The silence in the royal bedchamber stretched until it felt as fragile as spun glass.
Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lion of the Rock, stood frozen with the newborn infant cradled awkwardly in his armored arms. He was a man who had laughed in the face of charging knights and mocked the Mad King as he bled out on the floor of the throne room.
Yet, staring down into the fathomless, burgundy depths of this child's eyes, Jaime felt entirely stripped of his armor. There was no infantile innocence there. Only an ancient, piercing calmness that seemed to bypass Jaime's flesh and look directly upon the stained, guilty ruin of his soul.
To break the suffocating spell, Jaime forced a crooked, arrogant smile onto his lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes. He looked up from the child, turning his gaze back to the beautiful, exhausted woman lounging against the pillows.
"Well, sweet sister," Jaime said, his voice a shade too loud for the quiet room. "If he is not to be a curse, then he must have a name. What shall we call this divine gift of yours? A proud Lannister name, I hope? Tybolt? Gerold? Or perhaps you wish to mock the drunken oaf and name him Orys, to remind the realm who truly holds the power?"
Cersei heard the forced levity in her twin's voice, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed adoringly on the dark-haired bundle in his arms. A name. Yes, a king needed a name that would strike fear into the hearts of the rebellious North and the treacherous Reach. She opened her mouth, fully intending to suggest Jorian or perhaps Lucion, something strong and fierce.
But as her lips parted, the air in the room suddenly felt incredibly dense, as if the atmospheric pressure had doubled in a heartbeat. The flickering light of the hearth seemed to dim, drawing inward.
A word bloomed in the back of Cersei's mind. It was not a thought; it was an imposition. It felt like a whisper carried on a scorching desert wind, an ancient syllable that burned its way down her throat and forced itself off her tongue.
"Yoriichi," Cersei said.
The moment the word left her mouth, she blinked, startled by her own voice. Yoriichi? What in the Seven Hells was that? It sounded completely alien, a harsh yet strangely melodic arrangement of syllables that belonged nowhere in the Common Tongue.
Was it Old Valyrian? A dialect of Asshai-by-the-Shadow? She felt a momentary spike of confusion, a rare lapse in her absolute control. But looking at the red-tipped hair and the demonic crest on the boy's brow, her confusion rapidly hardened into absolute certainty. It was a name breathed to her by the Gods themselves. It was perfect.
Jaime's forced smile faltered, his mouth twitching in profound disbelief. What now? he thought, his irritation beginning to outweigh his unease. A strange, marked boy, and now a strange, savage name? Has the milk of the poppy addled her wits?
"Yoriichi?" Jaime repeated, the syllables feeling foreign and clunky against his Westerosi tongue. He looked back down at the infant. The boy was still watching him, unblinking.
Jaime leaned in slightly, his golden hair falling forward as he stared directly into the child's deep burgundy eyes. He tried to project his own imposing will, the aura of the Kingslayer, attempting to dominate whatever strange presence resided within this infant.
"Yoriichi," Jaime whispered slowly, testing the weight of it.
The very instant the final syllable left his lips while their eyes were locked, the world shattered.
It did not fade. It violently snapped.
The stifling heat of the royal bedchamber, the smell of myrrh and blood, the soft rustle of Cersei's silken sheets—all of it was instantly annihilated. Jaime's breath hitched violently as the air was sucked from his lungs. He was no longer standing in the Red Keep.
He was standing in a void of suffocating, freezing darkness.
Panic, raw and primal, seized Jaime by the throat. He couldn't feel his armor. He couldn't feel his hands. He was merely a point of consciousness suspended in an abyss. Above him, a moon hung in the black sky—but it was not the pale, silver moon of Westeros. It was massive, swollen, and painted a sickly, luminous crimson, casting a ghastly, bloody pallor over the nightmare landscape.
Instinctively, guided by a terror he had never known, Jaime turned his head slightly to the right.
His breath caught in his throat, choking him. The landscape was not empty.
Rising from the barren, ash-choked earth was a mountain. But as Jaime's vision adjusted to the hellish red moonlight, the true, horrifying nature of the terrain revealed itself. It was not a mountain of stone. It was a mountain of corpses.
Thousands upon thousands of bodies were piled atop one another in a grotesque monument to slaughter. Jaime had seen the aftermath of the Trident. He had walked through the Sack of King's Landing, stepping over the butchered remains of Targaryen loyalists. He knew the stench of death.
But this was something entirely different. The corpses were mutilated beyond human comprehension. Some had multiple limbs, others had twisted, horned skulls, and their blood ran in thick, unnatural colors, pooling into a literal river of gore at the base of the mound.
To Jaime's Westerosi mind, they looked like humans who had been twisted by the darkest, most foul blood magic imaginable—monsters bred in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells.
The sheer scale of the carnage was mind-breaking. The stench of rotting flesh, sulfur, and copper was so thick Jaime felt he was drowning in it.
And then, he felt the pressure.
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I know many have problem with name but i have already a plot for changing it....
ur bro always plan ahead heheheh...
Still i need all of ur opinion if u want to change, comment me with yes or no here.