Maegor's Holdfast had never been a pleasant place.
Even in the height of summer, when the rest of King's Landing was baked stiflingly hot by the sun, it remained strangely cold here.
Unlike the blood-red bricks found elsewhere in the Red Keep, the walls here were made entirely of thick black stone. It was said that Maegor Targaryen I had personally overseen its construction, intending for the nobles who dared to defy his will to feel a bone-chilling cold within these walls.
The windows were narrow and high, like observation slits in a prison, and the light that filtered in was never enough to dispel the shadows in the corners.
This was especially true at night.
Late autumn rain had been falling since dawn, steady and unhurried. The raindrops tapped against the glass panes with a dull patter, making every movement in the council chamber feel damp.
The new king, Tommen Baratheon, sat at the head of the table.
The eight-year-old boy wore a deep crimson velvet doublet embroidered with the crowned stag of Baratheon. His golden curls were neatly combed, and his small face wore an expression of seriousness that did not fit his age.
His feet could not yet reach the floor, dangling and swinging gently over the edge of the high chair.
On the table in front of him, a stack of parchment documents was neatly arranged, each one opened and waiting for his signature.
Beside it lay the royal seal, a golden statue of a stag with a base that could be dipped into red wax.
For Tommen, this was the most interesting part of being king.
He carefully picked up a document, his emerald eyes scanning the text with focus. Although he did not yet recognize some of the more technical terms, his grandfather, the Hand, had taught him the process step by step.
He picked up a quill and neatly wrote "Tommen Baratheon I" in the blank space at the bottom of the parchment, then lifted the royal seal with both hands and pressed it firmly beside the ink.
The image of the stag emerged clearly in the red wax.
Tommen surveyed his work with satisfaction, a smile playing on his lips.
Then he looked up at the adults arguing on both sides of the long table. Seeing that no one was paying him any attention, the smile quickly vanished, and he let out a yawn.
The argument had been going on for a very long time; at this hour, he should have already been asleep.
"...I will say this one last time, Prince of Dorne!"
Lord Mace Tyrell tried to maintain restraint before the king, but his rising volume betrayed an obvious impatience.
"The North has just been pacified, Stannis's whereabouts are unknown, and across the Narrow Sea, there is a Targaryen queen riding three dragons."
"These are difficult times for the kingdom; we need unity, not to rake up old grievances!"
The Lord of Highgarden's chubby cheeks flushed slightly as he waved his arms, arguing his case, but all he said amounted to nothing but empty words.
Clearly, such reasoning could not persuade the Prince of Dorne, who had come prepared.
"Old grievances?"
Oberyn let out a cold laugh.
He did not sit upright like the others but leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the knee of the other, his posture so relaxed it bordered on rude.
"Does Lord Tyrell call the murder of a princess and her two children 'old grievances'?"
Oberyn's lips curled upward, and he mocked unceremoniously, "Then I am very curious, in your opinion, what kind of things are worth remembering?"
"A failed banquet, a poor hunt, or... the sort of thing where your son fell off his horse at a tournament?"
"Oberyn! I'll f—" Mace's face turned ghastly at these words, unable to maintain his composure any longer, and a curse almost slipped out.
After all, everyone knew that his eldest son, Willas Tyrell, had been a well-bred, gentle, and excellent young man. If he hadn't fallen off his horse during his first tournament, he would have become an even better knight than his younger brother, the Knight of Flowers!
And what infuriated him most was that the culprit behind it all was none other than the Prince Oberyn Martell sitting before him!
He actually... he actually dared to bring it up!
This was clearly slapping his face in front of everyone!
Rage! Rage! Rage!
The noble Lord of Highgarden was trembling with rage, even the fat on his face shaking along with his body. Clearly, this matter really struck a sore spot.
Seeing his reaction so intense, the mocking smile on Oberyn's face grew even broader.
Truth be told, he didn't dislike Willas Tyrell. Knocking that fellow off his horse at the tournament, which resulted in him losing a leg, was entirely an accident.
This was quite common in the history of tournaments, and Willas had never blamed him.
Furthermore, the two had even become good friends after that, keeping up a long-term correspondence, because Willas had quite an expertise in horse breeding, which was very much to Oberyn's liking.
But being on good terms with Willas was one thing, and using this matter to irritate his foolish father was another.
