Chapter 158: A Small Council Without the Hand (Double Length)
Maegor's Holdfast had never been a pleasant place.
Even in the height of summer, when the rest of King's Landing baked beneath suffocating heat, the chambers here remained unnaturally cold.
Unlike the blood-red bricks used throughout the rest of the Red Keep, the walls here were built entirely from thick black stone.
Legend claimed that Maegor I Targaryen himself had overseen its construction, intending for every noble foolish enough to defy him to feel that bone-deep chill.
The windows were narrow and high, more like slits in a prison wall than proper windows.
The weak light filtering through them never fully chased away the shadows lurking in the corners.
At night, the place felt even worse.
Cold autumn rain had been falling since dawn.
Not violently, but steadily.
Raindrops tapped against the glass with dull, rhythmic knocks, making every sound inside the council chamber seem damp and heavy.
Tommen Baratheon sat at the head of the table.
The eight-year-old king wore a deep crimson velvet coat embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
His golden curls had been carefully combed, and his little face carried a seriousness utterly unsuited for his age.
His feet still could not touch the floor.
They swung lightly beneath the oversized chair.
Spread neatly before him were stacks of parchment documents, each already opened and waiting for his signature.
Beside them sat the royal seal: a golden stag mounted on a heavy base for pressing into red wax.
To Tommen, this was the most enjoyable part of being king.
Carefully, he picked up one of the parchments.
His green eyes scanned the text with concentration.
Some of the more difficult words still confused him, but his grandfather—the Hand of the King—had personally taught him the process.
He dipped the quill and carefully wrote:
"Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name."
Then, using both hands, he lifted the royal seal and firmly pressed it beside the signature.
The crowned stag emerged clearly in the red wax.
Tommen smiled proudly at his handiwork.
Then he looked up toward the adults arguing around the long table.
Seeing that absolutely no one had noticed him, the smile quickly disappeared.
He yawned instead.
The argument had already lasted far too long.
Normally, he would have been asleep by now.
"I'll say this one final time, Prince Martell!"
Mace Tyrell was trying very hard to remain composed in front of the king, but the steadily rising volume of his voice revealed increasingly obvious irritation.
"The North has only just been pacified! Stannis Baratheon is still at large! Across the Narrow Sea there's a Targaryen queen riding three dragons!"
"These are difficult times for the realm. We need unity, not old grudges!"
The Lord of Highgarden's fleshy cheeks had gone slightly red as he waved his arms passionately.
Yet despite all his bluster, he was really saying nothing at all.
And clearly—
such hollow arguments could not possibly persuade the Prince of Dorne, who had arrived fully prepared.
"Old grudges?"
Oberyn Martell let out a cold laugh.
Unlike the others seated properly around the table, he lounged lazily in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with almost insulting casualness.
"You call the murder of a princess and her two children an 'old grudge,' Lord Tyrell?"
His lips curled upward mockingly.
"Then I'm curious."
"What exactly qualifies as worth remembering in your eyes?"
"A failed feast?"
"A disappointing hunt?"
"Or perhaps…" his smile widened, "your son falling off his horse during a tourney?"
"Oberyn, I'll fu—!"
Mace's face instantly turned ugly.
He nearly spat out a curse before catching himself.
Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that his eldest son, Willas Tyrell, had once been a gifted, well-mannered young heir.
Had he not been crippled after falling from his horse in his very first tourney, Willas might have become an even greater knight than his famous younger brother, the Knight of Flowers.
And the man responsible for that accident—
was sitting right in front of him.
The bastard even dared to bring it up publicly!
It was a slap across the face in front of the entire council.
Mace trembled with fury.
Even the fat on his cheeks quivered.
Seeing his reaction, Oberyn's smile only deepened.
Truthfully, Oberyn did not dislike Willas.
The accident during the tourney had genuinely been accidental.
Such things happened often in tourneys throughout history, and Willas himself had never blamed him.
In fact, the two later became good friends.
They frequently exchanged letters, largely because Willas possessed remarkable knowledge about horses—a topic Oberyn greatly enjoyed.
But being friends with Willas was one thing.
Using the story to provoke his idiotic father was another entirely.
Especially today.
Today, Oberyn had come determined to win.
