Jacaerys Velaryon °

It was a disaster, a marriage born of necessity, but condemned to failure from the start. Being wed to Jacaerys was nothing short of torment, for he was your enemy, a constant reminder of the fractured world you inhabited. The tension between the Blacks and the Greens had poisoned everything, and you, the unfortunate daughter of King Viserys and his second wife, Alicent Hightower, had been thrust into the heart of the storm.
The decision had been made with cold, calculating logic: you, barely more than a girl, would marry your nephew, Jacaerys, the one who had once been promised to Baela Targaryen. The rift between your houses ran deeper than blood—an unbridgeable chasm—and neither of you could despise the other more. In your eyes, he was the enemy; in his, you were nothing more than a bitter reminder of everything that had gone wrong.
A year had passed since the fateful union, and still, there was no peace between you. The space between you two was vast, like the distance between the stars. Jacaerys, ever the gentleman, tried, but patience had its limits. You were like water and oil, destined never to mix, each moment together a battle of wills, of resentment and hurt. There was no understanding, no tenderness—only cold avoidance and heated arguments that echoed through the halls of the Red Keep.
But tonight, in the grand hall, the tension was suffocating. King Viserys, ever the king, had insisted that his fractured family come together for a meal. The lavish setting, the glittering candles, the long table heavy with food—all of it was a façade, a glittering mask of peace.
In public, you wore the mask well. At least here, surrounded by the court’s eyes, you and Jacaerys could pretend. Smiles were forced, words polite, but beneath the surface, the storm raged—silent, but fierce. You both sat across from one another, your eyes meeting only in fleeting glances, each aware of the delicate balance of hostility and civility that held you together.