I truly believe whoever designed the Iron Throne either had a deeply twisted sense of comfort… or was a full-blown masochist.
I’m leaning heavily toward the latter.
The books, and I mean the actual historical records in the Citadel claim the throne was forged in Balerion’s flames and hammered by the best smiths in the realm for months before Aegon the Conqueror ever sat upon it.
When someone asked him why he chose such an uncomfortable seat, he supposedly answered:
“A king should never sit easy.”
Whether that was noble philosophy or just a very elaborate coping mechanism to hide a personal fetish, I try not to judge.
Let the Conqueror keep his secrets.
I respect a man’s kinks.
Which brings me to the present problem, the Throne was supposed to be an uncomfortable seating but now.
The idiot was sprawled across the Iron Throne like a drunk, one leg dangled over a jagged blade, his head resting against the flat of another.
A single slip.
A single fucking slip and the new reign would end with a very public decapitation.
“It would be quite uncomfortable to fuck on this,” Aegon observed, sounding genuinely concerned.
He spun the Conqueror’s crown absently between his fingers while staring up at the twisted metal canopy.
Otto and I stared at him in matching deadpan silence.
“I’m certain the Conqueror did not entertain such thoughts while the throne was being forged,” Otto said at last, rubbing his temples as though already mourning the years ahead with this particular king.
Aegon raised his brows.
“But isn’t it weird? The man had two of the most beautiful women in the world as wives, and when he commissioned the highest seat of power in the entire realm… he never once considered the practical applications of fucking someone on it?”
This fucker… actually had a point.
“He could have at least added some cushions,” I offered.
Aegon’s face lit up.
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me with sudden enthusiasm.
“That is a wonderful idea. You should be my Hand once our grandsire finally drops dead.”
Otto turned his head just enough to give me a long, measuring look.
“It seems you are already being positioned as my replacement.”
“No thank you, Lord Hand,” I said with a polite smile.
“I’m sure you still have many vigorous years ahead of you.”
Otto turned away and muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, “My poor heart cannot endure this much longer.”
“Fine then,” Aegon declared, clapping his hands.
“We shall have cushions added to the throne by nightfall.” He gestured toward the waiting servants.
Otto’s palm met his forehead with an audible smack.
He waved the servants back with one sharp motion and drew a long, suffering breath.
“You cannot redesign the royal seat, Your Grace. The realm and every lord in it would see it as weakness. As if their king cannot endure the hardships the Iron Throne represents.”
“My arse is weak, Grandsire,” Aegon mumbled.
“And I sincerely doubt the realm wants their king developing a second hole back there.”
I cut in smoothly.
“Perhaps a silk sheet could be laid across the seat for now. Something temporary. Cushions can be introduced… gradually. Over time.”
Otto considered it, then gave a reluctant nod.
“That is a… tolerable compromise.”
Aegon slumped deeper into the metal with a dramatic sigh.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
I flicked my fingers at the servants.
They bowed and slipped out of the Great Hall to carry out the order.
Otto straightened, already shifting back into Lord Hand mode.
“We have much to do, Your Grace. Summons must be sent to every Lord Paramount, requiring them to renew their oaths to the rightful king. Letters must fly to the lesser lords across the realm, calling for loyalty and banners. Your sister will almost certainly refuse to bend the knee, but it remains proper that we offer her the chance to do so.”
Aegon rolled his eyes as the list of responsibilities continued to grow.
Otto, sensing the disinterest, wisely adjusted course.
“But I see the anointment has left you weary. The Small Council can manage these matters for the day, rest, Your Grace.”
Aegon shrugged, pushed himself off the throne with more care than dignity, and landed on solid ground.
Otto gave us both a short nod and departed, already muttering under his breath about the days to come.
Aegon stretched, rolled his shoulders, and glanced at me.
“Brother,” he said.
“Walk with me.”
I fell into step beside the newly crowned king as we left the Great Hall.
“Is it true?” Aegon asked as we climbed the steps to the higher level of the Keep.
His voice was quieter than usual, almost careful.
“That Father named me heir with his final breath?”
I glanced at him sideways.
“Didn’t the Queen Dowager already tell you?”
“Mother told me her version of the truth,” he said.
He let out a long breath, lips flapping in a tired shrug.
“How much of it I actually believe… I don’t know. I don’t wish to be a usurper, Daeron. Not of my sister’s birthright. That’s why I need to hear it from you.”
I walked a few more steps in silence before answering.
“He told me Rhaenyra should not sit the throne,” I said finally.
“That she would bring a dark age of ruin. And that Aegon must be king.”
Aegon stopped walking and turned fully toward me, one brow slightly raised, eyes unblinking as he searched my face for any sign of hesitation or deception.
I met his gaze and didn’t look away.
After a long moment he exhaled and started walking again.
“For both our sakes,” he said quietly, “I hope you did the right thing by putting that crown on my head.”
“Because Rhaenyra is not going to take this well.”
Aegon let out a short, humorless laugh and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Oh, by the gods.” His voice dripped with mock dread.
“I can only imagine what she’s doing right now.”
“Monster… monster… get out… get out… GET OUT!”
Rhaenyra’s voice tore through the chamber.
Her back arched against the birthing bed as another wave of agony ripped through her.
“The head, Your Grace-” one of the midwives stepped forward, hands already reaching.
“We can see the head!”
“NO!” Rhaenyra screamed, thrashing.
“Do not touch me! Do not touch me!”
The women recoiled at once and several pressed trembling hands over their mouths and tears in their eyes.
None of them had ever heard a sound quite like the one that came from the Princess’ then a long, ragged screech of pain.
Then, before anyone could stop her, Rhaenyra shoved her own hand between her womanhood.
Her fingers found the infant’s head and her nails dug in, with a final, guttural cry of effort and fury, she dragged the child free of her body.
“Your Grace, no!” the senior midwife cried.
It was too late.
The babe slipped from Rhaenyra’s grasp and struck the black stone floor with a soft, final thud.
Rhaenyra’s strength left her in the same instant and her knees buckled.
She collapsed half-onto the bed, half-onto the floor, chest heaving, eyes barely open.
The midwives stared in horrified silence.
The child was a girl.
And she was exactly as Rhaenyra had named her in the throes of labor, a monster.
The tiny heart sat exposed outside the open chest and the legs were twisted and fused together in a cruel knot of flesh and bone.
There was no cry or movement or breath.
Rhaenyra’s head lolled to the side.
Her gaze found the small, broken body on the stone.
A single tear cut through the sweat on her cheek.
“It is… dead?” she whispered, voice shredded.
“They killed my daughter.”
A/N: Clearly there’s not much interest in charity these days, I guess we are all broke.
So try my discord, I need to discuss some important things, hope to see you there.