Gregor shot up from his seat so forcefully that his chair nearly toppled over. His face twisted into a mask of rage, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury. "You can go to ruin yourself!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tent like a thunderclap. "We have no reason to listen to a single wretched word that spills from your damned mouth! You think you can waltz in here, puffing yourself up like the beggar Prince did, and dictate terms to us?" He scoffed, his lip curling in disgust. "You are nothing more than a landless vagabond we decided to humor. A mongrel dressed in robes, barking like he belongs at the table of lords."
Gregor slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the goblets and ink pots. "We will fight when we choose to fight! Not because some self-important zealot decided it for us!" His voice grew sharper, colder. "And no one—not a single miserable soul—can say otherwise. Least of all you."
