Game of Thrones.

Gears crack as static explodes out of crooked pipes beneath your body, your throne represents true power; power non-threatened by a sudden dark pressure washing over you. Scaly beasts skim past your body with wicked flame in tow, sharp talons attempting a scar upon your presence. Complications resonate from the world surrounding, resounding plots within plots haunting even the greatest of thinkers. If a god were to create this world, the god would surely get lost within it; may that god ever create again. Matters not, you are the only god here.

A throne imitating your own churns at the weight of fools sat atop it, memories play of many eyes filled with tears at the sight of a story ruined. Candles made of materials shaped smooth, the lifeless presume they burn because of a return. But it is because of you. What plot will you interrupt? The people here depend on the houses which rule them so weakly. You must create a legend only the stars can comprehend, crash, and burn the fallacies of this world; treat them as they do themselves.