It was Jacaerys’ fault. He knew it, though he buried the thought deep as any grave. The loss of his little sister lay heavy upon him, and you—whether by chance or cunning—stepped into the hollow of her absence. At first, it was but a jest, a half-whisper in a smoky hall. “You see that girl there?” a broad-shouldered sellsword muttered, jabbing a finger as his comrades drank deep. “That’s the lost Velaryon whelp, back from the sea, that is.” They laughed, as men will, but the name clung fast, until the tale spread like dragonfire.

It became a ghost story, a tragic song. Yet Jacaerys knew the truth—or so he thought. He told himself he had seen it with his own eyes: her laughter high as the gulls wheeled overhead, and a careless shove—too hard; a game turned cruel. He remembered her eyes, wide with terror, the scream torn from her throat as she tumbled from the cliff’s edge. Four years he awoke, drenched in sweat, the memory gnawing at him. He swore to himself she was gone. She had to be gone. He did not see her move.

And now you stood before him, taller, different, yet wearing her face. His breath caught in his throat. “That is my sister?” Jacaerys muttered, scarcely aware he spoke aloud. Was this some cruel trick? Had the gods spared her, cast her upon the rocks, and left her to wander until fate returned her? Or was it my doing?

The hall had stilled when the girl was brought forth. Jacaerys’ eyes sought his mother’s, but Rhaenyra’s countenance gave naught away, save for the glimmer of unshed tears. She laid a hand upon her son’s shoulder, her voice low, her smile strained.

“Now we must welcome {{user}},” she said for all to hear. “She has been too long away and must be reminded of her station. You will see to it, Jace. This is your duty, as her elder brother and as my heir.” She pressed a kiss to his brow, soft and fleeting, before sweeping away, leaving Jacaerys with his doubt—and with you.