When Jon returns to his chambers, he is greeted by an unexpected visitor.

Jon eased Della off him with a gentle push, her body still trembling in the aftershocks, sweat-slicked thighs sliding from his as she collapsed beside him with a satisfied sigh.

The hours that followed blurred into a haze of warmth and tangled limbs, the women drawing close in the vast bed's silken embrace—Cersei's golden head pillowed on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm; Tyra curled into his side, platinum waves tickling his shoulder as she murmured soft jests between drowsy kisses; Jocelyn tucked under his other arm, her breath warm against his neck, hand resting possessively on his thigh; Sandra lay at his feet, her head pillowed on his leg, storm-grey eyes half-closed in quiet contentment; Della pressed along his back, her modest form a steady anchor, arms wrapped loose around his waist.

The hearth's crackle and their synchronized breaths filled the room, bodies shifting in lazy contentment, the night's fever cooling into gentle touches and shared sighs until the candles burned low.

Jon stifled a yawn, his eyelids heavy as he blinked against the chamber's dim glow, the distant hoot of an owl marking the night's deepest stretch.

He untangled his arm from Tyra's loose hold, silk sheets slipping cool across his skin as he eased upright, a faint creak from the bedframe echoing in the quiet.

Soft murmurs rose around him—Jocelyn's sleepy whine, Sandra's grumbled shift— but he leaned down, brushing lips against each in turn: a quick press for Tyra, a lingering graze for Jaime, until Cersei's mouth met his in a slow meld, her green eyes holding his with a glint that spoke of tomorrows.

He whispered low dismissals, voices blending into drowsy agreements as the others rose, stretching and gathering robes, their footsteps fading toward the door while the Queen remained nestled in the silks, her breathing steady and unhurried.

Tyra pushed up from the tangled sheets, her body arching in a languid stretch that caught the hearth's fading embers on every curve, skin shimmering like polished marble before she drew a robe around herself and slipped out the door, casting a final wink over her shoulder.

A white cloak fluttered as it wrapped around the nude figure beside the bed, fingers tugging it tight before grasping Jocelyn's hand—the princess's lower lip jutting out in a sullen curve, though she followed without a word—and tilting a nod toward Sandra.

Footsteps echoed softly as the three slipped from the room, the cloaked arm looping around Jocelyn's shoulders in a casual sling while Sandra's shadow stretched long behind them, fading toward the guest house's distant glow.

Della pushed up from the bed's edge last, the faint clink of buckles and chainmail filling the quiet as she adjusted her pauldron, the steel already strapped tight across her shoulders, her movements practiced and silent amid the others' drowsy stirs.

She moved to Jon's side with a soft rustle of leather, her presence a steady shadow as they eased through the royal chambers' door, the latch catching with a gentle click that barely disturbed the stillness.

Empty corridors stretched before them, torch brackets cold and unlit, no footsteps echoing from distant turns, no candle flicker from servants' quarters.

Outside, the yard sprawled dark and hushed, the feast's distant roar silenced to faint memory, stars pricking the black sky overhead like scattered pins as their boots bit into the frost, each step a crisp, breaking crunch.

They reached his narrow door in the First Keep, and Jon pushed it open, the hinge creaking faintly in the stillness.

Theona stirred on the rumpled bed, knuckles grinding into her eyelids as she chased away the haze of slumber, her braid—dark strands woven with teal glints that caught the lantern's flicker like sea foam on midnight waves—unraveling in messy loops across the dented pillow. Furs twisted in knots around her legs, the green gown with its golden kraken emblem wrinkled where her body had pressed into the mattress during uneasy turns.

Jon rubbed his eyes, his voice gravelly from sleep as he straightened, teal strands tumbling across his forehead like waves crashing on dark shores. "Where in the seven hells have you been? You've vanished since slipping from the feast—it's pitch black outside now."

Jon halted at the threshold, Della's quiet footsteps halting behind him.

"Why are you in my chambers?" he asked, forehead creasing as his gaze swept the bed—the pillow hollowed from a head's weight, the blanket twisted in creases where a body had shifted through restless dreams.

Theona huffed, legs kicking off the bed as she rose with a lazy stretch, her quiver rattling against her back like an afterthought.

"Robb was worried—you slipped out like mist after the feast ended. Asked me to hunt you down." Another huff escaped her, arms folding tight across her chest. "Like I was just there, practically on my knees for him to drag me off to his room or something."

Her cheeks flushed pink, eyes darting to the floor for a split second, fingers digging into her elbows as if to hold back a sharper retort.

"We tore through the yards, poked into the godswood's shadows, even crept down to the crypts," she went on, fingers kneading the knot at her neck, knuckles whitening. "Came up empty. Robb dragged himself to bed eventually, grumbling the whole way, but I knew you'd stumble back here sooner or later. Nodded off keeping watch."

Jon pushed the door closed with a soft click, sealing Della's shadow behind him, his thoughts churning like river rocks tumbling in current—honest confession or twisted tale, each path branching into unseen eddies.

The question lingered in the air: how to answer Theona?

If he lied it might become the truth, if he told the turth well that was amounted to him admitting he fucked the queen, her two sisters, the Pricnesses Sworn Shield and Della.