Assuming, of course…
that Odin's promise could truly be trusted.
"Mind your language, Prince."
Trying to ease the growing tension, Grand Maester Pycelle finally spoke up.
The elderly maester nervously stroked his long white beard as though it were some kind of protective charm.
"This is Maegor's Holdfast. Before the king, we should maintain proper… decorum."
"Decorum?"
Oberyn immediately turned his attention toward Pycelle.
The contempt in his eyes was almost overflowing.
"With all due respect, Grand Maester…"
"By 'decorum,' do you mean sitting comfortably in the Citadel while composing glorious family histories for whichever lord delivers the heaviest purse of gold?"
Pycelle's face immediately turned the color of liver.
"I did not—I never—those are baseless accusations—"
"Baseless?" Oberyn cut him off mercilessly.
"Do not forget, I spent time at the Citadel myself."
"I know the place quite well."
"I studied there for three years."
"In that time, I mastered six disciplines and forged six links of my chain."
"But some men…"
His smile sharpened.
"…simply melt their family gold into keys to open doors their minds could never unlock."
"They waste years—even decades—inside the Citadel without learning how to brew the simplest poison."
"Instead, they spend their days atop observatories using Myrish lenses to spy on serving girls bathing."
A few muffled snickers echoed through the chamber.
"And in the end?"
"The archmaesters weigh the gold in their purses and generously hand those fools a silver link so they can march proudly out of Oldtown pretending to be scholars."
Oberyn laughed.
"Honestly, it's hilarious."
Then he leaned forward slightly and grinned at Pycelle.
"Do you know what Dornish children call the Citadel, Grand Maester?"
"A gilded brothel."
He paused dramatically.
"Though honestly, that comparison insults brothels."
"At least prostitutes admit they're selling something."
"ENOUGH!"
This time, it was Mace who slammed his palm onto the table.
The heavy impact shook the goblets.
"Prince Oberyn, if you continue speaking in this manner—"
"In what manner?"
Oberyn instantly raised his voice.
"More offensive than the way Gregor Clegane treated my sister when he pinned her against a wall?"
"More offensive than the hands he used to strangle Princess Rhaenys Targaryen?"
"More offensive than smashing Prince Aegon Targaryen's skull against the floor?"
Each question struck harder than the last.
The atmosphere inside the chamber became razor-sharp.
Even young Tommen Baratheon looked frightened.
He clutched the seven-pointed star hanging around his neck and whispered quietly to himself:
"The gods see all things…"
"Sins are never forgotten…"
"Justice will come…"
"That happened during wartime."
A calm female voice suddenly cut through the tension.
Everyone turned toward the far end of the table.
Cersei Lannister sat there looking unusually composed.
Almost amused.
Her fingers tapped lightly against a crystal wine cup as she casually took a sip, as though attending a feast rather than a council session.
"Many unfortunate things happened during Robert's Rebellion."
"War is like a wildfire."
"Once it spreads, who can truly tell which spark burned which house?"
Oberyn slowly turned toward her.
His eyes gleamed like those of a venomous snake.
Long ago, when he was still young, he had once visited Casterly Rock and nearly become betrothed to this woman.
Thankfully, the arrangement had fallen apart.
Looking back now—
that was probably a blessing.
Because in Oberyn's eyes, this woman was even more poisonous than the Red Viper himself.
"Your Grace."
"Allow me to correct several mistakes."
"First—my sister Princess Elia Martell and her children were not killed during the war."
"By then, King's Landing had already fallen."
"The Mad King was dead."
"The Lannister army controlled the Red Keep."
"The war… was over."
"Second…"
"This was not an unfortunate accident."
"It was murder."
"Planned murder."
"Deliberate murder."
Oberyn leaned forward, both hands pressed against the table as he stared directly at Cersei.
"You claim no one can know which spark burned which house?"
"How convenient."
"Because I may not know which spark started the fire either…"
"But I certainly know who threw the spark into the kindling."
"Who opened the nursery door…"
"And who said—"
His voice thundered through the chamber.
"'Dispose of them.'"
The echoes lingered beneath the vaulted ceiling long after he stopped speaking.
Yet Cersei's expression never changed.
It was as though none of it concerned her at all.
