Chapter 51: The Iron Throne

Spring, 301 AC

The throne room of the Red Keep was eerily silent. The war had ended, the banners of House Lannister had been torn down, and the sigil of the three-headed dragon once again hung in its rightful place. Smoke still lingered in the air, a remnant of the battle that had scarred King's Landing, but within these walls, only the weight of history remained.

Aemon Targaryen stood before the Iron Throne, his gaze fixed upon the cruel, twisted blades that formed its jagged back. The seat of kings. The prize for which men had bled, schemed, and died. And now, after generations of war and suffering, it was his.

Yet, he felt no joy.

His fingers brushed against the cold steel, tracing the edges of the melted swords forged by Balerion the Black Dread. He thought of Aegon the Conqueror, who had taken Westeros with fire and blood. Of Maegor the Cruel, who had ruled with fear. Of Rhaegar, his father, who had forsaken it all for a prophecy.

What had the Iron Throne brought to the Targaryens except pain?

He exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with the weight of the past.

A Queen's Resolve

Footsteps echoed through the great hall. Daenerys Targaryen approached, her violet eyes soft yet determined. She had walked these halls once before, as a girl, when Viserys had whispered to her about the throne that should have been theirs. Now, it belonged to her husband.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've won," she said gently.

Aemon let out a quiet chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "Have I?" He turned to her. "How many lives have been lost for this throne? How much of House Targaryen has been sacrificed for it?"

Daenerys lowered her gaze, understanding his pain. "More than we can count."

She looked to the throne, her expression unreadable. "Viserys believed sitting on this throne would bring him peace. But I think he would have found it empty."

Aemon's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. "The throne has done nothing but consume those who chase it. Aegon conquered a kingdom and died trying to keep it. Maegor bathed it in blood and was found dead upon it. Rhaegar forsook it and was cut down in a river."

Daenerys met his gaze. "Yet here you stand."

Aemon searched her face, seeing not just the woman he loved but the last true remnant of House Targaryen—his equal, his fire. "And will it consume me, too?"

Daenerys reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. "Not while I stand beside you."

A Realm Kneels

The heavy doors of the throne room groaned open, and Missandei entered, followed by Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell, and the gathered lords and warriors who had fought for Aemon's cause. Behind them, Grey Worm, flanked by his Unsullied, stood as a silent sentinel. The hall filled with the weight of expectation.

Aemon turned back to the throne. There was no ceremony, no grand coronation—only the silent moment where history shifted. He climbed the steps, each footfall ringing in his ears.

As he lowered himself onto the Iron Throne, the cold metal pressing against his back, the hall knelt as one.

Missandei stepped forward, her voice clear and unwavering. "All hail **Aemon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

The words echoed through the great hall. Aemon felt the weight of them settle upon his shoulders like a cloak of iron.

Sansa, kneeling before him, lifted her gaze. For the first time since she had been taken from Winterfell, she felt safe. The throne was no longer occupied by Lannisters, no longer the seat of her enemies. It belonged to the man who had once been her brother. To the man she had married.

Daenerys remained standing beside the throne, her hand resting lightly on Aemon's. Together, they faced the realm that now lay before them.

The war had been won.

But the game had only just begun.