Velaryon smirked and sat back, with an expression that clearly asked how they planned to make him do that. "You clearly have the wrong of it, Lord Stark," he said.
"We owe no allegiance to your House. It was King Robert we bent our knee to. Lord Stannis at least had the blood of Old Valyria through his grandmother. You are nothing more than tree worshipping barbarians, here to insult us. If Robert truly means to have a bastard in Dragonstone, he might have appointed my brother. At least his blood gives him some claim."
Jon felt the blood drain from his face. No one, since he had been legitimised, had spoken of him that way, at least to his face. Stupidly, he had thought he would not have to hear things like that again. And it hurt, more than he had ever thought it would, made him feel as low and small as he once had.
But underneath that, underneath the hurt and humiliation, he felt something else roar through him, some fire that seemed almost to stem directly from the Dragonmont beneath their feet, something waiting to explode. Still, it was a kind of helpless rage. He did not know how to channel or direct it. What was he meant to do? What power did he really have?
The Dragonstone garrison was not large, and clearly the bannermen were united against him. And even if he had known which words to yell, what would that do except make him look like a child throwing a tantrum? He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath. "Uncle, please see to it that Lord Velaryon is given a guest gift. My Lord." He looked at Velaryon, and the urge to shout was there again.
He kept it in, kept his fists from clenching or shaking. "I will see to it that you are paid for the ships, once they have been brought here to serve under Dragonstone directly." How he would ever find the money, he did not know, but they would figure something out. They had to. Besides, Dragonstone was supposed to have a fleet. It used to, before it was decimated in the Iron Islands. He glanced over his shoulder. "If you would see the good lord out, Ser Arthur?"
For long moments, Velaryon did not reply, simply stared at Jon with an expression Jon had no idea how to interpret. Then he huffed. "You presume too much, boy." He looked around himself, at the decorations Uncle Arthur had brought out from storage. Then his gaze fell pointedly at the clothes Jon wore. "Far too much," he continued. "And if you ever want peace around these parts, you would do well to cease mocking a history richer than anything you could ever hope to lay claim to."
Again, it was with some effort Jon pushed down his anger. He had been angry for much of his life; it was not as hard to control it as it had seemed, in the shock of the moment, just a bit ago. "My heroes, as a boy, the ones I would pretend to be when playing with my brother, were Aemon the Dragonknight and Daeron the Young Dragon," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice even.
"As I grew, I came to admire Aegon the Fortunate and Jaehaerys the Wise. I do not have to share their blood to appreciate their history, nor do I feel the need to mock their House. The realm is what it is because of the Targaryens. Is it so offensive that I can appreciate the good done by your kinsmen?" He paused, took a deep breath, made himself gather his thoughts rather than forge on.
Despite the vigorous training Maester Cressen, and Maester Luwin before him - and Uncle Arthur, who had never let him get away with his silences to begin with - had given him in rhetoric, he was still less than certain of how to shape his thoughts into proper words. Speaking had never come that easily to him. "I see you are wearing Manderly colours today, My Lord. I am honoured. However, if I had come to your keep and found Bolton keepsakes on your walls, I would have been deeply offended. I do not think the Targaryens were ever to the Velaryons what the Boltons are to the Starks, or am I mistaken?" He glanced over his shoulder at Uncle Arthur. "If you would be so kind, Ser?"
"Yes, my Lord," Uncle Arthur said, and unless Jon was very mistaken, there was a flash of fierce pride in his eyes. A flash of warmth welled up in Jon at the sight, defusing his still-simmering anger. "Lord Velaryon," Arthur said, stepping towards the doors. "I will show you out, if it please you."
"I will see myself out," Velaryon said, finally getting to his feet. His eyes flashed, but there was a strange uncertainty to his voice. "I have no wish to remain in the presence of a traitor."
When Uncle Arthur replied, there was a strange hint of humour to his expression, at odds with his hard tone. "I never bent the knee following the War," he said. "Never have I been a traitor or served where I should not."
Velaryon's steps faltered for a moment. Then he straightened his back and exited. One of the household guard flanked him, presumably to make sure he did see his way out. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, more than glad to see the back of him.