Seeing the atmosphere freeze once again, Mace Tyrell rubbed his temples heavily and sighed.
"Prince Oberyn, I understand your grief, but this is not how these matters are handled—"
"No."
Oberyn cut him off again.
"You do not understand."
"You never could."
"You never heard your sister screaming while she was being raped."
"You never saw your nephew's skull smashed apart."
"So please…"
"Do not use the word 'understand,' my lord."
"It is insulting."
Mace opened his mouth—
then closed it again.
Exhaustion washed across his face.
Honestly, trying to explain "the bigger picture" to a man like Oberyn felt utterly pointless.
Nearby, Grand Maester Pycelle silently stroked his beard even faster than before, wisely deciding not to speak again.
Then suddenly—
Cersei spoke once more.
"Prince Oberyn."
She swirled the wine in her cup, a strangely playful smile curling at her lips.
"I completely understand your request."
"In fact…"
"I believe your demand is reasonable."
The entire room froze.
Mace and Pycelle both turned toward her in shock.
Even Tommen looked up, confused.
"Oh?"
Oberyn narrowed his eyes.
"Like you, I recently lost my eldest son."
Cersei placed her goblet onto the table with a soft click and sat straighter.
"So I understand the desire to see a killer judged."
"And besides…"
"If a kingdom can ignore the murders of princes and princesses…"
"Then what meaning does the law still hold?"
"What authority does the throne still possess?"
She smiled faintly.
"As people often say…"
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
"And debts are not merely financial."
"There are debts of honor as well."
"If Ser Gregor Clegane truly committed the crimes he is accused of…"
"Then he should stand trial."
She spoke lightly.
Almost casually.
Yet beside her, Mace could no longer stay silent.
"Do you understand what this means, Your Grace?"
"If this case is reopened, it will consume enormous resources."
"And relations between Dorne and the Westerlands will deteriorate even further!"
"Relations between Dorne and the Westerlands have never been particularly friendly," Cersei replied coolly.
"Everyone already knows that."
Yet before Mace Tyrell could finish, Cersei Lannister cut him off in the exact same manner Oberyn had moments earlier.
Her voice turned ice-cold.
"But justice cannot be buried beneath evil."
"Or perhaps, Lord Tyrell…" her green eyes narrowed slightly, "you believe the convenience of a few individuals matters more than the lives of a princess and two innocent children?"
The words were razor sharp.
In a single sentence, she stomped all over Mace's earlier argument about "unity above all else."
Mace's face reddened again.
But this time, not from anger.
From confusion.
And unease.
Because he could not understand Cersei's intentions at all.
She was Tywin Lannister's daughter.
A Lannister.
She should have been desperately trying to suppress this matter.
So why was she instead…
fueling it?
His gaze shifted back and forth between Cersei and Oberyn Martell, utterly unable to comprehend how these two people—who should have hated each other—had somehow ended up standing on the same side.
Finally, he gave up internally.
Forget it.
To hell with all of this.
Seeing the determination on Cersei's face, Mace simply threw up both hands and collapsed back into his chair, deciding he was done involving himself in this disaster.
Meanwhile, Oberyn was studying Cersei just as carefully.
His dark eyes remained fixed on her face.
He too could not understand what game she was playing.
Could it be…
even the Queen Regent had become one of Odin's people?
"Your Grace is remarkably committed to justice."
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
His tone made it impossible to tell whether he was mocking her or genuinely praising her.
"I simply believe the law should apply equally to everyone," Cersei replied calmly.
"Whether they are knights or commoners."
"Nobles or royalty."
"And besides…"
She paused, her gaze sweeping slowly across the council table.
"The one sitting upon the Iron Throne now is my son, Tommen Baratheon."
"I want him to rule a kingdom governed by law and justice."
"Not a kingdom that survives only by concealing crimes and pretending history never happened."
At the far end of the table, little Tommen immediately looked up at the sound of his name.
His green eyes shone with admiration as he stared at his mother.
To him, her words sounded exactly like the sermons delivered by the High Septon.
Justice.
Law.
The will of the gods.
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
Though, naturally—
absolutely no one noticed.
"Well said."
For the first time that evening, Oberyn revealed a genuine smile.
Though it still never reached his eyes.
"So then, Your Grace supports my proposal?"
