Waiting for her in the center of the vast hall, standing before the towering statue of the Father, was the High Septon.
He was a notoriously fat and greasy man, wearing an absurdly opulent religious gown woven with gold thread and encrusted with gemstones that caught the refracted light. His multiple chins wobbled as he stepped forward to greet the Queen. He possessed the shrewd, calculating eyes of a merchant masquerading as a priest.
Cersei approached slowly. She offered a brief, respectful bow of her head toward the towering statues of the Andals—a purely theatrical gesture—before stepping forward. Without looking back, she flicked two fingers.
"Wait outside," Cersei commanded the Kingsguard. "This is a private confession."
Jaime's jaw tightened beneath his helm, but he spun on his heel, marching with his comrades out the heavy doors, leaving the Queen alone with the head of the Faith.
The High Septon's small, piggy eyes roamed over Cersei from head to toe, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on her chest, before dropping his gaze to the bundle in her arms. He plastered a wide, greasy smile across his face, his voice practically dripping with artificial honey.
"Ah, Your Grace. The Mother's warmest blessings upon you," he began, bowing deeply. "Congratulations on birthing such a strong, magnificent prince. Why, even from here, I can feel my old, frail body trembling from his... radiant aura."
Cersei smirked internally. She was highly impressed, in a cynical sort of way, by how quickly the "Fat One" resorted to sweet talk and blatant flattery. He had no idea what aura actually resided in the child, but he knew exactly what a Queen wanted to hear.
"I thank you, Your Holiness," Cersei replied smoothly, her voice a perfect imitation of pious humility. "Yes, I know that he is exceptional. I can also see that the faith and joy of the common folk are increasing with their prayers, day by day, since the bells rang."
"Oh... it is nothing but my humble duty," the Fat One waved a pudgy hand, his rings flashing. "As a divine son sent by the Andals to this blessed land, I must ensure the Faith is spread. It is the least I can do for the Gods... and for the Crown, of course."
Cersei's smile sharpened into something far more dangerous. The pleasantries were over.
"Hmm. Very well," Cersei said, her tone shifting from pious to ruthlessly businesslike. "To get straight to the point, Your Holiness, I have a task for you."
The High Septon's greasy smile widened slightly, his eyes practically gleaming with anticipation. A task for the Queen means gold for the Faith, he thought, his greed easily overriding any religious solemnity. He practically vibrated with enthusiasm.
"Oh! Please, tell me, my lady. What is it that the Crown requires of its most humble servant?"
Cersei held his gaze, her green eyes cold and uncompromising. "I want you to call a great assembly. I want you to announce to the entirety of King's Landing, and send decrees to all the septs in Westeros, that the Queen's son is no ordinary prince. He is a fierce, strong future king, a divine gift directly from the Gods, and he has been physically marked by them to prove his holy mandate."
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you will also tell the realm that you saw this in a prophetic dream. You will swear by the Crone's lantern that you heard the Gods themselves decree his name: Yorion Baratheon. You are acting on divine revelation. Do you understand?"
The High Septon blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the command. Marked? Prophetic dreams? And a Name? his mind raced. He knew exactly what this was. The boy was likely born with an ugly blemish, and the Queen wanted to use a religious stunt to spin it into a blessing so she could grow her popularity.
Outwardly, the Fat One sighed, his heavy shoulders slumping in a perfect theatrical display of pious burden.
"Oh, Your Grace... such a small thing to ask of a servant, yet such a monumental weight for the soul," he murmured, rubbing his chins. "To declare a new prophecy... how will the Great Sept bear the cost of the celebrations? How will the Most Devout react to such a radical proclamation? I am, after all, just a nominated man..."
He sighed heavily again, shaking his head. "Ai... such a huge, exhausting work to convince them all of this dream. Alas, I will also feel an immense spiritual guilt, lying to the good, common people of the city..."
Cersei's jaw clenched. She was violently irritated by this man's transparent rambling. The gluttonous swine didn't care about lying to the smallfolk; he just wanted to extract as much gold, power, and leverage from the Crown as physically possible before he agreed to the blasphemy.
"Very well," Cersei cut him off, her voice laced with aristocratic disdain. "For the compensation of all these... hard works and your spiritual guilt, I will have my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, come to the Great Sept personally. He will sign a treaty of cooperation with the Faith. A very generous cooperation. Would that be enough to ease your conscience?"
The Fat One was absolutely delighted. The Lord of the West, the man famously known to shit gold, coming to personally negotiate a funding pact? This was beyond his wildest dreams. The High Septon saw himself rolling in unimaginable wealth and luxury. He could cunningly trap the old lion in a web of religious tithes.
Forcing his face back into a mask of serious contemplation, the High Septon coughed delicately into his hand.
"Sigh... since you are so persistent, Your Grace, and for the good of the realm, I shall agree to this... cooperation," the priest intoned gravely. He then added a subtle, warning edge to his voice, wanting to maintain some leverage. "But, if this prophecy proves false, or if the child is truly cursed, the Andals will severely punish you, and the people will riot."
Cersei's mouth twitched in annoyance. Fine, whatever, she thought dismissively. She just used her father's name as bait. Whether Tywin actually paid the fat fool or simply had him quietly assassinated later didn't matter. She just needed the public announcement made first.
Sensing the tension, the High Septon quickly reverted to his jovial, greasy persona. He leaned forward, chuckling softly.
"Hmm... well then, let us see this divine prince's face in the good light," he joked, reaching out a pudgy hand. "Let us see if he is truly as glorious as you command him to be."
Cersei could not refuse the request without arousing genuine suspicion, and she needed this concluded quickly. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled back the edge of the crimson blanket covering the child's head.
The sunlight streaming through the stained glass fell directly onto Yoriichi's face.
The High Septon's gaze instantly locked onto the jagged, deep crimson mark blazing across the infant's pale forehead. The smile on the priest's face vanished, wiped away as if it had never existed.
At that exact moment, Yoriichi opened his eyes.
The infant prince looked up at the High Septon. There was no infantile confusion, no crying. It was just a calm, fathomless, burgundy gaze. But behind that gaze was the dormant, crushing spiritual weight of a soul that had slain thousands of immortal demons.
The corrupt, greedy priest looked into those eyes, and for the first time in his life, he felt the absolute, terrifying presence of true divine judgment.
The High Septon froze, his pudgy hand still suspended in the air, his blood running colder than the marble floor beneath his feet.