The heavy oak door was ajar by no more than an inch, but it was enough to offer a clear, unobstructed view into the flickering gloom of the guest chamber.
Outside in the corridor, ten-year-old Yoriichi stood perfectly still, his breathing silent, his expression an unreadable mask of calm. Inside, the frantic, primal rhythm of flesh slapping against flesh echoed off the stone walls, accompanied by the desperate, stifled moans of his mother and the ragged panting of the Kingslayer.
Uncle and Mother, Yoriichi observed internally.
There was no sudden gasp of horror. His heart rate did not spike. A normal ten-year-old boy of Westeros might have screamed, wept, or run away in traumatized panic upon discovering such a monumental, blasphemous treason. But Yoriichi was not a normal boy. His ancient soul processed the visual information with a cold, almost detached, surgical logic.
He analyzed the implications. If the Queen was intimately entangled with her twin brother, the golden-haired knight of the Kingsguard, what did that mean for the royal lineage?
Yoriichi thought of Myrcella's spun-gold curls and sweet disposition. He thought of Jeyne's fierce emerald eyes and vicious, demanding nature. Neither of them possessed a single trait of King Robert Baratheon.
The King is not their father, Yoriichi deduced seamlessly. They are lions, through and through.
A secondary thought naturally followed: Am I?
He had seen his reflection in the polished silver mirrors of his bedchamber. He had the midnight-black roots of the Baratheon line, though the vibrant crimson tips and the jagged mark obscured much of his lineage.
Yet, when he studied his own facial structure, he saw none of Robert's broad, heavy-set features. He remembered the few times his uncle Stannis had visited the capital, glaring at Cersei's children with a suspicious, grinding jaw.
Yoriichi gave a slight, internal shrug. It does not matter. Whether he was the seed of a drunken stag or a golden lion was ultimately irrelevant to the trajectory of his soul. Bloodlines were merely temporary vessels.
Only Cersei knew the absolute truth, and her political maneuverings were of little interest to his cosmic perspective. He had seen what he needed to see. The perimeter was secure; his mother was not under attack. She was simply engaged in the mundane, fleshy affairs of mortals.
Inside the room, the tempo of the act reached a frantic, desperate crescendo. Jaime's grip on Cersei's hips tightened bruisingly as he drove himself forward, burying his face in her tangled golden hair with a muffled, guttural groan.
Driven by the overwhelming, euphoric rush of her own impending climax, Cersei threw her head back. Her eyes fluttered open, blindly seeking the ceiling.
But as her gaze swept upward, it caught the sliver of darkness in the ajar doorway.
The dim light of the bedside candles illuminated a small, pale face framed by dark, red-tipped hair. Deep, fathomless burgundy eyes were looking directly at her through the crack in the wood.
Time stopped.
The euphoria rushing through Cersei's veins instantly turned to absolute, freezing ice. Her pupils contracted into pinpricks of pure, unadulterated horror. The breath stalled in her lungs. She could not scream; her vocal cords were paralyzed by a shock so profound it felt as though her soul had been ripped from her body.
Yoriichi noted the sudden widening of his mother's eyes. He realized he had been spotted.
With the polite, unbothered courtesy of a guest who had accidentally opened the wrong door in a tavern, Yoriichi simply maintained eye contact, offered a slow, respectful dip of his head—an apologetic nod for the intrusion—and silently reached out. With a ghost's touch, he pulled the heavy oak door shut. It clicked into place without a single sound.
He turned on his heel and continued his casual walk down the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps entirely silent on the stone floors, making his way back to his own chambers.
Inside the guest room, the illusion of safety had shattered.
Jaime, completely lost in his own world, finally hit his peak. With a long, ragged groan of pure release, he poured his stress and frustration out, his body shuddering violently against hers. He let out a long sigh of fulfillment, the tension of the week finally bleeding out of his muscles.
Utterly exhausted and completely oblivious to the apocalypse that had just occurred in his sister's mind, Jaime collapsed onto the mattress. He pulled the thick furs over his naked body, burying his face in the pillows, a satisfied smile on his lips as he drifted into a comfortable, exhausted slumber. He thought of how wonderful his life was, believing he still owned the Queen.
Cersei remained standing by the bedpost, naked and shivering. She was as rigid as a marble statue.
Slowly, agonizingly, her mind began to thaw, and the horror fully registered. She looked down at her own hands, still clutching the wood. She looked down at her naked, sweat-slicked body, the sticky residue of her brother's seed staining her thighs.
What have I done? the thought echoed in the hollow cavern of her skull. This... what is this?
Her legs gave out. She slumped onto the edge of the mattress, pulling a discarded silk sheet over her trembling shoulders, her breathing coming in shallow, hyperventilating gasps.
He saw everything, Cersei thought, her mind spiraling into a dark, bottomless abyss. Our debauchery. Our treason. He stood there and watched. But what terrified her more than the discovery itself was the look in his eyes. There had been no shock. No disgust. No childish confusion.
There was not a single emotion, she realized, a violent shudder wracking her frame. As usual... his absolute stoic calmness.
Goosebumps erupted across her arms and legs. She buried her face in her hands, her fingers digging painfully into her scalp. For a decade, she had treated Yoriichi as her possession, her divine weapon. She had never truly cared what the lords, the Kingsguards, or the High Septon felt when they looked into those ancient eyes. She had been blinded by her own narcissistic obsession.
But now, she understood.
It was as if I was being judged, Cersei wept silently, a profound, soul-crushing humiliation burning in her chest. Like an insect wallowing in the dirt, being observed by a higher existence. What is this feeling?
She was the Queen. She was the mother of the prophesied godling. Yet, under that burgundy gaze, she felt like nothing more than a cheap, filthy whore from a Flea Bottom tavern rutting in an alleyway. What could possibly be more humiliating than exposing such base, animalistic depravity to the perfect, untainted sun of her life?
Unable to bear the stench of her own skin a second longer, Cersei stood up. She ignored the sleeping Jaime completely. She stumbled into the adjoining bathing chamber, her bare feet slapping against the cold tiles.
She did not bother to call a maid to warm the water. She grabbed a heavy iron pitcher of freezing water and poured it directly over her head.
She gasped as the icy shock hit her system, grabbing a coarse brush and a block of harsh lye soap. She scrubbed her skin violently, scraping away the sweat, the perfume, and the touch of her brother until her flesh was raw and blooming with red, angry welts.