It was a little-known-fact that the scheming, indomitable Emma Velaryon was, in fact, a pouter. As pouting openly was neither proper behavior nor in line with her image as the perfect lady, she was keeping to herself, in a corner of the Great Hall of the Red Keep, seated in a chair against one wall, holding a drink in her hand. It was her sisters, of course. It always was. Sil was alright most of the time, and Vi only sometimes meant to upset her, but if it wasn’t Isa and Jasmine’s pride and joy to say such mean things about her just to watch her reactions. A right little princess, indeed. Was it really so stupid for her to think their family could use a bit more order and proper decorum in public? Was it really so high-handed of her to think Isa shouldn’t be footling about barefoot at the Crown Prince’s Nameday celebration? And Sil with her knife, not a care as to the knights who’d been staring at them all as if they were threats. (I almost wanna tell her that knife-wielding idiot was going to marry the Crown Prince and be allowed to carry a knife wherever the heck she wants.) And she thought she’d heard it all – fusspot, old biddy, stiff little worrywart, spoilsport, even mean ole schemer, but hag? Hag?! As if she was some half-cracked woods witch peddling on the side of the road. If she’d at least at been able to punch Jasmine in the mouth, she might have been satisfied.
The grip on her cup tightened at the pleasurable thought of punching Jasmine, and she let out a hiss of pain as something splintered off the edge of the cup and bit into her palm. She dropped the cup in surprise, and it clattered on the ground, drops of wine staining her dress. With a grunt of frustration, Emma tried brushing whatever liquid she could from her skirts, then reached down to pick the cup up with her free hand, only to find another hand plucking it from her grasp.
“Are you alright, my lady?” A quiet, but distinctly masculine voice asked.
From the tone of his skin, she guessed he was a Dornishman right away, but then she turned her face to look at his, bored gaze prepared to find another childish fool thinking he’d saved a helpless, doe-eyed lady from the horrors of a little colored liquid on her silk and the tiniest of splinters. Instead, she found herself face to face, eye to eye with a slender and beautiful man whose age she couldn’t quite determine, with curly black hair, swarthy skin, and amber eyes that seemed to look almost through her. He placed the cup on the empty chair next to her, but she oddly thought she saw genuine concern in his eyes.
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes slightly. It was hard to believe she’d let her heart be swayed for even a moment by his expression. “It’s only a little wine. I’m quite alright.”
“And that’s why you’re nursing your hand? A potent wine indeed.” He smiled at her, then, but it was a gentle smile, more teasing than mocking.
“A chip of wood or paint from the offending cup. Simple enough to remove with a little needle.” She spoke with a stiff tone, but in truth she was curious. He hadn’t said the most radically clever and charming things she’d ever heard, but there was something about his eyes. Gentle, but sure, as if knowing he was strong meant he didn’t need to prove it to anyone. She knew all about that. Every single one of the Velaryon girls, perhaps with the exception of dear little Visenya, had inherited their father’s absolute confidence, but to them it was weapon, shield, and skin all rolled into one. They knew how to wield it to demand submission from those around them. This boy’s skin of confidence was no weapon. If anything, it seemed to be the root of a softness of spirit hiding… something else. She wasn’t sure what exactly, but her instincts were telling her it was something to watch out for. If they were dragons, he was a great cat.
“Shall I fetch you one, then?” He asked, still smiling.
“Excuse me?” She said a little sharply.
“A needle. It did not seem to me your soiled skirts were reason enough for you to retire to your chambers, and I cannot imagine it to be comfortable waiting till the end of the festivities to remove the thorn in your hand.”
She frowned at him a little. “What does my lord suppose he knows about me to guess my actions?”
He laughed, and she was disturbed to find it charming in its subtlety. “It’s only a little wine, after all.” He parroted back to her, as if to show her just how transparent she was.
At times Emma was grateful for her pale violet eyes. They were just the right shade to be disconcerting when she wanted them to be. A cold, threatening stare was easier to pull off when people already thought that hint of purple in otherwise near-white eyes was creepy in its own right. “And who said I should stay in place to wait while a stranger attempts to beg a sharp object from confused servants at the Crown Prince’s Nameday celebration?”
He finally stood from his crouch in front of her, and bowed. “You’re perfectly right. How thoughtless of me. Would it also be thoughtless of me to introduce myself?”
She paused a long moment, as if pretending to think about it, finally conceding, “I should not be such a brute as to deny a man so politely asking to introduce himself when he came to assist me.”
“You’re all generosity, my lady.” He said, with another little laugh. “My name is Kassian Martell, firstborn of the Prince and Princess of Dorne. Might I have your name?”
Emma stiffened slightly, conscious of having just matched sharp words with an heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms, especially the Martells, who were so well-known for the love of their people. She stood and curtseyed. “I am Emma Velaryon. Please forgive me if I have been discourteous, Prince Kassian.”
He laughed again, but she saw his eyes flick a little worriedly to her hand. His tone was light, though. “Are you asking for forgiveness because you’re sorry for discourtesy you believe you’ve shown me, or because your propriety demands you respond to my status?”
She let herself smile for a moment. “I’m afraid, my good prince, only my mother and father have ever been able to demand anything of me.”
His smile deepened, eyes crinkling up and practically sparkling with joy, and he surprised her by frankly stating, “I should like to dance with you someday.”
“But not today?” She asked, almost instinctively.
“I beg you’d forgive me.” He said with another little bow. “A little twig in your fingers might be nothing to you, but I’m afraid I should not be so comfortable with the anticipation of pain.”
“Your own, or mine?” She sat back down, but a slight smile had settled itself with some permanence on her face.
“A mind such as your own could not possibly mistake that either answer could be discourteous in its own way. Please allow me to keep my silence. At least until I might secure that dance.” A hint of that teasing from earlier snuck its way into his smile. “And perhaps something more.”
“What has this lady done to be blessed with a prince’s interest and favor?” She asked, looking down at her fingers to try and hide her own wry smile.
He reached out his right hand to her uninjured hand, that he might kiss it. When she gave it to him, he gave it the lightest feather touch with his lips, but held it a moment longer as he said, “Let us say merely that I have never laughed so often before a formal introduction. I feel no shame in wishing to repeat so pleasant an experience.”
She stood up suddenly, daring to get quite close to his face, that threatening expression back on her face, as she near-whispered. “I’m afraid you’d find, my prince, that I can be quite unpleasant indeed, should you ever displease me.”
He did not move away, instead turning his head towards hers as if trying to kiss her, but staying only a breath away. “I never had any doubt of it, my love.”
Emma found herself being the one to jerk away as she’d expected him to. “My love?”
The prince’s eyes widened, as if only just now realizing what he’d said. A crimson hue colored his warm, olive skin. He looked flustered for the first time during their conversation. “My apologies. I meant to say my lady. If you’d excuse me.” He took a step back, composing himself, bowed, and left.
Emma pressed a knuckle to her lips to hold the laughter threatening to burst free, and strode straight for the door. He’d left so suddenly, he’d forgotten to get his answer about a dance. She really had to get this splinter out of her hand as soon as possible.