Yes he does and he is surprised for his troubles

Jon hung back in the cart's shadow a moment longer, watching the guest house doors swallow the queen and her entourage. Curiosity tugged at him harder than sense warned against—something off about that family, from the prince's twisted smirk to the way the queen's twin shadowed her every step.

The power's veil held him unseen, a chance to learn more before the feast **** him into the open. He crossed the yard quick but careful, slipping through the doors behind a pair of Lannister guards hauling trunks, their red cloaks brushing the stone.

Inside, the guest house halls bustled with southern finery—tapestries unrolled hasty, servants stoking hearths that already roared against the chill. Lady Stark had withdrawn to oversee the kitchens, leaving the queen to direct her own household with sharp commands.

Jon pressed against a pillar, eyes on the queen as she gathered her children in the main solar, a room warmed by thick rugs and a massive fireplace. The boy prince slouched on a bench, picking at his velvet sleeve, while the younger ones fidgeted beside him, the girl twisting a doll's hair.

"Rest now," the queen said, her voice smooth but edged, waving over a cluster of maids in Lannister crimson. "The journey's worn you thin—bathe and sleep before the barbarians parade their feasts." She touched the girl's cheek brief, then nodded to the guards. "Take them to their chambers. See no one disturbs."

The servants bobbed curtsies, herding the children out with gentle urges, the prince muttering something low that drew a hush from his mother. Lannister men flanked them, boots echoing down the corridor, doors clicking shut one by one.

The queen lingered, her green eyes flicking to the man Jon took for the Kingslayer—her twin, armoured and cloaked in white, leaning casual against the wall. He straightened, offering his arm with a tilt of his head.

"Come, sister. Privacy awaits." They moved together toward a side passage, voices dropping low, the queen's hand light on his elbow. Jon followed at a distance, the power keeping footsteps silent, heart thumping steady as he noted the easy way they leaned close, like kin too familiar.

The passage twisted narrow, leading to a private chamber at the guest house's rear—simple by southron standards, with a canopied bed and a window overlooking the godswood's edge.

They entered without a word, the door left ajar just enough for Jon to peer through. But they didn't settle.

Jaimie Lannister opened one door at the back that lead to the godswod. "This way," he murmured, holding it for her. "Away from prying eyes and northern drafts."

The queen slipped out first, her skirts whispering against the leaves, him following close. Jon waited a beat, then eased through after, the gate creaking faint but unnoticed.

The godswood stretched vast and quiet, ancient sentinels of pine and oak closing in as they ventured deeper, away from the castle's hum.

Snow crunched soft under their boots, the air thick with resin and earth. Jon trailed at a safe remove, ducking behind trunks when they paused, his breath clouding slow.

They wound past sentinel trees, the path narrowing until the heart tree loomed ahead—its bone-white bark etched with a face that wept red sap, the black pool still at its roots.

The queen and her brother halted near it, glancing around once before drawing close.

Jon settled against a thick oak nearby, half-hidden by low branches, close enough to hear without risking a step. The power held him invisible, but he crouched low anyway, pulse quickening at the risk.

"Why drag us to this forsaken place?" the queen hissed, her voice low but biting, arms crossed tight against the chill.

"These northern savages with their grim faces and frozen gods—Robert could have summoned Stark south, spared us the misery of mud and endless cold."

The Kingslayer—Jaime, Jon recalled from whispers in the yard—chuckled soft, stepping nearer to rub her arms. "Peace, Cersei. Robert's whims are his own, but think—fresh air, away from court's snakes. And Stark's as honourable as they come, dull as that may be." He pulled her closer, his white cloak draping over her shoulders like a shield.

She leaned into him, tension easing slight. "Dull indeed. But you... you're the only light in this gloom." Her tone shifted, warmer now, fingers tracing his jaw in a way no sister should.

Jon's eyes widened, breath catching—he'd expected complaints, not this intimacy that smacked of southern tales gone wrong.

Jaime tilted her chin up, green eyes meeting green. "We've waited too long for moments like this." He stole a kiss then, quick at first, but deepening as her hands fisted in his cloak.

They pressed together, his armoured chest against her gown, murmurs blending with the rustle of leaves—words of longing, of risks taken in shadowed halls far south. Jon froze, heat rising in his cheeks despite the cold, mind reeling at the sight: a queen and her Kingsguard brother, oaths shattered in a heartbeat.

It went further—Jaime's hand sliding to her waist, pulling her against the heart tree's trunk, her laugh breathy as she arched into him. But then she stiffened, pushing back sudden. "Wait. Not here, there are eyes upon us—I feel it."

Jon's heart slammed, hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Had the power failed? Did they spot him in the shadows? He held still, barely breathing, as her gaze swept the grove.

Not at him, though—at the heart tree's carved face, its red eyes staring unblinking.

"These old gods," she whispered, stepping away with a shiver. "Their bloody trees watch like spies. We're not alone here."

Jaime glanced at it, smirking faint. "Superstition, sweet sister. Just wood and sap." But he straightened his cloak, the moment broken, leading her back toward the path with a last caress.

Jon stayed rooted as they retreated, footsteps fading into the distance. His mind churned—queen and brother, lovers in secret, the realm's highest tangled in a sin that could topple thrones.

What to do with it? Pretend blindness, slink away and let the south's rot stay south? Or use the power—**** truth from their lips, make them confess to Lord Stark, expose the foulness before it poisoned Winterfell?

He could command them to stop, reshape their desires into something clean, or bind their tongues silent forever. But meddling like that... it smacked of playing god, the very curse he'd sworn to chain.

Honour pulled him toward telling Lord Stark, but doubt crept in—what proof without witnesses, a bastard's word against a queen's?

The heart tree loomed silent, offering no counsel, leaving Jon alone with choices that weighed heavier than any sword.