The heavy, gilded wheels of the royal carriage ground to a halt over the cobblestones of the Red Keep's inner courtyard.
The heavy oak doors were immediately pulled open by two Lannister guardsmen. Queen Cersei descended, her emerald green mourning gown stained with the dust and mud of the frantic ride from the Great Sept. Her face was a mask of pale, unyielding marble.
She turned slowly, her piercing green eyes sweeping over the two dozen Red Cloaks who had escorted the carriage. The captain of the guard, a seasoned veteran of the Westerlands, stood rigidly at attention, though a visible drop of cold sweat traced a line down his temple.
Cersei stepped closer to the captain. The courtyard was bathed in the dim light of flickering torches, casting long, menacing shadows across her beautiful face.
"Listen to me very carefully," Cersei commanded, her voice dropping into a serious, freezing whisper that carried perfectly in the dead silence of the yard. "You will not speak a single word of what you witnessed earlier tonight. You did not see your prince. He was never in that carriage."
The guards' eyes widened a fraction. The sweat on the captain's back multiplied.
Cersei doesn't want not have his reputation tarnished by the frantic, superstitious whispers of common guards. she reached out, lazily inspecting the heavy gold rings on her pale fingers, her tone conversational but dripping with absolute, lethal intent. "If a single rumor of his departure reaches the court... I will not bother with the King's Justice. I will not send the headsman."
She looked up, her emerald eyes locking onto the terrified captain.
"I will let my son butcher you," Cersei whispered, a chilling smile touching her lips. "I will let him have some enjoyment with your blood. And as you know, judging by what you saw tonight... it will likely only take him a couple of minutes to slaughter every man standing in this courtyard. And then, we will involve your families in the matter as well."
The guards gulped in unison. A couple of the younger men instinctively took a half-step backward.
They had always known Prince Yorion was strong; the tales from the training yards were legendary. But seeing him move tonight—launching himself out of a moving carriage and soaring up a vertical stone wall like a phantom—was a different reality entirely.
They realized with absolute, terrifying clarity that the marked prince was operating on a level far beyond human capability. If that unearthly creature came for their blood, steel armor and iron pikes would offer exactly zero resistance.
The captain immediately dropped to one knee, bowing his head deeply. "Your Grace, we humbly apologize for our intrusion. You have my absolute oath. Our mouths are sealed for as long as we draw breath. Please, calm your anger."
Seeing their captain kneel, the rest of the heavily armored guards immediately followed suit, a chorus of voices echoing in the night, "Our mouths are sealed, Your Grace."
Cersei nodded appreciatively. She had successfully installed the necessary terror. "Dismissed," she said coldly, turning on her heel and walking toward the entrance of Maegor's Holdfast.
As she navigated the winding, torch-lit corridors toward her private chambers, the heavy silence of the Keep was suddenly broken. The sharp, overlapping sounds of an argument echoed from a small, enclosed garden near the Maidenvault.
Cersei paused, her brow furrowing, and changed her path to investigate.
As she stepped through the stone archway into the garden, she was met with a scene that made her blood boil.
Standing on the manicured grass was Joffrey. The bastard had grown into a tall, handsome adult, possessing the thick black hair and blue eyes of Robert Baratheon, but his face was currently twisted into an ugly mask of rage. He was holding a naked steel hunting dagger in his right hand. His eyes, dark with a sickening mixture of humiliated anger and secret, twisted lust, were locked on the two figures standing opposite him.
Myrcella and Jeyne stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Myrcella, poised and cold, had one hand resting protectively on her younger sister's arm. Jeyne looked absolutely furious, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.
Standing a few paces away, looking deeply uncomfortable, were two knights of the Kingsguard—Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Preston Greenfield.
"You hurt me," Joffrey spat, rubbing a dark, swelling bruise on his jawline with his free hand. He pointed the tip of his dagger at Myrcella. "You struck a prince of the realm. You will compensate me for this insult."
"You are just a nameless bastard!" Jeyne fired back, stepping slightly in front of Myrcella, her emerald eyes practically spitting green fire. "Do not be arrogant just because the drunken King gave you some pathetic title! You attacked us first!"
Joffrey sneered, his lip curling in ugly disgust. "Hmph. The only bastard here is that eerie, freakish brother of yours. I am the true prince. I am the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne! And a future King is far more important than some nasty, arrogant so-called princesses."
"Go away, Joffrey," Myrcella said quietly, her voice ringing with the absolute, icy authority she had learned from Yoriichi. "It was you who approached us in the dark. It was you who demanded a spar to prove your manhood, and then lost terribly. You were the one who drew live steel when your pride was bruised, and I merely kicked your wrist in defense. Now, let it go, before this escalates."
Joffrey's face flushed a deep, ugly purple. "I did not lose! You used nasty, dishonorable tricks!"
Cersei watched from the shadows, instantly piecing the puzzle together. With Yoriichi absent from the capital for the past few weeks, traveling to Casterly Rock, Joffrey's arrogance had swelled to dangerous levels. The newly legitimized bastard had thought to use his status and physical size to intimidate, and perhaps assault, the beautiful royal princesses.
What the arrogant fool hadn't realized was that Yoriichi had spent some time, rigorously training his sisters. They were not helpless songbirds. Myrcella had likely disarmed the oaf before he even knew what was happening, leading to this humiliating standoff. It was deeply satisfying, but the sight of a bastard pointing a blade at her daughters snapped Cersei's remaining patience in half.
Cersei stepped out of the shadows, her presence immediately plunging the garden into a suffocating, freezing tension.
"This garden is a place for true royals, Joffrey," Cersei said, her voice cutting through the humid night air like a Valyrian steel blade. "Not for arrogant, whining bastards who cannot even best a woman in a spar. Go away."
Joffrey stiffened, turning to glare at the Queen, though a flicker of genuine fear crossed his eyes.
Cersei didn't wait for his retort. She turned her burning gaze to the two white knights. "Sers. Throw this dog out of my sight. Show him his limits."
Ser Arys and Ser Preston exchanged a rapid, anxious look, but a direct order from the Queen was absolute. They stepped forward in unison, grabbing Joffrey roughly by the shoulders to drag him out of the garden.
Joffrey thrashed violently against their armored grips, his panic rising. "Unhand me!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "You dogs are trying to manhandle the future King?! Wait until I tell my father about this! He will have your white cloaks stripped and your heads spiked on the Red Keep's walls!"