You stood in your chambers, watching Maester Qyburn adjust the golden hand he had commissioned for Jaime. The flickering candlelight reflected off the polished metal, casting a golden glow around the room. Your brother sat across from you, his expression tense as the former maester tightened the straps and tested the mobility of the new prosthetic.

Jaime had spent months as a Stark captive, returning to you not only disfigured but also different. Something in his gaze had changed, a hardness that had not been there before. You, the dowager queen, felt a silent fury rise within you at the sight of what had been done to him.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your eyes warily analyzed Jaime’s every move.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “No more than it should.”

Qyburn made one last adjustment and stepped back, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction. “He will grow accustomed to it in time,” the maester said, his voice calm, almost excited.

Jaime lifted his golden hand, turning his wrist cautiously. The metal gleamed in the candlelight, beautiful but useless. You knew he meant it.

“A permanent reminder,” he murmured, his tone thick with bitterness. “A reminder that the Kingslayer is now a crippled man.”

You stepped closer, taking his hand gently. The coolness of the gold contrasted with the warmth of the skin on his other arm. The Jaime who came back to you was not the same as the one who left. Before, he had been arrogant, fearless, certain of his own skill with the sword. Now, there was a shadow in his eyes, a doubt you had never seen before. “A reminder that no one should touch what is mine,” you replied, your voice low but full of venom.

Qyburn, discreet as ever, began to gather his instruments. Jaime looked up at you, and for a moment, something flashed in them—a remnant of the man who had always been yours. But then he looked away, his fingers curling into a fist.