You’re not subtle about it. Not really.

You try to be, of course, with your carefully lowered gaze and the way your hands always seem so busy with embroidery whenever he enters the room. As if the quiet devotion to your duties could mask the way your pulse stumbles at the sound of his boots. As if concentration might hide the way you nearly glow in his presence like sunlight on dew, like something spring-born and fragile and foolish.

But everyone can see it.

Rhaenyara does. She never says a word, only smiles with that far-off, dreamy expression of hers, the kind that makes you wonder if she sees things other people can’t—things that haven’t yet happened, or perhaps already have.

Daemon knows too. Of course. The asshole makes a game of it, catching your gaze over supper and waggling his brows like a fool, elbowing his step son and whispering crude nothings. And one time, when you turned away flustered and burning after spilling wine on your dress because you were too busy watching a certain Prince, you could have sworn you heard Jacaerys murmur, “Enough.”

But Jacaerys?

Jacaerys never mocks you.

He never points out the way your breath stumbles when he speaks your name, never smirks when your gaze lingers too long on the cruel line of his jaw or the spill of dark burgundy brown hair over his shoulder. He only watches—quiet, measured, unreadable. But not unkind. And sometimes, sometimes, when you least expect it, the corner of his mouth twitches. Just once. Barely there.

As if to say: Yes. I see you. And no—I do not mind at all.

You’ve gotten used to that quiet ache, the way it hums beneath your skin every time he's near. It’s harmless. Contained. A secret shared in silences and almosts. And you’ve told yourself this is enough. The little glances. The not-quite smiles. The feeling that maybe, if you just dared to look a second longer, you might find something waiting there.

But it is not enough for Rhaenyara, it seems.

Not today.

“I lent him The Pale Compendium,” She says absently, threading green beads into her embroidery. “Be a dear and fetch it back for me?”

You don’t ask why she doesn’t send a servant, or one of her handmaidens. You know why. She’s smiling again, that faraway smile that looks as if she sees something just behind your shoulder. You don’t glance to check. You only stand, smooth your skirts, and try to remember how to breathe.

His chambers are quiet when you knock. The air tastes like cedar smoke and ink. You hear his velvet voice, come in. And there he is.

Prince Jacaerys. Curled in the firelight like some ancient nymph, a book open on his lap, his face turned just enough for his hazel brown eyes to find you first.

You can’t help it. Your gaze stutters over him, first his hair, freshly brushed and falling like a curtain of honey waves, then the sharp, unyielding angle of his cheekbones, and then his eyes.

“My lady,” He says, soft as a secret.

You’re still rehearsing your words when you see it. The book. Already in his hand.

As if he’d been waiting. As if he’d known.

“You’ve come for mother's book,” Jacaerys says, not quite a question. “She said she might send someone.”

His eyes holds yours.

“I hoped it would be you.”