In the Throne Room, soldiers pushed the two massive oak doors open together, revealing the Iron Throne, the symbol of supreme power over the Seven Kingdoms, to the nobles of the Reach and the Stormlands.
It was twisted and sharp, covered in barbs, and gleamed coldly in the dim light.
The throne stood empty.
There was no sound in the entire hall except their own breathing and the scrape of armor.
Cersei and the others seemed to have fled. Renly's soldiers had failed to find them in the Red Keep.
Renly's gaze fixed firmly on the Iron Throne, his breathing quickening.
He strode forward and climbed the steps to the throne, one after another.
At last, he stood before the enormous mass forged from countless swords.
Without the slightest hesitation, he turned to face the nobles, knights, and soldiers of the Stormlands and the Reach below.
He sat down.
Rip.
There was a faint sound of tearing cloth.
A sharp sword blade jutting from the Iron Throne easily sliced his hand.
A sharp sting followed, and warm blood instantly seeped out.
Renly's body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
This damned chair!
It forever reminded whoever sat upon it that power came with pain and betrayal.
But the sting only further kindled the fire of conquest within him.
Compared with the throne beneath his backside, this little blood was insignificant.
He raised his head, a smile spreading across his face. "My loyal vassals, the Lannister traitors have fled with their tails between their legs. They have abandoned King's Landing and their sham rule. From this day forth, this city and this Iron Throne belong once more to Baratheon, to us, to justice!"
"Long live King Renly!"
"Long live Baratheon!"
Armond of the Yellow Cloaks was the first to drop to one knee, his