First he will fix the child problem

Jon stood rooted in the godswood's hush, the weirwood's crimson gaze boring into him like a judgment from the old gods themselves. The queen and her brother—still locked in that empty-eyed stupor—waited motionless by the heart tree, their confessions hanging heavy as smoke from a quenched fire.

****, false heirs, a throne built on lies that could drown the realm in blood if the truth spilled out. And the children—those golden-haired pups paraded as Baratheons, when black should crown their heads like the storm lords of old.

He paced a tight circle on the snow-dusted needles, breath clouding white, his mind a tangle of honour and dread.

Tell Father?

A bastard's whisper against a queen's denial—what weight would that carry in the great hall, with Lannister gold greasing every tongue?

The power thrummed in his veins, insistent as a heartbeat, offering a cleaner cut: reshape the rot at its root, make the lie truth and spare the swords that would follow.

No meddling in desires, he vowed inwardly, no twisting hearts like he'd done to Theona. But the children... innocents in this, whatever their sires.

Make them true Baratheons, bind them to the king's blood as they should have been.

The words formed slow on his tongue, careful as a maester's quill, aimed not at the now but at the weave of what had been. "Cersei Lannister’s children have always been the Robert Baratheon’s."

Jon was not too comfortable with the idea of using their names but using their titles might have far further reaching consequences.

The air shimmered faint, a ripple like heat off forge-hot steel, and the grove steadied once more.

No gusts tore through the branches, no thunder cracked the sky—only a subtle shift in Jon's thoughts, memories reshaping like clay under thumbs. The royal whelp in the courtyard: not golden curls sneering under the weak sun but tousled black locks framing a face stamped with the King’s blunt features, the boy's smirk now carrying a hint of the king's old ferocity rather than Lannister silk.

The girl, too—dark waves spilling from under her hood, eyes a stormy blue instead of green. Even the youngest, glimpsed briefly in the wheelhouse, bore the Baratheon stamp: inky hair, sturdy build promising the warrior's bulk.

Jon blinked, rubbing at his temples as the new truths settled, overwriting the old like fresh ink over faded script.The queen's sharp beauty remained in his mind's eye, but the children... aye, they'd always favoured their father, black of hair and bold of gaze, no whispers of Lannister taint to fuel the rumours that had dogged the court.

Turning back to the Queen and the Kingslayer Jon asked, voice steady despite the churn in his gut. "Whose children are Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen?"

The queen's lips parted, her trance holding firm, but her words flowed with a measured calm that hadn't laced her earlier venom. "Robert's, of course. They are his trueborn heirs, black-haired and fierce as any Baratheon stag. I bore them in pain and pride, securing my place beside the throne with loyalty that brooks no question."

Jon narrowed his eyes, probing further, the shift in her tone pricking at him like a thorn half-buried. "And your ambitions? Would you have risked it all for folly, to dare to cuckold the king with your own brother?"

At his question the Queen titled her head, green eyes dull yet her response laced with a self-knowing edge, as if the power's weave had spun patience into her bones where haste once ruled.

"Ambitious, aye,” she agreed, “and centered on my own rise—gold and power are my loves, not chains to drag me down. But foolish? Never that blatant, boy. I'd not hazard my crown or children's futures on whispers that could topple us all. Subtler paths serve better: alliances, favours traded quiet, waiting the moment to strike true. To them my Jaime is kin, protector—nothing more. Lust unchecked invites ruin; I play the long game, eyes open to the board, I indulge in my Jaime only when it is not a risk."

The Kingslayer echoed her, his voice flat but affirming. "The children are Robert's. Her ambitions burn bright, but tempered—patience guides her hand, not reckless fire."

Jon stepped back, a chill racing his spine that owed nothing to the northern breeze. The queen's words rang true now, her character bent not sharper in wit but steadier, as if the retroactive truth had forged awareness into her core: a lioness who stalked rather than pounced blind, self-centred still but with reins on her pride, weighing risks like a merchant his scales.

No more the brazen fool risking ****'s blade; this Cersei schemed with cooler blood, her flaws woven deeper but her follies checked.