That he is close to Robb

Jon squared his shoulders against the creeping chill of the godswood, facing Jaime as her smirk hung in the air like a drawn blade, sharp and waiting.

“Did you miss that I’m close with my trueborn siblings?” he challenged, voice level but carrying an edge honed from every careful step he’d taken to keep them that way.

Jaime’s lips curved wider, amusement flashing in her green eyes. She leaned in until her breath grazed his ear. “Again, my dearest,” she purred, “that is not what I asked.”

Heat surged in Jon’s chest, sudden and fiercely his power coiling behind his ribs like a bowstring pulled taut, eager to snap. It promised silence for her questions, a bend in her words, understanding or submission or surrender. The urge burned bright, razor-sharp.

Then it receded, draining away as fast as it had risen. He had changed Theon in a single flare of anger, the older boy’s taunts twisting into panic inside the stable’s dim light. Heated words carried weight now. He had only to remember Septa Mordane—once rigid with disdain, now another lover claimed on her own altar, her faith remade because he had let ego and fury slip free.

Jon exhaled through his nose, forcing the power back down. “Do you think I keep quiet because I’m afraid?” he asked, meeting her gaze without giving ground.

The smugness in Jaime’s smirk deepened, one brow arching as she leaned closer still, ruby-red lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You fucked myself, my sister the Queen, my niece’s sworn shield, and my youngest sister—all in the same night,” she listed, her voice a velvet murmur. “I know it is not a lack of courage that holds you back. So what is it?”

Jon held her stare, the question pressing like a thumb on a bruise. “If you cared for your siblings,” he said quietly, “would you take away what is theirs simply because you wanted it?”

After a long moment of silence Jaime drew back slowly, the smirk fading into something quieter and more thoughtful. She studied him before giving a single nod. “Say if I were not two-and-thirty, but two-and-ten perhaps,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“And if you were my age?” Jon pressed.

The motion of the Kignslayer's head was slow as she responded, “Nay. You are of greater character than I was at your age.” There was no mockery in her voice now, just a quiet acknowledgment, as if the admission had cost her something small but real. She stepped back to give him space, the smirk fading from her features, replaced by a look that was almost thoughtful.

Jaime let the silence linger, her breath hanging in the cold as she watched him closely. “Cersei wants you to be Lord of Winterfell,” she said, her tone steady and unflinching. “She truly desires it. I want it as well. Yes, part of it is so you have a reason to remain near us, but it’s more than that. I want you to have the name, the status, the title, and the lands that, by rights of blood if not the law, ought to have been yours.”

A chill lingered in the air as her hand brushed the white cloak, then fell away. “Winterfell is meant for you. You bear its mark more truly than your brothers. Cersei perceives that truth. She recognizes the one who could keep its halls secure, who would anchor its legacy. What she desires is that power entwined with ours—your loyalty forged, enduring. Imagine, a Lord Warden with the North behind him, the lions guarding each flank.”

There was a silent urgency in her words. “Robb’s place is not for you to seize by **** or open confrontation. The North, however, longs for a leader who understands its heart, and Cersei is convinced you are that leader. She envisions you elevated, your name legitimized, your seat assured. That vision is hers, and mine as well.”

The statement settled between them, plain and heavy. Jaime gave him the space to answer, eyes steady, waiting.

Jaime waited, eyes on his, giving him the space to answer or to turn away.