Oh Jon will

Glowered at the queen, her words echoed in his skull, each one a barb sinking deeper into flesh already raw from a lifetime of slights.

A stain,

That is what she called him.

Treacherous.

Unfit.

And yet her own spawn, twisted from forbidden beds, she exalted as lions beyond reproach.

Her hypocrisy burned hotter than any forge fire, fuelling a rage that twisted his insides, made his vision blur at the edges.

How many times had he swallowed such venom—from Catelyn's cold stares, from others, Trueborn and smallfolk alike?

But from her?

Jon’s breath came in harsh gusts, clouding the chill air, as the power surged within him, a wild thing straining at its leash, tempting him with whispers of retribution.

Why not wield it now, this cursed gift thrust upon him?

Make her see him not as scum, but as something cherished, adored beyond measure.

The thought coiled seductive, born of wrath and the deep ache of never being enough. He stepped forward again, close enough that the faint heat from her body cut through the frost, his voice dropping to a growl laced with command.

"You don't think that of me, Cersei. You love me—Jon Snow—more than anything else in this world, more than your kin, more than yourself."

The words hung in the air, heavy as iron, and reality bent with a subtle shiver, like the ripple of wind over the black pool at the heart tree's roots.

Cersei's unfocused eyes flickered, a spark igniting behind the trance's veil, her rigid posture softening as if invisible chains had snapped.

She drew a slow breath, her chest rising under the rich velvet of her gown, and repeated his utterance with a fervour that sent a chill racing down Jon's spine.

"I don't think that of you, Jon Snow," she murmured, her voice warming, shedding the condescension like a serpent's skin. "I love you more than anything else in this world—more than my kin, more than myself."

Satisfaction flickered brief in Jon's chest, a dark thrill at seeing her pride crumble under his will, but it soured quickly as her expression shifted further, brows knitting in sudden concern even within the spell's grip.

"But this love... it will invite Jaime's wrath," she warned, her tone urgent now, laced with a protective edge that hadn't been there moments before.

"My brother—he guards me fiercely, as a lion does his pride. To love another, especially you, a northern bastard... it would drive him to fury, to blades drawn in jealousy."

Her brother Ser Jaime. The Kingslayer knelt silent beside her, golden and armoured, his blank face a mask of forgotten arrogance.

Jon's gaze snapped to him, the warning stirring fresh anger—another obstacle, another highborn fool who'd see him as lesser, unworthy of even this twisted affection. The power hummed louder, insistent, offering a way to sever that threat at the root.

Not erase him, no, but reshape him, strip away the brotherly claim that fuelled such wrath.

A woman, perhaps—one bound by the same unnatural love, turning rival into ally.

It was madness, a step deeper into the abyss, but rage blinded him to the fall. "Jaime Lannister," he declared, his words slicing sharp through the grove's hush, "you are transforming now into a woman, one who loves me—Jon Snow—exactly as Your Sister the Queen does, more than anything, more than herself."

A guttural groan ripped from the Kingslayer's throat, his body arching in spasm as the transformation gripped him tight, armour protesting with a deep, resonant creak like storm winds howling through Winterfell's battlements.

Jon's breath caught, his eyes locked in a mix of dread and unwelcome heat, as Jaime's broad shoulders drew inward with a sensual shudder, muscles yielding beneath the plate, rippling down his frame like a lover's caress under silk.

The chiselled lines of his face softened into beguiling curves—jawline melting to delicate grace, cheekbones rising high and proud under skin that flushed then paled to creamy alabaster, smooth as the finest Dornish marble, inviting a forbidden touch.

Golden strands unfurled longer, tumbling in lush waves that begged for fingers to tangle within, framing eyes of piercing emerald that gleamed with an inner fire, lashes heavy and dark as raven wings above lips plump and stained a vivid crimson, parted now in a silent gasp that stirred something primal in Jon's gut.

The white cloak billowed like a sigh, hips flaring wide and inviting beneath the reshaping mail, while her bosom swelled full and heaving, straining against the golden breastplate etched with a sapphire heart at its centre, rubies winking like drops of desire on either side, the crimson underlining teasing glimpses of heat like blood on fresh snow.

Sapphire earrings swayed, diamond-faceted and catching the grove's dim light in sparks that danced across her throat, her form stretching tall and lithe as a wildcat in heat, commanding yet supple, the sword at her belted waist a stark promise of strength wrapped in allure, mail clinging to every new curve like a second skin, moulding to hips and thighs that swayed with an **** grace.

Jon stared, pulse thundering in his ears, horror warring with a rush of blood that shamed him, this Lioness born before his eyes a vision both monstrous and achingly beautiful, her voice rising soft and melodic, edged with that unyielding Lannister fire. "This... it will be strange, for my male self to disappear like this. The man I was—gone in a breath, much that I accomplished would be lost."

Jon swallowed hard, the sight of her—of this new Jaime—stirring unease even as his anger clung stubborn. He hadn't meant to unmake her entirely, not in history's weave; let her remember the life she'd led as a man, the oaths sworn, the blood spilled.

But the world... aye, the world could bend around it, blind to the oddity.

"Your personal history remains unchanged," he stated firmly, the power sealing the decree like a maester's wax on parchment.

"You recall every deed as Jaime the man—the battles, the kingslaying, the white cloak earned by a knight's prowess.” Jon explained.

“But everyone else will remember you as always having been a woman, Jaime Lannister, the Lioness of the Rock,” he added. “You a rare flower who rose to knighthood and Kingsguard like you originally did, all will overlook any strangeness, accept it as truth woven into their memories."

She nodded slowly, her new form settling into grace, fingers flexing as if testing unfamiliar strings on a harp. "As you say, Jon Snow. My past is mine, unaltered in my mind, the Mad King's back stabbed slit by my hand. Yet the realm will see me as ever the woman, but will not be able to question or think on it."

The godswood fell quieter still, the heart tree's face seeming to judge him with its eternal stare, sap like blood on pale bark. Jon's rage ebbed, leaving a hollow ache, but he pressed on, the deed half-done. With a muttered command, he released them from the trance: "Awaken now, both of you, and remember nothing of this questioning—only the truths I've spoken."

The Queen’s eyes cleared first, blinking as if emerging from a deep sleep, her gaze locking onto him with a hunger that made his skin prickle. "Jon," she breathed, stepping forward without hesitation, her gloved hands reaching for his face, pulling him close. The spice of her perfume enveloped him, heady and overwhelming, as her lips brushed his in a kiss fierce and unyielding, her body pressing against his cloak with a desperation born of that **** love.

Beside her, the new Jaime—the Lioness—shook off the daze, her green eyes mirroring her sister's intensity. She moved with a warrior's fluid stride, armour whispering softly, and joined them, one hand tangling in Jon's dark curls while the other cupped his jaw.

"My love," she murmured, voice rich with newfound affection, leaning in to claim his mouth in turn, her kiss a storm of passion that tasted of salt and steel, her transformed body warm and insistent against his side.

They surrounded him, these golden twins remade, their touches overlapping—fingers tracing his neck, lips trailing fire across his skin, whispers of devotion filling the air like incense in a sept.

The Queen’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him tighter, while Jaime's hand slid down his arm, interlacing fingers with a possessiveness that brooked no refusal. Jon's heart hammered, not with desire but dawning horror, as the reality crashed over him like a wave from the Sunset Sea.

What had he done?

Twisted them into puppets dancing to his wrathful tune, stolen their wills and reshaped their hearts into grotesque mirrors of his pain.

Unforgivable, this meddling—worse than any kingslaying, for he'd slain their true selves without a blade.