The King interrupts his thoughts

A thunderous guffaw shattered the minstrels' tune, booming from the King's end of the high table and yanking gazes across the hall like hooks on lines.

He slouched in his colossal chair, a beefy arm cinched around the serving girl's waist, yanking her onto his lap where she balanced stiffly, her forgotten tray tilting precariously. His fingers pawed at her skirts, rumpling the fabric in sloppy handfuls.

The girl's cheeks burned crimson, eyes flicking wildly toward shadowed exits, but his roaring laughter drowned it all, ale-foam speckling his beard as he buried his face in her neck, heedless of her rigid spine.

Jon scowled at the King's brazen display, his gut churning as the man groped the serving girl beneath the direwolf banners, mere feet from the Queen.

The disgust soured inward with a jolt—who was he to condemn?

After all, he'd claimed the Queen, her twin the Kingslayer, a twisted septa on her sacred altar, and the once-Crown Prince, now princess with her loyal guard.

Worse yet, his words had warped them all, igniting a hunger for him that consumed like flame through dry tinder.

Hypocrisy seared through him, deepening the scowl until it etched lines across his face.

Jon turned to Cersei, framing his words as a query to keep the power leashed. "Is it alright for the King to dishonour you so brazenly?" he murmured, just loud enough for her alone.

Cersei's green eyes darted to her husband in a fleeting glance before returning to Jon. A dismissive smile tugged at her lips, cool and fleeting, far from the tenderness she held for him alone.

Drawing nearer, she slipped her hand beneath the tablecloth, lacing her fingers through his with a firm, claiming hold. "I'm used to it," she whispered, her tone weaving silk around indifference. "He flaunts his whores like conquests, but with you beside me..."

Now Cersei's gaze softened into pure tenderness, brimming with love and devotion that silenced the hall's clamour, leaving just the two of them in its wake. "You're all that matters. I love you, Jon—far beyond crowns or insults. He can chase the entire scullery for all I care. My world starts and stops with you.

Beneath the cloth, she lifted his hand and brushed her lips against his knuckles in a concealed kiss, her touch slow to withdraw, drowning the King's guffaws in oblivion.

Jon breathed a quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders easing as Cersei's fingers lingered beneath the tablecloth, hidden from the hall's prying eyes.

Thanks to the words he'd spoken earlier, no one would mark their closeness—no whispers, no sidelong glances to fuel gossip.

Her boldness struck him anew; this queen, risking scandal with a touch so intimate amid the feast's roar, her loving gaze fixed on him as if the world beyond their shared secret had ceased to exist.

Cersei leaned in closer, her breath warm against Jon's ear amid the feast's clamour, her fingers tracing a hidden path up his arm beneath the tablecloth. "This noise grows tiresome," she murmured, voice a silken whisper laced with promise. "I think it's time I retired to the wheelhouse for the night. You'll escort me, won't you, my love? With Jaime at our side."