
Daeron: (ignoring Tyrion) "Jaime, you're still first in line. If Tywin pushes Maekar past you, it sets a dangerous precedent."
Jaime: (leaning in) "And what would you have me do, Daeron? Challenge my own father? Last I checked, that didn't end well for your brother."
(A tense silence falls.)
Elia: (softly) "We're not here to stir conflict. Only to understand where House Lannister stands."
Kevan: (firmly) "House Lannister stands with the Crown. As we always have."
Tyrion: (raising his cup) "And with that, I propose a toast—to alliances, inheritances, and the endless headache of family politics."
Jaime: (clinking his cup) "Hear, hear."
Daeron: (after a pause, raising his own) "To family."
(The group drinks, the unspoken tensions lingering beneath the surface as the sun climbs higher over Casterly Rock.)
[(The courtyard of Casterly Rock, now quieter as the afternoon sun casts long shadows. Prince Daeron sits on a stone bench, swirling a goblet of wine. Jaime leans against a pillar, arms crossed, while Tyrion lounges on the steps nearby, refilling his own cup. The air is thick with unspoken history.)]
Jaime Lannister: (smirking) "You know, Daeron, if you wanted to reminisce about my dear departed sister, you could've just sent a raven. No need to fly all this way."
Daeron Targaryen: (flatly) "I didn't come here to reminisce. I came to drink."
Tyrion Lannister: (raising his cup) "A man after my own heart. Though, if we're being honest, you did marry her. That usually entails some level of... reflection."
Daeron: (grimacing) "A political match. One my father insisted on to keep your house from getting ideas about the throne."
Jaime: (chuckling darkly) "Ah, yes. Because nothing says loyalty like forcing a spare prince to wed a Lannister just in case the heir dropped dead."
Tyrion: "And then—shockingly—the heir did drop dead. Along with Robert Baratheon. Almost as if the gods have a sense of irony."
Daeron: (glancing at Jaime) "You don't seem broken up about it."
Jaime: (shrugging) "Why would I be? Rhaegar was your brother, not mine. And Cersei... well. She got what she wanted in the end. A crown, even if it wasn't the one she expected."
(A heavy pause.)
Tyrion: (leaning forward) "You know, I always wondered—did you ever like her? Or was it all duty and dragonfire?"
Daeron: (sipping his wine) "She was... determined. Ambitious. A proper Lannister."
Jaime: (raising a brow) "That's not an answer."
Daeron: (meeting his gaze) "And what would you have me say, Jaime? That I loved her? That I mourned her? You knew her better than I ever did."
(Jaime's smirk fades slightly.)
Tyrion: (quickly) "Ah, yes. The forbidden bond between twins. A tale as old as time. Or at least as old as House Lannister's pride."
Jaime: (dryly) "Careful, little brother. You're treading on thin wine."
Tyrion: "Oh, please. If I had a gold dragon for every time someone whispered about you and Cersei, I'd own the Rock outright."
Daeron: (studying Jaime) "Did you resent me for it? The marriage?"
Jaime: (pausing, then exhaling) "At first, maybe. But it wasn't your fault. Just another move in the game."
Tyrion: "A game you both lost, in a way. Jaime stuck in white armor, Cersei dead in childbirth, and you, Daeron, now married to your brother's widow. The gods do love their patterns."
Daeron: (frowning) "Elia is different."
Jaime: (grinning again) "Oh? Do tell. Is it the Dornish temper? The fact that she actually likes you?"
Tyrion: "Or the fact that you're now living the life Rhaegar threw away?"
(Daeron's grip tightens on his cup.)
Daeron: (lowly) "Careful, Tyrion."
Jaime: (holding up a hand) "Easy. He's not wrong. You are walking in Rhaegar's footsteps. Just... with fewer prophecies and more common sense."
Daeron: (grim) "I won't make his mistakes."
Tyrion: "Says every man before he makes them."
Jaime: (leaning in) "Then why remarry at all? You've got heirs. Baelon, Maekar, Myrcella. You didn't need Elia."
Daeron: (quietly) "Dorne needed peace. My father needed alliances. And I... needed to prove I wasn't him."
