"I am your king, by right of blood and conquest, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Guardian of the Westerlands, Lord of King’s Landing, and all that endless litany of titles the maesters insist on reciting!"

the king roared, his thick, slurred voice echoing off the walls of the Iron Throne’s hall. Slumped upon the ancestral seat forged from the blades of the vanquished, the monarch seemed more a wounded bear than the sovereign of Westeros. His black velvet cloak, embroidered with threads of gold that gleamed in the torchlight, hung carelessly over his broad shoulders. The golden crown, studded with rubies that glowed like dragon’s eyes, sat crooked upon his brow, as if mocking his majesty. In his hand, a silver goblet, dented by the grip of calloused fingers, brimmed with Dornish red, and dark droplets like blood spilled to stain the polished stone floor. The king’s eyes, once sharp as a falcon’s, were now glazed, clouded by the excess of mead and the weariness of sleepless nights. He swayed upon the throne, the weight of his duties and the sweet poison of wine conspiring to drag him into a stupor. In the hall, courtiers exchanged furtive glances, their whispers hushed like the scurry of rats in the shadows. The king was drunk, that much was plain, yet even in his weakness, there lingered a ferocity that made even the boldest hesitate to challenge him. For, though he faltered, he was still the master of that seat of swords, and the Iron Throne did not suffer the weak for long.