First thing first make sure she and the Queen do not act out

Jon saw it clearly: Kingslayer and her sister the Queen loved him. The affection showed in every lingering touch, every heated glance, and every low promise breathed against his skin. Yet that love was warped, shaped by the people they had become. Their affection resembled blades, each bent into forms that served their own ends first.

They wanted to hand him things such as titles, lands, and power. They offered these without pausing to consider whose blood might be spilled or whose future might fracture as a result. Their behavior was not a matter of deliberate cruelty. It was simply how they cared. They gave what they prized most, always assuming the world must value those things in the same way.

That suited the Queen perfectly. Selfish. Entitled. Arrogant. Treacherous. Treasonous. Self-indulgent. Scheming. Vicious. Wicked. She embodied those traits, only now the venom turned inward, channeled toward whatever kept him close. Her wickedness and scheming nature were undeniable, and her ruthless ambition was matched only by her willingness to harm others for her own gain.

Jaime differed only in degree, never in kind. She wanted Jon to have Winterfell less for the throne it might one day command and more because she saw a man who deserved a name, a seat, something solid that matched the blood in his veins. Part of it remained selfish—she liked the thought of him tethered to them, near enough to reach, though part of it was loyalty to the Queen. If her twin wanted it done, the Kignslayer would make it happen. That was the shape of her love: fierce devotion to the handful she claimed, and a willingness to burn whatever stood between her and them.

The godswood stood silent around him. Red sap dripped from the weirwood’s carved eyes in slow, steady tears. Jon stared into the black pool until his reflection blurred at the edges, the weight of their affection pressing hard against the guilt that still lived under his ribs. They loved him. They wanted him to rise. And they would place Winterfell in his hands without a second thought, never asking whether the cost would break the people he refused to touch.

He let out a breathe, breath fogging in the cold. The heart tree kept its eternal watch, unblinking, while the question turned over and over in his mind: how long could he keep refusing before the wanting grew stronger than the shame?

Jon nodded once. The power rose inside him, a slow warm tide pressing against his ribs. "You and the Queen will not speak, act, or even think of this again unless I bring it up myself."

The command left his mouth quietly. Jaime felt it land. Her smirk eased at the corners. Her eyes dropped for half a second, then came back up. "If that's what you want," she said, voice softening into something almost gentle.

She closed the gap without rush. One hand slid to the nape of his neck. The other pressed flat against his chest. Her lips met his in a single sure contact—soft for a breath, then opening, tongue pushing inside to slide slow and deep. The kiss sharpened fast. Her teeth nipped his lower lip hard enough to sting, then soothed the bite with long lazy strokes. She tilted her head, taking more, tongue curling against his in unhurried sweeps that tasted of salt and the faint leftover sweetness of wine. Her fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him in until their breaths tangled hot and ragged, chests mashed together, the faint scrape of her armor against his tunic the only sound besides the wet slide of mouths.

When she finally pulled away it was gradual. Her lips grazed his one last time in a lingering brush before she let go. Her thumb traced the edge of his jaw. Her eyes stayed locked on his, the earlier playfulness gone, replaced by something steady and certain. She stepped back just far enough for the cold to slip between them, but the heat of her touch stayed on his skin long after she moved.