Two years had slipped away since the tense family feast at Casterly Rock, carrying the royal children further from the innocence of the nursery and dragging them deeper into the treacherous, whispered currents of the Red Keep.
The evening sun was bleeding a vibrant, bruised orange across the horizon, casting long, gilded shadows over the Queen's private gardens. The air was thick and balmy, heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine, crushed mint, and the salty tang of the Blackwater Rush.
Beneath the sprawling, majestic canopy of a weeping willow, the three royal siblings had gathered around a small, wrought-iron table for their customary twilight respite, seeking comfort and idle chat after a grueling day of Maester's lessons and martial drills.
Yoriichi sat cross-legged on the manicured grass. His posture was, as always, flawlessly straight, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He was the eye of the storm, perfectly calm and stoic amidst the vibrant energy of his sisters.
Standing directly behind him was Myrcella. At twelve years old, she was already blossoming into a breathtakingly beautiful maiden. She was tall for her age, possessing a gentle, refined grace that starkly contrasted the sharp, ruthless edges typical of House Lannister.
She cherished these quiet free times, using them to play with her siblings. Currently, her delicate fingers were busy working an ivory comb through Yoriichi's long, midnight-black hair, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she attempted to weave it into a complex, intricate Southern-style knot.
"Brother, you are nearly a man grown," Myrcella murmured softly, her hands pausing as she sectioned a thick lock of hair tipped in vibrant crimson. "Should you not have your hair cut? Or at least make some proper style of it, like the squires of the Kingsguard? You always tie it back so simply."
Yoriichi did not open his eyes. He leaned back slightly, accommodating his sister's gentle tugging. He felt entirely comfortable, lazily enjoying the free massage and the soothing sensation of the comb scraping against his scalp.
"Oh... didn't the previous rulers of Westeros, the Dragonlords, also wear their hair much like mine?" Yoriichi replied, his voice a calm, even cadence that sounded far too mature for a boy of ten. "Well, theirs was silver, and perhaps shorter if compared to this. But to me, this length simply feels natural. It always has."
"I know the current hair looks incredibly handsome on you, especially when you wear it in a high ponytail for the yard," Myrcella admitted, a soft blush touching her cheeks as she resumed combing. She was fiercely protective of him.
"But still... do you not feel bad when the other kids and the older squires make fun of it behind your back? They call it a woman's length when they think you cannot hear."
Yoriichi's expression remained perfectly stoic. He shook his head slightly, causing Myrcella to click her tongue as a strand slipped from her fingers.
"For those other kids, I simply do not care. You can say words are just wind blowing through the leaves," Yoriichi answered gently. "If any of them can actually beat me in the ring, perhaps I can mind their opinions. Until then, they are merely talking to themselves."
Myrcella stiffled a sudden, highly unladylike snort of laughter behind her hand. She had secretly watched Yoriichi in the training yard from the balconies.
She had seen him completely humiliate boastful boys five years his senior, dismantling their pride mercilessly using nothing but a blunted wooden tourney sword and a single hand. The imagery of those arrogant squires being beaten into the dirt by her serene younger brother was intensely satisfying.
Across the small table, eleven-year-old Jeyne shot up from her seat, slamming her goblet of sweetened lemon water down with a sharp clack.
"Hey... are you two even listening to me?!" Jeyne demanded, her emerald eyes—so fiercely identical to their mother's—flashing with acute irritation. She crossed her arms over her chest.
"I was just narrating a brilliant, terrifying story about the wicked ghosts and demons that lurk in the frozen wastes beyond the Wall, and you two are gossiping about hair! Sigh... forget it. Do not ignore me next time, Myrcella, or I swear I will pluck that braid right out of his scalp!"
Myrcella's sweet demeanor hid a distinctly mischievous streak. She raised a golden eyebrow, a playful smirk touching her lips. "Oh, you dare? Please, try it then."
With a sudden, theatrical shriek, Myrcella dove behind Yoriichi's seated form, gripping his shoulders and acting as if she were using him as a human barricade against a charging boar. "See? My brother, the armored knight, will protect me! His gleaming sword will cut down the wicked demons of the West!"
"Wicked demon?!" Jeyne gasped in mock, furious outrage, her face flushing red. "Big sis, you... wait right there!"
Jeyne vaulted out from behind the table, lunging forward to catch her older sister. But Myrcella had already started running, her golden curls bouncing as she sprinted across the garden, her laughter ringing like silver bells in the twilight. Jeyne chased fiercely after her, cursing in a distinctly un-royal manner that would have made their mother proud.
Yoriichi opened his deep burgundy eyes, watching his sisters chase each other through the blooming rosebushes. A soft, genuine smile touched his lips. He truly cherished these moments. He loved this new family of his, despite the suffocating politics of the Red Keep and the undeniably crazy, obsessive nature of his mother. In these fleeting garden moments, they were just children.
Slowly, Yoriichi raised his hand, his fingertips brushing the jagged, crimson crest branded into the left side of his forehead.
The smile faded, replaced by a quiet, solitary contemplation. Why are you with me? he whispered in his mind, staring up at the darkening orange sky. Is there some kind of purpose? Any reason I was brought to this specific world?
Despite the High Septon's grand "prophecy" nearly a decade ago, Yoriichi was not a foolish child. He always heard the dark rumors that swirled in the gutters of King's Landing and the shadowed corners of the Keep. Some called him a divine gift. Others whispered he was a demon spawn, a creature of dark blood magic sent to curse the Baratheon dynasty.
Is it true? Am I supposed to be a chosen one, or some kind of demon? he sighed internally. Just... what are you?
He knew he was vastly different from the mortals around him. It was not just the strange mark or the two-toned hair. It was the terrifying power humming beneath his skin. Yes, he felt immensely powerful when he fought, but he knew he was a natural warrior.
When he trained with the seasoned knights of the Kingsguard, he never used his full capability. He used only a mere fraction of his speed and strength, just enough to polish his skills without accidentally maiming the men who guarded his family.
Lately, he had noticed something even more profound. When he fought, or when he cleared his mind, his breathing would naturally fall into a strange, intense rhythm. When he inhaled sharply, holding the breath in a specific, cyclical pattern, it was as if oxygen turned to liquid fire in his veins.
It boosted his endurance to infinite levels and magnified his stamina and strength tenfold. He didn't know where this breathing technique came from; he only knew it was a part of him, embedded in his soul from birth.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the upcoming month. The royal family was scheduled to make the long journey back to Casterly Rock to visit his grandfather, Tywin Lannister. It would be a tedious affair filled with sycophantic lords, but perhaps the change of scenery would do them all good.
A sudden, sharp cry of pain pulled him from his reverie.