(Silence. Even Tyrion doesn't jest.)
Jaime: (finally) "Well. At least you didn't run off with a Stark this time."
Tyrion: (snorting) "Give it time. The tour's not over yet."
Daeron: (standing abruptly) "I should check on Elia."
Jaime: (raising his cup) "Of course. Wouldn't want history repeating itself too closely."
(Daeron shoots him a look but says nothing as he walks off. Tyrion watches him go, then turns to Jaime.)
Tyrion: "You're enjoying this a bit too much."
Jaime: (smirking) "Someone has to. Father's not here to scowl, and Cersei's not here to scheme. Might as well have fun while we can."
Tyrion: (raising his cup) "To the Lannister legacy, then. A never-ending cycle of pride, poor decisions, and wine."
Jaime: (clinking his cup) "Hear, hear."
(They drink as the sun dips lower, the shadows stretching across the courtyard like ghosts of the past.)
[(The courtyard of Casterly Rock buzzes with activity as servants load supplies onto a waiting ship. Prince Daeron stands beside Drogon, checking the dragon's saddle straps, while Elia Martell oversees the final preparations for her voyage by sea. Jaime and Tyrion watch from the sidelines, wine cups in hand, as the salty breeze rolls in from the Sunset Sea.)]
Tyrion Lannister: (raising his cup) "Ah, the grand finale of the royal tour! Off to the Reach, where the wine flows like water and the Tyrells pretend they aren't the most ambitious roses in the garden."
Jaime Lannister: (grinning) "Just pray Olenna doesn't decide Daeron would make a better match for Margaery. I hear she's already plotting that girl's third marriage, and she's not even flowered yet."
Elia Martell: (dryly, without turning around) "I'd like to see her try."
Daeron Targaryen: (smirking as he tightens a buckle on Drogon's saddle) "Careful, my love. That almost sounded like jealousy."
Elia: (finally glancing over, arching a brow) "Call it Dornish practicality. I didn't survive one royal marriage to lose my second to a rose bush."
Tyrion: (laughing) "Spoken like a true Martell. Though, if I were you, I'd be more worried about Mace Tyrell's endless feasts. The man could talk a starving man to death with his descriptions of lemon cakes."
Jaime: (nodding) "True. If you thought our family was insufferable, just wait until you hear him wax poetic about the historical significance of Arbor gold vintages."
Daeron: (patting Drogon's flank) "I'll take my chances. At least if it gets unbearable, I can always fly away."
Elia: (smoothing her skirts) "And I'll be stuck on a ship with nothing but sailors and my thoughts. How thrilling."
Tyrion: (mock-sympathetic) "Ah, but think of the peace! No dragons roaring overhead, no husband brooding over maps—just the sound of the waves and the sweet, sweet silence of being ignored by politics for a few days."
Elia: (smirking) "You're almost making me look forward to it."
Jaime: (leaning against a pillar) "So, after Highgarden, back to King's Landing? Or does the royal tour have a surprise encore?"
Daeron: (exhaling) "King's Landing. My father wants a full report before the small council. And, no doubt, a thorough interrogation about how every lord we visited really feels about the crown."
Tyrion: "Ah, yes. Because nothing says trust like sending your heir to spy on your own vassals."
Jaime: (grinning) "Spying? Please. Daeron just rides in on a dragon, glares at everyone, and lets them assume he knows their secrets. It's genius, really."
Daeron: (deadpan) "I'm standing right here."
Elia: (shaking her head) "And yet, somehow, they still talk as if you aren't."
(A servant approaches, bowing.)
Servant: "Your Graces, the ship is ready to depart at your leisure."
Elia: (nodding) "Thank you." (To Daeron) "Try not to burn down any fields on your way. The Tyrells are touchy about their crops."
Daeron: (rolling his eyes) "I'll keep the accidental infernos to a minimum."
Tyrion: (raising his cup) "To the royal couple—may your dragons be fearsome, your wine be strong, and your in-laws be tolerable."
Jaime: (clinking his cup against Tyrion's) "Hear, hear."
Daeron: (mounting Drogon) "Try not to overthrow Casterly Rock while we're gone."
