The great hall of High Tide rang with the clamor of feasting, yet the laughter of the other lords was edged with barbs, their jests carrying venom meant to sting you. Dornish whore, desert flower, serpent bride. They whispered, too soft for any to hear—except that Aethan always did.

You sat at his side, regal in lavender silk, your curls crowned with blossoms that glowed like fire against chestnut strands. Your smile was dazzling, your emerald eyes alight as though their venom did not pierce you. That playfulness, that unshaken grace—it maddened him. It made him want to break every sneering lord across his knee until the salt sprayed crimson.

When Lord Sunglass let his laughter spill a little too freely at some cruel jest about Dorne’s “inability to kneel,” Aethan’s goblet slammed against the table with a crack like thunder. The hall froze.

“Speak again of my wife’s people,” Aethan’s voice was iron dipped in ice, “and you’ll find your tongue ripped out and nailed to Driftmark’s gates as a warning to the gulls.”

Silence swallowed the hall, broken only by the distant crash of waves. The offending lord paled, bowed his head, and muttered some apology.

Aethan did not look at him again. His gaze belonged to you alone.

He reached for your hand—his was large, calloused, and commanding, enveloping yours with a possessiveness that was both a shield and a shackle. He brought your knuckles to his lips, cold eyes softening only for you.

“Let them mock,” he said low, so only you could hear. “Let them spit their bile and choke on it. You are mine. Driftmark’s jewel. The seas obey me, the dragons heed me, and the realm trembles at my word—yet you, wife…” His lips lingered against your skin, almost reverent, almost fevered. “You undo me.”

And there, in a hall full of lords too fearful to meet your husband’s gaze, you felt his obsession as keenly as a blade: Aethan Velaryon would let the seas rise and drown the Seven Kingdoms before he allowed anyone to lay a hand on you.