July 15, 2019
King's Landing prepares for war.
EXT. DRAGONSTONE ISLAND - DAY
Outside, it is a new day. A light flurry of snow swirls in the sea breeze over Dragonstone harbor.
Craning down, we see one of Yara's Iron Fleet ships sailing out of port, with others in its wake.
EXT. LEAD SHIP - HEAD RAIL - CONTINUOUS
Varys steps up to the ship's railing, looking ahead past the prow. Behind him, Golden Company soldiers stand at attention on deck.
EXT. KING'S LANDING DOCKS - DAY
LONGSHOREMEN and SAILORS shout to each other as the same ship is brought in to dock at King's Landing. Mooring lines are thrown down and hauled tight around the quayside bollards.
Varys disembarks. Behind him, the Golden Company men march down the gangplank in an orderly line, armed and armored all alike. PORTERS carry supplies ashore, including bundles of spears tipped with dragonglass. Snowflakes melt gently against their clothing and their hair.
Varys pauses on the dockside, gazing up at this familiar old town. He breathes in the nostalgic scent of shit and cum and pig's blood. A faint smile tugs at his lips. It's good to be back.
Varys sets off with an unhurried yet purposeful stride, hands in his sleeves, heading for the heart of the city.
EXT. KING'S LANDING - DOCKSIDE STREETS - DAY
A WIGHT screams in our face, struggling against its rope bindings.
The Hound scowls, foul-tempered yet nonchalant, wrangling the undead horror the way a lesser man might wrangle an uncooperative goat. He shoves the wight into an iron cage and slams it shut.
Nearby, commoners watch the spectacle with pale-faced horror. They are standing in a long line stretching up and down the street -- citizens of King's Landing, and refugees from the countryside. City Watch gold cloaks shepherd the queue along, confiscating belongings and handing out bread and warm cloaks. The gold cloaks are themselves rather pale and perturbed as they watch the wight hurl itself against the bars.
The Hound is not perturbed at all, which is itself perturbing to everyone else. From his manner, he has clearly seen enough of these monsters to find a single wight merely annoying.
He turns his glowering visage upon the commoners snaking their way past the wight cage and up the street toward the docks. His expression does his talking for him: you fuckers better fucking cooperate.
The people avert their gaze and shuffle forward, meekly surrendering their worldly possessions to the gold cloaks.
EXT. KING'S LANDING DOCKS - BRONN'S SORTING LINE - DAY
(pausing between each)
To the right. To the left. To the left.
At the head of the line, within sight of the Blackwater, Bronn sorts his way through the citizenry, briefly assessing each commoner before directing them to either the right or the left. His CITY WATCH OFFICERS watch him work, taking mental notes on the sorting.
A BURLY BLACKSMITH steps up, his face and clothing still smudged with soot from his forge.
To the right.
He hands the man a dragonglass-tipped spear and waves him aside to join a gathering formation of draftees.
Now an OLD WOMAN, hunchbacked and grey.
To the left.
No spear for her. We follow the old woman as gold cloaks usher her into a side-queue. This one leads to the docks, where the too-old, too-young, too-weak, and too-timid are being loaded up onto the ship recently vacated by Varys and the Golden Company soldiers. They huddle against the cold as they shuffle up the gangplank.
Bronn continues working his way through the line -- the Sorting Hat of "are you fucking useless in a fight?"
A pair of PRETEEN BOYS appear before him -- brothers, by the look of them. Bronn pauses. These two are borderline cases -- right on the cusp of old enough. They look up at him, trying to look older and taller than they are.
Bronn sizes them up with his eyes, making a quick judgment call off his gut. He hands a spear to one of them.
To the right.
And to his brother:
To the left.
What? But I'm older!
And he's tougher. To the left.
A gold cloak pulls the boy aside into the evacuation queue. The main sorting line continues inching forward, as Bronn dispenses weaponry and hurtful judgments with uncaring efficiency.
