The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with tense revelry. The nobles of King's Landing gathered for a feast—a diversion from the rising tensions of the realm. At the center, seated high on the Iron Throne, was Joffrey Baratheon, his lips curled in a sneer as he tormented a trembling minstrel.
> "Sing, you worm," Joffrey barked. "Or I'll have your tongue nailed to the wall."
The room fell quiet, eyes darting between the guards and the king. But no one moved. No one dared.
Until one figure, cloaked in midnight cloth, entered silently through the rear arch.
Köinzell walked without sound, his presence unnoticed by the drunken lords and giggling ladies. His hood masked his pointed ears, and his eyes were twin moons in a sea of shadow.
His hand rested on Aetherbane Fang, the blade humming softly—star-black, veined with indigo.
He appeared behind the Iron Throne just as Joffrey raised his goblet.
> "To me! The one true king!"
Köinzell moved.
In one flicker of motion, faster than a blink, the Phantom Laceration activated—four invisible slashes weaving through time and space.
Joffrey's voice caught in his throat. He choked—then gurgled, coughing crimson.
A single cut appeared across his neck. Then another at his ribs. Another at his temple. Finally, a deep gash through his heart.
> "What…?" he croaked, collapsing off the throne, his crown rolling with a metallic clang.
The nobles screamed. Chaos erupted.
But Köinzell was already gone—fading into the shadows, unseen, unheard.
The Lion Cub was dead.
The throne was empty.