"More wine!" Jeyne suddenly shouted, banging her silver cup against the wooden table, shattering the quiet atmosphere. She was already showing the vicious, demanding traits of her mother. "Bring the boar! I want the boar!"
A nervous, sweating servant rushed forward from the shadows of the colonnade. He was carrying a massive, heavy silver platter that held the remains of a massive roasted boar, slick with hot grease and honey. Resting precariously on the edge of the platter was a large, razor-sharp carving knife, its blade still gleaming with meat juices.
The servant, terrified of keeping the royal princess waiting, moved too fast.
As he rounded the corner of the high table near where Cersei and Yoriichi sat, the heel of his leather boot caught a slick puddle of spilled wine on the polished marble floor.
The servant let out a panicked cry as his legs flew out from under him. The massive silver platter tipped violently. The roasted boar tumbled to the floor with a heavy, wet thud.
But worse, the razor-sharp carving knife was launched directly into the air.
Flipping end over end, the heavy steel blade spun like a deadly, metallic wheel. Driven by the momentum of the servant's fall, it hurtled directly toward Cersei's face.
Time seemed to dilate, slowing to a horrific, agonizing crawl.
From his post behind Cersei's chair, Jaime's hyper-honed knightly instincts screamed. He saw the spinning blade. He reached for the hilt of his golden sword, his muscles firing to throw himself over his sister. But the dreadful, cold mathematics of combat set in instantly. I am too far. I am too slow. It is going to hit her.
Cersei gasped, her green eyes widening in absolute terror as she watched the spinning steel hurtle toward her eyes. She didn't even have time to raise her hands.
And then, the air in the room simply... shifted.
Yoriichi had been sitting comfortably, calmly observing the fire. He had not been looking at the servant. Yet, in a fraction of a millisecond, his body moved.
It was not a frantic, panicked lunge. It was a movement of terrifying, fluid perfection.
Before Jaime could even draw his sword an inch from its scabbard, before Cersei could even scream, Yoriichi simply raised his left hand.
Clack.
The sound was sharp and sudden.
The spinning, heavy carving knife stopped dead in mid-air, a mere two inches from Cersei Lannister's pale cheek.
Yoriichi, an eight-year-old boy, was holding the heavy blade. He had not grabbed the handle. He had casually reached up with two fingers—his index and middle finger—and pinched the flat of the razor-sharp steel. He had arrested the violent momentum of the spinning knife perfectly, effortlessly, without sustaining so much as a paper cut.
The entire Golden Gallery plunged into a silence so profound it felt like the air had been sucked from the room.
The servant lay on the floor, trembling violently, expecting to be executed on the spot for nearly killing the Queen. Myrcella let out a delayed, high-pitched squeak of fear.
Yoriichi lowered his hand. He did not look angry. He did not look shaken. His heart rate had not increased by a single beat.
He calmly turned the knife around in his small hands, gripping the blade so the heavy wooden handle pointed outward. He leaned over the armrest of his chair, looking down at the terrified, sobbing servant on the floor, and offered the knife back to him.
"You should be more careful," Yoriichi said, his voice gentle and entirely devoid of malice. "The marble is very slippery. Please, do not hurt yourself."
The servant, weeping openly in pure shock and relief, took the knife with trembling hands. "Th-thank you, my Prince. Forgive me! Forgive me!"
"There is nothing to forgive. It was an accident," Yoriichi replied simply, turning back to his plate and picking up his fork as if he had just brushed away a fly.
Tywin Lannister had half-risen from his chair. The Old Lion's jaw was locked, his pale green eyes blown wide as he stared at his grandson. Tywin had seen the greatest knights in Westeros fight in the vanguard. He had seen Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne. But he had never, in his entire life, seen reflexes like that. It was not humanly possible for an eight-year-old child to track a spinning blade and pinch it out of the air.
He is a monster, Tywin thought, but for the first time in his life, the thought was accompanied by a surge of pure, unadulterated ambition. A beautiful, invincible monster. With him, House Lannister will reign for a thousand years.
Tyrion's wine goblet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the table, completely forgotten. The dwarf stared at his nephew with a mixture of absolute awe and creeping terror.
Cersei, however, did not look terrified.
She slowly turned her head to look at her son. Her chest was heaving. She had just been a fraction of a second away from being blinded or killed, and her eight-year-old son had effortlessly plucked death from the air to save her.
The look in Cersei's eyes was no longer just obsessive maternal love. It was absolute, fervent worship. She looked at Yoriichi as if he were the Warrior himself incarnate, stepping down from the heavens to shield her.
But standing behind them all, Ser Jaime Lannister felt his blood turn to ice.
He stared at Yoriichi's calm, profile, the red tips of his hair catching the firelight. Jaime's hand was still clamped around the hilt of his half-drawn sword. He felt pathetic. He felt entirely useless.
The horrific vision of the bloody, butchered corpse mountain rushed back into his mind with violent clarity. The sheer, suffocating killing intent he had felt that night in the void echoed in his chest. Jaime slowly released his grip on his sword, his hand trembling as he let it fall back to his side.
He is just a child, Jaime tried to tell himself again, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue.
But as Yoriichi calmly took another bite of his swan, his deep burgundy eyes entirely indifferent to the awe and terror he had just inspired, Jaime knew the terrifying truth. The boy was not a child. He was a calamity waiting to awaken, and he was currently sitting at the head of the Lannister table.