The threat hit its mark. Both Kingsguard knights froze, releasing their grip slightly. King Robert's obsessive, blind devotion to Joffrey was well known. If the King heard they had assaulted his favorite son, the consequences could be fatal. They stood in a terrible dilemma, looking helplessly between the furious Queen and the screaming bastard.
The kingsguard felt a sharp, agonizing headache blooming behind her eyes. If Prince Yorion were here, this would not be a debate. He would have knocked Joffrey unconscious with a single, invisible strike and thrown him into the Blackwater.
Cersei opened her mouth, preparing to viciously curse the cowardice of the knights, when a smooth, perfectly measured voice spoke from the stone archway behind her.
"Prince Joffrey," the voice called out, pleasant but carrying an undeniable edge of steel. "Do not think that a recently granted status allows you to challenge the absolute power of the Queen's word."
It was Jocelyn.
The Queen's confidante and maid stepped into the garden, offering a deep, impeccably respectful curtsy to Cersei before turning her dark, sly eyes toward Joffrey.
"If the King is indeed brought into this matter," Jocelyn continued, her voice echoing with faux concern, "then the Small Council will be forced to convene to decide the punishment. And I am quite certain His Grace, the King, despises nothing more than a man who draws live steel on unarmed women... and still manages to lose the fight. Shall we wake the King and inform him of your defeat?"
Joffrey's face went entirely pale. He stared at the auburn-haired maid. He cursed her timing internally.
After a tense, humiliating few seconds, Joffrey forced a fake, coughing laugh. "Fine," he sneered, sheathing his dagger forcefully. "This prince is magnanimous. I will let this petty matter go for tonight."
Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the garden, vanishing into the darkness of the Keep.
Cersei exhaled slowly. Internally, she praised the maid's brilliance. With a single, perfectly crafted sentence, Jocelyn had dismantled the political trap and forced the bastard to retreat.
The Kingsguard, vastly relieved that the crisis was averted, bowed deeply to Cersei and quickly left to resume their perimeter patrols.
"May I prepare your bath, Your Grace?" Jocelyn asked softly, stepping up beside Cersei. "You look exhausted from the day's heavy burdens."
"Yes. Have the water drawn medium hot," Cersei nodded wearily.
Jocelyn curtsied and slipped away, leaving Cersei alone with her daughters. The moment the maid was gone, the fierce, regal facades of the princesses melted. They rushed forward, enveloping their mother in a tight, relieved hug.
After a few moments of soothing embraces, Myrcella pulled back, her beautiful face etched with concern. "Mother, we heard the horns from the Lion Gate. They said our little brother has returned to the city. Where is he?"
Cersei sighed softly. She couldn't tell them the truth—that their brother had leaped into the slums of King's Landing to hunt some unknown, terrifying predator.
"He... he has some unfinished business in the lower city, my sweeties," Cersei lied smoothly, smoothing Myrcella's golden curls. "He is perfectly safe. He will join us soon. We just need to wait."
The girls looked visibly disappointed, their shoulders slumping.
Wanting to shift the gloomy atmosphere, Cersei guided them toward the stone benches, deciding to pivot to a topic that had been causing her endless headaches.
"Jeyne," Cersei began, her tone shifting to a mixture of maternal curiosity and subtle pressure. "I heard that Ser Horas Redwyne came to court you yesterday while I was at the Sept. Lord Paxter's heir. The Redwyne fleet is vastly powerful. Tell me, what happened? Was he handsome and charming? Did you accept his token?"
Jeyne rolled her eyes so hard she nearly looked at her own brain. She crossed her arms, puffing her chest out in deep annoyance.
"Hmph. He is entirely worthless, Mother," Jeyne spat in pure disgust. "Forget comparing him to my brother; the boy cannot even fight a squire! I watched him in the yard. He tripped over his own boots. He cannot even run properly without panting like a stuck pig. I will not accept a token from a weakling."
Cersei rubbed her temples, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over her again. She didn't know what ghosts were haunting her children. The time to arrange betrothals and secure political marriages was rapidly approaching.
They were royal princesses; the entire castle was slowly beginning to whisper about their availability. Yet, they showed absolutely zero interest in any lord or knight. They measured every man in Westeros against the impossible, terrifying standard of Yoriichi, and naturally, every man fell devastatingly short.
"You cannot simply deny the expectations of the realm forever, Jeyne," Cersei sighed, too tired to argue forcefully. "You are a princess."
"Do not worry about us, Mother," Myrcella smiled gently, taking Cersei's hand. "We are perfectly fine as we are."
They chatted for a few more minutes, the tension of Joffrey's ambush fading away into comfortable family banter. Eventually, Cersei kissed their foreheads and sent them back to their respective chambers, needing desperately to rest until dinner was served.
Entering her massive, empty bedchamber, Cersei walked past the prepared bath and stepped out onto the high stone balcony. The cool night air whipped at her golden hair. She looked out over the sprawling, chaotic expanse of King's Landing, the city a sea of flickering orange lanterns beneath the pitch-black sky.
What urgency did you have? Cersei thought, her heart clenching with motherly worry. What is out there in the dark that required your blade?
Far below the Red Keep, deep within the winding, suffocating labyrinth of Flea Bottom's most desolate alleyways, Yoriichi had found his answer.
He stood in a narrow corridor of rotting wood and baked mud, his Valyrian steel katana drawn. The crimson striations in the dark metal seemed to drink the meager moonlight filtering through the smog.
At his feet lay a horror that defied all natural laws of Westeros.
Yoriichi stared down, his deep burgundy eyes slightly widened, his eternal calmness momentarily fractured by a terrifying, impossible realization. The scent of raw blood and darkness had led him here, but what he was looking at made him question the very foundation of his reincarnation. He had encountered a truth that should not exist in this world.