Margaery stepped out a moment later, color back in her cheeks. The green earrings at her ears swayed gently with each step, and her expression carried a shy, satisfied gleam.
A week had passed since the birth. Her belly was flat again, and the way she moved made her even more striking than before.
"So," Jon teased, "how do you like the new last name?"
"I like it," she answered, then tilted her head. "But I'm curious about one thing."
"What's that?"
"What's the difference between sleeping with the Duke of Casterly Rock and sleeping with a king?"
Jon raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected her to be quite so bold, though he probably should have. On the voyage from Highgarden she had been an eager student in every position he showed her. Still, she had only given birth a week ago, and with war looming there was no time or safety for that kind of distraction.
More importantly, it wasn't wise.
Winter was barely a year away. The Long Night would follow soon after. Between the coming war, the cold, the darkness, and the Others, Jon didn't want his closest ally wasting her strength on another pregnancy right now.
He also wanted their eldest son to be five or six years older than any siblings who came after him. That age gap would let Aegon grow into the role of protector and helper instead of just another child. Margaery was healthy; they could easily have four or five children over the years. There was no rush.
They sat together in the study, sharing one wide chair. Margaery leaned her head against his shoulder and looked out at the black three-headed dragon banners snapping in the wind.
"Do you really think our son can hatch a dragon egg?" she asked.
"It's possible," Jon said. "Not every Targaryen baby manages it. Plenty of dragonriders had to claim an already-hatched dragon, and there were always plenty of wild ones running loose."
He remembered the old records. The odds of a Targaryen infant actually hatching an egg were never high, and even when it happened the hatchling sometimes died young or was born deformed. One account told of a massive white maggot-like creature that had bitten the infant in its cradle before the Kingsguard cut it in three.
Margaery wasn't satisfied with "possible." She lifted her chin. "I think he will. You have dark hair and gray eyes. I have brown hair and brown eyes. Yet we made a silver-haired, purple-eyed boy. He's already special."
Jon thought of the Green Seer's words—"I will help you"—but kept that to himself. Instead he smiled and said, "You're right. My son Aegon has the bearing of an emperor."
Margaery laughed, shoulders shaking against him.
A moment later her tone turned more serious. "I heard you want Maester Qyburn to cut my belly open if things go wrong."
She rested her hand on his chest and looked straight into his eyes, searching for any sign of apology or dismissal.
"No," Jon said quietly. "The success rate for that kind of cut is still only about fifty-fifty. If you had real trouble I would tell him to—"
She kissed him before he could finish.
She had seen Qyburn's tools—the long, gleaming scissors, the curved needles like fishhooks. She didn't want to hear words like "miscarriage" or "stillbirth" right now. What mattered was that Jon had chosen her over the Tyrell name when it counted. That knowledge warmed her.
With the baby's appearance forcing their hand, war was coming faster than anyone had planned. Everyone was scrambling. These stolen moments felt precious.
Margaery had a feeling these quiet times would become rare. Soon they would be separated again for long stretches.
After a while they turned to practical matters.
"Because you kept reminding us," she said, "Highgarden's granaries have broken every record for months. Casterly Rock's stores are packed into the old mine tunnels—grain, steel, fuel, cloth, even dried grapes from the Arbor. You don't have to worry about supplies."
Even while pregnant she had run Casterly Rock with quiet competence.
"When did you first realize who you really were?" she asked. "Did Lord Eddard tell you?"
Jon saw no point in lying. "I guessed it. I didn't have proof until our son was born."
She studied him for a moment. "All the extra grain and supplies you had us stockpile… that was for the Long Night, wasn't it?"
"You thought it was just for war?"
Margaery looked startled. "You actually believe the Long Night is real?"
Jon told her again about the wights he had seen on the Wall, about his uncle—now his good-uncle—Benjen vanishing beyond it, and about the free folk who had seen White Walkers with their own eyes. He spoke plainly. The Long Night was coming, and they had to prepare as if the worst were certain.
"How long do you think it will last?" she asked, brow creased.
"I don't know. There are almost no records of what it was really like. All we can do is hoard as much food and material as possible. From now on every field should grow potatoes and sweet potatoes. We prepare for the worst."
In his mind he heard the Green Seer's warning again. He wondered how many more pieces like Euron were already moving across the board.
"Not everyone thinks the way you do," Margaery said. "Stannis only cares about his throne."
"We don't have to destroy each other," Jon said. "He doesn't have the strength for it anyway. If we can make him see that fighting us brings him nothing but ruin, he might still come to his senses."
Jon hoped Stannis would. If the king fell, the Crownlands and the Stormlands would fall on Jon's shoulders, and he already had enough to carry.
For now his priorities were clear. The Westerlands came first—his core. Then the Reach and the North. The Riverlands were half in. Everyone else would receive help only when he had strength to spare.
This was not the time to take the crown. If the next ten years were another long summer like Robert's reign, Jon would have pushed hard and claimed everything quickly. But winter was coming. The title of Protector of the Realm was too heavy right now. If Stannis kept the Crownlands and the Stormlands, any famine or crisis there would be his problem, not Jon's.
"So our first real target is Harrenhal?" Margaery asked.
Jon gave her a crooked smile. "My Lady of Casterly Rock is learning strategy?"
"Call me Your Grace," she said, then explained what she had already worked out.
The Riverlands were split three ways. The Freys and the Tullys were already with them. Only the Whents at Harrenhal still answered to Stannis. During the Dance of the Dragons, Harrenhal had been the key stronghold both sides fought over. Whoever held it could threaten King's Landing directly. Right now Stannis used it as a shield. The first major clash would almost certainly happen there.
Because Jon would soon be riding out again, Margaery clung to him like a sloth. He felt how much she hated the coming separation and let her stay close a little longer. They talked about smaller things—the printing press that was finally taking shape, the new scale armor that was cheaper and faster to make and repair, the new rank of "Great Knight" they planned to create above ordinary knights so the feudal ladder had more steps.
They were still discussing how to keep real power in Casterly Rock's hands—justice, administration, and taxes—when Jon finally stood.
If he stayed any longer she would keep him until dark.
Davos, Alester, and Melisandre were still in Casterly Rock, some under guard, some under soft arrest. Jon needed to see them and set them to their tasks.
Especially Melisandre. That woman was a lit fuse.