A week passed over the Red Keep, thick with the suffocating, paranoid tension that only a royal birth could bring.
To the rest of the realm, the week was a unanimous celebration. The bells had rung, the taverns had been drained of their ale, and the Baratheon dynasty was seemingly secured. But inside the oppressive, guarded walls of Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei Lannister was playing a terrifying game of cyvasse with the lives of everyone she loved.
The greatest hurdle had come the very next afternoon. King Robert Baratheon, smelling strongly of sour wine, roasted boar, and another woman's perfume, had finally bothered to visit his wife's chambers to see his new heir. His booming voice had echoed off the stone walls, making the Kingsguard wince.
When Robert leaned over the bed with his massive, heavy-handed gait, Cersei's heart had hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. With meticulous, desperate care, she had swaddled the infant tightly in thick crimson silks.
She held the boy high against her chest, her own hand delicately but firmly cupping the left side of his head, entirely obscuring the demonic, flame-like mark on his brow. Furthermore, she had tucked a small, embroidered cap over the crown of his head, hiding the vibrant crimson tips and leaving only the midnight-black roots visible.
Robert had stared at the tuft of black hair. A booming, genuine laugh had erupted from his chest. "The seed is strong!" he had roared, entirely satisfied.
He didn't notice the unnatural heat radiating from the boy, nor did he care that the infant didn't cry. He patted Cersei's knee with clumsy affection, declared he was going hunting in the Kingswood to celebrate, and promptly left the room.
When the lords of the Small Council had later pressed for the prince's name, Cersei had smoothly deflected. She knew she could not simply declare him Yoriichi; the High Valyrian excuse would only stretch so far, and the Westerosi lords would chafe at a name that sounded so completely alien. She needed absolute, unassailable leverage to legitimize her divine monster.
And so, she had turned to the one man in the Seven Kingdoms whose authority rivaled the King's: her father.
In the dead of night, Cersei had penned a heavily ciphered letter to Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. She announced the birth of the dark-haired heir, but she also carefully detailed the "strangeness"—the unnatural crimson tips of his hair, his eerie silence, and the distinct, fiery crest branded onto his left brow. She did not mention Jaime's terrified vision, nor her own obsession. She framed it entirely as a political crisis waiting to happen.
A hundred leagues away, deep within the impenetrable stone of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister had read the decrypted raven scroll in his solar. For the first time in a decade, the Old Lion had been genuinely shocked. He did not know what twisted curse the Gods had inflicted upon his daughter's womb.
A marked child? Demonic red hair? If the rumors leaked before they could be controlled, Stannis Baratheon or Jon Arryn would use it to declare the boy a freak, a bastard of blood magic, or worse.
For a whole day and night, Tywin had locked himself away, pacing the cold stone floors, consulting his oldest and most trusted Maesters on matters of birthmarks and Valyrian traits. He realized that if the royals pressured the Queen for explanations regarding this strange birth, the power of House Lannister would slowly, inevitably be swept away by superstitious fear.
The solution he eventually penned back to Cersei was a masterclass in ruthless pragmatism: Do not hide the mark. Weaponize it. Buy the High Septon. Have the Faith declare it a divine mandate. Men fear monsters, but they will kneel to a god.
And so, exactly seven days after the birth, Cersei Lannister found herself inside an ornate, gilded wheelhouse, rolling heavily through the winding streets of King's Landing toward the Visenya's Hill.
Inside the carriage, Cersei sat with perfect posture, the newborn Yoriichi resting calmly in her lap. The boy was staring up at the velvet canopy, his breathing deep and perfectly rhythmic.
Riding alongside the carriage on his magnificent white destrier was Ser Jaime Lannister.
From a distance, the Kingslayer looked like a paradigm of knightly virtue, clad in his gleaming white scale armor and flowing cloak. But beneath the polished steel of his helm, Jaime's face was a mask of exhausted, bitter frustration. He was drowning in a deep, agonizing depression.
It had been a week, and he had not managed to touch her once. Cersei had kept her doors locked, flanked by Kingsguard loyal to her, shutting Jaime out completely. The emotional and physical withdrawal was eating him alive.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mountain of butchered corpses. Every time he opened them, he saw the closed door of his sister's bedchamber. He didn't know what to do. He was losing her to this silent, terrifying creature, and he was powerless to stop it. Jaime sighed heavily, the sound lost to the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, glancing bitterly through the visor slit at the velvet curtains of the carriage.
After several tense minutes, the royal procession reached the massive Plaza of the Father.
The Great Sept of Baelor loomed above them, a breathtaking monument of marble and crystal. Because it was high noon, the morning prayers for the nobility had already concluded, and the expansive plaza was comparatively spaced out, populated only by a few wandering begging brothers and silent sisters.
The wheelhouse groaned to a halt. Jaime dismounted, his movements stiff, and personally opened the heavy carriage door. He offered his gauntleted hand to his sister. Cersei ignored it entirely.
With flawless grace and practiced confidence, Cersei stepped down from the carriage, the crimson-wrapped infant cradled securely in her arms. A trusted maid trailed closely behind her, carrying the Queen's trailing skirts. Cersei did not even look at Jaime as she began her ascent up the wide, sweeping marble stairs.
When they reached the massive, bronze-studded doors of the Sept, the Kingsguards pushed them open with a heavy groan.
The interior of the Great Sept was cavernous and cool, smelling intensely of burning incense, melting beeswax, and the faint, sweet rot of crushed flowers. Sunlight fractured through the seven-pointed star crystals in the dome, casting rainbow prisms across the polished marble floor.
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Sorry for the delays guys, i will regularly update now. To be consistent and same quality.
If my budget... uhm, my time increase then i will do more regular. i will release my extra chapters in p@treon next and i will tell u when it's complete.