I am dirty, Cersei sobbed, the freezing water mixing with her hot tears. Am I really worthy of him? How will I ever look up into his eyes now?
She thought of going to his room, of falling to her knees and trying to explain, to rationalize the incest. But her heart quailed. She could not find a single ounce of courage. She knew his calm logic would dissect her lies in an instant.
As she stood shivering in the dark, Cersei made a silent, ironclad vow. Never again. She would never let this happen again. She would talk to Jaime tomorrow. She would break his heart completely, tell him to go find another girl, a whore, a lady of the court—she didn't care.
The physical tie between them was severed. She had to be pure. She had to be worthy of standing beside the god she had brought into the world.
Several corridors away, entirely unaffected by the psychological devastation he had just catalyzed, Yoriichi pushed open the door to his bedchamber.
He walked over to his heavy mahogany desk, striking a flint to light a single, thick beeswax candle. The warm, golden light illuminated his neat, orderly room. He opened a thick, leather-bound diary, picked up a raven-feather quill, and began to write.
His entries were precise and factual. He wrote of the garden, the squabble between his sisters, and his reflections on the political vulnerability of their family. He briefly noted the incident in the guest chamber, treating it with the same clinical detachment as a Maester recording the mating habits of hounds. It was a variable in the environment, nothing more.
After a few minutes, he set the quill down, blowing softly on the ink to dry it.
He stood up and walked to the corner of the room, where a heavy, masterfully carved wooden practice sword leaned against the stone wall. It was a Westerosi arming sword, crafted from dense ironwood, perfectly weighted to mimic Castle Forged steel.
Yoriichi picked it up. His hands, though small, wrapped around the leather-bound grip.
He frowned slightly, his burgundy eyes narrowing in deep contemplation. Why does it feel like this weapon is a part of me, yet completely alien at the same time?
Every time he picked up a sword—even the real iron blades in the training yard—his soul resonated with the steel. He was meant to hold a blade. But the shape of the Westerosi weapons constantly bothered his innate muscle memory.
He ran his hand along the flat of the wooden blade. It was straight. It was double-edged. The tip was a sharp, tapering point designed for thrusting through chainmail. The crossguard was a long, horizontal bar of steel meant to catch opposing blades. And the handle...
Yoriichi tried to grip the handle with both hands. His left hand had to wrap partially around the pommel just to fit. The handle is too short for proper leverage, he analyzed.
And the straight blade requires more brute strength to cleave through targets, lacking the natural curvature that aids a fluid, drawing cut. The vertical guard blocks the wrists from turning completely during complex, circular parries. It makes the grip slip.
He needed to test it again.
Yoriichi stepped into the center of the spacious room, making sure he was clear of the heavy oak furniture. He settled into a wide, grounded stance. He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, incredibly deep breath. Haaah...
He felt the oxygen flood his lungs, his heart rate slowing to an impossibly calm, rhythmic thrum. The ambient temperature of the room seemed to rise slightly as his blood pumped with terrifying efficiency.
With his eyes still closed, Yoriichi executed a single, diagonal downward slash.
He did not use his full strength, but his technique was absolute, flawless perfection. The dense ironwood blade sliced through the air with such terrifying velocity that it broke the sound barrier within the confined space of the bedchamber.
CRACK!
A sharp, violent air boom echoed through the room, sounding like a whip of thunder. The sudden displacement of air swept across the chamber, violently rattling the heavy tapestries and instantly extinguishing the candle on his desk, plunging the room into darkness.
Yoriichi slowly lowered the wooden sword in the gloom.
He sighed, shaking his head. The technique is there, but the tool resists the motion, he thought. The straight edge fought the natural arc of his swing.
He walked to the edge of his massive featherbed, laying the wooden sword gently on the mattress, and sat down beside it. He crossed his legs, resting his hands lightly on his knees, and closed his eyes to enter a deep state of meditation.
What could be the solution to this? he pondered, his mind sinking into the quiet void of his own consciousness. Would it be okay to continue like this, forcing my body to adapt to an inferior design?
He knew he would eventually face true darkness in this world. The rumors of monsters in the North, the unsettling auras he sometimes felt lingering in the ancient stones of the Red Keep—he could not afford to fight with a handicap. He needed to try more weapons to see if they fit his hands and his body's natural mechanics.
Axes are too heavy and lack defensive versatility, he reasoned silently. Spears keep the enemy at bay, but restrict close-quarters fluidity. A saber from Essos? Perhaps. The curvature is closer, though the blades are often too thin and the hilts designed for single-handed dueling.
He needed something specific. Something forged with a slight curve, a long hilt for two-handed leverage, and a small, circular guard that wouldn't bite into his wrists. If such a weapon did not exist in Westeros, he would simply have to find a blacksmith skilled enough to forge it from his own designs.
The low, resonant tolling of the Red Keep's bells echoed through the stone walls, signaling the approaching hour of the evening feast.
Yoriichi opened his eyes, the deep burgundy cutting through the darkness of the room. The time for meditation was over. Dinner was approaching, and with it, the exhausting, endless theater of his royal family.
The ambient temperature of the room, which had risen significantly from his focused breathing exercises, immediately met the cool, drafty air of the castle as he stood. He strapped a simple leather belt around his waist, smoothed the dark crimson silk of his tunic, and stepped out into the hall.