The maid who came for Jon was Sola. She knew the people waiting outside were all powerful lords, so she kept her voice as steady as she could. "My lords, the lady and the child are both well—very well. But I must bring Lord Jon inside first. Those are the lady's orders."
"If they're both fine, why can't I go in and see for myself?" Mace demanded. Davos and the others shared the same question.
"Father-in-law, Margaery has her reasons. Please wait here for now."
"That girl—what in seven hells is she thinking? She won't even let her own father see her for a moment?"
Mace kept grumbling, but he accepted it. When Jon and Sola left, Davos stared after them, baffled. What could have happened to make Margaery act this way—not even letting her father through the door first?
"Hmph. Maybe she popped out a little Tyrion," Alester muttered under his breath.
Mace heard him. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing."
"You lying bastard. Today I'm going to break that foul mouth of yours."
The broad, heavy man lunged, swinging his big fist straight at Alester's face. Davos tried to pull them apart, but Garlan stepped in and held him back with iron arms that felt like the chains that once spanned the Blackwater.
Jon had barely stepped out of the room when the shouting and scuffling erupted behind him. He didn't slow down. His mind was fixed on one thing: why Margaery had demanded to see him alone first.
Even though the birthing room was only a short walk away, he couldn't stop himself from asking Sola what had happened. She looked uncomfortable. "My lord, we all know the lady isn't that sort of woman. Maybe the child is ill. Please don't take it to heart."
My child might be ill and I'm not supposed to take it to heart? And what kind of woman does she think Margaery is?
He knew pressing her now was useless, so he lengthened his stride until he was running. Sola couldn't keep up.
When he reached the birthing room, the midwives, maester, septon, and maids had all been ordered to stay put. The air felt tight with tension. Jon's unease sharpened into something colder.
Had the child been born a monster?
He pushed through the corridor into the carefully prepared room. The faint smell of blood and herbs still lingered. Margaery sat propped against the pillows, pale and visibly shaken. When she saw him, relief and fear warred in her eyes.
"Jon," she said, voice thin and trembling.
"Are you all right?" He kept his tone low and steady.
Hearing him ask about her first instead of the child eased something tight in her chest. "I'm fine. But the baby—" She tilted the bundle just enough for him to see the small head.
The moment Jon saw the hair, his mind went white. Silver.
How—? No. Silver hair wasn't impossible. Alerie had silver hair. That could be explained.
He tried to steady himself. He trusted Margaery completely. She would never betray him. But the hair was striking enough on its own.
Then the child's eyes opened—half-lidded, curious—and Jon felt the ground drop away beneath him. Purple. Deep, unmistakable Targaryen purple.
Silver hair and purple eyes. No wonder Margaery had locked the room down and refused to let anyone else in until she could speak to him alone.
"Jon," she whispered, fear and hope tangled together. "What do we do?"
He looked at the infant a long moment, then met her eyes. "Wait here."
He stepped out, gave quick orders to Sola and Sandor to seal the corridor—no one was to enter—and then ran for his private chambers. He unlocked the hidden room, took the white dragon egg with its two bright red markings, locked everything again, and returned at a dead sprint.
Mace was still outside, face flushed, fists scraped from the fight with Alester. "Jon! What in the seven hells is going on? Let me see my daughter!"
"Father-in-law, Margaery and the child are both healthy. Please be patient a little longer."
He brushed past and slipped back into the room.
Margaery's face was tight with worry. "Jon, where did you—?"
He set the dragon egg down where the light caught it clearly. Her breath caught.
"That's not the one from Euron's ship."
"No," Jon said quietly. "It isn't."
She stared at him, pieces clicking together at terrifying speed. "Jon… are you—?"
"Yes. I am." He didn't look away. "Lord Eddard was my uncle. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."
Margaery's lips parted. For a heartbeat she looked as if the world had tilted. Then her expression hardened into something fierce and protective.
"Your father wasn't a rapist," she said. "And your mother never wanted Robert."
Jon gave a short nod. "No. They didn't."
She looked down at their son—silver hair, purple eyes, the rest of his face unmistakably theirs—and something steely settled behind her eyes.
"We can't hide this," she said. "Not with half the realm's lords already here. Not with Alester and Davos and that red woman still under this roof."
"I know." Jon rested a hand on the dragon egg. "I was going to wait. Another year, maybe two. But the boy has made the choice for us."
He met her gaze, steady and certain.
"Margaery, my lady… it's time we stopped pretending. The Iron Throne was never meant to be Stannis's forever. And I won't let our son grow up hiding what he is."
Her fingers tightened on the blanket. Outside, they could hear Mace's voice rising again, demanding to be let in. Jon didn't flinch.
"We show them the child," he said. "All of them. Today. Let every lord in the West see exactly who their future lies with."
Margaery looked at the silver-haired infant in her arms, then back at her husband. The fear in her eyes had already begun to burn into something sharper.
"Then we'd better start now," she said. "Because once they see him, there's no going back."
Jon picked up the dragon egg again. Its shell felt warm against his palm.
"No," he agreed. "There isn't."