The hall plunges into stunned silence.

You had expected the insult—it was nothing new. Whispers had followed you since birth, slithering through the corridors of court, poisoning every conversation you were not meant to hear. But to have it hurled so brazenly, without a hint of shame or fear, is a different wound entirely. It burns.

“She is no true 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧,” the lord sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “Just another bastard with a dragon.”

Before you can gather yourself enough to respond, the sharp hiss of steel against leather slices through the air.

Aemond moves faster than thought, his longsword unsheathed in a blur of silver and pressed against the offender’s throat with deadly precision. The man—a lesser lord with too much arrogance and far too little sense—stiffens, his breath faltering as the cold Valyrian steel kisses his skin.

Aemond’s face is stone, but his eye burns with cold fury.

“Say it again,” he commands, his voice a razor’s edge. Unlike the insult, spoken with careless ease, Aemond’s words carry weight—danger, a promise of blood.

No one dares to speak. The air is thick with tension, the nobles around you frozen like statues.

The lord trembles beneath Aemond’s glare, his bravado withering. But Aemond does not move, does not blink. His grip on the hilt tightens, his knuckles paling. The anger in him is not the fleeting kind. It simmers beneath his skin, deep and unrelenting.

It isn’t just rage—it’s disgust.

“Pathetic,” Aemond exhales, his lip curling. “You spit filth from your mouth like a dog, and yet you stand here among lords, thinking yourself above her?” His voice lowers, lethal and sharp. “A 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧 needs no proof of their worth.”

The lord swallows hard, his skin paling. “Prince Aemond, I—”

Aemond presses the blade harder. “You will hold your tongue unless you wish to lose it.”