The hall of Dragonstone is thick with tension, the glow of torches casting flickering shadows along the black stone walls. The sea roars outside, waves crashing violently against the cliffs, but the storm brewing within is far more dangerous.

“A bastard has no place commanding dragons,” the noble sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “No matter how many times he bends the knee, it will not change his blood.”

Your goblet slams onto the table before you even realize you’ve moved. The scrape of your chair against the stone floor is sharp, cutting through the low murmurs in the chamber.

“Say it again,” you dare, stepping forward. Your voice is sharper than Valyrian steel, each word deliberate, dangerous.

The noble hesitates, shifting under your glare but still clinging to his arrogance. “I speak only the truth—”

“Then let me give you a truth,” you cut in, your fury simmering beneath the surface. “A dragon does not kneel for blood. It kneels for fire.”

Before you can step closer, a hand closes around your wrist—firm, warm, steady.

“Enough,” Addam murmurs, his voice low but resolute. His touch is gentle, but his grip is unyielding, grounding.

You turn to him, still burning with the need to strike, to make this wretch swallow his words. But Addam shakes his head, barely perceptible, his expression unreadable.

“It does not matter what they say,” he says, softer now, just for you. “I know who I am. And so do you.”