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linndechirTitle: Mine with all its treacherous edges
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters: Stannis Baratheon, Jon Snow, and the Iron Throne totally counts as a character in this ;)
Rating: G
Words: 829
Warnings: none really, futurefic
Summary: The first time Stannis Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne after the war.
Author's note: written for a prompt on the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
asoiafkinkmeme: "Stannis/Iron Throne. "First time." The man needs to sit on the bloody throne as the rightful king." Quick fill, nothing big.
He was still in full armour when he entered the throne room. The battle was all but over, his men were securing the last parts of the Red Keep, but the throne room itself was quiet, and all Stannis could see was the Iron Throne. He had last seen it almost half a decade ago, when his brother had still ruled unchallenged and in good health, when even Stannis hadn't expected things to move so fast. There was something foreboding about the empty hall, without the courtly hustle and bustle Stannis remembered from Robert's reign. It was dark and cold, like a crypt almost; and after all it was this throne that had swallowed both his brothers, in its own way.
It felt almost unreal, to have what he had fought for since Robert's death suddenly so close, only a few feet away. Truly his now, within his reach.
Stannis slowly walked through the hall. He had passed it countless times, but this was different. Although he wasn't a sentimental man, he couldn't deny that his heart beat faster in his chest as he approached the throne. There were soft steps behind him – Jon Snow, who in the past months had become his constant shadow, a Kingsguard in all but name, lacking nothing but the white cloak. His direwolf was with him, but they both kept their distance, as if they knew that their king needed this moment to himself.
He hesitated before he went up the steps to that black-grey, charred monstrosity. The people said that it was for this throne that the realm had been torn to pieces, but Stannis knew better. He hadn't gone to war for a throne. He had gone to war for justice, for order, for the law. The Iron Throne was not his reward – it was his burden, and Stannis Baratheon was not the kind of man to leave his burdens to others.
The throne was as ugly as he remembered it, sharp and uninviting, and it looked even more uncomfortable. Stannis stretched out his hand, but he halted before his fingers touched the metal. He wondered if he would cut himself, and scolded himself for the thought at the same moment. It was foolish superstition – as if a throne could actually reject a king. And yet he still felt an odd sense of relief when his fingers finally touched the throne and only felt dull edges, no sharp ridges to rip his skin open.
Suddenly Stannis felt ridiculous, standing there like a shy boy on his wedding day who barely dared to touch his bride. His frown deepened, and he sat down. The metal was hard and cold and even through the armour as uncomfortable as the crown Stannis hated wearing. Aegon the Conqueror had been a smart man, Stannis thought, a man who knew that a king never sat easy, just as he could never rest his head.
He looked down and saw Jon standing by the steps, grey eyes looking up at him. There was a smile on those usually so stern features, the only warmth in the room.
"If any man ever deserved that throne, it is you, Your Grace," Jon said when their eyes met. From any other man but Davos Stannis would have dismissed the words as flattery, but he knew that Jon Snow meant them. Ned Stark's bastard had always spoken more boldly to the king than befit his station. It was one of the things Stannis liked most about him.
"Whether I deserve it or not doesn't matter, it never mattered," Stannis replied, his hands coming to rest on the charred, broken blades of the throne. A hard, dangerous seat, but only a foolish boy like Renly could ever have thought ruling easy. "But it was mine since the moment Robert died, mine with all its sharp and treacherous edges. I still don't know why anyone would ever want it."
After years of war and winter, of betrayal and battle and death, King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm claimed his throne. And though he had defeated both the Others north of the Wall and the traitors south of it, he knew that his true work had only just begun. There was no smile of triumph on his face as he took what was his, only a grim determination to do his duty.
He allowed himself a brief moment of rest, a few seconds to let it sink in that the moment he had barely dared to dream of had finally come, but then he forced himself to get up again, ignoring the weariness in his bones after too many battles in the snow.
"Come, Ser Jon," he said as he walked down the steps. "There is no time for idleness. Send for Lord Davos. I have a kingdom to rebuild."
