He decides to work on the Septa's appearance and attitude

Jon stepped beneath the bleeding face of the heart tree, the red leaves rustling though there was no wind. Septa Mordane stood frozen before him, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth still half-open on a word she would never finish.

He looked at her (really looked) and spoke, low and deliberate, the power thrumming in his voice like a drawn bowstring.

“Septa Mordane, your body is now that of a woman of four-and-twenty namedays: tall, voluptuous, and breathtakingly beautiful. Hair black as midnight, eyes dark and deep, lips full, skin warm and smooth, every curve shaped to turn men’s heads and quicken their blood. Your robes become rich southern velvet and crimson lace that cling to every line of you (modest enough for a septa, yet cut to display the beauty the gods gave you). All who have ever known you will remember you always thus; none will ever find it strange. Only you and I will know what you truly were before this moment.”

The air itself seemed to shudder, thick and warm as breath on bare skin.

A ripple passed over her like liquid heat. The coarse grey wool of her septa’s robes dissolved first, threads unweaving, colour bleeding away until nothing remained but a haze of ash-grey mist. That mist clung to her a moment longer, caressing the sudden new lines of her body, then flared into rich bronze velvet and blood-red lace that poured over her like molten metal cooling into sinful curves.

The high neckline sank low, scandalously low, parting to frame the sudden, breathtaking swell of full, heavy breasts that rose and fell with the first helpless hitch of her breath. Crimson lace edged the plunging neckline, delicate yet brazen, drawing the eye inexorably to the shadowed cleft between them. The fabric cinched tight beneath, carving an impossibly narrow waist before flaring over hips that now swayed with every involuntary tremor, round and lush and impossibly inviting.

Her sleeves melted away, baring arms that had never seen sun, now smooth and golden-kissed, wrists delicate yet strong. The heavy wimple and crystal vanished in a swirl of smoke; raven hair tumbled free in a torrent of glossy midnight silk, spilling over her shoulders, brushing the upper slopes of her breasts, framing a face transformed. Cheekbones lifted, lips plumped into a ripe, sulky curve that begged to be tasted, lashes thickened until they cast shadows on flushed cheeks. Eyes once pale and cold now burned dark and depthless, framed by kohl that had not been there a heartbeat ago.

The seven-pointed star still hung at her throat on its thin chain, but now it rested in the warm, shadowed hollow between those magnificent breasts, rising and falling with each trapped breath, glinting like a drop of captured sin against flawless skin.

Every inch of her radiated ripe, dangerous allure, the kind that turned heads in Lysene pleasure houses and made Dornish princes forget their own names. Yet the stiff posture remained, the frozen outrage in those newly sensual eyes, the clash of pious mind and wanton body so stark it was almost cruel.

A single crimson ribbon laced tight beneath her breasts lifted them higher, offered them like forbidden fruit. The skirt clung to thighs that pressed together in helpless, trembling need; the hem brushed the moss, whispering promises with every faint, involuntary shift of weight.

She was a prayer wrapped in temptation, a septa remade into living sin, and the heart tree’s carved mouth wept slow red tears as though the old gods themselves mourned what Jon had wrought.

She remained frozen, but her new eyes (wide, dark, lined with thick lashes) were suddenly, achingly alive with horror.

Jon stepped closer, until he could smell the faint rosewater that now clung to her skin, and continued, voice softer now, almost gentle.

“You no longer despise bastards. You no longer scorn or disdain them. Their birth is no stain to you.”

He let the words settle, then leaned in until his breath stirred the crimson lace at her throat.

“And for me, Jon Snow, you feel what you have never felt for any living soul. You love me. You care for me more than for your vows, more than for the Seven themselves, more than for your own life. That love burns in you so fiercely that you would give yourself to me (body, heart, and soul) whenever I ask, wherever I ask, with eagerness and joy. You will never speak of it to another living person unless I allow it.”

The heart tree’s carved mouth seemed to deepen, red sap weeping like tears.

Septa Mordane’s new, lush lips parted on a soundless gasp. A tremor ran through the frozen frame (not of cold, but of something raw and helpless flaring behind those beautiful dark eyes).

Jon stepped back, watching the woman who had spent years teaching him shame now trapped in a body built for sin, her mind rewritten to adore the very bastard she once despised.

The godswood was silent.