[(The Great Hall of the Red Keep stands silent, the Iron Throne casting jagged shadows across the stone floor in the dim torchlight. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaella stand before the twisted blades, their fingers intertwined. The weight of impending kingship hangs heavy in the air between them. The distant sounds of the castle - clattering armor, murmured conversations - seem muffled, as if the world itself holds its breath.)
Princess Rhaella: (softly) It looks different now, doesn't it? Now that it's nearly yours.
Prince Aegon: (grimacing) It was never supposed to be mine. (glances at her) You know that better than anyone.
(Rhaella's hand tightens around his. Before she can respond, hurried footsteps echo through the hall. A young page skids to a stop, his face pale, breath ragged.)
Page: (bowing deeply) My prince... my princess... I... the Grand Maester sent me...
Prince Aegon: (sharp) Out with it, boy.
Page: (swallowing hard) His Grace King Jaehaerys... he... he passed in his sleep. The Grand Maester said it was peaceful. (whispers) The bells will ring any moment.
(The words land like a physical blow. Rhaella brings a hand to her mouth, her violet eyes shimmering. Aegon stands frozen, his face unreadable. Somewhere in the distance, the first mournful toll of the bell echoes through the Red Keep.)
Princess Rhaella: (voice breaking) Father...
Prince Aegon: (mechanically) No. Not yet. (turns to the page) Send for Prince Rhaegar and Princess Alyssa. Have the Small Council assembled in the throne room. And... (his voice cracks slightly) Tell my mother... tell Queen Shaera...
(The page bows and scurries away, leaving them alone once more with the weight of the throne before them. The second bell tolls, louder now.)
Princess Rhaella: (whispering) Aegon...
Prince Aegon: (suddenly turning to her) I swore to you. On our wedding day. Rhaegar remains heir. (his jaw tightens) That doesn't change just because I'm... because I'm...
Princess Rhaella: (placing a hand on his cheek) King. You're King now. (softly) Aegon the Sixth of His Name.
(The third bell tolls, shaking the very stones beneath their feet. From the corridors, the sound of rushing footsteps grows louder - the court descending upon its new monarch. Aegon takes a shuddering breath, squaring his shoulders.)
Prince Aegon - no, King Aegon VI: (quietly, to Rhaella) Stay with me.
Princess Rhaella: (nodding, straightening her spine) Always.
(As the fourth bell begins to ring, the great doors burst open. The Small Council enters first, followed by a flood of courtiers. At the rear, little Rhaegar and Alyssa are ushered in by their nursemaids, their young faces confused and frightened. The King and Queen-to-be turn to face them all, the Iron Throne looming behind them - a promise, a threat, and a burden all at once.)
[(The Iron Throne looms over the assembled Small Council, its jagged blades catching the morning light through the high windows. King Aegon VI stands before it, still in his mourning blacks, his face carefully composed. Princess Rhaella sits beside Queen Shaera on the steps, holding her mother's trembling hands as the older woman stares blankly ahead. The council members kneel in a semicircle, their bowed heads forming a sea of gray and silver hair.)
King Aegon VI: (voice steady) Rise.
Grand Maester Pycelle: (The council obeys. Grand Maester Pycelle is the first to speak, his chain clinking as he steps forward.) Your Grace, the realm mourns with you. King Jaehaerys was a wise and—
King Aegon VI: (cutting him off) Save the eulogies for the funeral. (pauses, then softer) Which will be held in three days' time.
Lord Commander Gwayne Hightower: (nodding) The Silent Sisters have already prepared the body. The pyre will be built in the Dragonpit, as tradition demands.
Queen Shaera: (hollow) He always hated the cold. Make sure the fires burn hot.
(Rhaella squeezes her mother's hand. Aegon's gaze lingers on them for a moment before turning to the rest.)
King Aegon VI: The coronation will follow a week after. (glances at Tywin Lannister, newly appointed Hand) Ensure the lords are summoned. All of them.
Tywin Lannister: (coolly) Some may use this as an opportunity to test your reign. The Blackfyres in the Stepstones—
King Aegon VI: (sharp) Can wait. My father's memory comes first.
Lord Beesbury: (A tense silence follows. The Master of Coin, Lord Beesbury, clears his throat nervously.) Your Grace, the expenses for both ceremonies...
King Aegon VI: (raising a hand) Spare no cost. But if I find a single copper wasted on gilded nonsense instead of feeding the people during the mourning period, I'll personally throw the culprit into the Blackwater.
Queen Shaera: (Queen Shaera lets out a sudden, watery laugh. The council blinks in surprise.) That's my son.
(Rhaella helps her mother to her feet as Aegon dismisses the council with a nod. The men bow and retreat, leaving the royal family alone in the cavernous hall. The echoes of their footsteps fade into silence.)
King Aegon VI: (exhaling) Well. That went—
Queen Shaera: (suddenly pulling him into a fierce embrace) Don't you dare say "well."
