Yoriichi walked at a measured, entirely silent pace toward the Great Hall. Along the way, he was joined by Myrcella and Jeyne, both looking refreshed and immaculately dressed after their late-afternoon naps.
Myrcella wore a gown of pale gold that matched her curls, while Jeyne wore a deep Lannister red, her chin tilted up with as usual the fierce, haughty pride.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was neither overly massive like the cavernous, dragon-skull-lined throne room, nor was it intimately small. It was a grand, functional space designed perfectly for the intersection of political power and royal gluttony.
Usually, the royal family took their suppers in the privacy of Queen Cersei's chambers, preferring to avoid the drunken, boisterous feasts where King Robert surrounded himself with sycophants, hunting mates, and whoeverres. But once a month, tradition and political optics dictated a formal feast where the royal family and the Small Council broke bread together at the same table.
Tonight was that night.
The trio of siblings reached the heavy, iron-banded doors. Kingsguard knights in gleaming white scale armor stood at rigid attention, striking their halberds against the stone floor in salute before pushing the massive doors open.
Inside, the hall was already bustling. Servants darted expertly around the long, polished oak table, arranging massive silver platters of roasted fowl, spiced root vegetables dripping in butter, and thick loaves of crusty bread. The air was thick with the savory smell of roasted meats, the sweet tang of Arbor wine, and the heavy scent of melting beeswax from the chandeliers overhead.
Yoriichi took his seat near the center of the table, flanked on either side by his sisters. As the servants rushed to pour watered wine and autumn juices into their silver goblets, the heavy oak doors opened again to admit the most powerful men in Westeros.
First came Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. The old falcon looked incredibly weary, the deep lines carved into his face speaking of the sheer, crushing burden of running a fractured, debt-ridden realm for a king who cared only for hunting and drinking. Despite his exhaustion, Jon Arryn paused before taking his seat, offering a deep, respectful, and entirely genuine bow to the royal children.
Next came Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, a man whose pleasant, perfectly trimmed smile never quite reached his cold, calculating gray-green eyes.
Then shuffled Grand Maester Pycelle, leaning heavily on his carved cane, his massive chain of assorted metals clinking loudly against his heavy robes. Lord Stannis was, as usual, absent, preferring the grim, wind-swept isolation of Dragonstone over the false smiles and powdered faces of the capital.
Yoriichi closed his eyes, settling back into his heavy oak chair as if entering a light meditative trance.
While Myrcella and Jeyne chatted politely about their embroidery lessons, the members of the Small Council exchanged subtle, evaluating glances, their eyes constantly drifting toward the ten-year-old boy.
To them, the marked prince was a terrifying enigma. He was a silent, unnerving puzzle piece they could not yet place on their intricate cyvasse boards. He did not act like a child, and he certainly did not act like a Baratheon.
Yoriichi noticed the heavy weight of their stares, but he did not bother to open his eyes. Through his innate, spiritual perception, he could feel their auras perfectly.
They are completely harmless, Yoriichi analyzed with clinical detachment. Arryn's aura was fading, heavy with the dull gray of physical exhaustion and creeping illness. Baelish's aura was jagged, flickering with a dark, oily, and parasitic ambition, but physically frail.
Pycelle's aura was sluggish, cowardly, and reeked of deceit. Physically, they were nothing. They fought with whispers, poisons, and parchment, not steel. If they ever drew a blade, Yoriichi knew he could sever their heads before their brains even registered the movement.
The only aura that commanded Yoriichi's genuine respect belonged to the man who entered next: Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
The legendary knight moved with the quiet, lethal dignity of a drawn sword. Age had turned his hair white, but his aura was a brilliant, untainted white-hot core of pure martial spirit and absolute duty. Barristan stepped up to the table, ignoring the politicians, and offered a crisp, deeply respectful bow directly to Yoriichi.
The ten-year-old opened his deep burgundy eyes and nodded back, acknowledging the warrior's spirit within the old knight.
A moment later, the atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted violently. The ambient temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as the heavy doors were thrown wide open to admit the Queen.
Cersei Lannister entered, looking breathtakingly regal in a gown of spun gold and deep crimson. But she was not alone.
After her frantic, skin-scouring bath, Cersei had stubbornly forced her shattered composure back into its iron box.
She had immediately summoned Jaime, entirely ignoring the agonizing emotional chasm she had just ripped open, and coldly ordered him to take a detachment of Gold Cloaks down into the city and drag their younger brother out of whatever Flea Bottom whorehouse he was currently occupying.
Now, Cersei walked at the absolute front of her entourage. To her right stood Jaime, dressed in his white enameled armor. He looked rigid, his jaw locked tight, though a faint, oblivious spark of joy remained in his green eyes.
He believed Cersei had simply rushed off to bathe, and that she would bring up their intimate moment later tonight. To Cersei's left waddled Tyrion, his mismatched eyes slightly glazed from cheap ale, but sharp enough to read the terrifying, unspoken tension radiating from his golden siblings.
Trailing exactly half a step behind the Queen was Jocelyn.
Jocelyn was a strikingly beautiful woman of common birth, possessing rich auburn hair, full lips, and sly, highly intelligent dark eyes. Her presence in the inner royal retinue was an anomaly that had begun roughly a year prior.