The frantic, overlapping ringing of the emergency bells carried across the wind like a dark, iron omen.
Standing on the pebble-strewn banks of the Blackwater Rush, sixteen-year-old Yoriichi did not panic. His heart rate remained a steady, unhurried rhythm. However, his mind immediately accelerated, processing a dozen different catastrophic variables. The last time bells had rung with such chaotic urgency was during Greyjoy's Rebellion, years ago.
Is my family safe? Yoriichi thought, the singular, primary concern anchoring his focus.
He moved with blinding, fluid efficiency. He stripped off his unlaced linen shirt, swiftly pulling on his heavy leather trousers and his dark crimson tunic. He fastened his belt, ensuring the heavy, silk-wrapped hilt of his Valyrian steel katana was securely resting at his left hip. Finally, he pulled the black cloth mask over the lower half of his face and swept the heavy traveling cloak over his shoulders, concealing his two-toned hair and the jagged mark on his brow.
He vaulted onto the back of his massive black destrier in a single, effortless motion. Without a word, he spurred the beast forward.
The horse tore down the Goldroad at a breakneck gallop, its hooves kicking up clouds of dry summer dust. Yoriichi leaned low over the saddle, subconsciously shifting his center of gravity to perfectly match the animal's stride. He moved in absolute tandem with the destrier, ensuring the massive warhorse would not tire quickly under his weight, maximizing their speed across the rolling hills of the Crownlands.
As the sun climbed to its highest peak, baking the earth in the suffocating heat of the long summer noon, the towering silhouette of King's Landing finally broke through the hazy horizon. The Red Keep loomed in the distance like a jagged, rust-colored crown perched upon Aegon's High Hill.
Before he even reached the outer walls, the familiar, terrible stench of the capital assaulted his heightened senses. It was a vile, suffocating mixture of baked raw sewage, stale ale, woodsmoke, and the salty, pungent rot of the fish markets. It was a stark, ugly contrast to the fresh pine and clean water of the Kingswood he had just left behind, but it was the undeniable scent of his home.
He approached the Lion Gate, the grand western entrance to the city. The area was in a state of chaotic lockdown.
Dozens of Gold Cloaks, armed with heavy iron pikes and sweating profusely in their thick golden chainmail, had formed a barricade across the thoroughfare. They were actively shouting, pushing back a surging, angry crowd of merchants, farmers, and travelers who were demanding entry to the markets. Carts were backed up for miles along the road.
"Halt! By order of the Crown, the gates are sealed!" a burly captain of the City Watch bellowed, stepping forward with his hand raised as Yoriichi's black horse trotted toward the front of the line. "No entry or exit until the Small Council decrees otherwise! Turn back, rider! The city is closed!"
Yoriichi pulled back on the reins, expertly calming his snorting, agitated horse amidst the screaming crowd. He looked down at the sweating captain. Slowly, deliberately, Yoriichi reached up with a gloved hand, pulling the dark cowl of his cloak back and untying the knot of his black mask.
The harsh noon sunlight caught the vivid crimson tips of his midnight-dark hair. It illuminated the jagged, flame-like mark resting boldly on his pale forehead, marking him undeniably as the divine prince of the realm.
The captain's breath hitched in his throat. The belligerent, shouting authority vanished from his face instantly, replaced by a deep, instinctive terror. The rumors of the marked prince's unearthly strength, his terrifying speed in the training yards, and his eerie, silent demeanor were legendary among the guardsmen. To the common soldier, Yorion Baratheon was something more than human.
"P-Prince Yorion," the captain stuttered, his heavy pike clattering against the cobblestones as he hastily dropped to one knee. The gesture was immediately and frantically copied by the two dozen Gold Cloaks holding the barricade. The screaming merchants, realizing who was in their midst, fell into a terrified, kneeling silence. "Forgive me, Your Grace. We... we did not recognize you in the cloak."
"Rise," Yoriichi commanded. His smooth, deep baritone cut through the stagnant heat, entirely devoid of anger. "Why are the bells ringing, Captain? What has happened in the city?"
The captain stood, swallowing hard. His eyes darted nervously around the quieted crowd before he stepped closer to the prince's stirrup, leaning in to speak in a hushed, trembling tone.
"It is the Hand of the King, Your Grace," the captain whispered. "Lord Jon Arryn. He... he passed away in the early hours of the morning."
Yoriichi's burgundy eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
"Died?" Yoriichi repeated softly, his analytical mind immediately going to work. "Of what cause?"
"A sudden illness, they say," the captain whispered, wiping a thick bead of sweat from his brow. "A fever that took him in the night. It burned right through him in a matter of days. Grand Maester Pycelle and the others could do nothing to stop it."
A sudden illness? Yoriichi mused silently, his face an unreadable mask.
He thought of the old falcon. Jon Arryn was old, certainly, but he was not a frail man. He possessed a sharp, robust mind. He was the man who had effectively managed the crushing weight of the realm, navigated the treacherous vipers of the court, and controlled the King's worst, most destructive impulses for a decade and a half.
For such a careful, cunning man—a man who managed everything from the kingdom's finances to the royal armies—to suddenly drop dead from a mysterious, rapid fever was deeply perplexing.
Yoriichi did not jump to conclusions of foul play or hidden poisons. These could be main possibilities also that he kept in mind. In this world, there may be countless mysterious or dangerous illness that even the most brilliant Maester isn't aware of.
His profound understanding of balance told him that this death was a catastrophic shift. The political tension in the capital, already strained to the breaking point by the Crown's massive debts to Casterly Rock and the King's blatant, offensive favoritism of his bastard son, Joffrey, was about to snap entirely. The pillar holding the sky up had just crumbled.
"Open the gate," Yoriichi ordered smoothly, looking past the captain to the dark tunnel of the entrance.
"At once! Make way for the Prince! Pull the barricades!" the captain roared, violently kicking a subordinate to move the heavy wooden spiked barricade aside.
As Yoriichi rode through the dark tunnel of the Lion Gate and into the winding, crowded streets of the city, he decided to bypass the Red Keep entirely. He turned his horse toward the Hill of Visenya. He needed to see the reality of the situation for himself, away from the weeping courtiers and the screaming of his mother.
The Great Sept of Baelor loomed against the bright blue sky, its seven crystal towers catching the noon sun and scattering brilliant prisms of light across the white marble plaza. The massive square, usually teeming with begging brothers, merchants, and the faithful, was eerily empty, aggressively cleared by the royal guards.
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I had done little changes in previous chapter and 32 to make the flow of story more logical. Hope u can tell me if u like it😆