Chapter 51:

[(King's Landing Throne Room - The grand hall is filled with nobles as Prince Daeron and Elia Martell stand before the High Septon. King Aegon VI and Queen Rhaella watch from the Iron Throne, surrounded by their sprawling family. The dragons Fenrir and Tiamat circle lazily above the open ceiling.)

Rhaella: (softly, to Aegon) They look... tense.

Aegon VI: (wry) Wouldn't you be? He's marrying his dead brother's wife while his dead wife's father glowers in the front row.

Daemon: (leaning over from his seat) At least the food's good.

Ashara: (elbowing him) Behave.

Aemon: (observing) Uncle Daeron looks like he's being marched to execution.

Viserys: (grinning) Give it time. Tywin might arrange one if this wedding displeases him.

Alyssa: (rubbing her pregnant belly) Oh please. Father would feed him to Fenrir first.

Stannis: (stiffly) That's treasonous talk.

Alyssa: (patting his arm) Relax, dear. It's just family banter.

[(The ceremony proceeds, though Daeron's jaw remains clenched. Elia's face is serene, but her grip on the ceremonial cloak is white-knuckled. Nearby, their children watch with varying degrees of discomfort.)]

Baelon: (whispering to Rhaenys) So... does this make us siblings now?

Rhaenys: (deadpan) No. It makes our family tree a circle.

Aegon VII: (nervously adjusting his collar) At least you're not being shipped off to some stolen castle today.

Maekar: (flatly) I'd take Stokeworth over listening to another hour of this.

Daenerys: (innocently) I think it's romantic!

Viserys: (snorting) You would.

[(As the Septon drones on, Tywin's glare could melt stone. Across the hall, Oberyn Martell smirks, clearly enjoying the Lannister patriarch's discomfort.)]

Aegon VI: (muttering) We're going to need more wine before this is over.

Rhaella: (sighing) We're going to need more dragons.

[(The High Septon finally pronounces them man and wife. The hall erupts in polite applause, though the tension remains thick enough to choke on. Somewhere in the back, a servant drops a tray of goblets. The resulting clatter sounds suspiciously like impending doom.)]

Daemon: (raising his cup) To the happy couple! May their marriage be less complicated than their family tree!

Ashara: (facepalming) I'm divorcing you.

Aemon: (sipping juice) Can I keep the dragon?

[(Fenrir chooses that moment to roar, shaking the hall. The "festivities" continue, awkward and strained, as only a Targaryen family gathering can be.)]

[(King's Landing Palace Dining Hall - Evening. The long table groans under platters of roasted meats, Dornish peppers, and Arbor gold. The full Targaryen family is gathered for the first time since Daeron and Elia's wedding. Servants move quietly along the edges as dragons occasionally cast shadows past the torch-lit windows.)

Aegon VI: (raising his goblet) To family. May we survive each other.

Daemon: (clinking his cup loudly) Hear, hear!

Rhaella: (ignoring them, turning to Daeron and Elia) You'll need to prepare for the Royal Tour. The realm will expect it.

Daeron: (stiffening) Already?

Elia: (calmly cutting her food) It's tradition.

Alyssa: (grinning) Oh, this will be fun. Last time Daeron went on tour, he looked like he was being marched to his own funeral the entire way.

Stannis: (stiffly) A royal progress is a solemn duty, not a... a...

Daemon: (leaning in) A chance to drink every lord in Westeros under the table? Because that's how Rhaegar and I handled his tour.

Ashara: (dryly) Yes, and we all remember how that ended.

Viserys: (perking up) Will there be jousting?

Daenerys: (excited) Can I come?

Aegon VI: (chuckling) No, little dragon. This is for the heir and his lady.

Baelon: (to Rhaenys) At least we won't have to go.

Rhaenys: (raising an eyebrow) You think they'll leave us unsupervised in King's Landing?

Maekar: (deadpan) I'll hide in the library.

Aegon VII: (nervously) I still have to go to Stokeworth—I mean, Dawncrest soon. Maybe they'll forget about me...

Daemon: (laughing) Oh no, nephew. You're part of the show now.

Elia: (softly, to Daeron) It will be different this time.

Daeron: (low, tense) Will it?

[(An awkward silence falls. Even the clatter of cutlery seems too loud. Then—)]

Aemon: (bluntly) This is why I like books. They don't argue.

Daemon: (grinning) That's my boy!

Rhaella: (sighing) Just... try not to start any wars on your travels.

Daeron: (dryly) No promises.

[(The family returns to their meals, the weight of past tours and future ones hanging over them. Outside, the dragons roar, as if laughing at the chaos below.)]

[(King's Landing Palace Courtyard - Morning. The royal procession prepares for departure as servants load trunks onto ships. Prince Daeron stands beside Drogon, his jaw tight, while Elia oversees the boarding with quiet efficiency. Their children hover nearby in various states of distress.)

Baelon: (kicking at the cobblestones) So you're just... leaving?

Daeron: (adjusting his riding gloves) It's tradition. You'll be fine.

Maekar: (flatly) Grandfather will make us attend Small Council meetings.

