Work Text:
They set me on the Iron Throne.
Cold bites through silk and wool. The swords are at my back, beneath my palms. Someone sets a crown upon my head. Lords bend the knee and tell me the realm rejoices.
I shut my eyes. Valarr stands before me, proud in his first armor, hoping to please me. Matarys is warm with sleep, his soft infant hands curled around my finger. I press a kiss to his head and breathe him in.
Then I open my eyes.
Hard steel. Bowed heads. Bent knees.
My sons are dead.
Someone is calling me king.