By the time Oberyn and his guide were done with their conversation, they had reached the manor where Rhaenys was staying. It was the most majestic and imposing mansion in Qohor, and Rhaenys had rightfully taken her place within it. She was the queen of Qohor.
The manor was certainly not as impressive as his own castle in Sunspear, but what struck Oberyn were the security arrangements. To him, it looked as if every nook and corner of the estate was under the watchful eyes of guards. From their posture and mannerisms alone, he could tell they were no ordinary sentries. They were elite soldiers. The best of the best. Hired mercenaries, perhaps, or even Unsullied. He was not sure.
"This is where my responsibility ends, Lord Oberyn," the man next to him remarked, drawing Oberyn's attention.
Before Oberyn could ask how he was meant to proceed, he spotted two men approaching. He gave a final nod to his guide, who walked away with a smile on his face.
"Welcome, Lord Oberyn," one of the two men said, greeting him politely.
"Thank you," Oberyn responded.
No further words were exchanged as Oberyn followed behind them. After a few minutes of walking, the trio reached a large wooden door.
The two men gestured for Oberyn to proceed inside, and he raised his eyebrows, a frown deepening on his face. He inwardly wondered if all the men surrounding Rhaenys were this foolish, or if these two were special cases.
"Are you not going to check if I am carrying weapons hidden under my sleeves or boots?" he questioned.
The two men chuckled in response, their eyes filled with amusement.
"If you wish, Lord Oberyn," the older of the two replied, "you could have brought your sword or spear, if that is what you use."
"We would not even have taken those. I do not know why you left them at your inn."
"If you wish, I can give you mine," he added, his hand moving toward the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. "You can take it inside."
Oberyn's eyebrows rose even higher. He wondered if they were mocking him or if they were being genuine. He quickly realized it was both. They were indeed mocking and finding amusement with him, but their offer was also sincere.
"Lord Oberyn," the second man commented, his voice turning serious. "You will not be able to kill Lady Rhaenys."
The older guard pushed the door open, gesturing for Oberyn to enter. Oberyn remained silent as he stepped inside, wondering if there was more security within the room. Where did this arrogant confidence come from?
Little did he know, their certainty came from Rhaenys's own strength, not from the presence of more guards.
Oberyn stepped through the doors onto a wide corridor that ran around a large, open square shaped courtyard. In the exact center of the space, a circular table was placed between a couple of wooden chairs. At one side of the courtyard, a rack was stacked with all kinds of weapons, from swords to spears and their practice dummies.
Oberyn's eyes were fixed on one of the chairs. Sitting directly in front of him, facing his way, was a lady.
His primary mission in coming to Qohor had been to discover whether she really was who she claimed to be or merely an impostor. But the moment he saw her, Oberyn felt as if tears would spill from his eyes.
Memories from almost twenty years ago flashed through his mind. A little girl running through the Red Keep with him following playfully behind her. He felt himself almost on the verge of choking.
Taking a deep breath, Oberyn regained a composure befitting his station. He forced the tears back and stepped toward Rhaenys.
Rhaenys, on the other hand, was experiencing similar emotions. Her memories were definitely not as clear as Oberyn's, but she still felt a distinct connection and the familiar love she had once shared with her uncle.
The reason she had never contacted the Martells or let them know she was alive was that she had wanted to stay away from the politics and plots of Westeros. But she could not deny that her uncles would have genuinely loved her. Especially Oberyn. Doran might have tried to involve her in his games, but Oberyn would have protected her, no matter the cost.
Even so, unlike Oberyn, who had allowed a bit of expression to appear on his face, Rhaenys remained completely expressionless.
Despite what she felt, she knew she could not let the past dictate her dealings with the Martells. She was aware that Aeos had left it entirely to her to deal with her kin and the Targaryen siblings, and she did not want to judge the situation poorly or make a rash decision.
As Oberyn approached her, he noticed that there was not a single guard present in the vicinity. He tried to see if any were hidden, but he could not spot a soul. Yet, even if they were present, it did not matter to him. If he truly intended to act, by the time they could react, it would already be too late.
"Welcome, Lord Oberyn Martell," Rhaenys said as she stood to greet him.
"Thank you, I guess," Oberyn responded. "What should I refer to you as? My Lady or Your Grace?"
My Lady was a title for the women of noble birth, while Your Grace was reserved for queens or the consorts of kings.
"I do not mind either of the two titles," Rhaenys responded. "But I have an image to maintain. My title means something to the people who follow me, and I would wish that the decorum of respect is maintained, at least publicly."
"As you say, Your Grace," Oberyn said.
"The two men outside were quite strange," he added. "They challenged me, saying that even if I tried, I would not be able to harm you."
He looked around the empty space once more.
"I do not see any men present here to stop me," he remarked.
"Why do you not try and see for yourself if you can harm me?" she replied.
The two were flowing in with this useless conversation as both of them were trying to waste some time. After the surge of emotions they had just felt, neither was ready to discuss the past quite so immediately.
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