For Jacaerys, the knowledge of who now occupied his home sat poorly in his chest. It echoed too closely of Driftmark—of a time when duty had demanded the presence of Alicent Hightower’s sons, despite neither his wish nor his mother’s. Nothing good had ever come of Aegon or Aemond beneath the same roof. That truth had driven them to Dragonstone once before.

The disturbance in the corridor reached him as his attendants were undoing the fastenings of his doublet. Raised voices. The sound of hurried steps. His guard knocked, sharp and insistent, and at Jacaerys’ assent pushed the door open.

The words struck before sense could follow them. Aegon was dead. And you had been there.

He did not finish dressing. He did not pause to think. He was already moving.

You—his Dornish betrothed, all fire and steadiness alike. His mind betrayed him with memory as he ran: the morning you had sworn you could best him with a spear, Daemon’s bark of laughter when you proved it true, the taste of dirt in his mouth and the months of merciless teasing that followed. He had not minded then. He did not mind now.

He found his mother first, then pushed past her voice, past the gathered servants and guards, until he saw you.

Jacaerys crossed the distance in a breath. His hands were on you before he realized it, his eyes skimming for harm with practiced urgency. Blood at your lip. A tear in your skirts. The way you flinched when his fingers brushed your wrists sent a cold line through him. The blood staining your gown was not yours, you told him, and he forced himself to breathe again.

He did not let go.

Only then did he look beyond you—to the body on the floor, to the king and queen standing rigid across from it. Daemon stood between them all, Dark Sister bare, a silent wall as Aemond was warned back when he reached for steel against your sworn shield. It was there, in fragments and raised voices, that Jacaerys understood: your cousin—your knight—had struck Aegon down as the prince tried to lay hands on you.

“My love,” he murmured, low enough that it was meant only for you.

His hand slid to your nape, guiding you into the shelter of his body. Guilt pressed hard and unwelcome, the irrational certainty that he should have known, should have felt your fear from across the castle stone and come sooner. He bent to press his lips to your hair, steadying you—and himself.

Your cousin had done what honor demanded. Jacaerys would see to it that no one forgot that.