Jaime had not meant to come.

He had told himself to wait—to be patient, let the dust settle, to not make a fool of himself by storming through the halls of the Red Keep like a lovesick boy. But patience had never been his virtue, and when he had heard what happened—when assassination attempt reached his ears—it had taken every ounce of restraint not to draw his sword and demand names.

And now, here he was.

The chamber was dim, curtains drawn to block out the harsh sun. The scent of herbs and stale blood hung in the air, cloying. Something cold twisted in his chest at the sight before him.

{{user}} sat propped against a mound of pillows, skin too pale beneath the candlelight. Exhaustion clung to them, weighing down their posture, dulling the sharpness in their gaze. Bandages peeked from beneath the loose collar of their nightclothes—fresh, layered over wounds he had not been there to stop.

His jaw clenched.

“You look like carved meat,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, aiming for flippancy.

{{user}}’s lips twitched in something that almost resembled amusement. “You’re not the first to say so.”

Jaime stepped closer, boots clicking softly against the stone. He wanted to say something sharp, easy—but his usual wit felt hollow in his mouth, meaningless against the sight of them like this.

Silence stretched between them. Jaime hated it.

“Who ?” His voice was quieter than he intended, but no less sharp.

{{user}} exhaled. “Tywin is handling it.”

Of course he is. Agitation burned in his chest. “And where was I ?”

“You weren’t to know.”

“I should have,” he snapped, the anger beneath his skin looking for any place to go. “Gods, if I had been there—”

The words faltered. His throat worked around something thick and heavy.

But I wasn’t there.

For a moment, he simply looked at them, as if willing the colour back into their face through sheer force of will. He could not, so he reached for their hand.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, “if they try again, they won’t live to see the sunrise.”