The queen has her own thoughts

From the bed's edge, Cersei pushed up on one elbow, her perky breasts heaving with lingering pants, golden hair matted to her forehead as she caught her breath.

She exchanged a quick glance with Jaime, who lounged nude against the headboard, her lithe form still flushed, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.

Cersei's lips curved in a sly, breathless smile.

"Then we appoint another Sworn Shield for Jocelyn," she said, her words coming out in short bursts between breaths. "And who better than you Jon?" She gestured lazily with one hand, fingers trailing through the air. "It keeps you close to us—to the royal family—where you belong."

Now that was thought, Lady Stark would be screaming horror and frustration—him, the bastard stain on her husband's honour, sworn to guard the royal family like some twisted jest of the gods—but the temptation slithered through Jon like warm wine, promising a place at their side, bound to the lions in ways that would keep him. Yet the King's face flashed in his mind, that drunken brute who called Lord Stark brother, and guilt twisted sharp: accepting this would cuckold not just the crown but the man who was friend to Lord Stark, the man Jon admired most, the one whose grey eyes had taught him honour in silent lessons, even as it meant stepping closer to the power that already whispered of reshaping everything, including the siblings he dared not alter with a careless word.

Jaime leaned against the headboard, her lithe body relaxed in the firelight, green eyes flicking between Cersei and Jon with a spark of amusement. "Aye, but think it through, sister—Jon as Sworn Shield means vows of protection, always at Jocelyn's side. No slipping away for... other duties." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, a grin tugging at her lips. "Still, it's brilliant. Binds him tighter than any chain."

Listening to Jaime's teasing words, the grin in her voice stirring a flicker of unease in Jon's chest—binding him like a chain sounded too much like the power's own grip, a reminder that his choices were tangling him deeper in this web of lions, where slipping away might mean losing the fragile honour he'd clung to all his life.

"Binds him, yes—but what of the Seven's customs? A bastard guarding a princess?" Tyra sat up straighter on the bench, her platinum waves cascading as she propped herself up on one arm, mismatched eyes narrowing, fingers drumming on her thigh. "Smart play, though. Keeps the family intact, him where we can watch... and enjoy."

The sharp assessment from Tyra cut through the haze, her drumming fingers echoing his own racing thoughts—The Seven’s customs clashing with a bastard's rise, yet the promise of being watched and enjoyed sent a dark thrill through him, warring with the guilt of how he'd twisted her into this devoted form, her intellect now bent to serve his whims.

Jocelyn's hands clasped tighter, her gown slipping off one shoulder as she nodded vigorously, breaths quickening with excitement. "Every step! Jon would be mine—our family's blade. Mother, please, it's flawless."

The claim of making Jon 'hers' igniting a spark of complicated warmth that Jon hadn't expected, but it twisted in his gut with shame at the **** love shining in her eyes, a mirror of his power's cruelty dressed as affection.

Sandra, still catching her own ragged breaths from the corner where she knelt by the bed's edge, lifted her head, storm-grey eyes steady as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "If I'm with child, aye, someone needs to step in." She pushed herself upright , muscles flexing under sweat-slicked skin as she looked Jon in the eyes. "I have no doubt that your blade is sharp enough for it. But the oath—you'd swear to Jocelyn alone? No conflicts with... other loyalties?" She crossed her arms, glancing at Jon with a nod.

Cersei sat up fully now, her body shifting with a soft rustle of silks, one hand absently smoothing her hair as she locked eyes with Sandra. "No conflicts—we make sure of it. Jon's place is with us, loving us all." She tilted her head toward Jaime. "You'd train him up if needed, sister?"

Nodding at her sisters words Jaime leaned off the headboard with a push of her palms, her frame uncoiling as she stretched, breaths steadying. "I'd hone him finer than Valyrian steel. But think—the court's eyes on a Stark bastard as a princesses’ Sworn Shield? Whispers could fly." She smirked, leaning in closer to Jon. "Though with us backing him, who'd dare speak?"

Tyra chuckled softly, swinging her legs off the bench and planting her feet, her curves shifting as she leaned forward. "Whispers die quick when the lion roars. It's a tight knot—family, protection, him always near." She glanced at Jocelyn. "You'd like that, little one? Him shadowing your every step?"

Clasping her hands even tighter, Jocelyn’s nodded vigoursly befoer she repeated herself. "Every step!" she affirmed. "He'd be mine—our family's blade. Mother, please, it's flawless."

This caused Sandra to raise an eyebrow or where one would have been on her scarred side of her face as she uncrossed her arms and scooted over towards the bed's edge, her voice rough but thoughtful as she rubbed the good side of her jaw. "Flawless if it holds. But the King's say? He won't care who's guarding his daughter." She looked to Cersei. "You pull the strings there?"

Cersei's smile widened, her chest still heaving slightly as she reached out to tuck Jocelyn's slipped gown back into place. "The King will agree—or he won't notice. It's decided." She turned to Jon, eyes softening with that adoring warmth. "You'll do it, won't you, love? For us—for Jocelyn?"

The room hung on his answer, the women's breaths syncing in the heated air, their gazes fixed on him with a mix of anticipation and devotion.