Chapter 622

(A monstrous, jagged thing.)

Standing at the grand, towering entrance of the throne room, Daenerys’ first thought was one of awe, followed swiftly by a sense of unreality—like she was caught in a dream.

Victory had come too quickly, too easily. It felt almost unreal.

Just half an hour ago, she had still been atop Drogon, circling above the Red Keep, staying beyond the reach of scorpions as she watched the columns of smoke rising from King’s Landing. She had been preparing to support the ground assault, wondering how much blood it would take to claim the fortress intact—if it was even possible at all.

And yet, the battle she had expected to carve its place in history had ended in the most unceremonious manner.

Not a single arrow loosed. Not a single siege weapon fired.

The enemy had surrendered outright.

From the skies, she had seen the Unsullied march through the gates, unchallenged. She had seen their banners raised over the ramparts. Then, the short blast of the warhorn—three short notes to signal safety—had told her she could land.

In the courtyard below, dozens of gold cloaks stood in a line alongside merchants, scholars, and noblewomen clutching their children, all submitting to inspection. Yet one figure was conspicuously absent.

Stannis Baratheon's wife and daughter were nowhere to be found.

A few questions had made it clear: the usurper had fled. At the first sign of the assault, he had taken his wife, his child, and his finest warriors, slipping through the streets and breaking through the city's defenses.

That was why the remaining garrison had surrendered so quickly.

He had abandoned them.

He had abandoned his castle, the strongest fortress in Westeros, to flee.

What had he been thinking?

Yes, the Stormlands still held half its lords under the stag banner—perhaps he sought to rally them. But how did he hope to cross the Blackwater, to outrun pursuit from both land and sky?

Her dragons had been in the air all day, fire and smoke their weapons, but now they were weary. If he was to be caught, it would be up to the armies below. Daenerys, for now, set her doubts aside.

The Red Keep was hers.

And the Iron Throne—the throne that had haunted her dreams for over a decade—awaited.
----


Stepping into the vast, towering chamber, Daenerys realized at once:

This was no mere chair.

After the Conquest, Aegon had gathered the swords of his vanquished foes, hauling them to the heart of his encampment atop Aegon’s Hill. There, he had commanded Balerion the Black Dread to melt them in dragonfire. The swords had been half-melted, twisted and fused together by the heat, then stacked and hammered into place by smiths until, after moons of labor, the Iron Throne was complete.

In truth, it had not been a throne at all at first, but a jagged tower of metal, standing beneath open sky—only later had the Red Keep been built around it.

The castle had been built to house the throne.

The throne had not been placed within the castle.

That was why, through all the wars, rebellions, and chaos, it had never been lost.

She had heard of it before, of course. Her brother had whispered its legend to her in their childhood, when they had been alone in exile, huddling together for warmth in the long, hungry nights.

Before rage and madness had consumed him, Viserys had been a good brother. He had told her the tales of their ancestors, the rise and fall of their house, and always—always—he had spoken of the throne.

Every night, as they drifted off to sleep, his voice had carried the same promise:

"One day, I will take it back. I will sit the Iron Throne again. I will rule the Seven Kingdoms."

Had he ever imagined that, in the end, it would not be him, but the little sister trembling in his arms, who would fulfill that dream?

Her vision blurred. Blinking once, she stepped forward, past overturned tables and shattered furniture, past banners of the crowned stag strewn across the floor like discarded rags.

At last, she stood before it.

The throne had not moved an inch in three hundred years.

The Iron Throne was ugly.

Twisted and misshapen, its jagged edges stained with rust, its uneven surfaces catching the slanted light of the high windows.

It was not meant to be comfortable.

It was meant to be a warning.

Daenerys lifted her gaze to the top.

The seat alone stood taller than two men, its base fused with the metal of the steps below. The stairs leading up were steep—higher than the climb to a second floor.

Now she understood why Aegon had built it this way.

To stand before the Iron Throne, one had only three choices:

To kneel.

To submit.

Or to look upon the melted, broken swords and remember what it meant to defy dragonfire.

There was no fourth option.

Could there be a greater display of power?

She steadied herself, turning to Grey Worm with a small nod, dismissing him. Alone, she climbed the first step.

The stairs were formed from blades laid flat, their tips bent downward to provide footing. Eight to ten swords were stacked for each step, ensuring strength and stability.

The songs spoke of a thousand swords—but that was only legend. Not every blade surrendered to Aegon had been worthy. Only the weapons of lords, knights, and noble warriors had been melted into the throne.

Even after three hundred years of wear, the steps were still intact. But they bore the marks of time—shallow dips in the center from centuries of kings and queens ascending to their seat.

There were no handrails.

Only the jagged hilts and upturned blades, reaching skyward.

One could grasp them, if they wished—if they did not mind their hands being torn open.

Perhaps that, too, had been by design.

Aegon had built his throne to remind his heirs:

A king could never be careless.

Step by step, she ascended.

Each footfall echoed in the empty hall.

Aegon. Aenys. Maegor. Jaehaerys.

With every step, a name rose unbidden in her mind.

By the time she reached the final step, she had crossed the ages themselves, as if she had walked the history of her house in the span of mere moments.

At last, she stood before the seat of her ancestors.

She turned.

For the first time, she looked down upon the throne room from the heights of power.
----


Near the entrance, a dark figure stepped inside.

Black-cloaked, slow-moving.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, then recognized him.

Aegor Wester. Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

His timing was impeccable—no doubt he had come to fight for the Red Keep, only to find the battle already won.

He had left his men outside, striding forward alone. He met Grey Worm’s gaze, exchanged a nod, and the two stood together at the base of the throne.

Waiting.

Watching.

Bearing witness.

It was he who had made this victory possible.

A thought pricked her—she had been so consumed by the moment, so eager to claim her prize, that she had nearly forgotten the one who had delivered it.

There was still much to do. She was not yet Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She must not grow complacent.

Daenerys took a breath, schooled her expression, and, with measured grace, sank onto the throne.

The iron groaned beneath her weight.

It was not comfortable.

It was never meant to be.

Her brother had once told her: "A king must never sit easily."

Viserys had spoken of Maegor the Cruel. Of how he had died upon this throne.

Had the blade that pierced his throat been behind her seat?

She shifted, resisting the urge to look.

Then, just as she parted her lips to speak—

A sharp sting.

A sudden pain in her left hand.

The Iron Throne had drawn blood.