Jaime: (grinning) "No promises."
Tyrion: "If we do, we'll name it Tyrion's Folly in your honor."
(With a final shake of her head, Elia turns toward the ship, while Drogon spreads his wings, the gust sending Tyrion's wine sloshing. As the dragon takes to the sky and the ship's sails unfurl, Jaime and Tyrion watch them go—one with amusement, the other with a wistful smirk.)
Tyrion: (sighing) "And so the realm's most awkward family reunion comes to an end."
Jaime: (clapping him on the shoulder) "Cheer up. At least we still have all the wine."
Tyrion: (grinning) "Now that's a cause worth toasting."
(They raise their cups once more as the sun dips below the horizon, the distant shadow of Drogon fading into the twilight.)
[(The lush gardens of Highgarden are in full bloom as Drogon's shadow sweeps across the courtyard. Prince Daeron dismounts just as Elia's carriage rolls through the gates. Olenna Tyrell sits perched on a shaded bench like a queen on her throne, while Mace Tyrell waddles forward, arms outstretched in greeting. A dozen rose-scented attendants flutter about.)]
Mace Tyrell: (booming) "Prince Daeron! Princess Elia! What an honor! What a pleasure! What a-"
Olenna Tyrell: (cutting in) "What a predictable greeting. Do sit down, Mace, before you strain something."
Daeron Targaryen: (bowing slightly) "Lady Olenna. Lord Mace. Your hospitality is... overwhelming."
Elia Martell: (smirking) "Quite literally. I counted no less than twelve flower arches between the gate and here."
Olenna: (sniffing) "My son believes subtlety is something that happens to other people. Do try the lemon cakes - they're the only thing here that doesn't smell like a perfumed brothel."
Mace: (blustering) "Mother! Our guests just arrived and you're-"
Olenna: "And they've had a long journey. They don't need your endless prattling about crop rotations, Mace."
(A servant offers wine. Elia accepts while Daeron eyes the golden goblet warily.)
Daeron: "We appreciate the welcome. Though I suspect you've been preparing more than just refreshments."
Olenna: (smiling like a sharp knife) "Clever boy. Of course we have. Margaery! Stop hiding behind the topiary and greet our guests properly."
(A stunning young girl of about ten emerges from behind a rose bush, executing a perfect curtsy.)
Margaery Tyrell: "Your Graces. Grandmother says I must practice my courtesies since I'll likely marry one of your sons someday."
Elia: (choking on her wine) "I- what?"
Olenna: (innocently) "Did I say that? How careless of me. Though between us, Princess, better my Margaery than some Northern brute like your first gooddaughter."
Daeron: (pinching the bridge of his nose) "Lady Olenna, we've been here less than five minutes."
Mace: (nervously) "Perhaps we should discuss the upcoming harvest festival! The largest in seven years! We've prepared-"
Olenna: "Oh do shut up about turnips, Mace. The dragon prince didn't fly all this way to hear about vegetable yields." (Turning to Daeron) "You're here because your father wants to know where we stand. The answer is: on top, as always."
Elia: (raising a brow) "That's remarkably direct."
Olenna: "At my age, subtlety is a waste of good years. The Reach prospers, the Tyrells are loyal, and we'd appreciate not being dragged into whatever foolishness the Tullys and Arryns are still sulking about."
Daeron: (nodding) "A sentiment my father shares."
Margaery: (sweetly) "Does Prince Baelon like roses? I could send some to Dragonstone."
Elia: (deadpan) "Gods help me."
Olenna: (patting Margaery's head) "The child has ambition. You should appreciate that, Princess. After all, it wasn't meekness that kept Dorne independent all these years."
Mace: (desperate to change subject) "We've prepared the finest chambers! With views of the-"
Olenna: "Yes yes, the view is spectacular, the beds are soft, and the walls are thick enough that you two can finally give us another prince to marry off without the whole castle listening in."
Daeron: (turning slightly red) "I think I preferred the subtle threats about politics."
Elia: (standing abruptly) "Perhaps we should retire to those chambers now. Before my husband accidentally sets the gardens on fire."