"You support reopening the investigation into Princess Elia Martell's death?"
"You support summoning Ser Gregor Clegane to stand trial?"
"I support justice being carried out," Cersei answered flawlessly.
"And if justice requires this case to be reopened…"
"Then I support reopening it."
The moment those words left her lips, Mace—who had already decided to stop caring—lurched upright again.
His chair scraped harshly across the stone floor.
But when both Oberyn and Cersei turned to stare at him with matching warning looks, every word caught in his throat.
Swallowing nervously, Mace discreetly nudged Grand Maester Pycelle beside him with his foot.
His expression practically screamed:
Say something, damn it!
Unfortunately, Pycelle appeared to have fallen asleep.
His head drooped forward while faint snoring noises escaped him.
Mace nearly died of rage on the spot.
How the hell could this old fossil fall asleep now?!
Suppressing the urge to punch him unconscious, Mace sank bitterly back into his chair.
The council chamber fell silent once more.
Outside, the rain intensified.
Water streamed down the windows in sheets, blurring the outside world until the chamber felt like an isolated island cut off from the realm.
Candle flames flickered in the damp air, casting shifting shadows across every face.
At the head of the table, Tommen finally finished signing the last document.
Carefully, he placed the quill back onto its stand.
Then he folded his hands together, closed his eyes, and began quietly reciting a prayer taught to him by the High Septon.
"The Father grants justice…"
"The Mother grants mercy…"
"The Warrior grants courage…"
His voice was tiny.
Yet in the silence of the chamber, everyone could hear it clearly.
Cersei glanced at her son.
A complicated emotion flashed briefly through her eyes.
Then she looked back toward Oberyn.
"So," she said calmly, "what exactly is the prince's formal proposal?"
Oberyn withdrew a parchment scroll from inside his robes.
The paper was yellowed and worn around the edges, clearly unfolded and reread countless times.
"This is my official request."
He placed it on the table and pushed it toward the center of the council.
"First—the Small Council formally acknowledges that serious doubts exist regarding the death of Princess Elia Martell and agrees to reopen the investigation."
"Second—Ser Gregor Clegane is to be immediately detained and imprisoned within the Red Keep pending trial."
"Third—a tribunal of seven members shall be established."
"It must include representatives from Dorne, the Citadel, the Faith, and four members of the Small Council."
"Fourth—all potential witnesses connected to the case are to be summoned."
"Guards."
"Servants."
"Maesters."
"Anyone who served in the Red Keep at the time."
The moment he finished speaking, Mace Tyrell sucked in a sharp breath.
These demands were outrageous.
Absolutely outrageous.
Yet Oberyn ignored him entirely.
Instead, he rose to his feet and flashed a grin toward the boy seated at the head of the table.
"If a man commits a crime…"
"Then he should face judgment."
"You agree with that, Your Grace?"
Tommen hesitated instinctively before glancing toward his mother.
Cersei gave a slight nod.
"Y-yes…"
The young king sounded uncertain.
"If someone is guilty… then they should be judged."
The moment he finished speaking, he shrank nervously back into his chair, clutching the seven-pointed star hanging around his neck while whispering another prayer.
"The Warrior protects the innocent…"
"The Smith forges truth…"
"The Maiden guards purity…"
But by now, nobody paid attention to the king anymore.
Every eye in the room had shifted toward Cersei.
Even Pycelle suddenly appeared awake again.
Mace shook his head desperately, silently pleading with her not to continue.
Pycelle's lips trembled soundlessly.
Tommen stopped praying entirely and stared at his mother with wide green eyes.
Slowly—
Cersei rose to her feet.
Today, she had deliberately worn thick-soled boots.
Standing now, she was nearly as tall as Oberyn.
Her deep blue velvet gown shimmered beneath candlelight like the surface of a midnight sea.
"As Queen Regent…"
"As the mother of the king…"
"And as one of the guardians of this realm…"
"Yes."
"I support this proposal."
"Haahhh…"
Even though he had already guessed where this was heading, Mace still let out a miserable groan the instant he heard her say it aloud.
"But," Cersei continued smoothly, "I have one condition."
Her gaze swept across every person in the chamber.
"The trial must be fair."
"It must be transparent."
