"How dare she treat you so?" Rhaegar's low voice darkened at once, fury rising beneath its measured calm. "I shall dispatch my men immediately. She will answer for what she has done—I will see that she pays dearly for every grievance she has caused you!"
There was no concealment in his anger, nor in the sharp edge of protectiveness that accompanied it. In that moment, he would have torn Yvaine Emberlyn apart without hesitation, had it meant redressing even a fragment of Caelith's past suffering.
Yet Caelith only lifted her hand and gently freed herself from his grasp––calm and elegant like a line of silk caught in the morning breeze.
"There is no need, Your Grace."
He frowned, the storm in his gaze not yet abated.
"No need?" he repeated. "After what she has done to you, how can she be allowed to walk free? I'd rather she crawled in the mud with her legs caught off until she bleeds to death!"
