"I will stay until the ritual is completed," Yoriichi replied calmly, his smooth baritone carrying a strange, resonant weight in the echoing chamber. "It is a matter of respect. Once the Sisters seal him, he could be sent to the Vale. It may be the very last time we see this man. I wish to observe the passing of an era."
Cersei's rigid posture relaxed a fraction. She looked at the mutilated corpse of the Hand, feeling absolutely no sorrow for the old falcon, but if her perfect son decreed they should stay, then she would endure it. She offered a slow nod. "Hmm. That is right. He served your father well, I suppose."
She stepped closer, seeking the quiet, grounding aura he always projected. A few seconds of comfortable, undisturbed silence passed between them before Yoriichi spoke again, keeping his eyes on the surgical precision of the Sisters.
"How are my big sisters?" he asked softly.
"They are well," Cersei answered, though a sudden, sharp edge of irritation bled into her tone. She crossed her arms over her crushed black velvet gown. "Very well, in fact. So well that they are fighting again."
Yoriichi merely blinked, an imperceptible shift in his stoic facade. "Oh? Then that is good."
Cersei's head snapped up, her green eyes flashing with maternal exasperation. "What is good about it? When they used to bicker, they used words, like proper ladies of the court! But now... you pushed them into the training yards, Yorion! Now they are fighting with swords!"
Yoriichi let out a tiny, almost entirely internal sigh. He had heard this complaint several times before he left for Casterly Rock, and he had no desire to bicker about it in a house of the gods.
"It is just wooden swords, Mother," Yoriichi replied lazily, turning his head to look at her. "There is no harm in it. We have maesters stationed all over the Keep. If any minor injuries or bruises happen, they will be treated swiftly for safety, I assure you." He paused, looking back toward the ceiling in quiet contemplation. He muttered, almost to himself, "Though, their footwork was sloppy last I checked. Looks like I need to create a more rigorous training schedule for them when we return..."
Cersei's face flushed red, her anger fighting a losing battle against her obsessive devotion to him.
The bizarre turn of events had started few months weeks back before her son's departure. Myrcella and Jeyne, previously content with embroidery and courtly songs, had developed a sudden, fierce fascination with watching Yoriichi train. It wasn't enough to just watch him humiliate older squires. One afternoon, they had approached him, demanding to learn the blade.
Yoriichi had initially refused, giving them basic breathing exercises and stretching routines to build their stamina, hoping they would grow bored. But the royal princesses had been fiercely insistent. Jeyne had even tried to sneak into the armory to steal a live steel dagger. Realizing they were going to hurt themselves if left to their own devices, Yoriichi had relented. He forbade the use of anything but blunted wooden sticks, and he personally began teaching them the absolute basics of stance and form.
Now, the two beautiful, golden-haired princesses of the realm spent their afternoons aggressively thrashing each other with ironwood sticks in the royal gardens.
"It is unseemly!" Cersei hissed, keeping her voice low so as not to alert the Silent Sisters. "How will the nobles view them? Princesses of House Baratheon and Lannister, rolling around in the dirt, trashing about like wild dogs! They will be married to high lords one day, my sweet. They cannot have bruised knuckles and scarred chins!"
"It is not a bad thing, Mother," Yoriichi said, his tone shifting into a quiet, absolute authority that immediately made Cersei swallow her next words. "The court is a nest of vipers. They get to feel strong. They get to understand the mechanics of violence so that they can protect themselves when a guard is not looking. Strength is never a flaw."
"But... but they are ladies—" Cersei tried to argue, desperate to maintain some semblance of normal Westerosi tradition for her daughters.
"We can talk about this later," Yoriichi interrupted gently, placing a single, calm finger to his lips. "We are in the Sept. We need to respect the rules of the Faith and remain silent."
Cersei deflated instantly. The sheer, charismatic gravity he possessed completely overwhelmed her aristocratic pride. She let out a long, defeated sigh, her shoulders dropping. "Fine. You win for now. Let us just watch."
For the next hour, a strange, quiet bonding took place in the corner of the cavernous room. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the marked prince stood side by side, perfectly still, observing the macabre preparation of the dead.
As the minutes dragged on, Cersei's feet began to ache fiercely in her high-heeled velvet slippers. The heavy mourning gown was stifling in the summer heat, and she desperately wanted to return to her solar, pour a cup of Arbor wine, and take a long nap. But she stubbornly refused to shift her weight or complain. She would not show a single ounce of weakness in front of her son.
Yoriichi noticed her rigid, strained posture out of his peripheral vision. A faint, amused warmth blossomed in his chest. At least it is a good endurance exercise for her legs, he mused silently, calmly continuing his watch.
Occasionally, the heavy bronze doors would groan open. A few notable nobles, including the flamboyant Lord Renly Baratheon and the spider Varys, slipped into the Sept to pay their respects. They all cast wide, nervous glances at the corner where the Queen and the unnervingly silent prince stood vigil, offering deep, hasty bows before scurrying back out into the heat.
Finally, the shadows outside lengthened, and the brilliant light filtering through the crystal towers turned to a deep, bruised violet. The darkness was looming over the city.
The Silent Sisters finished packing Jon Arryn's chest cavity with coarse salt and fragrant mint, sewing the incision shut with thick, dark thread. The ritual was complete. The Hand of the King was ready for his long journey back to the Eyrie.
Yoriichi stepped forward, and Cersei followed his lead. In perfect unison, the mother and son offered a deep, respectful bow to the man, and then a secondary bow to the towering statues of the Andals—the Father, the Mother, and the Stranger.
They exited the Sept, stepping out into the cooling evening air of the marble plaza. A heavily guarded, gilded royal carriage awaited them, surrounded by two dozen Lannister red cloaks.
Yoriichi stepped up to the carriage door first. He offered his hand, gently helping Cersei step up into the plush, velvet-lined interior before effortlessly pulling himself up behind her. The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage lurched forward, beginning its descent down the Hill of Visenya toward the Red Keep.
Inside the carriage, the air was intimate and quiet. Yoriichi rested his broad shoulder against the wooden frame of the window, gazing lazily out at the sprawling, chaotic streets of the capital as the citizens lit their torches and lanterns for the night.
Cersei sat opposite him. As the carriage jostled over the cobblestones, her emerald eyes caught sight of the heavy traveling cloak and the black cloth half-mask resting on the velvet seat beside him. She reached out, her pale fingers tracing the intricate stitching of the mask for a few seconds.
"Wear it," Cersei suddenly said, holding the mask out to him. It sounded like an order, though her eyes betrayed a deep, burning curiosity.
Yoriichi turned his head, his brow furrowing slightly. His eye twitched. "Do I have to? In front of you?"
"You never show me how you look when you travel outside the walls," Cersei insisted, leaning forward slightly. "I wish to see the face you present to the common world."