The great double doors to the throne room groaned open, and a hush spread over the throne room. My herald stepped up. “Presenting His Grace, Tommen of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Without waiting any further, I strode down the great hall with Ser Boros, Ser Jaime, and Ser Lyle trailing me like ghosts with their white cloaks. Whispers and murmurs from the noblemen and women attending followed in my wake, their quiet voices tinged with everything from awe to envy, anger and lust, scorn and adulation.

Every one of these people reigned as little kings and queens in their own domains, such was the feudalism in this world. They think themselves at the top of the food chain, untouchable in their little stone castles.

That lasts until they are confronted by a power greater than their own, and the walls to their pathetic fantasy come tumbling down into reality. That’s how it happened with the Targaryens when they first came upon a Westeros with seven kings. After all, what is a golden crown worth to someone who rides down from the heavens on the back of dragons like gods.

I had no dragons of my own, nor the ethereal beauty of the Valyrians; I just happened to have the only magical sword in the room when a demon wrought of blood and shadows walked in.

I left my three kingsguard at the foot of the throne, while the two most prominent families that swore me fealty stood to either side. The much diminished Lannister family, with the hilarious dichotomy of Tyrion and Tywin standing side by side, and the four Tyrells present in the capital.

It felt right stepping up the stairs of the Iron Throne. I had always viewed it as a monstrosity of melted iron, shaped and worked as a power play by an insecure king. Like a fussy child showing his big toys to his friends. Now I knew Aegon had the right idea when he had it made. It was an accurate representation of power in the Seven Kingdoms. Ugly, crude, wrought with fire and blood and suffering. Only those willing to sink into the depths of hell—willing to feel the heat of a dragon’s belly licking at their heart and a thousand blades feasting on their blood—were deserving of the seat.

And no one else belonged atop it more than I.

I turned to face the room and sat down. Unlike the last time I was on it, feeling the cold and uncomfortable metal confining me as if it were a grave, the throne welcomed me like a mother’s embrace; its jutting blades no longer cut at my skin, and some long-lasting remnant of Balerion’s scorching breath still lingered to warm my bones.

It was molded perfectly to me.

Snapping back to the present, I noticed the throne room had grown quieter still with my silence, so I cleared my throat. “Ser Donnel Swann,” I called. “Please, step forward.”

The man who approached the throne had Ser Balon’s build, tall and broad at the shoulders. The only thing to show for the decade he had over his brother were the faint white strands on the bronze hair slowly receding from his brow.

“Your Grace,” he said, one knee on the floor.

From the tone of his voice alone, I knew he expected grave news. “Take heart, ser,” I told him. “I have word from you brother. He is recovering well, and I expect him to be fit for duty soon.” The Swann knight seemed to sag within himself, almost falling to both knees. I turned to Pycelle who was lurking by the side of the nearest column. “Grand Maester, please accompany Ser Donnel to the rookery and help him prepare a letter for his father. I am sure Lord Guilan would appreciate news of his younger son.”

And I would appreciate a better foothold in the Stormlands. When Pycelle and Balon’s brother left, I leaned forward on the throne, watching my expecting subjects buzzing around each other like bugs. They seemed so much smaller from up here. I raised a hand and put on my best smile.

“Forgive me, my lords, my ladies,” I said. “I know too well the pain of losing a brother and had no wish to make Ser Donnel wait a second longer than necessary. Now, I wish to apologize for my absence in court the past few days. I have recused myself to pray for the Seven, even visiting the Great Sept to seek their counsel in this hour of need. And, after much deliberation, I find myself obliged to inform you that I have evidence that this… demon was sent by a Targaryen agent to see me killed.”

The confirmation of a Targaryen vying for the crown was like dropping a rock in a calm lake, sending ripples of concern and fear through the room. It had only been hearsay so far, and if it’s not staring them down with a sword in hand, most of these people wouldn’t know an assassin from a rock.

Now they knew. Sooner or later, war was coming. And each of them had a choice to make, a ringed hand to bow over and kiss, and a set of feet to lay their swords upon.

Amidst the commotion, Lord Tywin rose from his chair. “Your Grace,” he said. His voice echoed in the room, and people fell quiet to hear the Lord of Lannister. “How is it you’ve come by this evidence?”

I nodded at him. “I’ve had one of my men searching the vaults, my lord, and a similar spell was found in an old book here at the keep, dating back to the Freehold of Valyria. It’s contents were… graphic, my lord, truly graphic. And one of the… ingredients necessary to produce such a vile creature included royal valyrian blood, from one of the forty ruling families. As far as I know, there is only one of those left. We, naturally, had the book burned.”

My words were met with horror and silence in equal parts. “I see,” Tywin finally said, bowing and sitting back down. His part for the night was done.

I turned back to the stunned nobles. “Of course, though almost unthinkable, it should be expected of that tainted family to use such despicable methods. How the Targaryen pretender… birthed that demon, I know not, and it is no matter to me. I shall fear none of their sorcery and trickery, for the gods themselves guide my path. What is a dragon when you’ve killed a demon, eh?”

I got some laughter for that, but I hadn’t exactly set up the mood to be joyous.

I still wore my armor from earlier in the day, and when I stood from the throne, the black plate seemed to swallow the light of the torches set around the cavernous room. “On to lighter, happier things then. Ser Loras Tyrell,” I called.

Loras moved to kneel before me. “Your Grace,” he said. “I’m yours to command.”

I almost raised an eyebrow. Wasn’t everyone? Instead, I favored him with a gracious smile. “I had put my bets on you for the tilts, ser, and I had wished to reward you for your gallantry with the laurels still in your hands. So I do apologize for stealing the show that night.” I heard Margaery giggling behind a gloved hand, and with her leading the way, most of the room joined. Ignoring the fake laughter, I walked down the steps of the Iron Throne until I stood before Loras. “No one here can doubt your skill and your bravery. You’ve saved this city with my grandfather during the Battle of the Blackwater, and for that, we are all thankful.

“Now,” I said, pulling Lightbringer out of its scabbard and bringing it to rest it on his shoulder. “Say your vows, ser. Say it and be raised to a brotherhood of few amongst many.”

Loras’ eyes widened. He cast a quick glance at his family, as if searching for confirmation, before looking back at me. His shoulders settled straight, and he nodded.

“Hear my words, and judge my honor,” he started. “I, Loras of House Tyrell, hereby vow to serve my king, to ward him from any harm and threat with all my strength; to follow his orders to the best of my abilities, and to protect his name and honor with mine own blood. I vow to keep his secrets, to counsel him when it’s requested, and to keep silence when it’s not. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my king’s side. I pledge my life and honor to King Tommen of House Baratheon, from this day, until the end of my days.”

I sheathed Lightbringer back where it belonged and nodded to my Lord Commander. From the side, Jaime unfurled a new moon-white cloak and laid it over Loras’ shoulders. I was pretty sure Jaime hated his guts, but he could be professional when called upon.

“Then rise,” Jaime said, “Ser Loras of the Kingsguard.”