( Cersei POV )
What assurances? Tommen reached down and withdrew another letter and passed it over to Pycelle, who by this point was becoming quite flustered by the sheer volume of letters the King seemed to have at the ready.
"Send this to the Wall, Grandmaester. As before, you are not to open or read it."
...
"Of course, Your Grace," he said as he accepted the letter. "Yet if Lord Janos can be believed, Lord Stannis is trying to make common cause with the wildlings."
"Savages in skins," Lord Mace declared. "Lord Stannis must be desperate indeed, to seek such allies."
"Desperate and foolish," she agreed. "The Northmen hate the wildlings. Roose Bolton should have no trouble winning them to our cause. A few have already joined up with the bastard son to help him clear the Ironmen from Moat Cailin and clear the way for Lord Bolton. Umber, Ryswell... I forgot the names. Even White Harbour is on the point of joining us. It's lord is on the verge of wedding his daughters to lords of our choosing and opening his ports to our ships."
"Wyman Manderly was a loyal bannerman to Ned Stark," Pycelle warned. "Can such a man be trusted?"
No one can be trusted. "He's fat, old and frightened. He is proving stubborn on only one point. He insists that he will not bend the knee till his heir has been returned to him."
"Do we have this heir?" Lord Mace asked.
"He will be at Harrenhall, if he is still alive," Cersei said. "Gregor Clegane took him captive. If he is dead, I suppose we must send him the heads of those who killed him, with our most sincere apologies."
"Will not Lord Stannis seek to win the allegiance of White Harbour as well?" Pycelle asked.
"Oh, he has tried," Tommen answered. "Lord Manderly has sent his letters onto us and replied with evasions. Lord Stannis demands White Harbour's swords and silvers and offers nothing in return. Just this morning there was another bird. He has sent his Hand, Ser Davos, to treat with White Harbour on his behalf. Manderly has placed the man in a cell. He asks what we should do to him."
"Let him die," she said. "His death will be a lesson to the North, to show them what becomes of traitors."
"Have him sent here, for questioning," Tyrion suggested instead. "The man might know much of value."
Tommen nodded, "I quite agree, Uncle." He reached down, and withdrew one final letter, passing it on to Pycelle, "I already have written a response. To White Harbour, Grandmaester. You know what else I will ask."
Pycelle nodded, "Not to open or read it, Your Grace."
Tommen nodded as Lord Mace voiced his concerns, "What if Lord Manderly should refuse?"
"He may well do," Tommen said. "But he risks his own son's life in doing so. And even in letters, I happen to be quite... persuasive. I may yet be wrong, but I do not believe he would refuse."
"Very good, Your Grace."
"We have done good work today, my lords," Tommen said. "I thank you. Is there aught else?"
The lords all looked around at each other. "Only the matters of who is to be the new Master of Whispers, and the new members of the Kingsguard, after the tragic passing of Ser Boros," Pycelle said.
"And the matter of Lord Bolton," Lord Tywin added, his tone stern and unforgiving. He may have taken a passive role till now, but this was an issue on which he would budge no longer.
Tommen sighed and tapped the table again with his ring, "Very well, then. Give me the sheaf that names Lord Bolton my Warden of the North."
Pycelle handed it to him, and Tywin continued, "And the decree of legitimacy?"
After a moment's thought, Tommen shook his head, "No." He stood from his chair, offering no explanation for his rejection, tapping his ring twice on the table with his knuckles to signal that the council was over, "If that is all, my lords, then I will declare this meeting of the Small Council finished. You are all dismissed. Bronn, be sure to escort the Grandmaester to the rookery, to have those letters sent immediately."
Bronn nodded, and Pycelle left on shuffling feet, his back hunched under the weight of the myriad links on the chain around his neck.
Tommen stood waiting with his grip tight on the back of his chair as all the remaining lords stood from their seats and filed out of the room.
Cersei watched her son out of the corner of her eyes as she left.
He stands alone.
...
( Oberyn POV )
Oberyn sat on one of the many terraces of the Red Keep that overlooked the bay.
He sipped his wine - a fine Dornish vintage - and allowed himself to admire the beauty of the midday sun. Such musings were more Doran's pace than his own, of course, but Oberyn could see the appeal. There was a certain relaxing quality to the quiet, rolling ocean, the glimmer of the sun off the waves, the soft orange shadows cast across every surface, the relative isolation and silence.
