While he won't fix things entirely he will try to going forward

Jon paced the godswood, boots crunching on the thin crust of snow that clung to the fallen needles like a beggar's cloak. The weirwood loomed over him, its carved face staring down with eyes red as heart's blood, judging, always judging, as the old gods were wont to do. The queen's words hung in the air like the stink of a battlefield after the ravens had come—debts chaining the realm tighter than iron, the king's vices mocking the Iron Throne itself, and that ghost from the North, Lyanna, casting her shadow over a marriage that should have forged kingdoms together, not torn them asunder.

The Queen of the Seven Kigndoms Cersei Lannister stood there now, remade by his hand, a lioness forged anew in duty and justice, yet still yoked to a stag gone fat and blind with drink. The power thrummed in his veins, hot as a fever, calling to him like a siren's song from the Sunset Sea, urging him to mend the rot. But every word he spoke wove him deeper into the web of fate, and webs tore easy enough when pulled too hard.

He stopped, his breath fogging the cold air, and weighed his choices as a maester might balance his scales, careful, ever careful. To say that Robert had always listened to Cersei's counsel—a truth twisted back through the years, like he'd done with the children's blood.

The good in it shone plain: the realm's ills might unwind themselves, debts shrinking under wise words heeded long ago, reforms planted deep in the past, the royal coffers swelling before the decay could take root.

No jarring change to set tongues wagging at court; the world would bend smooth as a well-honed blade, memories shifting like sand underfoot. Cersei's old bitterness would melt into remembered victories, her place in the songs raised high, and maybe, just maybe, Robert's fall slowed by a queen's steady hand from the beginning.

But the dangers lurked darker than the shadows pooling under the heart tree. Meddling with days gone by invited ripples he couldn't foresee—alliances remade or shattered on whispers now heard, battles turned on a word, lives snuffed or spared in ways beyond his ken.

What if it warped Robert further, birthing fresh grudges in the king's heart? And the toll on his own mind... gods, he'd felt it with the children, that dizzying shift as truths rewrote themselves, like a man waking from a dream only to find the dream was real. No, tampering with the past was a fool's game, a bastard's arrogance in a sacred grove where the old gods suffered no such pride.

Better to shape what was to come: say the king would heed the queen's words from this day forth, a gentle push without unravelling the threads behind. That steadied him—control, sharp and sure, a prod instead of a warhammer's blow.

Changes would come natural as the seasons, Robert's ear bending to her wisdom in councils yet to sit, debts faced down in meetings unborn, reforms sprouting like green shoots after a long winter. No wild storms of paradox; the scars of yesteryear stayed, lessons hard-won, a bedrock for building true. And for Cersei, with her new bent toward self-reflection, it gave a road to claim her sway honest-like, her daily musings sharpening her advice like a whetstone on steel.

Yet doubts gnawed at him, sharp as a direwolf's teeth: the realm's troubles pressed close, debts summoning cutthroats from across the Narrow Sea, chaos bubbling while Robert dragged his feet into change.

What if the king's bull-headedness bucked at first, or whispers of witchcraft slithered through the halls?

Truths aimed ahead lacked the clean fit of those bent backward, leaving fissures for suspicion to creep in—lords at court muttering over the king's sudden yielding, or Cersei chafing raw at the delay for her due.

Jon rubbed his temples, the burden heavy as the Wall's great shadow. Honor pulled him one way, caution the other; he'd reforged a queen, but a king? The throne's strands spread wide as a spider's net, snaring every lord from the Dornish marches to the Iron Islands.

His eyes flicked back to Cersei, caught still in the trance's hold, her green gaze far-off yet flickering with that new-made spark of goodness. One sin above the rest fouled her marriage—the king's rutting with whores, a dagger to the heart of her loyalty. He stepped nearer, his voice rough against the grove's quiet. "If I could end Robert's bedding of whores with a single word, stop that betrayal for all time—would you have it so?"

Cersei's lips parted slow, the spell drawing out her truth plain and unadorned, her voice touched with a soft longing from her changed heart. "Aye, I would," she said, steady as an oath sworn before the heart tree. "That wandering wounds the crown and our vows both; end it, and let duty chain him as it does me."

Jon nodded, slow and solemn, as if the old gods themselves had whispered assent through the rustling leaves. Her words struck true, a queen's plea born of duty, not spite, and honour bound him to it.