After all, he had come today determined to succeed.
If... that fellow Corleone's guarantee could really be counted on.
"Please mind your words, Your Highness."
Seeing the atmosphere tighten, Grand Maester Pycelle intended to speak up to smooth things over.
The old Grand Maester stroked his long, graying beard with trembling hands, as if it were an amulet that could give him courage.
"This is Maegor's Holdfast. Before the king, we should maintain a proper... decorum."
"Decorum?"
Upon hearing this, Oberyn immediately turned his fire on Grand Maester Pycelle, the contempt in his eyes practically overflowing.
"Begging your pardon, Grand Maester."
"Is your so-called 'decorum' sitting in the towers of The Citadel, compiling genealogies and singing praises for the houses that send the most gold dragons?"
At these words, Grand Maester Pycelle's face turned the color of liver, and he hurriedly retorted, "I am not... I did not... Don't talk nonsense..."
"I'm talking nonsense?" Before he could finish, the mockery in Oberyn's voice grew thicker. "Don't forget, I also spent some time at The Citadel, and I am all too familiar with it."
"I spent three years under the arcades of The Citadel, mastered six disciplines, and forged six links of a maester's chain."
"Yet some people melt down their family's gold to forge keys, opening doors they could never knock open with wisdom."
"They waste years, even decades, at The Citadel, yet cannot even manage to concoct the simplest of poisons, content only to spend their days on the observatory balcony, using Myr lenses to spy on the maids' balconies."
"Ha!"
"And in the end?"
"The archmaesters of The Citadel weigh their tribute purses and generously gift those fools a silver-plated chain so they can leave Oldtown with their heads held high!"
"It's hilarious!"
Oberyn said, winking at Grand Maester Pycelle with an incredibly mocking expression, "Do you know what the children of Dorne call The Citadel, Grand Maester? A 'gilded brothel'!"
"Though I don't think this comparison is quite apt; after all, at least a whore admits she is selling, while The Citadel..."
"Enough!"
Under Oberyn's constant mockery, Grand Maester Pycelle didn't react much—having lived nearly ninety years, he had heard worse—but Mace could no longer sit still. He slammed his hand on the oak table, his fat palm striking the surface, and warned, "Prince Oberyn, if you continue to speak with this attitude..."
"What's wrong with this attitude?"
Oberyn didn't indulge him at all, raising his voice directly, "How does it compare to the attitude of Ser Gregor Clegane when he pinned my sister, Princess Elia, against the wall?"
"How does it compare to the attitude when he used those filthy, evil hands to strangle Princess Rhaenys, or when he smashed Prince Aegon's head against the floor?"
As Oberyn's questions became sharper one after another, the atmosphere in the hall grew increasingly confrontational.
Even the young king was frightened, his fingers tightly clutching the seven-pointed star pendant on his chest, whispering a prayer, "The gods watch all, sins shall not be forgotten, and justice will eventually come."
"That all happened during wartime."
Just then, a calm female voice rang out, and everyone's gaze turned to the other end of the long table.
The Queen Regent sat there, looking exceptionally calm, one might even say... somewhat pleased.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the crystal goblet in her hand, and she took a sip of wine with great interest, as if attending a banquet.
"During Robert's Rebellion, many unfortunate things happened."
"War is like a wildfire; when it burns, who can tell which spark ignited which house?"
Upon hearing this, Oberyn slowly turned his head to look at Cersei, a viper-like glimmer flashing in his eyes.
Back in his youth, he had once visited Casterly Rock and had almost been betrothed to the woman before him, but it had fallen through due to some unpleasant matters.
But looking at it now, it was a good thing he hadn't married her.
Because in Oberyn's view, this woman was even more vicious than he, who held the title of "The Red Viper"!
"Your Grace."
"Allow me to correct a few small errors, Your Grace. First, the death of my sister, Princess Elia, and her children was not 'during wartime.' By then, King's Landing had already fallen, The Mad King was already dead, and the Lannister army had already seized the Red Keep."
"The war, in fact, was already over."
"Secondly, this was not an 'unfortunate thing.' This was murder. Premeditated, purposeful murder!"
"Thirdly..."
Oberyn leaned forward, pressing his hands onto the table, his eyes fixed on Cersei, "You say you can't tell which spark ignited which house?"
"What a coincidence, neither can I."