Across the table at which he sat, the Boy King shared his view, a small tomcat sat in his lap, occasionally purring as he stroked it's back, "This is my little gem," he said. "When ruling becomes tiresome, I come here."
Oberyn observed the Boy King. He did look tired, but not as much he might have claimed. There was a nervous quality to the way he moved, that half-second delay that spoke to a mix of uncertainty or apprehension. Though King Tommen's eyes flashed with an intelligence they should not have, it was that delay that set Oberyn's mind at ease. The Boy King might have been exceptional, but he was a boy all the same.
"It is pleasant," Oberyn neutrally replied. "Ellaria and the girls would love it, I'm sure."
The King allowed the smallest hint of a smile to tug at the corners of his lips, "As would Myrcella, but we'll keep this our little secret, won't we? I'd so hate to lose my sanctuary."
Ah, Oberyn realised, Myrcella. I was wondering when her name would be mentioned.
"Myrcella will be well taken care of," Oberyn assured him. "You have my word."
The King shrugged, continued stroking his cat, and once again stared out over the bay, "What can I say? A brother worries."
"Yes," Oberyn said. "I know this all too well. My vengeance is not yet complete, but we have no more cause for strife - at least not with your side of the family."
The King smiled pleasantly, though Oberyn noted it did not quite reach his eyes, "And I'm glad for that, at least. Though I will say we were quite disappointed to see you could not ride in the tourney field, my prince. Many a man would have paid good gold to see the Red Viper ride. I do trust you are healing well."
"Well enough," Oberyn said with an easy smile. "But if these petty aches and pains are the price for you fulfilling a decade-old dream of mine, Your Grace, then I'll consider it a price well-paid."
The King smiled, "I'd much prefer to fulfill a woman's dreams, my prince."
Oberyn allowed himself a bark of laughter, "So I've heard." The new Queen in particular seemed keen to mark her territory before the old one. "And my daughters have apparently heard as well," he said with an impish grin. "I'm sure you'll get on famously."
"I'm sure we will," he said. "There are worse ways to die, after all."
"Don't worry, Your Grace," Oberyn mock-assured him, "they'll be gentle."
The King smiled another smile, and then said: "Yes, and that is much appreciated. But I am afraid we must move onto the meat of the matter. I did not call you here merely to enjoy the pleasure of your company, after all."
"How disappointing," Oberyn said. "Very well, then. What is the matter?"
"Myrcella," the King said.
Oberyn started a little, "King Tommen, I have already given my word."
King Tommen's tone hardened as he spoke, "And yet, your brother the Prince Doran felt perfectly comfortable keeping her from coming to my wedding. And after I specifically requested her attendance. How else can I take that but as an insult?"
"Oh," Oberyn said dismissively. "My brother is far too careful. He has a suspicious mind, you see. But again, I assure you, no harm will come to the Princess Myrcella."
"Ah, but is it your word that matters?" the King said with an eyebrow quirked. "Or your brother the Prince Doran's? You see my dilemma here, don't you?"
"I do," Oberyn tentatively said, his eyes narrowed. He's setting a trap, Oberyn realised. "But I came here empowered by my brother. Whilst I am here, I speak for him on all matters. It is as I told your mother-"
"You do not hurt little girls in Dorne," the King finished.
Oberyn nodded.
King Tommen clapped his hands together, and a servant rushed over, setting something large down on the table, covered in a silken cloth. For a moment, Oberyn thought it might be a head. The King gripped the cloth and pulled it away to reveal a fine marble plinth, "This is yours, Prince Oberyn. Consider it a gift, and an apology. As I said before, a brother worries."
"A fine gift," Oberyn said.
"It is," the King agreed. "Fit for a large man's head."
Oberyn's expression soon fell to mirth and he let out a bark of uproarious laughter. He offered the King a gleeful smirk as he inspected the workmanship, "Consider your apology accepted. I will mount the Mountain's head besides the dagger that took his life, and when you come to visit your sister in Dorne, I will feast you under this for a fortnight, King Tommen."
"It will be my pleasure, my prince," King Tommen easily replied. He gestured again with his hands, and the waiting servant hefted up the plinth and carried it off, presumably to load aboard the Elia.
"I look forward to the day, King Tommen," Oberyn said.
"I am saddened to see you go, my prince," King Tommen said. "Are you certain I cannot convince you to stay?"
"No, I'm afraid not," Oberyn shook his head. "I have been away from my children for far too long. And Ellaria longs to see her daughters. But you mustn't worry, King Tommen. Arianne is a clever girl, she will take good care with you."
...
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