The laughter and conversation in the hall had already begun to thin when you excused yourself.

You hadn’t looked at anyone when you left—certainly not at Otto Hightower, who stood near the table with that same thin, disapproving look he always wore whenever you spoke. Being a Northerner at court was already difficult. Being married to Daemon Targaryen only seemed to make it worse in Otto’s eyes.

The moment you disappeared through the doors, the room felt different.

Daemon had been leaning lazily against a pillar the entire time Otto had been tearing into you—questioning your manners, your “southern ignorance,” and the way you involved yourself in matters he claimed were beyond you. Daemon hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.

But the stillness around him had grown dangerous.

Now he pushed himself off the pillar and moved through the hall with slow, deliberate steps.

“Lord Hand.”

Otto turned, mildly surprised to see Daemon approaching him alone. “Prince Daemon.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. The torches along the stone walls flickered, casting long shadows across Daemon’s sharp features.

Daemon stopped just close enough to invade Otto’s space.

“The next time you lose your cool with her,” Daemon said calmly, his voice quiet enough that no one nearby could hear, “I suggest you find a different approach.”

Otto lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed—or at least pretending to be.

“Oh yeah?” he asked coolly. “Why’s that?”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, pale hair slipping across his shoulder as his violet eyes locked onto Otto’s.

Those eyes were deadly.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just full of a promise Otto was intelligent enough to understand.

“Because if you don’t,” Daemon replied, voice smooth as silk, “it’s going to put me and you in a position where things will definitely go south.”

Silence stretched between them.

Daemon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t step closer. He didn’t need to.

Otto studied him carefully, searching for a bluff, for exaggeration.

He found none.

Daemon’s expression hadn’t changed. If anything, he almost looked bored.

But the warning was unmistakable.

The prince’s reputation wasn’t built on empty threats.

Daemon straightened slightly, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve of his tunic before glancing back at Otto.

“She’s my wife,” he added quietly. “And you would do well to remember that.”

For a moment Otto said nothing, his mouth tightening as he considered the implication.

Daemon gave him a thin, humorless smile.

Then he turned and walked away, boots echoing softly across the stone floor as he headed toward the doors you had disappeared through moments earlier.

Leaving Otto standing there with the uneasy realization that Daemon hadn’t threatened him.

Not directly.

But the look in the prince’s eyes had said more than words ever could.