"And it must follow every legal procedure of the Seven Kingdoms."
Oberyn nodded in satisfaction.
"That is precisely what I want."
"Additionally…" Cersei inclined her head slightly.
"Given the seriousness and complexity of this case…"
"And considering…" she glanced toward Tommen, "…His Grace's young age…"
"I propose the formation of a temporary Regency Committee to oversee all matters related to the trial and ensure the proceedings remain free from outside interference."
…What?
The instant those words were spoken, even with the smooth folds of Mace Tyrell's brain, he finally understood what Cersei was truly after.
His eyes widened.
Shock and realization flooded his face simultaneously.
Because in Cersei's mind—
this had never been about Elia Martell.
Not from the beginning.
This was about power.
Oberyn wanted vengeance.
Cersei wanted regency.
She supported the retrial not because she had suddenly developed a conscience—
but because she had seen an opportunity.
An opportunity to bypass Tywin and seize direct control herself.
If a Regency Committee were formed, then as the king's mother and Queen Regent, she would naturally become its central figure.
And once she controlled the regency…
Tywin's authority would inevitably weaken.
"Your Grace…"
After several deep breaths, Mace finally managed to suppress his panic enough to speak.
"The matter of regency… should perhaps be considered more carefully."
"His Grace may be young, but the Small Council already advises him, and…"
"…Lord Tywin serves as Hand of the King…"
"My father is very busy."
Cersei interrupted him immediately.
Her tone was terrifyingly calm.
"He must manage affairs in the Westerlands."
"He must deal with instability in the North."
"He must monitor Stannis Baratheon."
"He must balance relations between the great houses."
"To burden one man alone with overseeing such a sensitive trial would be unreasonable."
Then she paused.
And smiled.
A cold, flawless smile.
"Besides…"
"As a woman."
"As a mother."
"I may understand the pain of losing a child better than most men ever could."
"And I certainly understand what it feels like…"
"…for a mother to look upon her child's corpse."
At that, even Mace could no longer argue.
After all—
he was neither a mother nor a parent who had lost a son.
Though admittedly, one of his sons had gone missing and still had not been found…
Meanwhile, Oberyn silently watched Cersei.
A calculating look flickered through his dark eyes.
Of course he understood exactly what game she was playing.
But he did not care.
As long as the trial was reopened—
as long as Gregor Clegane, and perhaps the people behind him, could be dragged before judgment—
Oberyn was willing to dance with devils.
Seeing that no one else objected, Cersei raised her voice decisively.
"I therefore propose the immediate establishment of a seven-member Regency Committee."
"Of course," she added smoothly, "all final decisions will still require His Grace's royal seal. This is merely a temporary arrangement until the trial concerning Princess Elia is concluded—"
Before she could finish—
the doors to the council chamber suddenly burst open.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
Everyone turned simultaneously.
Tywin Lannister stood in the doorway.
Rainwater darkened his shoulders.
Wet strands of golden hair clung to his temples.
Yet his spine remained perfectly straight.
His cold green eyes swept across every person in the chamber before finally settling on his daughter.
Though Tywin's expression never changed—
the temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly.
Tommen unconsciously sat up straighter.
His small hands released the seven-pointed star and returned neatly to his lap.
Mace visibly relaxed in relief—
before immediately becoming tense again after seeing Tywin's terrifying expression.
Grand Maester Pycelle began coughing violently, clutching a handkerchief as though he might die at any second.
Oberyn slowly leaned back into his chair once more, crossing his legs casually again.
But his right hand drifted toward the small dagger hidden at his lower back—
a blade coated in deadly poison.
At the far end of the table, Cersei met her father's gaze directly.
Yet unlike usual, she did not shrink back.
Did not avoid his eyes.
In fact—
the faint smile still lingered on her lips.
Tywin's green eyes narrowed slightly.
Without saying a word, he stepped into the chamber.
His boots struck the stone floor with sharp, deliberate echoes.
Rainwater dripped from the hem of his cloak, leaving a trail of dark stains behind him.
He walked to the end of the table.
Stopped.
Then finally looked at his daughter and spoke slowly.
"Go on."
"I'm very curious."
"In this Small Council meeting held without the Hand of the King…"
"…what exactly have I missed?"
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