Alexander had always been a particularly clear headed sort of fellow. He made judgements based on rational thought and a complete absolute faith in the gods above. It was rare when emotions such as anger and hatred moved him but when they so managed to grasp his soul, Alexander had always made a point to see them through, regardless of the dramaticism that followed. Xerxes had been one such victim and frankly it appalled him that in this single feat he'd failed to see the man's death carried through. It was a mistake he would make a point to correct. And yet, despite his persistence to see Xerxes death by his own hand, Alexander hardly seemed perturbed by the man's verbal spar - his irritation was almost entirely unnoticeable, present only in the clenching of his fist. "It's funny you should say that Bessus...I seem to remember you wanting my empire...and yet your own people turned you over. Even in my death no one wanted poor, little Arataxerxes as a king." There was a small simper across his features as Alexander rose, pausing just long enough before adding, "Too bad you couldn't even begin to compare to your father."

His façade of placidity vanished almost entirely at the mention of his beloved Bucephalus.