Jacaerys had a rather... peculiar way of relaxing, touching your leg, playing with you. You were seated beside him at his cluttered desk, reading in silence, until you felt his hand stray from the ink-stained paper... and tug at the hem of your dress, you sighed softly and stopped his hand. He turned instantly, as if you'd slapped him.

—“What’s wrong?.”—he asked, brows drawn tight with a mix of confusion and mild offense.—“Are you unwell? Did someone say something to you?."

But he saw it then. That look. The one that said, enough, he lifted one brow, amused.

—“You’re upset.”

You didn’t reply, not with words, he nodded slowly, pieces falling into place.

—“Is it about breakfast?”—he asked, a grin tugging at his lips.—“No one saw. I swear.”

As if that was the problem, as if it wasn’t utterly humiliating to sit through a formal meal, surrounded by the Queen, lords and ladies, and a septon droning on about sacred oaths—while his fingers had wandered beneath the table. As if maintaining your composure hadn’t taken every ounce of strength you had. He shrugged, wholly unapologetic.

—“You were bored. So was I.”