Nyx stiffens ever so slightly at the touch on his arm, trying to mask his surprise at Laurent's swift defense of him. The prince's hand rests lightly upon his bicep, but the touch is searing all the same, fingertips unexpectedly warm through layers of satin and stiff velvet. Has Laurent ever laid a hand on him like this before? He must have, even just in the course of Nyx's normal duties; dizzily, he remembers instructing the young prince with a sword, adjusting his grip, lifting him onto a steed and swinging up behind him, but that had been years and years ago. Caught in the sudden spiral of memory and lacking a better response, Nyx keeps his mouth shut and his expression blank, striving to look no more than a stone carving blocking the man's way.

Lord Emryn, however, has no such compunctions.

"Ha, you'd do such a thing-- insult a noble over the disposition of some mongrel? I would have expected better manners from the Crown Prince-- or at least a better understanding of the situation, now that the King has finally tired of his pet barbarian and seeks to pass his castoffs to his brother." Sucking in a deep breath, Emryn's sneering expression now turns toward Nyx. "Whatever regard His Majesty might have held for your antics in the bedroom, you should have known better than to go above your station, pretending that you belong here among your betters."