Not in the Godswood

Jon knew the godswood's seclusion would not shield them forever. Winterfell stirred beyond the weirwood's watchful gaze—guards patrolling the walls, servants scurrying through the yards, ravens croaking from the maester's turret. To step out with these two golden lions clinging to him like vines to a crumbling tower would invite whispers sharper than Valyrian steel. Eyes would follow, tongues would wag, and the truth—or some twisted shadow of it—would unravel everything. Unless he bent the world once more.

Yet even here, in this hallowed grove where the Old Gods held court, their affections gnawed at him like frostbite. Cersei's fingers traced patterns on his cloak, insistent and warm, while Jaime's—now this lioness's—breath ghosted against his ear, her armoured form pressing close with a warrior's boldness. The heart tree's carved face seemed to deepen its frown, red sap weeping like accusations. This place was for prayers and oaths, not for... whatever madness he had wrought. The air hung heavy with pine and incense from distant hearths, but it soured now, tainted by his deeds.

Where, then? The great hall buzzed with life, the crypts too chill and haunted. The Broken Tower—that forsaken spike of stone, gutted by fire long ago and shunned by all. No one ventured there, save perhaps Bran in his climbing days. Aye, it would serve.

He drew a ragged breath, the cold biting his lungs, and let the words spill forth like a command to Ghost. "We will be transported to the Broken Tower in Winterfell, with no one noticing our departure from here, nor our arrival there, nor aught that passes within its walls."

The world blurred in an instant, the weirwood's crimson leaves dissolving into shadow. Stone walls reared up around them, rough-hewn and scarred by old flames, the air thick with dust and the faint rot of neglect. Moonlight slanted through cracked shutters, painting the empty chamber in pale streaks. No furnishings, no warmth—just echoes and the distant howl of wind through gaps in the masonry.

A flicker of unease stirred in Jon's gut, but the power thrummed still, eager as a drawn sword. He glanced at the sisters, their eyes gleaming with that unnatural devotion, and spoke again. "A comfortable bed, large enough for three, will appear in this room. The chamber will clean itself, banishing dust and damp, becoming fit for... for rest."

Wood groaned into being from nothingness, timbers shaping themselves into a sturdy frame draped with furs and linens soft as southern silk. Cobwebs vanished like mist before dawn, the stone floor swept bare, the air freshening with a hint of hearthfire though no flames burned. The tower's chill retreated, leaving a cozy hush broken only by the women's soft intakes of breath.

"How convenient," Cersei murmured, her voice a silken purr as she leaned in, lips brushing his temple in a feather-light kiss. Jaime echoed the sentiment with a low chuckle, her transformed mouth curving into a smirk that held echoes of the man she had been, planting her own kiss on his jaw, firm and lingering.

The sight of Jaime in that ill-fitting armour—plate dented and strained over her new curves—stirred something reckless in him, a remnant of the rage that had birthed this folly. The high of wielding such might lingered, heady as mulled wine, loosening his restraint. "Jaime," he said, the words carrying the weight of decree, "you will slip free of your armour now, able to don or shed it at will, as easily as a glove." He turned to Cersei, her gown heavy with embroidery and constraint. "And you, Your Grace, the same with your garments."

In a shimmer like heat haze over the sands of Dorne, the armour parted from Jaime's form, links unfolding without a clasp undone, vanishing into ether. Cersei's velvet and silks whispered away likewise, pooling into nothingness at her feet. They stood bare before him, skin aglow in the moonlight—twin visions of Lannister gold, full breasts rising with each breath, hips curving in invitation, the faint scars of battles on Jaime's limbs contrasting with Cersei's unmarred perfection. No shame touched their faces; only hunger, raw and unyielding.

They closed the distance as one, bodies pressing against his cloaked form with a heat that seeped through wool and leather. Cersei's breasts pressed hard against his chest, soft yet insistent, while Jaime's did the same from his side, her nipples hardening against him like points of fire. Their hands roamed—fingers weaving into his hair, trailing down his back— as they leaned in together, lips grazing his cheeks in tandem, one velvet-soft, the other edged with a knight's callused warmth.

"I think it is time, Jon," they whispered in unison, voices blending like harp strings, breath hot against his skin.

Their whispers coiled around him like smoke from a dying fire, hot and insistent, urging him toward the bed that mocked him with its conjured softness. Jon's blood thrummed in his veins, a wild drumbeat echoing the power's seductive hum, as Cersei's skin burned against his, her curves yielding yet demanding, while Jaime's warrior-honed form pressed with equal fervour, her scars a map of battles now twisted into this unholy intimacy.

The Broken Tower's shadows danced on the walls, indifferent witnesses to his dilemma, and in that moment, clarity pierced the haze of desire—a stark truth as cold as the Wall itself.

If he yielded now, surrendered to this tangle of limbs and **** affections, the line would blur forever; the power would claim him utterly, a chain he could never break, turning every whim into reality, every slight into vengeance reshaped. He would never stop, not until the world bent entirely to his will, leaving nothing of the man Ned Stark had raised.

Yet why halt here, in this forsaken chamber where no eyes judged but his own? The question slithered through his mind, venomous and tempting, as their hands tugged at his cloak, fingers deft and eager, promising oblivion from the slights that had scarred his soul deeper than any blade.

Bastard-born, ever the outsider in Winterfell's halls, scorned by highborn lips like theirs—why deny himself this retribution, this stolen warmth that made queens and knights kneel before Jon Snow?

The rage from the godswood lingered, a smouldering coal in his chest, whispering that he deserved this, that the gods or fate had granted him this gift to right the imbalances of birth and blood.