Rhaenys and the rest of the guests followed after Illyrio. She could very well imagine why Oberyn would create a ruckus like this, and she could not help but feel amused. Any other sane person would have thought twice and never acted so rashly in a foreign land. But obviously, not Oberyn. She wondered if he wondered that he could not be killed? Or did he have so much confidence in the reputation of House Martell?
They arrived outside on the lawns of the mansion to witness the confrontation unfolding. Oberyn and three of his men were standing face-to-face with Logan, who was backed by several mercenaries of the Golden Company.
"What is happening here?" Illyrio demanded, projecting as much authority as he could muster.
And well it was not enough. Neither Oberyn nor Logan paid him any attention. Instead, both turned toward Rhaenys.
"Lady Rhaenys," Logan reported. "Prince Oberyn Martell was demanding an audience with you. He claimed that he has all the rights to be part of the meeting being held. He tried to intrude on the meeting."
"When stopped, he shoved a couple of our men to the ground," he said, "escalating the situation physically."
Oberyn's expression barely changed. He continued standing there, a smug, unrepentant smirk plastered across his face.
Before Rhaenys or Oberyn could open their mouths, there was another clamor at the gates. Arianne Martell and Ellaria Sand had entered the mansion's compound along with the rest of the Martell entourage.
It took only a moment for them to register the pulsating tension in the air, and they immediately rushed to Oberyn's side. Though the Dornishmen did not draw their steel, their hands rested menacingly on their hilts. They were ready for a skirmish.
"Prince Oberyn," one of the other magisters spoke up. "What is the meaning of this?"
"We have known you personally for a long time, ever since you rode with the Second Sons," he continued. "And that is the reason we allowed you to enter the city freely. No restrictions were imposed upon you. You were allowed to do as you pleased in this city and this is how you repay our generosity?"
"By shredding all dignity and the decorum we have meticulously prepared for our guest?" He demanded in a rough voice.
"It looks like I may have crossed a few boundaries here," Oberyn chuckled, looking at the tense atmosphere around him.
"But," he continued after a brief pause, "I heard there are some very vital discussions being held in this manor today. And I guessed that these discussions most likely involve the fate of Westeros."
"So, how could I possibly miss it?" He asked, locking eyes with Rhaenys. "I or rather the House Martell which I am representing at this moment have very huge stakes in what happens in Westeros or what happens with Westeros."
"Prince Martell," the magister began, his teeth gritted in frustration.
But Rhaenys did not let him finish.
"It is quite alright, Magister," she said seamlessly. "Prince Martell is not entirely wrong."
Oberyn's smirk widened into a triumphant grin, his neck titled high in cockiness.
"Let him join the meeting," she declared, turning back toward the manse.
No one spoke. No one argued. Her words carried absolute weight, and no one present had the courage to oppose her.
.
.
Three more chairs were brought to the table for Oberyn, Arianne, and Ellaria. If the atmosphere had been awkward and tense before, it was now outright suffocating and oppressive. Even before a single word was spoken, Illyrio cursed Varys a thousand times over for putting him in this mess.
"I think we should all have a drink to cool our heads," Illyrio said with an awkward chuckle, "and resume our conversation."
"Rightly said, magister," Oberyn responded.
He picked up his goblet and took a few deep swallows of wine. A few magisters followed suit, though it was more out of formality and a desperate attempt to dispel the awkwardness.
"Where were we?" Oberyn asked, looking around the table. "The conversation? At what point did I interrupt?"
"I had just asked Lord Viserys Targaryen what preparations he has been undertaking to cross the Narrow Sea and claim the Iron Throne," Rhaenys answered smoothly.
"Oh!" Oberyn remarked.
He was genuinely a bit surprised. He did not need to be a genius to figure out that this question was an insult, a public humiliation for Viserys.
The boy had absolutely nothing to his name. Not a single soldier under his command.
And though Rhaenys had refused to acknowledge Oberyn as family back in Qohor, she had never outright insulted him. He had assumed Viserys would receive similar treatment. Instead, the boy was being laid bare.
"I will take the Iron Throne," Viserys gritted out, his face a mask of trembling rage. "I will take the Iron Throne."
How? He did not specify. Rhaenys just looked at him, a faint smirk playing on her lips, as if she were looking at a complete fool.
"Lady Rhaenys," one of the Magisters interjected, desperately trying to shift the conversation. "If you do not mind, may I ask an impudent question?"
This dining hall was no place for such tense familial disputes. Conversations of this nature were meant to be held privately. The magisters would not have minded eavesdropping on family drama if it were anyone else. If not beneficial, it would at least have been entertaining. But they had no desire to be part of it when one of the parties involved was exceptionally dangerous.
"Impudent?" Rhaenys remarked. "That is very brave. But you may."
"I am hearing rumors about a new kind of steel being produced in Qohor under your patronage, forged using dragonfire," he said. "They are calling it Dragon steel."
"I have not been privileged enough to see this metal for myself, but I have heard it is superior to any kind of steel, save for Valyrian steel," he continued. "They say that even an inferior army wielding that steel would run through a superior army."
"Are these rumors true?" He questioned.
"Yes," she nodded. "Dragonsteel is as real as my dragons."
"May I see it?" The Magister asked eagerly. "Do you have it on you?"
Before Rhaenys could say a word, Oberyn drew a dagger from his belt and tossed it onto the center of the table. It clattered loudly against the wood.
"There is your Dragon Steel," he said, leaning back. "Have a good look at it."
"It is going to alter the fate of Essos," he added after a deliberate pause, his eyes shifting to Viserys and then to Arianne. "And Westeros."
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