The Great Sept of Baelor had spoken, and the realm, hungry for spectacle, swallowed the lie whole.
Weeks after the Queen's private, terrifying "confession," the High Septon had stood before the masses in the Plaza of the Father. Sweating profusely beneath his crystal crown, the fat priest proclaimed to the gathered thousands that he had been visited by an undeniable vision.
The Gods, he declared, had placed a physical brand upon the newborn prince to signify his divine mandate. The child was officially named Yorion of House Baratheon, First of His Name, the prophesied sword of the Seven.
The smallfolk, who loved nothing more than a myth brought to life, rejoiced. Taverns overflowed. Bards immediately began composing songs of the "Crimson Stag" and the "Marked Prince."
However, within the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep, the reception was far colder.
In the Small Council chambers, Lord Jon Arryn rubbed his jaw in quiet contemplation, wondering how a Baratheon and a Lannister had produced a child with hair tipped in the color of fresh blood.
Lord Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth, declaring the "prophecy" a blatant, expensive mummer's farce funded by Casterly Rock. And Varys, the Spider, merely smiled his powdered smile, his little birds whispering of the terrified, shaking state the High Septon had been in ever since the Queen's visit.
Yet, none dared speak their suspicions aloud. The Lannister gold had flowed, the Faith had declared it holy, and King Robert was too busy hunting and drinking to care about the specifics of a birthmark.
A month after the prince's name day, the true power of Westeros descended upon the capital.
Lord Tywin Lannister arrived with an escort of three hundred red cloaks. He did not come to celebrate; he came to inspect the investment. When the Old Lion strode into the royal nursery, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The handmaids scrambled to curtsy, terrified of the imposing patriarch with his cold green eyes and golden side-whiskers.
Cersei stood tall, holding the infant Yoriichi. She felt a rare flutter of anxiety as her father approached. Tywin Lannister did not believe in magic, nor did he care for prophecies. He cared for legacy.
Tywin stopped before them. He did not offer a smile, nor did he reach out to coddle the child. He simply stared down into the bundle of crimson silk.
Yoriichi, currently awake, stared back. The infant did not squirm under the crushing, oppressive weight of Tywin's gaze. For a long, tense minute, the Old Lion and the reincarnated swordsman engaged in a silent battle of wills. Tywin scrutinized the midnight-black roots, the vibrant crimson tips, and the jagged, flame-like mark resting boldly on the pale forehead.
Slowly, the faintest ghost of an approving smirk touched the corner of Tywin's mouth.
"He does not weep," Tywin noted, his deep, resonant voice filling the quiet room. "The Targaryen boy cried for an hour when I first looked at him. This one observes."
"He is strong, Father," Cersei said proudly, her chest swelling. "He is a true lion."
"Tears are water, Cersei, and a king requires steel," Tywin replied, finally turning his gaze to his daughter.
"The Faith's proclamation was a necessary shield, but the boy's true worth will not be forged in septs. When he is of age, I will personally oversee his education. He will have the finest masters of arms, the sharpest strategists. I will mold him into a man who does not merely sit on the Iron Throne, but anchors it to the bedrock of this world."
Cersei nodded, a thrill of vindication rushing through her. Even the most pragmatic, ruthless man in Westeros recognized the absolute superiority of her son.
Later that evening, after Tywin had retired to the Tower of the Hand, another visitor slipped into the nursery.
Tyrion Lannister waddled into the room, his mismatched eyes scanning the shadows. He had expected Cersei to bar his entry, to spit venom at him for daring to cast his monstrous shadow over her divine child. But Cersei was in her adjacent solar, reviewing ledgers, leaving only a drowsy wet nurse in the corner.
Tyrion approached the grand, gilded crib. He pulled up a velvet footstool, climbing atop it so he could peer over the wooden railing.
He looked down at the marked prince. "So," Tyrion whispered, his voice a gravelly, self-deprecating hum. "You are the little godling everyone is whispering about."
Yoriichi turned his head. His burgundy eyes met Tyrion's mismatched green and black ones.
Tyrion expected the infant to fuss. Children usually shrank away from his stunted frame, his bulbous forehead, and his coarse features. But Yoriichi's gaze held no judgment, no infantile fear of the ugly dwarf. It was simply a calm, acknowledging look. The ancient soul within the child saw past the physical deformities of the mortal shell, recognizing only the shape of the spirit within.
Slowly, Yoriichi reached out a tiny, pale hand. He didn't grab, but simply let his small fingers rest lightly against the rough knuckle of Tyrion's hand resting on the crib rail.
Tyrion froze. A strange, completely foreign warmth blossomed in his chest. A sad, wry smile broke across his scarred face.
"Well, little monster," Tyrion murmured softly, careful not to wake the maids. "It seems we are both outcasts in our own ways. You have a mark upon your brow, and I have a mark upon my stature. Let us see which of us the world learns to fear more."
For this, Tyrion felt a genuine, unbidden surge of affection for one of his sister's children.
As the months bled into years, a fragile, tense equilibrium settled over the Red Keep.
King Robert Baratheon grew larger, louder, and increasingly distant. He visited Cersei's bedchamber only when his drunken lust demanded a Queen, and even then, Cersei ensured she was as cold and unyielding as a marble statue.
But whispers had begun to seep through the servant's quarters. Rumors that the King had found solace elsewhere. Somewhere in the city, or perhaps hidden in a modest manse in the Crownlands, Robert was spending an inordinate amount of time with a beautiful, cunning noblewoman from the Reach.
More concerning were the whispers that this woman had borne a son—a boy with golden hair and striking green eyes who possessed a vicious, demanding temperament. Cersei ignored the rumors with aristocratic disdain, focusing the entirety of her obsessive, suffocating love upon her own children, specifically her marked son.
-------------------------------------------------
Guys..... sorry i think i cannot continue now because of viewership and also to be honest no one joins my p@treon this whole week. It feels demotivated also writing it.
So I think i might take a break for this or stop don't know. But I made the advance chapters free for this fanfic in my p@treon so u can read from there (As too lazy to upload here sometimes🥱🥱)
Goodbye.... Take care!!🤗🤗🤗