Olenna: (grinning) "Finally, someone with sense. Mace, stop gawking and show them the way. And Margaery - stop planning your wedding. You've got at least six years before we need to worry about that."
(As they're led away, Drogon lets out a smoky snort from the courtyard.)
Daeron: (muttering) "Remind me why we didn't just fly straight back to King's Landing?"
Elia: (equally quiet) "Because your father would never believe the Reach is secure unless you suffered through this yourself."
Olenna: (calling after them) "Do try the peach tarts at dinner! I had the cook add a special Dornish pepper blend just for you, Princess!"
(The royal couple exchanges a look of exhausted amusement as they disappear into the castle, the scent of roses and political maneuvering heavy in the air.)
[(The grand dining hall of Highgarden is awash in golden candlelight, with elaborate floral centerpieces threatening to overtake the table. Daeron and Elia sit at the head, flanked by Olenna and Mace, while Margaery observes with keen interest. Servants circulate with dishes of peacock stuffed with figs, while a bard plays annoyingly pleasant music in the corner.)]
Mace Tyrell: (waving a roasted quail leg) "Such happy news about Prince Baelon and Princess Rhaenys' betrothal! A joining of Dragonstone and Dorne! Though if I may say, the Reach produces far lovelier-"
Olenna: (slapping his hand down) "Mace, if you suggest another Tyrell marriage in that tone, I'll have you eating in the stables."
Elia Martell: (sipping her wine) "The match does please me. My daughter deserves a husband who understands Dornish ways."
Margaery Tyrell: (sweetly) "Prince Baelon must be very brave to marry a woman older than him. Grandmother says most men are terrified of experienced women."
Daeron Targaryen: (choking on his wine)
Olenna: (delighted) "Out of the mouths of babes. Tell me, Daeron, does this mean Prince Maekar will inherit Casterly Rock unwed? Such a waste of a perfectly good Lannister heir."
Daeron: (wiping his mouth) "Maekar is... considering his options."
Mace: (leaning in) "We have many fine cousins! The Fossoways alone have-"
Olenna: "Oh for the love of- Must you always be so transparent?" (Turning to Daeron) "What my oaf of a son means to say is: we're aware you're blocking Tyrell matches for Maekar. Clever, if paranoid."
Elia: (raising a brow) "Is it paranoia when you're literally salivating over the prospect?"
Mace: (indignant) "I never salivate!"
Olenna: "You drooled at the last wedding feast. Into the soup tureen." (To Daeron) "Still, denying the Reach a royal match entirely seems... unwise."
Daeron: (coolly) "Prince Aegon remains unmarried."
Margaery: (brightly) "The bastard prince? Grandmother says he's-"
Olenna: (cutting in) "What my granddaughter means is that a legitimized prince with lands but no dragons is... an interesting prospect."
Elia: (dryly) "How diplomatic."
Mace: (blustering) "Now see here! House Tyrell deserves-"
Daeron: (slamming his goblet down) "What House Tyrell deserves is to remember that the last time a Great House overplayed their marriage ambitions, they got a rebellion and lost two Lord Paramounts."
(A tense silence falls. The bard stops playing.)
Olenna: (smiling slowly) "Well. There's the famous Targaryen temper. I was beginning to think you were all milk and no fire."
Elia: (placing a hand on Daeron's arm) "What my husband means is that the Crown values the Reach's loyalty... as it is."
Olenna: (leaning back) "Of course. Though do remind your goodfather that roses grow toward the sun... but their thorns face outward as well."
Margaery: (breaking the tension) "More wine, Your Graces? It's from our best vineyards. Grandmother says good wine makes even difficult conversations... palatable."
Daeron: (after a beat, accepting the wine) "A wise woman, your grandmother."
Olenna: (toasting) "To wise women, cautious princes, and the patience required to wait for better opportunities."
Elia: (raising her glass) "And to daughters who will choose their own paths, in their own time."
Mace: (confused but cheerful) "To... um... the excellent quail!"
(As the glasses clink, the bard hastily resumes playing. Outside, a gardener screams as Drogon accidentally sets fire to a topiary shaped like a stag.)