Certainly he will

on turned his head slowly, first toward the hulking shadow of Sandor Clegane, then to the prince pinned against the wheelhouse door.

His voice came out low, flat, impossible to disobey.

“From this moment, neither you nor your sworn shield will move a finger or speak a word until I allow it. No one on this road (no guard, no groom, no Lannister lackey) will see us, hear us, or remember we were ever here until I decide otherwise.”

The air itself seemed to thicken and set like glass. The Hound’s half-drawn sword froze mid-scrape; Joffrey’s next venomous breath caught in his open mouth and stayed there. Both men turned to living statues beneath the starlight, eyes alone alive and burning.

Only then did Jon step fully into the small circle of torchless dark, boots silent on the frozen mud.

He stopped in front of the prince, close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

“Now, Your Grace,” Jon said, almost kindly, letting the title linger like an insult. “They call you Joffrey, do they not?”

"No, Your name to world has always been Jocelyn, the Queen wanted a daughter first." Jon told the Crown Prince before smirking devilishly, "now for the next brief moment you will tell me wat you think of your name being Jocelyn."

“You want to know what I think of the name Jocelyn, bastard?” A hiss, like a viper in velvet.

“It’s a fucking curse Mother slapped on me the moment she saw I wasn’t the daughter she prayed for. A girl’s name on a king’s son—soft, stupid, something to giggle at behind shields and in whorehouses. I’ve spilled rivers of blood just so people stop laughing. Every throat I’ve cut, every tongue I’ve ripped out, every little shit who dared call me princess… all because of her disappointment.” The wind stirred the banners overhead. Joffrey’s golden curls shifted, but his body stayed locked in place, trembling with rage he could not act on.

“I hate it,” he whispered, the words dripping venom. “I hate how it sounds, hate how it feels, hate that it’s mine. But I kept it. Because throwing it away would mean she wins.” His eyes flicked to the motionless Hound, then back to Jon, bright and feverish.

“So let them whisper ‘Jocelyn the Cruel.’ Let them **** on it.” A slow, terrible smile spread across the prince’s face, the only thing he could still move.

“One day the whole realm will scream ‘King Jocelyn’ while they kneel or burn, and I’ll smile knowing the name they mocked is the last thing they ever say.” He leaned forward as far as the invisible bonds allowed, until his breath fogged in the air between them.

“That’s what I think of it.” Then, soft as a blade sliding from its sheath:

Jon smirled at the Crown Prince? "Crown Prince?" He questioned, "But you are a Princess, a woman grown.

The word princess slipped out of Jon’s mouth like a dropped blade.

Jocelyn’s whole frame snapped taut, spine arching as if someone had yanked an invisible chain hooked beneath her ribs. A strangled sound tore from her throat (half gasp, half scream), cut short when the first change took her.

Jon never raised his voice. He simply watched, grey eyes steady, and spoke again, soft as snowfall.

“Long golden hair.”

The short, princely curls stirred as though a warm wind moved through them. One lock slid forward over her brow, thickened, brightened, then kept going, sliding past her ear, her jaw, her collarbone. Another followed, and another, until the cropped Baratheon mane poured loose in heavy, living gold. It tumbled over her shoulders in slow, liquid waves, catching stray glints of starlight so that every strand looked wet with moonlight. When it finally settled, the ends brushed the small of her back and the swell of her breasts, fragrant with summer heat though the night was bitter cold.

“Skin like new cream,” Jon said.

The faint flush of rage drained from her cheeks in a single heartbeat, leaving behind something impossibly smooth and pale. Every blemish, every old pockmark from childhood pox, every faint scar from helm straps, all of it melted away. The skin across her throat and the sliver of chest the torn doublet revealed gleamed soft and poreless, luminous as the inside of a seashell.

“Full lips.”

Her mouth, already parted in shock, trembled. The lower lip rounded, grew plush and red as crushed berries, glistening as though she had just licked them. The upper curved into a perfect bow, delicate yet cruel. When she tried to snarl, the expression only made the new mouth look more inviting, more dangerous.

Jon stepped closer. Frost crunched beneath his boots.

“Breasts,” he said, voice almost gentle, “high and heavy, the kind songs are wasted on.”

The crimson fabric across her chest creaked. Seams popped one by one, tiny golden threads snapping like harp strings. Beneath, flesh rose and rounded, pressing outward until the proud Lannister lion stretched, distorted, and finally split down the middle. The weight of them shifted with every ragged breath she took, straining what remained of the doublet, nipples stiff against the cold and the shame.

He kept going, circling her slowly, words falling like stones into deep water.

“Narrow waist… hips that flare… long, long legs…”

And her body obeyed, helpless, furious, beautiful, each syllable carving her closer to the image he painted aloud, until the boy who had been Prince Joffrey was gone entirely and only Princess Jocelyn remained, trembling in the ruin of a crimson doublet, wrapped in starlit gold, hating him with every perfect inch he had **** her to become.

There she was: Princess Jocelyn Baratheon, framed against the dark bulk of the wheelhouse. The crimson doublet hung in ribbons from her shoulders, the golden lion split and sagging over breasts that rose and fell too fast. Long gold hair spilled across pale skin that caught the starlight and threw it back softer than silk. Her waist looked carved, hips flared beneath the shredded cloth, legs impossibly long and steady even while the rest of her shook. Every line of her screamed woman, heartbreakingly, infuriatingly perfect.

Jon halted an arm’s length away. He tilted his head, eyes travelling the ruin he had spoken into being, and let the silence stretch until her ragged breathing was the only sound in the world.

Then, soft as a confession:

“And still the same sharp green emerald eyes.”

Jon’s voice dropped even lower, almost tender, as though he were soothing a spooked mare.

“And those eyes,” he said, stepping in until the frost on his cloak brushed the bare skin of her collarbone, “those vicious green eyes fell in love with me the moment they saw me.”

The pupils flared wide; a helpless shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Colour rose beneath the new, flawless cheeks flushed rose-gold, lips parting on a breath she couldn’t quite take.

“You wish for my attention,” Jon went on, relentless, quiet, certain. “You ache for it. You want me near you always. You like nothing better than to curl in my lap like a cat, to slip into my bed at night and press close until morning. You dream of my hands on you, my mouth, my name on your tongue.”

Her lashes fluttered; the fury in her stare flickered, drowned beneath something raw and pleading she could not hide.

“And the cruelty is gone,” he whispered. “You no longer savour pain. You no longer laugh when someone screams. You are still a princess (proud, sharp, impossible), but kindness lives in you now more often than spite. Compassion comes as easily as breathing. When someone kneels, you want to lift them up, not cut them down.”

A single tear (perfect, sparkling) slid from the corner of one perfect eye and slid down the curve of her cheek.

Jon reached out, brushed it away with his thumb, and felt her lean into the touch like a flower turning toward sunlight. But then his eyes fell on the Hound still frozen there..