He finds out who Lady Jaime is married to

The revelation of Myrcella’s true mother—Jaime, not Cersei—had eased the threat to the throne, but the sisters’ tangled deceptions stirred new unease. If Lady Jaime was indeed a lady of Casterly Rock, her role as Cersei’s double hinted at a life bound by more than sisterly loyalty. Was she married, tethered to some lord while playing these dangerous games with the king?

He stepped closer, voice low but steady, the power holding them in its grip. “Lady Jaime, are you married? If so, to whom?”

Jaime’s head tilted slightly, her voice flat yet carrying a trace of her usual wry edge, even in the trance. “Yes, I am married. My husband is Ser Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Father arranged it after the rebellion to bind the Lannisters to House Tully, strengthening our hold on the Riverlands through Catelyn Stark’s brother.”

Jon’s jaw tightened at the name. Edmure Tully—Catelyn’s brother, a man he’d glimpsed only in passing during rare visits to Winterfell, all easy smiles and carefree swagger. The association soured his mood; Catelyn’s cold disdain for him as a bastard left little room for fondness toward her kin. Still, he pressed on, needing to understand the mechanics of this betrayal. “How did you manage this deception with Ser Edmure? And why?”

Jaime’s lips curved faintly, as if the trance couldn’t fully dull her cunning. “Edmure is weak-willed, pliable as wet clay. Father saw it, and so did we. After the betrothal, Cersei spent time with him—charming him, softening him with smiles and flattery during our visits to the Red Keep.”

“He’s easily swayed, eager to please, blind to the games we played,” she explained. “When I took Cersei’s place in court or bed, Edmure never questioned my absences; he thinks me dutiful, visiting my sister to serve the crown. It’s simple to manipulate a man who trusts so readily.”

Cersei’s trance-bound voice cut in, sharp despite its flatness, carrying a sting of judgment. “Edmure is a better man than you give him credit for, Jaime. A great lover, even—gentle, attentive, far better than Robert’s drunken groping. You should feel ashamed, cuckolding him so cruelly. If I could trade that oaf of a king for a husband like Edmure, I would.”

Her words held a bitter edge, a flicker of envy that Jon couldn’t place, unaware of the deeper history.

Jon’s brow furrowed, the mention of Edmure’s virtues doing little to soften his view. To him, Edmure was just another Tully, tied to the woman who’d made his life a daily gauntlet of slights. Yet Cersei’s words pricked at him, and Jaime’s confession painted a picture of a man used as a pawn, his trust exploited. He turned back to Jaime, voice firm. “Do you care for him at all? Or is he just a tool?”

Jaime’s trance held, but her tone softened, a rare crack in her polished facade. “Edmure deserves better.” She admitted.

“He’s kind, in his way—too kind for the game of thrones. I don’t hate him; I pity him. He dreams of a family, heirs to carry his name, but I’ll never give him that.” Lady Jaime explained.

“My heart belongs to Cersei, always has. I wish he’d never been bound to me, not because I loathe him, but because he should have a wife who can love him, not one who uses his bed as a stage for deception.”

Jon’s fists clenched, a flicker of sympathy stirring despite his dislike for anything Tully. Edmure, for all his flaws, didn’t deserve to be ensnared in the Lannisters’ web, his life warped by their schemes. The power pulsed again, urging action, and Jon saw a chance to untangle another thread without shattering the fragile balance he’d already forged. He drew a breath, words precise and deliberate.