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Clay truly had no idea Oberyn would be arriving today. But it hardly mattered. In the current situation, what truly counted was whether the Iron Bank delivered the promised funds and supplies. The Martells might be allies in the future, but they were certainly not that now.
He took Daenerys with him and soared on dragonback over the Iron Bank's fleet, making a clear statent of power and intimidation. Only the sight of a true dragon could crush that arrogant pride lurking in these people's hearts and force them to abandon any improper ambitions.
As expected, when Clay finally t the envoys from the Iron Bank's fleet, their deanor was far more deferential than that of Tycho Nestoris the last ti. Though they didn't stumble over their words, for the first ti, Clay felt that these n were treating him with real seriousness.
It couldn't be helped. Most people in this world, well… not to put too fine a point on it—most of them were the sort to cower the mont soone stronger appeared. And clearly, the man standing before him was exactly that sort.
When the fleet ca ashore, they offered no resistance. The Unsullied, as cold and swift as falling ice, boarded imdiately and took control of every ship in the fleet.
Originally, the Iron Bank's position was that they had delivered the goods, but another round of negotiations with Clay was still necessary. The terms Tycho Nestoris had carried back were, more or less, accepted by the prideful bankers of Braavos.
However, they simply could not abide the thought of a wretched little beggar defying the generous charity of noble gentlen like themselves. It was a matter of pride—of face.
So, this entire maneuver had been ant to make things difficult for Clay, a theatrical assertion of the gentlen's pride. Unfortunately, the n tasked with enacting that pride were frightened out of their wits the mont they saw Gaelithox's silhouette.
Between the dignity of the esteed bankers and their own lives, these fellows had made their choice with admirable clarity. After all, the elegantly dressed dignitaries back in Braavos weren't likely to question exactly how things had played out.
Having devoured every last scrap of the delivered supplies, Clay, now comfortably plump with wealth, generously hosted a banquet for the fleet's leaders. But the al, for all its richness, tasted like ash in their mouths. Every bite was taken with trembling hands, under a cloud of silent dread.
The reason was simple. Daenerys, in a rare show of unrestrained intimidation, had brought her three children—Drogon and the smaller dragons—into the hall. Right in front of the envoys, she fed them raw at by hand, turning the banquet into a performance.
Well… what could one say? The impact was, without a doubt, overwhelming. When those envoys left, their retreat was so swift and frantic it could rival the pace of Clay's own charge when he once stord the Lannister lines.
Once all matters were settled, a certain Unsullied soldier finally saw his opportunity. He stepped to the gates of the great hall and, catching sight of Missandei passing by, relayed a ssage that soon reached Clay's ears.
The mont Clay understood what Missandei was telling him, he raised his brows in surprise. Then, with a light pat on Daenerys's shoulder—who had clearly had a bit too much to drink—he murmured softly into her ear:
"Wake up and fix yourself up a bit. Soone from House Martell is here."
Daenerys had probably indulged a little more than usual because she was in high spirits. Ever since she was young, her brother Viserys had always controlled her drinking. Later, when she wandered the world, penniless and constantly fleeing, she couldn't afford fine wine even if she wanted to.
But now, thanks to Clay's influence, she had developed a certain taste for it, and a certain skill as well. Unfortunately, the young queen's alcohol tolerance left much to be desired. So when she heard Clay's words, her rosy cheeks showed an unmistakable look of confusion.
Her long lashes fluttered as she blinked at him, the aning in her eyes crystal clear; House Martell? Who's that supposed to be?
Clay glanced helplessly at this tipsy little drunkard. Dealing with this sort of situation required only one proven thod. And so, he raised his hand…
"Smack~! "
It wasn't loud. Handmaidens were still moving back and forth, cleaning up the remains of the banquet, so Clay had controlled the strike with near-perfect precision. The slap did not attract anyone else's attention, but... yes, it stung just a little.
Daenerys imdiately reached down, instinctively wanting to cover the sore spot. Luckily, she hadn't drunk herself senseless. She quickly realized how humiliating it would be if anyone had seen that reaction.
