The Iron Throne

And so it came to pass: the undead horde of Eternal Winter laid waste to the land of the living, leaving nought but swirling snows and freezing blizzards. On that fateful day, at long last, the Night King stood before the fabled Iron Throne: seat of the rulers of men since time immemorial.

“Er, so… it’s like literally an iron throne…”

“Yes oh Dark One,” hissed a rotting lackey. “The fabled Iron Throne: made from the swords of a thousand vanquished-“

“Yes yes, I know all that. I just thought, y’know, it was like symbolic. I didn’t expect it to be made of actual bloody swords!”

“’tis a symbol of great power oh King of Winter. Men have fought over it since it for aeons.”

“Fought to get off it more like! No wonder the living realms were so easy to conquer – they must’ve spent their defence budgets on haemorrhoid cream! Why didn’t you tell me? My arse is bony enough as it is without having to sit on a chair made of bits of pointy bloody metal!”

“Nonetheless it is now your rightful seat of command oh Lich Lord. What is your first edict oh Barrow Emperor? Sally forth the Legions of the Dead and destroy what remaining life remains on this world until even the lowliest insect is but dust beneath your feet?”

“Well yeah, duh!”

The great throne room echoed with a hollow ‘clonk’ followed by a pained sigh.

“But first, fetch me cushions - lots and lots of cushions.”

I saw an Iron Throne photo clip on sale for a couple of quid in Primark, part of their Game of Thrones range, and couldn’t resist.

A quick paint job later and my Frostgrave warbands have a nice (if rather uncomfortable) throne to fight over. Remember, 'when you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground (unless you happen to roll a 20).’