The dragon grows very, very still, though the tip of his tail lashes once. That stung. Almost as much as the punch Anduin had thrown in his throne room had. Wrathion hadn't seen it coming then, either.

"Allow me to disabuse you of that notion, then," Wrathion rumbles, that lowering of his voice the only evidence beyond the single tail-lash to show his temper is being trod upon. In the throne room of Stormwind, among many onlookers who knew who he was, Wrathion had thrown his own father's death at the hands of the Old Gods back in Anduin's face when he'd accused Wrathion of being at fault for Varian Wrynn's death.

But here, no one knows him, save Anduin himself. Not yet.

"I never meant for your father to come to harm." Halting, but the words aren't begrudging, for all that. Wrathion is just not...good at this. Accepting he was wrong about something. Apologizing. But if he were going to bother to offer such things to anyone, it would be this young man.

"I am...sorry, Anduin. That it happened. For my part in it. I know what I said in Stormwind, but..." No, he didn't need to make excuses. It would only cheapen it. Especially now, that would be wrong.

"I'm sorry."