"But at least I can tell clearly who threw the spark into the kindling, who opened the door to the nursery, and pointed inside saying, 'Dispose of them!'"
His voice was loud, and the dome of the council chamber was filled with echoes that refused to die down.
At these words, Cersei's expression did not change in the slightest, as if everything Oberyn said had nothing to do with her.
Seeing the atmosphere grow cold once again, Lord Mace Tyrell sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.
"Prince Oberyn, I understand your grief, but that is not how this account is tallied..."
"No, you do not understand."
Oberyn interrupted him again, saying word for word, "You will never understand."
"You have never heard the screams of your sister being raped, never seen the crushed skull of your nephew, so please do not use the word 'understand,' Lord Duke, it is an insult."
Upon hearing this, Mace opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing, only leaning back wearily.
He was tired, truly.
Trying to talk to such a mule-headed fellow about the big picture was simply casting pearls before swine.
Beside him, Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his beard silently, no longer intending to speak up to persuade anyone, though his hand moved a bit faster than before.
But just then, Cersei spoke again.
"Your Highness." She swirled the wine glass in her hand, a suggestive curve at the corner of her lips, and said in a playful tone, "I completely understand your demands; in fact, I believe your demands are reasonable."
Once these words were out, Mace and Grand Maester Pycelle both looked at her, their faces filled with surprise.
Even Tommen looked up, his big blue eyes full of confusion.
"Oh?" Oberyn narrowed his eyes.
"Just like you, I have also just lost my eldest son, and my desire to bring the murderer to justice is very urgent."
Cersei placed the wine glass on the table with a clatter, sat up straight, and said righteously, "Furthermore..."
"If a kingdom can ignore crimes like the murder of a king or a princess, what dignity does the law have left, and what authority do the rulers have?"
"As people often say, a Lannister always pays his debts, but debts are not only financial; they are also moral."
"If Ser Gregor Clegane has indeed committed the crimes he is accused of, then he should stand trial."
Cersei said this lightly, but it made Mace, who was beside her, unable to resist reminding her: "Do you know what this means, Your Grace?"
"Once this case is retried, we will expend a vast amount of manpower and resources, and furthermore, the relationship between Dorne and the Westerlands will become strained once again!"
"The relationship between Dorne and the Westerlands has never been particularly harmonious; everyone knows that."
However, Cersei learned from Oberyn and interrupted Mace, her voice suddenly turning cold: "But justice cannot be obscured by evil!"
"Or are you saying, Lord Tyrell, that you believe the thoughts of a few individuals are more important than the lives of a princess and two children?"
These words were extremely sharp, practically trampling Mace's earlier argument of "unity first" into the ground.
Upon hearing this, Mace's face flushed red again, but this time not out of anger, but out of confusion and unease.
Because he could not understand Cersei's intentions.
As Tywin's daughter, as a Lannister, she should be desperately trying to stop this, so why was she instead... fanning the flames?
His eyes wandered back and forth between Cersei and Oberyn; he completely could not figure out why these two people were not listening to a word he said, and why, of all days, they had ended up on the same side.
Forget it.
I'm tired, let it all burn!
Seeing Cersei's determined expression, Mace simply spread his hands and slumped back into his chair, making up his mind to no longer care about this mess.
On the other side, Oberyn was also observing Cersei.
His black eyes stared intently at the woman before him, equally unaware of what her true motives were.
Could it be that even the Queen Mother is one of Vito Corleone's people?
"Your Grace's insistence on justice is truly... surprising."
After a long while, he finally spoke, his tone impossible to read as either praise or sarcasm.
"I simply believe that the law should treat everyone equally."
Cersei replied calmly: "Regardless of whether the person is a knight or a commoner, a noble or royalty, furthermore..."
She paused, her gaze sweeping across the long table.
"The one sitting on the Iron Throne now is my son, Tommen. I hope he rules over a kingdom where there is law to follow and justice to be spoken of, rather than a superficial peace maintained only by covering up crimes and forgetting history."
Not far away, little Tommen heard his name, looked up at his mother, his face full of reverence.
To him, his mother's words were so similar to the High Septon's sermons: justice, law, the will of the gods.
He nodded vigorously again and again, although no one noticed...
"Well said."
