Meanwhile in King's Landing, or 'Something to publish while I work out what to do on the Wall.'
Olenna Tyrell, seated in the small council chamber and awaiting the arrival of her figs, was enjoying herself tremendously.
She was there, at King Tommen's somewhat baffling behest ('as the only female senior courtier soon to be connected by marriage…my great respect for your wisdom…my sister has no woman's guidance') to attend to the suit of one of Prince Doran's many thousands of cousins: a bizarrely-named mediocrity called Lord Ferrara. He had been sent to King's Landing for the expressed purpose of making himself known to the Princess Myrcella and of answering any questions that she might have concerning her husband-to-be.
Lady Olenna found the idea rather misplaced. It was the sort of thing that happened in those rare cases when a girl was being courted by twenty-five different men, and her father either loved her too much or feared her too much to make a decision for her. So each suitor would send a high-ranking representative (usually an ambassador, in the case of foreign potentates); interviews would be conducted; and the young lady would ultimately accept the man who had sent the best liar.
But the Princess has turned herself into such a vicious little bitch in recent years that she has had no suitors at all, and this Dornish match has already been agreed upon, and if Prince Doran were so eager to assure the wretched girl of his son's affection, why not send the boy himself, to 'work his charms' on her?
Probably because the boy would put on a display similar to this one, Olenna thought; watching King Tommen, and the Lords Tyrion and Kevan cringe in their seats at the sight of Princess Myrcella glaring mutinously at the preening prancing Lord Ferrara, who was waving his hands flamboyantly to and fro in blissful ignorance of the Princess' ill-humour.
Olenna could only conclude that the girl had been as badly brought up as the average Dornish prince was. Had her mother never explained it to her? Did she imagine that she was the only woman in history to be married off against her will?
She probably does, Olenna thought, because nobody has ever told her otherwise. You never see the girl without her nose in a book. Her world view must be formed on nonsense.
It never occurred to Olenna that Princess Myrcella's books might have been concerned with something other than this extraordinary idea that one should marry the person one was in love with: she did not understand why they should be. When she looked at the girl, she saw a vision of her mother – though her mannerisms were more Lord Jaime, Olenna thought – and Cersei Lannister had never been one to believe that books were for anything other than the wasting of time and the filling of heads with nonsense. Had the Queen Regent believed otherwise, she might still be alive.
'Your figs, my lady!' a nervous servant declared; pushing them determinedly under her nose.
Olenna gave him an icy look, and popped the first piece of fruit into her mouth as Lord Ferrara began to regale them with stories of Prince Trystane's proficiency in hunting.
'My lord Prince Trystane is the finest hunter in all of Dorne!' Lord Ferrara declaimed, 'last year he killed over two thousand woodcock with the gallant stroke of his spear!'
'Don't you mean his longbow?' Princess Myrcella enquired.
'My princess?' Lord Ferrara politely enquired.
'His longbow,' Princess Myrcella said; sounding out every syllable as one might to a simpleton; 'the spear is a bad option when hunting birds. Heavy. Difficult to throw very far. Can't go far enough into the air to catch a bloody bird – or was killing woodcock with the gallant stroke of his spear meant to be a euphemism for something?'
Lord Kevan choked on his wine. Olenna smiled wryly and ate another fig. Ferrara, on the other hand, burst into a fit of laughter: the kind that one directed at a funny child who had just declared that the moon was made of green cheese.
He did not see her eyes that were like green blades.
'Certainly, the prince is acquainted with all the appropriate techniques when it comes to lovemaking,' Ferrara declared; wiping his eyes; 'he is the pride of our nation's manhood –'
'Is he a whore?' Princess Myrcella asked.
The Dornishman's brow wrinkled in confusion; as though unsure that he had heard correctly.
'No, my princess,' Ferrara replied; sweeping his hand upwards in a grand gesture; 'Prince Trystane has exceedingly refined tastes. He beds highborn virgins only.'
Princess Myrcella sighed. Her knuckles were turning white on the arms of her chair.
'I didn't ask if he had a whore, I asked if he was a –'
Lord Kevan swept to the rescue like an eagle chasing a mouse.
'I believe the princess is merely attempting to establish the prince's experience in such matters,' Kevan loudly declared.
'Yes, thank you, Uncle,' Princess Myrcella replied, in a sweet, empty-headed voice that did not fool Olenna for a second, 'forgive me, my lord,' she said to Ferrara, 'I know so little of the world – its subtleties are often lost on me.'
Ferrara bowed deeply.
'That is no cause for concern, my princess,' he ostentatiously proclaimed, 'I assure you that the prince is the most generous lover that could be –'
'Generous?' Princess Myrcella squeaked; fluttering her eyebrows in wide-eyed confusion, 'do you refer to his physical or spiritual qualities?'
'Ser Meryn!' King Tommen barked, in a voice like iron (poor boy), 'my royal sister is over-tired. See her to her chambers.'
'Touch me and I'll break your wrist!' Princess Myrcella snapped as the burly Kingsguard attempted to help her out of her chair, and she swept from the room in a flurry of black silk with Trant marching grudgingly after her.
Olenna did not care for Meryn Trant. He had eyes like stone (and, she suspected, a brain like stone as well).
'My deepest apologies, Lord Ferrara,' King Tommen intoned; 'our royal mother's death has driven all obedience from her.'
Lord Ferrara made another deep bow.
'Love will make her so when she makes the acquaintance of my prince,' he said, 'he is one who inspires obedience, in both women and in men.'
King Tommen stroked the kitten in his lap. Lord Tyrion bit his lip. Lord Kevan simply sat there, looking out of humour. And Ferrara took the hint, scampering out of the room and at once beginning to jabber at his personal guard in what Olenna assumed was Norvosi.
'Well, that was a disaster,' King Tommen unhelpfully volunteered.
'I prefer the word 'catastrophe',' Lord Tyrion replied with equal unhelpfulness; 'or 'calamity'. 'Calamity' has a poetic ring to it. Like 'debacle' and 'tragedy' and 'disaster' and 'devastation' –'
'Has any of you ever been to a wedding that is vehemently opposed by both parties?' Olenna asked; cutting across them; 'I have. The bride escaped to Braavos in a boat, assisted by the groom's friends.'
King Tommen's face turned red.
'Lady Olenna, I shall exile you if you repeat such a tale to Myrcella,' he said severely.
'Do calm down, my darling boy,' Olenna replied, 'rage doesn't suit you.'
'Impertinence suits you amply, my lady, but I would be most grateful if you would exercise it on someone other than my person,' King Tommen snapped.
'May I exercise it on the princess if it gets her to the sept on the appointed day?' Olenna enquired.
Tommen gave her an arching look no doubt designed to impress upon her some delusion about his being the master and her being the servant, before nodding gravely.
As the meeting ended, Olenna summoned Left and Right, and began to make her way back to those confounded gardens that were the bane of her day-to-day existence.
As she silently contemplated the torches in their sconces (and wondered if anybody would notice if she happened to throw one into a rosebush), she wondered if Myrcella would prefer Highgarden to Dorne.