Yoriichi dismounted, tying his horse securely to a marble pillar near the steps. He removed his heavy traveling cloak and mask entirely, draping them over the leather saddle, and walked toward the massive bronze doors.
Two knights of the Kingsguard stood at rigid attention before the entrance—Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Both men looked visibly exhausted, their white enameled armor baking in the heat, their white cloaks stained with the dust of the city streets.
"My Prince," Ser Meryn grunted, offering a stiff, highly respectful nod as he stepped aside, though his eyes betrayed his deep discomfort.
"Is the King inside?" Yoriichi asked, pausing on the polished marble steps.
"King Robert left just before you arrived, Your Grace," Ser Boros supplied, looking down at his armored boots. "He could not hold his grief any longer. He wept openly over the body. He rode out of the city toward the Kingswood with only a few personal guards... said he needed to be somewhere peaceful. We all know Lord Arryn was like a second father to him. The King is entirely broken by it."
"And the Queen? The Small Council?" Yoriichi inquired, his voice calm.
"The Queen and the royals are safe. The Council is locked in an emergency session in the Tower of the Hand, trying to figure out how to govern the realm without him," Meryn replied grimly. "The Sept is empty, save for the Sisters preparing the body. You may enter, my Prince."
Yoriichi nodded his thanks and pushed the heavy bronze doors open, slipping out of the blinding heat and into the cool, cavernous interior of the sanctuary.
The air inside was thick, almost suffocatingly dense. It was heavily perfumed with burning myrrh, dried lavender, and the sharp, undeniable metallic tang of raw copper—the smell of stagnant blood.
In the absolute center of the sept, beneath the towering, gilded statues of the Father and the Stranger, lay a massive slab of polished black marble. Atop it rested the naked, pale corpse of Jon Arryn, the late Hand of the King.
Surrounding the marble slab were five women clad head-to-toe in heavy, ash-grey robes, their faces entirely veiled. They were the Silent Sisters, the handmaidens of the Stranger, sworn to a vow of absolute silence as they performed the grim, necessary work of preparing the dead for the grave.
Yoriichi did not flinch, nor did he look away from the macabre scene. He walked forward, his footsteps completely silent on the polished stone tiles, until he stood just a few paces from the marble slab.
He watched with a detached, clinical fascination as the ritual of the Faith unfolded.
The Sisters worked with incredible, practiced precision. One sister held a large silver basin, while another made a long, deep incision down the center of the old man's torso with a razor-sharp obsidian blade. There was no hesitation.
They expertly parted the flesh and began the gruesome task of removing the internal organs. It was a necessary procedure to prevent the body from rotting on its long, impending journey back to the Eyrie in the Vale.
To a normal teenage noble, the sight of a man's bowels being lifted from his chest cavity would induce vomiting, fainting, or sheer terror. But to Yoriichi, whose combat style required a flawless, intrinsic understanding of human anatomy, muscle groups, and the circulatory system, it was merely a display of biology.
He analyzed the organs as they were placed into heavy clay jars, noting the frailty of the mortal form. The human body was so incredibly delicate, so easily dismantled by the invisible ravages of illness or the sharp edge of a blade.
The Sisters then moved to the neck and the wrists. With surgical cuts, they opened the major arteries to let the remaining stagnant blood drain into a specialized, angled trough carved beneath the slab. Once the vessels were emptied, they began to heavily pack the empty chest cavity with handfuls of coarse white salt, dried rosemary, and crushed mint to draw out the moisture and preserve the flesh.
Yoriichi stepped forward, approaching the head of the slab. The Silent Sisters paused their work, bowing their veiled heads in deep deference to the royal prince before stepping back slightly to give him room.
Yoriichi looked down at Jon Arryn's sunken, pale face. The old falcon looked so much smaller in death, stripped of his heavy chains of office and his fine velvet doublets.
Even though Yoriichi had no personal enmity toward the Hand, nor did he consider the man a close ally, he respected sheer competence above all else. In a world ruled by arrogant fools, drunken kings, and scheming sycophants, Jon Arryn had possessed the exhaustive, quiet skill required to manage a crumbling realm. He had held a fractured kingdom together with parchment, patience, and duty.
Yoriichi placed his right hand over his heart and offered a slow, deep, and entirely respectful bow to the corpse. May your soul find a peaceful rest, free from the crushing burdens of this corrupted court, Yoriichi thought silently.
His respects paid, Yoriichi did not immediately leave. He found a strange, quiet tranquility in the absolute silence of the Sisters' work, a stark contrast to the screaming chaos of the city outside. He walked to the far right corner of the sept, leaning his back comfortably against the cool marble wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, his burgundy gaze fixed calmly on the ongoing ritual.
Several minutes passed in perfect, undisturbed silence, save for the soft rustle of grey robes and the scraping of coarse salt against stone.
Then, the heavy bronze doors of the sept groaned open once more.
The sharp, rapid clicking of heeled boots echoed across the marble floor. Yoriichi did not need to turn his head to know who had entered. The heavy, intoxicating scent of rich floral perfume, intertwined with the sharp smell of Arbor wine, instantly overpowered the smell of the myrrh.
Queen Cersei Lannister stepped into the dim light.
She was dressed entirely in deep mourning—a high-collared gown of crushed black velvet, her golden hair woven into a tight, severe braid. She walked swiftly toward the center of the room. She offered a brief, perfunctory bow toward the altar of the Father, a gesture entirely devoid of true faith or reverence.
Then, her emerald eyes began darting frantically around the cavernous room, desperately searching the shadows. She looked highly agitated, her posture rigid with an invisible, paranoid tension. She had heard the news of her husband's weeping departure to the Kingswood, and she knew the Small Council was currently scrambling to consolidate power in the Tower of the Hand.
The political landscape was shifting beneath her feet, and she did not care about the Faith or the dead man at this exact moment. She was looking for her anchor. She was looking for her god.
Her frantic eyes swept the perimeter, finally landing on the tall, dark-haired youth leaning casually in the far right corner.
The frantic tension instantly drained from Cersei's shoulders, replaced by a look of profound, desperate relief. She ignored the Silent Sisters and the mutilated corpse of the Hand entirely, turning her back on the marble slab as she walked swiftly toward the corner.
She stopped two paces away from him. As Yoriichi was significantly taller than her, forcing Cersei to tilt her head up to look at his face.
Yoriichi remained leaning against the wall. His arms remained crossed over his chest. His deep burgundy gaze was fixed downward, staring calmly at the ongoing ritual.
"I was informed by the gate captains that you had finally returned," Cersei said. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she gently brushed a stray lock of red-tipped hair from his broad shoulder. "Will you not come up to the castle, my sweet sun?"