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❝ the red spring ❞
SHE WORE HIS CRIME WITH THE GRACE OF A DOVE, YET IN HER EYES LAID THE IRE OF THE SEVEN HELLS.
Daemon Targaryen could forge a fever of terror through a sharp word and impish twist of his lips, without ever drawing steel into the light. Needless to say, only a man could recover from such a stain on his reputation or build a chilling demeanor that would make a lesser folk shit his boots. But as a prince, the world would bestow a man of his station the freedom of speaking their mind and not being held to the sword for it. If any lord should take offense to the wisely spun words of a dragonriding prince, they would always be made to look the fool.
Jacaera Targaryen knew this. She was not just a turned-lady but she was a woman and thus, lenience was a dream. Still, she had a fond appreciation for subtlety, and she honed a particular means of intimidation to make Prince Aemond Targaryen's seat feel like hot coals beneath his cheeks.
When she first walked into the hall, she summoned a moment of silence and a barrage of puzzled eyes. It was certainly not over her regalia. She had worn a simple dress of powder blue silk but added to her theater by wearing a gold chain weighed by a polished opal. It was a gift from Queen Alicent for her eighth name day. She also picked out a few rings belonging to her mother and Princess Rhaenyra to decorate her fingers. The tiny pyrite, ruby, and sapphire may take lingering eyes away from her mangled nails. Her clipped dark hair was brushed until it shone, secured by gold hairpins crusted with beads of moonstone.
"You are very beautiful, my lady," Marila offered when Jacaera stiffened at the sight of herself.
"Long hair would look better," the lady had said glumly.
But their sharp gazes threatened to blacken her silks and shatter her jewels. It was difficult to endure but when Jacaera held her head high and kissed her uncle Viserys on his pallid cheek, the matter had been swept beneath the table and her plans had been spurred to action. Jacaera relied on a carefully crafted guise and series of movements to lace their breakfast with the scent of war. She sat on Jacaerys Velaryon's left side rather than his right, just where the generous light pierced through the velvet drapes. Each ray was drunk greedily by the chunks of moonstone that gemmed the pins clipping back her nipped tresses.
So they can be gazed upon by Aemond Targaryen each time he lifted his gaze from his meal.
They were furnished with a light spread of hot bread, salted butter, blackberry preserves, candied plums, rashers of red bacon, and eggs that burst with yolk at the slightest touch. Despite the growl of his hollowed stomach, Aemond felt like he would vomit in his lap. He tried fiercely to find a scrap of hunger but his senses were engrossed in the docile manners of the girl he had wronged... just sitting in front of him, chewing (sparingly, if she was being scrupulous of her etiquette), smiling, and never once making a spectacle out of the dark hair he had shorn beneath the cloak of night.
