Chapter 625

By the time Daenerys descended upon the western courtyard of the Red Keep atop Drogon, Aegor was already there.

He did not rush forward to claim credit. Instead, he slowed his steps, using the shifting sea of soldiers and the chaos stirred by the black dragon’s landing to conceal himself. He kept his head down, ensuring he did not draw the Queen’s attention. Only when she finished speaking with Grey Worm and began making her way toward the throne room did he finally exhale in relief and follow.

He had miscalculated again.

Just moments ago, he had led his men in a desperate march through King’s Landing, racing up Aegon’s High Hill, expecting to storm the Red Keep. Yet as he ascended, he saw siege weapons that had been delivered but left unassembled, friendly troops loitering in the streets, and—most strikingly—the unscathed, pale pink walls of the Red Keep.

No cannon fire. No battle scars. No roaring inferno engulfing the fortress.

Daenerys’ greatest prize had been handed to her intact.

How was that possible?

A moment’s thought, and the answer became clear.

This had not been a war of annihilation, nor a foreign invasion bent on wiping out a people. It was merely a civil war—another of the many power struggles that had defined Westerosi history.

If Stannis Baratheon had already accepted his fate, if he had wished for his wife and daughter to be spared, then it stood to reason that he would not issue a foolish order to burn the Red Keep or King’s Landing to the ground.

As for the Gold Cloaks, abandoned by their master? Expecting them to fight to the death, without orders, for a cause they no longer believed in—well, that was nothing short of delusional.

Seen in that light, the outcome was unexpected, yet entirely reasonable.

The good news? Since the enemy had surrendered so decisively, the Queen’s anger toward the remnants of Stannis’ household might be somewhat tempered.

The bad news? If Selyse and Shireen had served no role in convincing the defenders to yield, Aegor had lost one of his key arguments for sparing them.

And that was why he had avoided Daenerys, why he had let her walk ahead. He needed her to see the Iron Throne, to feel the weight of victory, to revel in the moment. Only after she had tasted the sweetness of triumph would he risk making his case.

With a faint sense of unease, Aegor stepped into the throne room.

The last time he had set foot in this hall, it had been for the trial of Janos Slynt, the disgraced Lord Commander of the City Watch. That day, the chamber had been filled with lords and knights, criminals and witnesses, and he had played his part in ensuring that a craven did not find his way to the Wall.

Yet the Iron Throne—the one thing he had most wanted to see—had been hidden behind a vast curtain.

Now, the scene was entirely reversed.

The throne room was nearly empty, save for Daenerys, Grey Worm, and the silent shadows of the Unsullied guarding the entrance. The once-grand hall lay in disarray, littered with debris from its former occupants.

And at the far end of the chamber, untouched by time, stood the Iron Throne.

It loomed over the ruinous hall, eternal, unchanging.

The Unsullied at the door recognized him and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

Unlike Daenerys, who had been swept away by a tide of emotion, Aegor gave the throne only a brief glance before shifting his focus to the real challenge—her.

The throne, no matter how grand, was just an object.

The woman standing before it, climbing step by step toward its peak, was the one he had to contend with.

Three decisive victories, a rightful claim by blood and law, and an army stronger than any in Westeros—Daenerys had taken the Red Keep and seized control of the Crownlands. She was closer than ever to true, unchallenged rule.

But now that the battle had been won, a thousand new problems had emerged.

The fate of the false king’s family was just one of them.

Aegor had not forgotten the far greater burden still resting on his shoulders—the mystery of Winterfell’s poisoning.

A disagreement over Stannis’ wife and child might lead to an argument, perhaps some damage to his standing with the Queen.

But if he failed to deliver answers regarding the deaths of Petyr Baelish and Varys, Daenerys might decide he was incompetent.

And if she lost patience and handed the case to someone else?

That would be truly disastrous.
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He reached the foot of the throne just as Daenerys settled onto it.

Aegor gave Grey Worm a brief nod before stepping to his side, looking up at the Queen.

She was radiant with triumph, her eyes gleaming, her posture regal.

On the surface, he let himself wear an expression of quiet pride, the look of a loyal subject admiring his sovereign.

But inwardly, his thoughts raced.

How should he break the news of Stannis’ death?

Should he speak of his decision to shield the man’s wife and daughter first?

And when—inevitably—she asked about the real culprit behind the poisonings, how would he respond?

He was still calculating when it happened.

A sharp intake of breath.

A short, high-pitched gasp.

Daenerys jolted upright, her mouth slightly open, her left arm raised.

Her expression twisted in pain and shock as she stared at her hand.

She had been cut.

Grey Worm froze in place.

Aegor did not.

In an instant, he surged forward.

Taking the steps two at a time, he reached her side in a heartbeat.

She had already risen from the throne, standing atop the narrow steel platform, cradling her wounded hand in the other. Her face had gone pale, her lips slightly parted.

Her fingers trembled.

The wound itself was shallow, a mere scratch.

She was no delicate maiden who could not endure pain.

But the cut was not what had shaken her.

It was the meaning behind it.

There had always been whispers.

That the Iron Throne rejected unworthy rulers.

That Mad King Aerys had often been slashed by its edges.

That Maegor the Cruel had died upon it, his throat impaled.

And now, her.

Her very first time upon the throne, and already, it had drawn her blood.

Does this mean I will not be a fit queen?

A foolish thought—irrational, unfounded—yet it clawed at the edges of her mind, growing in strength with every second.

Then—

A figure closed in.

Aegor.

The speed of his approach startled her. She stepped back on instinct—

Her heel struck an obstacle.

The throne.

She was about to lose her balance—

And then—

A firm arm wrapped around her waist.

A strong hand seized her wounded fingers.

A warm, damp sensation enveloped her cut.

Her breath hitched.

She looked down—

And realized—

He was sucking on her wound.
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