Jon gets back into his regular clothes before running into a problem

Cersei’s fingers found the silver wolf-claw clasps at his throat, cool metal warming under her touch. “Off,” she murmured, the word a purr of satisfaction that vibrated against his skin.

One clasp, two; the heavy mantle of direwolf fur sighed from his shoulders and pooled like liquid shadow in her waiting arms. Jaime stepped behind him, palms sliding along the leather at his hips until they met the jet buckle. She tugged; the belt loosened with a soft rasp, and her knuckles deliberately traced the hard line of muscle beneath his tunic, slow enough that his breath caught.

The black jerkin came next. Jaime’s fingers worked the side-laces with practiced ease, loosening each cross until the leather parted like a second skin. Cersei drew it forward over his shoulders, letting the weight of it drag slowly down his arms so that every inch of newly bared chest felt the cool kiss of air and the heat of their gazes.

Last was the smoke-silk undertunic. Jaime gathered the hem and pulled it upward in one languid motion; the fabric whispered over his ribs, caught for a heartbeat on the breadth of his shoulders, then slid free. As it cleared his head her mouth found the fresh skin at the nape of his neck (warm lips, a graze of teeth, the softest laugh against his spine).

Cersei folded the jerkin with reverent care, smoothing the wolf-fur collar as though stroking a living thing. Jaime rolled the garments together (silk against leather against fur) and bound the bundle with a length of plain oiled cloth, tying it with a lover’s knot.

She pressed the parcel into his arms, fingers lingering on his. Cersei leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

“For your chambers,” Cersei said, her voice velvet and smoke as she folded the last corner of oiled cloth and pressed the warm bundle into his arms. The weight of wolf-fur and fine leather settled against his chest like a promise.

Jon let the parcel rest in the crook of one elbow and reached for his old clothes. The coarse black wool scraped over skin still flushed and sensitive; the faded grey tunic followed, rough as burlap after the kiss of silk. Each familiar seam felt suddenly foreign, as though his body had already forgotten how to be merely the bastard in patched wool.

Cersei lounged back against the cushions, chin propped on one hand, watching him the way a cat watches cream it has already decided to lap. Jaime leaned against the carved post, arms loosely folded, lips curved in a slow, satisfied smile that said this plain garb was only a disguise she allowed him for now.

When he reached the wheelhouse door, Cersei rose in a rustle of crimson silk. Her fingers caught his chin, tilting his face down to hers; the kiss was unhurried, deliberate, a brand pressed to his mouth that tasted of summerwine and ownership. She released him only to let Jaime take her place. Jaime’s kiss was sharper, teeth grazing his lower lip, a soft laugh breathed against his tongue before she stepped back.

“Go,” Cersei whispered, the single word warm against his ear. “We will see you at the high table, love.”

Jon pulled the hood up, stepped down the folding stair, and the night air struck him like cold iron after the perfumed heat inside.

Jon stepped down from the wheelhouse stair and the night air hit him like cold water.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness beneath the stable awning.

Prince Joffrey Baratheon unfolded his arms slowly, the torchlight catching on the gold embroidery of his doublet and turning his pale hair almost white.

His lips wore the small, familiar curl (half smile, half snarl) that always promised pain.

Behind him, half-lit by the guttering torches, Sandor Clegane stood motionless, the snarling dog’s-head of his helm tilted downward, one gloved hand resting easy on the pommel of the greatsword slung across his back.

Only his eyes moved (black, unreadable) as they travelled over Jon’s rough cloak, the bundle clutched beneath one arm, the faint flush still staining his throat above the collar.

Joffrey took a single, deliberate step forward.

His voice came low, almost a whisper, yet every word dripped venom.

“What exactly is the Stark bastard doing slinking out of my mother’s wheelhouse?”

He let the silence stretch, head cocked like a curious cat.

“No one about, Snow. No witnesses. Just you, me… and the Hound.”

A soft laugh, thin as a blade. “So tell me, before I decide to be curious in ways you won’t enjoy… what business could a baseborn cur possibly have inside the royal apartments?”

He leaned in until Jon could smell the sweet Arbor red on his breath, until the prince’s next words brushed his cheek like frost.

“Speak carefully, little wolf. I’m in ever such a mood tonight.”