Daeron: (almost smiling) Consider it practice.

Rhaenys: (to Elia, low) Must you go?

Elia: (smoothing her daughter's hair) Only for a time. Watch over your brother.

Aegon VII: (nervously) I'm supposed to rule lands, not hide behind Mother's skirts—

Elia: (firm) You're to learn, not rule. Not yet.

[(Just then, King Aegon VI approaches, Fenrir's shadow darkening the courtyard as the dragon circles above.)]

Aegon VI: (clasping Daeron's shoulder) Try not to look so miserable. It's a tour, not an execution.

Daeron: (dryly) Last time I toured, a rebellion started.

Elia: (curtsying) Your Grace. Before we depart—might Ser Arthur accompany Aegon to Dawncrest?

Aegon VI: (raising a brow) The Sword of the Morning as a glorified nursemaid?

Elia: (steady) As protection. The Stokeworths may not have left quietly.

Aegon VII: (muttering) I don't need—

Daeron: (cutting in) He does.

Aegon VI: (sighing) Very well. But only until you return.

Daemon: (suddenly appearing) Oh good! Now can I have a Kingsguard too?

Ashara: (dragging him back by his collar) You have a dragon.

Daeron: (mounting Drogon) Try not to burn the city down while we're gone.

Elia: (boarding the ship, calling back) And try to write, Aegon!

[(As Drogon takes flight and the ship's sails unfurl, Aegon VII glares at the horizon. Behind him, Ser Arthur Dayne rests a hand on Dawn's hilt, already looking resigned to his new role as a teenage lord's minder. The children watch their parents disappear—some relieved, some resentful, all painfully aware of the weight now on their shoulders.)]

Baelon: (grinning at Rhaenys) So. Bet I can sneak into the training yard before you.

Rhaenys: (smirking) You'll lose.

Maekar: (already walking away) I'll be in the library.

Aegon VII: (to Arthur) ...Do you at least play cyvasse?

Arthur: (deadpan) I stab things for a living, my prince.

[(The courtyard empties, the dragons' roars fading into the distance—leaving only the quiet chaos of a kingdom carrying on without its heirs.)]

[(Pyke's Storm-Swept Courtyard - Morning. Salt spray hangs heavy in the air as Drogon lands with a thunderous crash, his wings kicking up gale-force winds. Moments later, the Targaryen ship docks, Elia emerging with her usual poised grace despite the rough seas. Prince Viserys lounges against Viserion nearby, grinning, while Lyanna Stark stands stiffly beside a wary-eyed Aegon Snow (now Aegon Greyjoy). The smallfolk peer from a safe distance, muttering about dragons and bastards.)

Viserys: (spreading his arms) Brother! Sister-in-law! Welcome to the charming smell of fish and regret!

Daeron: (dismounting, eyeing Aegon) So. You're the boy.

Aegon Greyjoy: (chin raised) I am.

Lyanna: (stepping forward, tense) He's been raised to rule justly.

Elia: (smoothly) How fortunate. Many aren't.

[(An awkward beat. The waves crash loudly against the cliffs, as if nature itself is cringing.)]

Viserys: (clapping hands) Right! Let's all pretend this isn't horrifically uncomfortable. Tour the castle? Feast? Mock the Drowned God's priests?

Lyanna: (ignoring him, to Elia) You'll find the Ironborn respect strength. They've accepted Aegon.

Elia: (raising a brow) After you and Viserion persuaded them, no doubt.

Viserys: (grinning) Oh, it only took three burned longships. Very efficient.

Daeron: (studying Aegon) You look like him.

Aegon Greyjoy: (stiffening) I've been told.

Elia: (softly, to Lyanna) He has Rhaegar's eyes.

Lyanna: (sharply) And my brother's temper.

[(The tension could fuel a thousand pyres. Somewhere, a seagull screams, as if voicing the collective discomfort.)]

Viserys: (whispering to Daeron) I'd say 'lighten the mood,' but I'm not that suicidal.

Daeron: (sighing) We're here to show unity. Not reopen old wounds.

Elia: (suddenly kneeling before Aegon, shocking everyone) You'll be a lord soon. If you ever need counsel… my son Aegon is your brother. Blood matters.

Aegon Greyjoy: (stammering) I—

Lyanna: (softening slightly) That's… generous.

Daeron: (muttering) Seven hells, now I'm the least diplomatic one here.

Viserys: (laughing) Welcome to my life!

[(The smallfolk, emboldened by Elia's gesture, begin murmuring approval. Aegon Greyjoy's shoulders relax slightly. Lyanna exhales, some unspoken weight lifting. And high above, the dragons circle—reminders that some fires, at least, can be tempered.)]

Viserys: (clapping Aegon Greyjoy's back) Come, nephew! Let's find you a cloak that doesn't smell like low tide.

Elia: (smirking) Now he plays the gracious host.

Daeron: (watching them go) This family will be the death of me.

Lyanna: (dryly) Join the club.

[(They share a rare, weary laugh as the Iron Islands' winds howl around them—equal parts warning and welcome.)]