Joffrey's cries cut off abruptly.
After a short, muffled thud, the Throne Room fell deathly silent, the air so thick it seemed to have congealed.
Only the wind slipped through the broken window frames high above, passing between pillars and shadows with faint, whimpering sounds that made the silence all the heavier.
Aegon walked slowly forward.
His Valyrian steel boots struck the cold floor, each step steady and distinct, echoing through the empty hall in a slow rhythm, like the drumbeats of an ancient ritual pounding against the backs of everyone kneeling there.
His pitch-black armor swallowed almost all the light. Only the occasional slanting shaft of daylight brushed its plates, drawing out a cold metallic gleam that vanished into darkness a moment later.
He crossed the long carpet. Tapestries embroidered with golden lions and crowned stags had fallen to the floor, and he trampled them beneath his boots without a second thought.
On either side, courtiers, guards, and attendants knelt in dark masses, their heads bowed so low they nearly touched the floor.
Rich robes and gleaming breastplates trembled slightly in the silence. No one dared look up. No one dared breathe loudly.
Aegon looked neither left nor right.
His gaze pierced the air, passed over the prostrate crowd, the flickering candles, and the drifting dust, and settled straight ahead at the far end of the hall, upon that enormous, savage, twisted shadow forged from countless swords.
The Iron Throne.
At last, he stood before it.
He was close enough to see the mottled rust on the blades that formed the throne, the old dark-red stains, and the sharp edges that had never been blunted.
It had never been a comfortable seat, but a mountain of weapons symbolizing conquest and bloodshed, towering and jagged, with danger lurking everywhere.
Aegon