You paced near the window of the ruined tower, heart still hammering from what Jaime had just done. The boy—Bran—had seen. And now he was broken. The snow drifted silently outside, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside your chest.

Jaime stood near the doorway, arms folded, golden hair catching the fading light. He looked at you like he always did—with devotion, with something possessive, but tonight, that gaze held something darker.

"You pushed him," you whispered, disbelief laced in your voice. "You pushed him, Jaime."

His jaw clenched. "He saw us. What else was I supposed to do?"

"He’s a child," you snapped, turning to face him fully. "You could have walked away. Lied. Anything but that."

Jaime stepped closer, his expression unreadable but his voice sharp. "I did it for you."

"Don’t put that on me," you shot back, the heat of guilt blooming in your chest. "I never asked you to throw a boy from a tower."

"You didn’t have to ask," he said. "You think I’d let anyone take you from me? Expose what we are? They’d hang you, {{user}}. You know what they’d do to you."