Now it's a YOUNG WOMAN's turn. She's a skinny waif of a teenager, with dirty hair hanging limp around an underfed face. She keeps her eyes downcast as a gold cloak shoves her forward for sorting, her feet dragging sullenly. Bronn narrows his eyes appraisingly. Another borderline case.
The girl feels the weight of his gaze and glances up. She sees him staring and lifts her chin defiantly at him, eyes flaring: what the fuck are you looking at?
Bronn smiles and hands her a spear.
To the right.
EXT. DRAGONSTONE ISLAND - DAY
The Iron Fleet ships sail back into Dragonstone harbor -- a reverse of the recent shot of the same ships sailing away.
EXT. DRAGONSTONE ISLAND - BEACH - DAY
A rowboat nudges ashore, loaded with Bronn's rejects -- old people, children, mothers with babies, invalids. We recognize the old woman and the preteen boy from the previous scene. Nearby, more Golden Company soldiers stand on the beach, waiting their turn to sail to King's Landing.
The same light snow flurry is still falling, melting against the damp sand.
EXT. DRAGONSTONE CLIFFSIDE - DAY
Up on the cliffside, the snow is just starting to stick, clinging to the grass in a faint dusting. Rows of tents have begun to sprout over the open ground, as GOLDEN COMPANY STEWARDS bustle about.
Tyrion walks among them with the CAPTAIN OF STEWARDS at his side, gesturing as he gives orders.
More tents along there. Put the big ones up first.
CAPTAIN OF STEWARDS
Yes, my lord.
Cook tent, here. Put guards on all the provisions.
Oh, and latrine pits. Dig lots of those. Do we have sawdust?
CAPTAIN OF STEWARDS
Straw, my lord.
Mm, I suppose that will have to do.
The man nods and departs to carry out Tyrion's orders.
Tyrion makes his way to the edge of the cliff and looks down over the beach. He stands there pensively, making a dozen mental calculations as he watches the evacuees unload.
Gonna be crowded.
Tyrion looks up to see Jon walking up to join him.
They're used to it. Our island is spacious compared to King's Landing.
The two men watch the unloading together.
This is supposed to my island, now, isn't it?
Formally, yes. Greedy bastard.
Some would consider "Prince of Dragonstone" a step down from "King in the North."
Do remind me to weep for you.
Tyrion, please remember to weep for me.
Don't try to be funny, you cannot keep up.
Jon laughs, proving Tyrion's point.
Tyrion is silent for a beat.
How's this. I'll weep for you, if you weep for me.
Jon looks at him. Tyrion is brooding into the distance.
(quiet, re: prophecy)
It's not going to be you.
Let someone else have a turn.
I don't think we get to choose.
But if we could, we'd all choose me.
Tyrion gives Jon an interrogating look. Jon looks away. He looks a lot better brooding. It pisses Tyrion off.
You really are a greedy bastard.
She needs you. You're her Hand.
And you're her husband. Which do you think she would prefer to keep?
Tyrion truly didn't mean for that to come out so bitter -- he regrets it immediately. Jon gazes at him with sympathetic pain. Tyrion looks away, unable to meet Jon's eyes. He hangs onto his composure with effort.
If you die, I'll have to spend the rest of my life watching her mourn for you.
She would mourn for you too.
Tyrion very nearly cracks.
I suppose that's something, isn't it?
Jon watches Tyrion struggle. He picks up on the subtext, but maintains a tactful silence. It'll be a moot point, in any case. One way or another.
He changes the subject, for Tyrion's sake.
It was good news, in a way. For years, I thought this war was unwinnable.
They'll have the numbers. But we have the city.
That's true. My father always said one man inside the walls is worth ten outside.
Tywin Lannister. My mother's avenging husband.
It's a difficult habit to break.
Jon, of all people, can sympathize.
He taught me a great deal.
Jon smiles sadly.
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