Jon's attempt for Fresh air fails

The Broken Tower’s chamber was dim, but not dark; late-afternoon sun slanted through the broken shutters in dusty gold bars, catching on the sheen of sweat that still clung to their skin.

Jon let it last a little longer: Cersei’s slow, satisfied kisses along his collarbone, Jaime’s calloused hand idly tracing the line of his ribs as if counting every breath he took. The furs were warm, the air thick with the scent of sex and Lannister perfume. For a few quiet minutes he simply stayed there, pinned between them, wanted in a way he had never been wanted before.

Jaime’s lips brushed the corner of his mouth. “Stay,” she murmured. “The feast is hours away. Let Winterfell wait.”

Cersei hummed agreement, fingers threading lazily through his hair. “Come back to bed, love.”

He let himself sink into it one heartbeat longer, then carefully drew away. “I need a moment,” he said, voice soft enough that it sounded like affection rather than retreat.

They watched him dress with lazy, certain smiles. He bent to kiss each mouth once more, then slipped down the crumbling stair and out the half-collapsed postern into the yard.

The winter sun hung low, glaring off fresh snow. Servants bustled everywhere: hauling benches, carrying trays of bread, shouting about missing wine casks. Jon pulled his hood up and kept to the shadows along the wall.

He had almost reached the covered bridge when a sharp voice sliced through the noise.

“Snow.”

Septa Mordane planted herself squarely in the archway, blocking the sun so that her shadow fell across him like a judgement. Her thin lips curled in open disgust as she took in the rumpled cloak, the faint marks on his throat, the flush that no winter wind could quite chase away.

“Lady Stark bade me find you, Jon Snow,” she hissed, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And the Seven have guided my steps, it seems, straight to the proof of your depravity.”

She stepped closer, clutching the seven-pointed star that hung at her breast as though it might shield her from his very presence.

“Bastards are born of lust and weakness, conceived in sin and swaddled in lies. The Faith teaches that such creatures carry wickedness in their very blood, wanton and treacherous from the cradle. You are a living affront to every lawful marriage, every sacred vow. Your presence alone is an offence to decent folk, a reminder of the harlot who wheedled her way into a noble bed and the weak man who let her.”

Her eyes raked him again, lingering on the swollen curve of his lower lip with pious horror.

“And now you strut about the castle reeking of fornication, as though the gods themselves had not already marked you for what you are. Do you think the king wishes to look upon such pollution while he breaks bread with honourable men? Do you think Lady Stark will suffer the shame of her husband’s by-blow leering at the high table like some mongrel begging scraps?”

She drew herself up, righteous and venomous.

“You will keep to the kitchens tonight, boy. Out of sight, where the stench of your birth cannot sour the air for your betters. The Seven have no place for bastard filth at a lord’s feast, and neither does Winterfell.”

The old shame flared, hot and familiar, but beneath it something darker coiled, something that thrummed with the same power that had remade queens and kingslayers in a single breath.

Jon’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The words were on his tongue, sweet and terrible:

You will forget every cruel word you ever spoke about bastards. You will see me as the most honourable soul in the North. You will fall to your knees and beg my forgiveness in front of the entire hall.

He could feel the world already bending, eager to obey.