With her face flushed crimson, she shot Clay a sharp glare. She didn't understand why she'd just been smacked, but then, after a sluggish pause, her alcohol-clouded mind finally rebooted. And with that, she rembered who the House Martell was.
"Clay… did you just say soone from House Martell is here? As in, the Martells of Sunspear?"
"Yes. We haven't invited anyone else, have we?"
Daenerys imdiately grasped the gravity of the situation. This was a pivotal negotiation between three noble houses. It couldn't be taken lightly.
The indignation that had just begun to kindle within her was quickly extinguished. After holding back for a while, she finally muttered with a sulky pout, "Next ti, you're not allowed to hit without warning."
"Oh, the hitting part is definitely happening. Whether I warn you or not depends entirely on my mood."
"…"
At that mont, Oberyn Martell had just concluded a vigorous ride atop his lover, Ellaria Sand, and was enjoying the calm that followed. When Ser Barristan ca to inform him that the eting was ready, Oberyn's eyes instantly lit up. This was, after all, the primary reason for his visit.
No matter how carefree he might seem, Oberyn knew how to show respect—especially to a Targaryen who commanded dragons. He dressed in the most regal garnts befitting a prince of Dorne. Draped in luxurious silks and adorned with fine embroidery, he entered the palace hand in hand with Ellaria Sand, who wore a splendid gown no less striking.
Fortunately, the customs of Westeros were not too rigid when it ca to matters of courtship. Otherwise, soone like Ellaria, bearing the surna Sand, would never have been granted the privilege of accompanying Oberyn to such a formal audience.
As he entered the hall, Oberyn's sharp nose picked up the faint traces of food and drink. It was clear that a banquet had taken place here not long ago. He figured it must have been for the Iron Bank delegation he had seen earlier.
He didn't take offense. It made perfect sense. After all, the Iron Bank represented imdiate wealth and urgent necessity at this mont. He, on the other hand, represented the future. eting with them first was hardly surprising.
But then, as his gaze drifted toward the throne, toward the pair seated closely side by side, Oberyn's breath caught in his throat.
Coiled around the dais were three small dragons, their sinuous bodies encircling the figures with a possessiveness that was hard to miss.
The silver-haired, violet-eyed woman needed no introduction. That was clearly Daenerys Targaryen. But the man beside her, the one gently stroking the slender green neck of a dragon… who in the world was he?
"Welco, honored guests from afar," the man said calmly. "Forgive for not receiving you sooner. I trust the two of you won't mind the humble fare this palace has to offer."
"Please, take your seats. I still have two fine bottles of wine left. Consider them an apology for the lackluster hospitality."
There was no need for Clay to humble himself before Oberyn Martell. He had no obligation to bow.
Missandei, standing dutifully beside the throne, motioned for the guests to sit. Then, with practiced grace, she poured two goblets of fragrant wine and handed them over.
Oberyn sniffed the air once more and gave the wine a quick glance. The man hadn't exaggerated. This was indeed a fine vintage.
But more than wine, he was eager to know the identity of this stranger seated beside the Mother of Dragons. So he asked directly, with a faint smile playing on his lips:
"As the host, might you introduce yourself to your guests first?"
"Of course, Your Grace," the man replied. "My na, perhaps, is one you have heard before."
Clay smiled, exchanging a quiet glance with Daenerys. Then, in a asured tone, he said,
"My na is Clay Manderly."
Oberyn's brows furrowed sharply. He turned the na over in his mind, trying to recall where he had heard it before. The na was familiar—he was certain of it—but the mory remained just out of reach.
Until, at last, the surna clicked. Manderly. In an instant, flashes of war briefings and reports from the conflict between the North and the Lannisters flooded his mory.
His eyes widened. A jolt of realization coursed through him, and he abruptly stood up.
"Clay Manderly?" he exclaid in disbelief. "It's you?"
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[Chapter End's]
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