The Iron Throne was just as imposing and majestic as Daenerys had dreamed it would be. The closer she walked to it the larger it became, the melded swords shining as bits of candlelight reflected off the steel. Daenerys ran her hand along one of the jutted-out edges. So old, yet still so powerful.
"It's yours now, Khaleesi," Daenerys could imagine Jorah saying at the foot of the throne, "Not just because you deserve it, but because you earned it,"
This thought weighed on Daenerys' soul. Jorah was supposed to be in the Great Hall with her for this moment. Instead he was outside amongst the dead that were being collected.
"No," Daenerys thought. "Jorah is with me; he will always be with me. His words and love will guide my future actions,"
"This moment should not be about me," she imagined him saying. "It is yours, and yours alone, whether I am alive or not,"
Daenerys returned her gaze to the throne. Then, carefully, she lowered herself into its seat.
The Queen looked out into the Great Hall, imagining the room filled with people. She imagined the power a ruler must feel when looking upon an audience that reflected all of Westeros. It was no wonder both men and women had killed for it.
Daenerys shifted in the seat, suddenly uncomfortable. As she did one of the swords near the bottom ripped at her coat, causing a tear near the hem. "That tear could have just as easily been on my skin," she realized.
The idea frightened Daenerys: not of how the throne could physically inflict damage, but how it could mentally and emotionally scar her. If she was not careful, it could disfigure her in cruel ways, turning her into something that she was not.
The Queen stood and turned to stare at the throne made of a thousand swords of dead men. If this number wasn't high enough, how many had died to make their way to this very seat? It was certainly more than history could count, and more than Daenerys cared to know.
It was in that moment Daenerys decided the throne had to be destroyed.