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters: Stannis Baratheon, Jon Snow, and the Iron Throne totally counts as a character in this ;)
Rating: G
Words: 829
Warnings: none really, futurefic
Summary: The first time Stannis Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne after the war.
Author's note: written for a prompt on the
asoiafkinkmeme: "Stannis/Iron Throne. "First time." The man needs to sit on the bloody throne as the rightful king." Quick fill, nothing big.He was still in full armour when he entered the throne room. The battle was all but over, his men were securing the last parts of the Red Keep, but the throne room itself was quiet, and all Stannis could see was the Iron Throne. He had last seen it almost half a decade ago, when his brother had still ruled unchallenged and in good health, when even Stannis hadn't expected things to move so fast. There was something foreboding about the empty hall, without the courtly hustle and bustle Stannis remembered from Robert's reign. It was dark and cold, like a crypt almost; and after all it was this throne that had swallowed both his brothers, in its own way.
It felt almost unreal, to have what he had fought for since Robert's death suddenly so close, only a few feet away. Truly his now, within his reach.
Stannis slowly walked through the hall. He had passed it countless times, but this was different. Although he wasn't a sentimental man, he couldn't deny that his heart beat faster in his chest as he approached the throne. There were soft steps behind him – Jon Snow, who in the past months had become his constant shadow, a Kingsguard in all but name, lacking nothing but the white cloak. His direwolf was with him, but they both kept their distance, as if they knew that their king needed this moment to himself.
He hesitated before he went up the steps to that black-grey, charred monstrosity. The people said that it was for this throne that the realm had been torn to pieces, but Stannis knew better. He hadn't gone to war for a throne. He had gone to war for justice, for order, for the law. The Iron Throne was not his reward – it was his burden, and Stannis Baratheon was not the kind of man to leave his burdens to others.
The throne was as ugly as he remembered it, sharp and uninviting, and it looked even more uncomfortable. Stannis stretched out his hand, but he halted before his fingers touched the metal. He wondered if he would cut himself, and scolded himself for the thought at the same moment. It was foolish superstition – as if a throne could actually reject a king. And yet he still felt an odd sense of relief when his fingers finally touched the throne and only felt dull edges, no sharp ridges to rip his skin open.
Suddenly Stannis felt ridiculous, standing there like a shy boy on his wedding day who barely dared to touch his bride. His frown deepened, and he sat down. The metal was hard and cold and even through the armour as uncomfortable as the crown Stannis hated wearing. Aegon the Conqueror had been a smart man, Stannis thought, a man who knew that a king never sat easy, just as he could never rest his head.
He looked down and saw Jon standing by the steps, grey eyes looking up at him. There was a smile on those usually so stern features, the only warmth in the room.
"If any man ever deserved that throne, it is you, Your Grace," Jon said when their eyes met. From any other man but Davos Stannis would have dismissed the words as flattery, but he knew that Jon Snow meant them. Ned Stark's bastard had always spoken more boldly to the king than befit his station. It was one of the things Stannis liked most about him.
"Whether I deserve it or not doesn't matter, it never mattered," Stannis replied, his hands coming to rest on the charred, broken blades of the throne. A hard, dangerous seat, but only a foolish boy like Renly could ever have thought ruling easy. "But it was mine since the moment Robert died, mine with all its sharp and treacherous edges. I still don't know why anyone would ever want it."
After years of war and winter, of betrayal and battle and death, King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm claimed his throne. And though he had defeated both the Others north of the Wall and the traitors south of it, he knew that his true work had only just begun. There was no smile of triumph on his face as he took what was his, only a grim determination to do his duty.
He allowed himself a brief moment of rest, a few seconds to let it sink in that the moment he had barely dared to dream of had finally come, but then he forced himself to get up again, ignoring the weariness in his bones after too many battles in the snow.
"Come, Ser Jon," he said as he walked down the steps. "There is no time for idleness. Send for Lord Davos. I have a kingdom to rebuild."
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