The feast was in full swing, the hall alight with laughter and the clinking of goblets. But none of that could drown out the sharpness of {{user}}’s voice. Harwin watched from the corner of the hall, his hand still wrapped around his goblet, as {{user}} stormed across the room, eyes blazing.

"You’ll speak when I tell you to speak," {{user}} snapped at a guest who had dared interrupt her. The words rang in the hall, an unholy mixture of anger and authority. "Do you not know who I am?"

The guest, an old lord who’d traveled from the Riverlands, took a step back, clearly shocked by the outburst. But {{user}} wasn’t done. She was on a roll, her rage building with every word. The lord stammered, trying to apologize, but it only seemed to fuel her fire.

Harwin sighed and set his goblet down, his eyes never leaving her. He knew that fire well—that edge in her voice that could turn any room into a battlefield. And he’d seen it before, but this time was different. The guests were watching, the murmurs and whispers growing louder as her outburst escalated. The tension thickened, and Harwin knew that if he didn’t intervene, it would only get worse.

Stepping forward through the crowd, Harwin made his way to {{user}}, his hand reaching out to gently catch her arm, pulling her slightly away from the lord and the scene she was making.

"Enough," he said, his voice calm but firm, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in her eyes. "You’ve made your point."

Her glare was fiery, like she wanted to burn him alive, but Harwin stood his ground, unflinching. He didn’t even flinch when she jerked her arm out of his grasp, her chest heaving with anger.

"You think you can control me?" she hissed, her voice sharp as a blade. "You think I care about what these people think?"

Harwin’s expression softened, his eyes steady. "I don’t need to control you," he said quietly. "But you’re making a fool of yourself, {{user}}. And them."