The long winter had finally broken, surrendering to a sprawling, oppressive summer that baked the red clay of the capital into cracked ceramic. Six years had passed since the explosive feast that introduced Joffrey to the royal fold, and the political landscape of Westeros had warped under the heavy, drunken decrees of its King.
In the sun-drenched training yards of the Red Keep, sixteen-year-old Yoriichi stood in the center of the sparring ring.
He was no longer a boy. He had grown to a towering height of six feet and few inches, possessing a physique of lean, tightly coiled muscle that moved with the fluid, devastating grace of a striking viper. His midnight-black hair, tipped in vivid crimson, was tied back in a high ponytail, snapping like a banner in the hot wind.
But it was not his height that commanded the absolute, terrified silence of the gathered knights. It was the weapon in his hands.
It had taken Cersei Lannister three years and an obscene fortune of Casterly Rock gold to procure it. She had bankrupted a lesser, dying house in the stormlands to purchase their ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword. Then, she had imported three master smiths from Qohor, paying them in rubies to melt the ancient, magical steel and reforge it to her son's exact, bizarre wooden molds.
The result was a masterpiece of lethal artistry. It was a katana—a single-edged blade with a slight, beautiful curvature, forged from smoke-dark Valyrian steel that rippled with unnatural, blood-red striations. The hilt was long enough for two hands, wrapped in crimson silk, guarded by a circular iron crossguard.
"Again, Your Grace," Ser Barristan Selmy called out, his white armor gleaming with sweat as he circled the sixteen-year-old prince.
Yoriichi did not reply. He simply shifted his footing. Haaah...
Ser Barristan lunged, feinting high and driving his blunted tourney sword toward Yoriichi's ribs. Yoriichi didn't block. He simply pivoted a fraction of an inch. The knight's blade cut only air. In the same breath, the Valyrian katana blurred. It did not strike Barristan, but stopped exactly one millimeter from the old knight's throat.
The sheer displacement of air from the swing cracked like thunder, blowing Barristan's white cloak wildly behind him.
Barristan swallowed hard, lowering his blade. "Yield," the legendary knight breathed, his eyes wide. He looked at the youth. Yoriichi had not broken a sweat. His breathing was impossibly steady. "I have fought for fifty years, my prince. I have never seen a man move without displacing his center of gravity. Your calmness... it is unearthly."
"It is only focus, Ser Barristan," Yoriichi replied, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that betrayed zero emotion. He seamlessly sheathed the Valyrian blade, offering a polite bow.
From the shadowed balconies overlooking the yard, the adults watched the marked prince with a mixture of awe and creeping dread. The boy was too quiet. Too perfect.
While Yoriichi perfected his blade, the foundations of his family had fractured into jagged, bleeding shards.
The catastrophic shift had begun three years prior. Cersei's absolute, disgusted avoidance of Jaime had finally pushed the Kingslayer past the brink of his fragile sanity. Deprived of his monthly "special treatments" and barred from her bed, Jaime had confronted her in her chambers, fueled by wine and desperation.
He had tried to force himself upon her, begging for the warmth she had coldly locked away. The ensuing fight had been violent and loud, resulting in shattered furniture and a bruised Queen.
It was Lord Tywin who had intervened, silencing the scandal before it could reach the King's ears. Realizing his eldest son was unraveling in the capital, Tywin had ordered Jaime to take a leave from his white cloak and return to the Westerlands to cool his blood and, ideally, take a wife to secure the Lannister line. Jaime, broken and deeply ashamed of his loss of control, had fled the capital on a "journey to know himself," leaving Cersei behind.
A few months ago, inside Tywin's grand solar at Casterly Rock, the family patriarch had sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, discussing the fallout with Cersei during her seasonal visit.
"Your brother is a sentimental fool," Tywin had ground out, tossing a crumpled piece of parchment onto the wood. His pale green eyes had narrowed in supreme irritation.
Cersei, sitting elegantly on a velvet sofa, had sipped her wine. Her beautiful daughters, Myrcella and Jeyne—now eighteen and nineteen, both blooming into stunning young women—were away at their embroidery. Only Jocelyn, the ever-present, slyly observant maid, had stood quietly in the corner, pouring more Arbor Gold.
"What has the Kingslayer done now, Father?" Cersei had asked, feigning casual interest, though her heart soared with profound relief.
"He writes that he has found a woman," Tywin had sneered, tapping his gold-ringed fingers against the desk. "A noblewoman he is 'trying to know more of.' He refuses to name her until he is certain of her affections. If he is in love, he should propose, secure the dowry, and marry her. This meandering courtship is a waste of a Lannister's time."
"Let him have his romance, Father," Cersei had replied smoothly, hiding her triumphant smirk behind her goblet.
She was overjoyed. Jaime's obsession was finally directed elsewhere. She was free of the lingering guilt and the threat of his jealousy. She could finally pour every ounce of her time and soul into nurturing Yoriichi.
Tywin had sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have larger concerns than Jaime's heart. The King's latest decree is a disaster."
Cersei's eyes had darkened immediately. "Legitimizing the bastard."
"Indeed," Tywin had said coldly. Over the years, Robert's infatuation with Joffrey had morphed into outright defiance of the Queen. Months prior, Robert had officially signed a royal decree legitimizing Joffrey, adding him to the line of succession directly behind Yoriichi.
"He is trying to replace Yorion," Cersei had hissed, her grip on her goblet tightening until her knuckles turned white.
"He is trying, but he will fail," Tywin had replied, turning his attention to a massive ledger of the Crown's debts. "I see the way your marked son watches the throne, Cersei. He does not care for it. Yorion is a blade, not a statesman. And the realm is turning against him."