The power stirred in him again, eager as Ghost scenting prey, but he leashed it tight, aiming not at the past's tangled roots but at the path ahead. "From this day forth," he said, voice low and steady against the grove's chill hush, "Robert Baratheon will bed no whores, faithful to his queen as the crown demands."

The air shimmered faint, like heat rising off the kingsroad on a summer's noon, then stilled. No thunder cracked, no winds howled through the branches—only a subtle shift, as if the world had tilted ever so slight on its axis. Jon felt it in his bones, the weave taking hold, Robert's wandering eye curbed from this moment on, his appetites bent toward the marriage bed alone. A small mercy for her, perhaps, but one that might steady the throne's foundations, brick by brick.

Yet more gnawed at him, the realm's woes pressing like a weight on his chest. Cersei remade, her counsel sharp and just—why let it fall on deaf ears?

From this day too, he decided, Robert would lend his ear to her ideas for the realm's good, open as a gate unbarred. With Father as Hand, the North's Honor would guide the king true, balancing the lioness's fire with Stark ice—though Jon kept that thought buried deep, an assumption tucked away like a dagger in his boot, unsaid but certain as winter's coming.

"And from this day," he murmured, the power humming through the words, "the king will heed your suggestions for the Seven Kingdoms' well, weighing them fair and acting wise."

Again the grove hummed, the change settling soft as fresh snow, Robert's stubbornness yielding just enough to let wisdom seep in. No full remaking of the man, not yet—honour forbade such a heavy hand—but a nudge toward better days, for queen and kingdom alike. Jon stepped back, rubbing at the ache building behind his eyes, wondering if the old gods approved or if their bloody gaze promised reckoning for a bastard playing at creation.

Jon let out a long breath, the grove's chill seeping into his bones like doubt itself. Enough meddling for one day, he thought, the power's hum fading to a whisper in his blood. The queen and her brother stood before him still, ensnared in that empty-eyed trance, their faces pale as weirwood bark under the fading light. He'd bent the world enough—time to seal the cracks, lest whispers of this folly reach ears that shouldn't hear.

"You will remember nothing of this talk," he said, voice rough and low, like a command given to Ghost in the dead of night. "Not the questions, not the answers, not a word spoken here in the godswood's shadow."

The air stirred faint, a ripple across the heart tree's pool, and Jon felt the weave take hold, memories unravelling like smoke from a snuffed candle. Their eyes flickered brief, then cleared, the trance holding but the past slipping away clean as a thief in the dark.

Yet a thought nagged at him, sly as a shadowcat—why not weave a thread of favour, a shield against Lannister pride? The realm teetered, and a kind ear at court might spare blood, guard Father as Hand. "And yet," he added, the words slipping out before doubt could clamp his jaw, careful on his tongue, "you'll find a liking for me natural as breath—Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. You'll favour me, in word and deed, as kin might a favoured nephew."

Again the power thrummed, subtle as a heartbeat, planting seeds deep in their minds. No ****, no twist of will—just a predisposition, warm as summer sun, to see him kind, to lend an ear or a hand when paths crossed. Cersei's lips curved faint, almost a smile in her dulled state, and Jaime's stance eased, like a man shedding armour after battle.

But as the change settled, Jon stopped short, a blade of regret twisting in his gut, sharp and treacherous. Was this honour? This sly twist, planting favour in their hearts like a thief sowing seeds in another's field? He'd sworn no meddling in desires, no bending of wills like he'd done to Theona—yet here he stood, having carved paths in their minds for his own ease. A bastard's cunning, perhaps, to shield himself from Lannister claws, but the old gods watched, their red eyes unblinking, and he felt their scorn like frostbite on his soul. What right had he, Jon Snow, to claim kinship's warmth unearned, to weave liking where none grew natural? It smacked of sorcery; of the very rot he'd sought to purge from the queen.

Self-serving whispers, he chided himself, excuses cloaked in duty, even as the deed lay done. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white as the weirwood's bark, the power's surge now a bitter echo, insistent as a fever dream, he'd rather wake from. Gods forgive me, he thought, or damn me if they must—the words hollow now, too late for turning back.

Jon stepped back, the weight lifting slowly from his shoulders only to settle heavier in his heart, though the old gods' gaze burned now, their judgment etched in bark and blood, accusing, unrelenting. The deed was done; the lioness and her knight would wake none the wiser, the realm perhaps a touch steadier for his hubris. But at what cost to his own soul? He turned toward the godswood's edge, the snow crunching underfoot like bones under a wheel, wondering if honour remained in him at all.