He looked at the guests in the hall, those "fair-weather opportunists"-
Moments ago, they had been whispering about his arrival. Now they held their wine cups and stole shifty glances at him, as though he were livestock about to be slaughtered. Harlan drew a deep breath, and a reckless, nothing-left-to-lose resolve flared anew in his "bright" eyes.
Then he looked at his "family," who had "willingly submitted to the royal family under duress"-
His prospective father-in-law, Corlys, had tilted his head to speak to the king. The old bastard would not even spare him a proper glance.
His prospective mother-in-law, Rhaenys, had never once looked him in the eye, as though he were merely a speck of filth stuck to the floor of the Hall of Nine Voyages.
And his fiancée, Laena, had her back to him, a wine cup in one hand while the other tapped lightly on the table. Ever since publicly kissing that silver-haired boy, she had not looked his way again.
Driven this far, what did he, Harlan Uthero, have left?
He had nothing left.
His Sealord father was dead, his family fortune had been "swindled away," and he could no longer return to Braavos. Living under another man's roof, he had to read their faces just to get a full meal.
Now even some silver-haired brat who had appeared out of nowhere dared slap him in public-
No, it had not even been a slap. The boy had cut his face with a dagger, outright threatening his life.
If he did not do something now, he feared he would lose even the last hollow prestige of being "the son of the former Sealord of Braavos."
So, "ready to face death," he abruptly raised his chin. His throat scraped against the longsword still pressed to his