(Aegon freezes, then slowly returns the hug. Over his mother's shoulder, he meets Rhaella's gaze—her eyes full of quiet understanding. Somewhere in the keep, a servant begins to sing a mourning hymn, the melody drifting through the halls like smoke. Scene fades on the three of them standing together before the Iron Throne, the first shafts of sunlight painting the blades blood-red—a new day, a new reign, and the ghosts of the past watching closely.)
[(The King's chambers are hushed, the heavy drapes drawn to mute the afternoon sun. King Jaehaerys II lies in state upon his canopied bed, dressed in the black-and-red silks of House Targaryen, his hands folded over the hilt of his sword. The scent of funeral lilies and preservation herbs hangs thick in the air. Queen Shaera stands at the bedside, her fingers brushing a silver lock from her husband's forehead. Prince Aegon VI lingers near the foot of the bed, his jaw clenched, while Princess Rhaella kneels beside young Rhaegar and Alyssa near the fireplace.)
Princess Alyssa: (whispering to Rhaegar) Why is Grandfather so still?
Prince Rhaegar: (solemn, mimicking the adults) Because he's with the dragons now.
(Queen Shaera lets out a soft, broken sound—half laugh, half sob. Aegon moves to her side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.)
Queen Shaera: (stroking Jaehaerys' hair) He would have hated this. The fuss. The perfumes. (smiling faintly) He always said Targaryens should burn before we start to smell.
King Aegon VI: (grim chuckle) Then we'll make sure the pyre is worthy.
(Rhaella rises, guiding the children closer. Alyssa hesitates, clutching her doll—a Northern-style warrior with a stitched direwolf sigil, a gift from her late mother's family.)
Princess Rhaella: (gentle) You can touch his hand, sweetling. Say goodbye.
(Alyssa reaches out, her small fingers brushing Jaehaerys' pale knuckles, then recoils.)
Princess Alyssa: (wide-eyed) He's cold.
Prince Rhaegar: (nodding wisely) That's why we give them fire. To warm them in the afterlife.
(Queen Shaera exhales shakily, her composure cracking. Rhaella swiftly herds the children toward the door.)
Princess Rhaella: Come. Let's pick flowers for the pyre. The red ones, from the gardens he loved.
(As the door closes behind them, Aegon sinks into the chair beside his mother, the weight of the crown—not yet physically his, but already pressing upon him—bowing his shoulders.)
King Aegon VI: (quietly) I don't know how to do this without him.
Queen Shaera: (cupping his face) You already are. (wipes a tear from his cheek with her thumb) And you'll keep doing it. For Rhaegar. For Alyssa. For the babe Rhaella might yet give you.
(Aegon's breath catches. Somewhere beyond the window, the rhythmic hammering of the pyre's construction echoes through the yard—a drumbeat of finality, and of beginnings. Scene fades on the last rays of sunlight catching the rubies in Jaehaerys' sword, glittering like dragon's eyes in the gathering dark.)
[(The courtyard of the Red Keep is silent but for the crackling of the great funeral pyre. The assembled court stands in a somber semicircle as flames lick at the wooden structure, the body of King Jaehaerys II visible amidst the blaze, draped in the colors of House Targaryen. Prince Aegon VI stands rigid at the front, his face illuminated by the firelight, Princess Rhaella at his side with a comforting hand on his arm. Queen Shaera kneels nearby, her face streaked with silent tears, while young Princess Alyssa and Prince Rhaegar cling to each other, their wide eyes reflecting the flames.)
Prince Rhaegar: (whispering to Alyssa) Do you think Grandfather can see the dragons now?
Princess Alyssa: (sniffling) He better. Or I'll be mad.
(Queen Shaera lets out a soft, tearful laugh, reaching over to pull both children closer. Rhaella watches them, her own eyes glistening, before turning to Aegon.)
Princess Rhaella: (softly) He would have hated all this standing around. He'd have told us to just light it and be done with it.
King Aegon VI: (grim smile) And then complained about the smell afterward.
(The fire roars higher, sparks spiraling into the twilight sky. The gathered lords and ladies bow their heads as the flames consume the last of the king's mortal form. Aegon exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing just slightly—as if releasing a burden he hadn't realized he was carrying.)
Queen Shaera: (wiping her eyes) He always said fire was the purest end for a Targaryen. No worms. No decay. Just… clean ash.
Prince Rhaegar: (solemn) Like the dragons.
King Aegon VI: (nodding) Exactly like the dragons.
(The pyre collapses inward in a shower of embers, the heat washing over the onlookers. Alyssa presses her face into Rhaella's skirts, while Rhaegar stands tall, watching until the very end. Somewhere in the distance, a lone singer begins a mournful hymn—a song of kings and flames and the long, unbroken line of House Targaryen.Scene fades on the dying fire, its glow fading into the night, the first stars appearing above King's Landing—silent witnesses to the end of an era, and the beginning of another.)