Upon hearing this, Oberyn finally revealed a hint of a genuine smile, but it did not reach his eyes, "Then, does Your Grace support my proposal, support convening a formal trial, summoning Ser Gregor Clegane, and reinvestigating the case of Princess Elia Martell's death?"
"I support justice being served." Cersei replied flawlessly: "If that means the case needs to be retried, then I support a retrial."
Hearing this, Mace, who had originally intended to stay out of it, couldn't help but stand up again, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. But seeing both Oberyn and Cersei cast warning glances at him, Mace felt all his words stuck in his throat.
Swallowing hard, he had no choice but to quietly kick Grand Maester Pycelle beside him.
As if to say: "Grand Maester, say something!"
However, Grand Maester Pycelle seemed to have fallen asleep, his head drooping, with faint snoring sounds audible.
He can sleep through this shit!
Mace suppressed the urge to punch this old thing to death, sat down indignantly, and the council chamber fell into silence once again.
The rain fell harder.
Rain poured down the windows, blurring the world outside, making the council chamber seem like an isolated island cut off from the rest of the world.
Candle flames flickered in the damp air, casting dancing shadows on everyone's faces.
The King finally finished signing and sealing the last document.
He carefully placed the quill back on the pen rest, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and began to silently recite the prayer the High Septon had taught him: "The Father grants justice, the Mother grants mercy, the Warrior grants courage..."
The voice was very quiet, but clearly audible in the silent council chamber.
Cersei glanced at her son, a flash of complex emotion crossing her eyes.
Then she looked back at Oberyn.
"So, what is the Prince's formal proposal?"
Oberyn took a roll of parchment from his robes.
The paper was already somewhat yellowed, its edges worn, clearly having been unfolded and read often.
"This is my formal request."
He placed the parchment on the desktop and pushed it to the center of the long table: "First, the Small Council formally acknowledges that there are significant doubts in the case of Princess Elia Martell's death and decides to reinvestigate."
"Second, immediately detain the suspect, Ser Gregor Clegane, in the Red Keep dungeon, awaiting trial."
"Third, establish a seven-member trial committee; members should include a Dornish representative, a representative from The Citadel, a church representative, and four members of the Small Council."
"Fourth, summon all witnesses who might know about the case, including the guards, maids, and maesters who served in the Red Keep back then!"
As his voice fell, Lord Mace Tyrell couldn't help but gasp.
These demands were simply outrageously excessive!
However, Oberyn paid no attention to his reaction at all, instead standing up and grinning at the boy in the main seat: "If a person has committed a crime, then he should stand trial. Do you agree, Your Grace?"
Upon hearing this, Tommen hesitated for a moment, instinctively looking at his mother.
He saw Cersei nod gently.
"Yes... yes." The King clearly lacked confidence, saying softly: "If there is guilt... then there should be a trial."
After speaking, he shrank back in fear, gripping the seven-pointed star pendant tightly, and began to whisper the prayer: "The Warrior protects the innocent, the Smith forges the truth, the Maiden guards the pure..."
However, at this moment, no one had time to pay attention to the King; everyone's eyes were focused on Cersei, and even Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been feigning sleep, opened his eyes.
Mace was shaking his head, his eyes full of pleading.
Grand Maester Pycelle's lips trembled silently.
Tommen stopped his prayer, his big blue eyes staring unblinkingly at his mother.
Cersei stood up slowly.
She had specially worn a pair of thick-soled boots today, and when she stood up, she was almost as tall as Oberyn.
The dark blue velvet dress shimmered with a dim luster under the candlelight, like the surface of the sea in the dead of night.
"As Queen Mother."
"As the King's mother, as one of the protectors of this kingdom, yes, I support it."
"Ha~ ah~~~~" Although he had guessed the ending, the moment he actually heard Cersei speak, Mace couldn't help but let out a groan.
"But I have one condition."
Cersei glanced at him and continued, her gaze sweeping over everyone present: "The trial must be fair, must be transparent, and must be conducted in accordance with all the procedures of the laws of The Seven Kingdoms."
Upon hearing this, Oberyn nodded with satisfaction: "This is exactly what I want."
"Furthermore." Cersei nodded slightly.
"Given the seriousness and complexity of the case, and also given..." She glanced at Tommen: "His Grace the King is young, so I suggest that during the trial, a special regency committee be established, with full authority over the trial matters, to ensure the trial process is free from any externa
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