Jon will question the Queen as to the nature of Bastards

The queen and her brother remained ensnared in his spell, their faces blank masks, but the confessions spilling from Jaime's lips had ignited a fresh fire in Jon's gut. Debts crippling the realm, a king lost to wine and whores, and The Queen? The less Jon thought about her actions the better.

He turned his gaze back to her, the golden-haired lioness standing rigid, and a darker question clawed its way up his throat.

"What think you of bastards, Your Grace?" Jon asked, his voice a low rumble edged with frost, stepping closer until he could see the faint pulse at her neck. "Those born outside wedlock, marked by shame—do they deserve scorn, or something more? Especially when your own children... The Crown Prince, the Princess, and your youngest... they sprang from sin, did they not? Not just bastards, but incestuous bastards, sired by your brother."

The Queen lips parted slowly in the trance, her green eyes unfocused yet her words flowing with an unyielding certainty, as if Jon’s power's grip couldn't strip the pride from her tongue. "My children are perfect, untouched by any stain of bastardy. They are mine and Jaime's, born of a love deeper than any feeble law or septon's prattle,” the queen stated.

“No one dares call them bastards, for they carry the blood of lions—strong, golden, destined to rule.” She explained. “The world bends to them, not the other way around."

The hypocrisy struck Jon like a gauntleted fist to the jaw.

Here she stood, defending her whelps as flawless despite their twisted origins, while the highborn like her always spat on bastards as treacherous stains, unfit for noble halls. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into palms, as anger coiled hot in his chest, rising like smoke from a smothered hearth.

"And me?" he pressed, voice tightening, stepping so near he could smell the faint spice of her southern perfumes mingling with the grove's pine. "What of Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell? Speak true—what am I in your eyes?"

"You are a stain on your father's honour, boy," Cersei began, her words emerging steady and deliberate, laced with a condescension Jon knew all too well, even dulled as they were by the trance—a venom that highborn ladies like her reserved for bastards bearing names like Snow. She paused, her green eyes unfocused yet somehow piercing in their blankness. "A reminder of weakness, of lust unchecked."

Her voice dipped lower then, flat but edged with that familiar scorn, as if the trance couldn't fully smother the queen's innate haughtiness. "Bastards like you breed treachery, lurking in shadows, unfit for the light of trueborn nobility."

Jon felt the words land like blows, but she continued without pause, her lips curving faintly in what might have been a sneer if not for the spell's hold. "I pity Catelyn for enduring your presence, a living affront to her marriage bed."

Finally, her tone hardened to steel, echoing through the godswood's hush. "You undermine the very order of things, Snow, with your existence alone."

Rage surged through Jon then, a wildfire scorching reason, his face flushing hot despite the northern bite in the air. How dare she—remade by his hand into something approaching virtue, yet clinging to this bile, preaching legitimacy while her secrets festered like open wounds.

Hypocrite queen, golden-tongued liar, defending her ****-born spawn as divine while branding him scum for a birth he never chose.