King's Landing, the Red Keep.
The vast fortress, which had witnessed centuries of dynastic change, had been thoroughly purged that day.
Every banner bearing the golden lion of House Lannister or the crowned stag of House Baratheon had been torn down. In their place flew the three-headed dragon banner that had risen on the frozen plains of the North, symbolizing Winter's thunder and flame.
Inside the great hall, all the surviving noble lords of Westeros had gathered.
From the Starks of the North to the Tyrells of the South, from the newly restored House Baratheon in the Westerlands to the Arryns of the eastern Vale, and then the Tullys of the Riverlands and the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands...
They wore their finest clothes, yet had put aside every trace of arrogance.
Every vassal in the hall, whether a battle-hardened veteran or a calculating adviser, bowed their head, not daring to look directly at the figure on the throne.
The Iron Throne, forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his defeated enemies, had finally welcomed its true master.
Lynn wore no elaborate royal robes, only a simple, imposing suit of black armor.
His black hair hung loose, and his deep eyes calmly swept over the faces below-awed, submissive, or stripped of every last shred of ambition.
Margaery, Sansa, Daenerys, Arya... these women, who now held immense influence in Westeros, stood on either side of the throne.
They were the cornerstones of the new order, and the strength he trusted most.
There were no blessings from the High Septon, no sacred oils of the Seven.
The coronation was so simple it was almost blunt.
Davos Seaworth, once the Onion Knight and now the Hand of the King, slowly climbed the steps with a crown in his hands.
The crown