The whole of Casterly Rock held its breath before that first wail split the air.
The red lion banners coming down marked the end of one era, but only a newborn's cry could truly begin the next.
Outside the birthing room, Mace Tyrell was still laying into Jon, griping that he hadn't hauled ass straight back to Casterly Rock the second the fighting ended.
Jon wasn't about to pick a fight with a father worried sick over his daughter. He just nodded and took it. Mace could be shortsighted on plenty of things, but the love he had for his family was real. You couldn't stay mad at a man like that.
Besides, Jon figured if he ever became a father himself, he'd probably feel the same way about some cocky son-in-law who didn't measure up.
He'd planned to grab a quick bath and then check on Margaery, but everyone insisted he stay away. He'd just come off the battlefield, they said. Blood and bad luck still clung to him. The last thing a woman in labor needed was some war-stained lord breathing down her neck.
Mace spotted a quiet man in blue robes standing off to the side—clean enough, but with a cold, unsettling look in his eyes—and jerked his chin. "What's his story? Why's he dressed like the midwives and maesters?"
The man was Qyburn, the one Jon had brought in as backup.
Jon kept his voice calm. "Insurance. Just in case."
Alerie caught the hint and smoothly pulled her husband's attention elsewhere, giving Jon an out. He walked over to Qyburn. "How's the cesarean work coming along?"
"My lord, while you were gone I performed the procedure on seven women who needed it. Four deliveries. Three lived. One caught childbed fever afterward—"
Qyburn didn't need to spell it out. Roughly fifty-fifty odds.
Jon told him to scrub everything down with strong spirits again and change every piece of clothing head to toe. Those blue robes had been steamed clean already, but in this world you took what safety you could get.
He couldn't give Margaery modern medicine. All he could do was stack every small advantage.
Qyburn was there in case things went sideways and they had to cut the baby out fast. Jon made it clear: Margaery's life came first.
"Understood, my lord."
Catelyn stepped up beside him, trying to ease the tension. She'd watched Margaery's shape and thought the birth wouldn't be too hard. Sansa and Arya were in the sept praying for her. Jon had saved so many people, she said. The gods would be kind.
Jon thanked her. He didn't put much stock in prayers, but it was a kind gesture. They stood together in uneasy silence while the waiting dragged on.
Half the realm was counting the days until this baby arrived. Gifts were already stacked and ready—either to celebrate or to be pulled back depending on how the night went.
Margaery was a first-time mother. The midwives said it could take all day and night.
Mace and Alerie stayed put even as exhaustion crept in. Loras and Garlan kept them company. Catelyn kept running between the birthing room and the sept. Arya kept drifting back to Jon whenever she got restless.
Davos finally found his opening and approached.
Jon knew exactly why the man was here. Stannis wanted him on Dragonstone as castellan, close enough to watch. Davos was just the messenger.
They talked around it for a minute before Davos brought up Dragonstone's towers, the old Valyrian magic, how unique the place was.
Jon played along. "I'd like to see it someday."
Davos's eyes lit with hope until Jon added, "But the West still needs work. The Iron Islands. The free folk. And this is my first child. It'll be years before I can leave."
Davos tried again, softer this time. Stannis understood about the baby. He'd give Jon time—until the child was a month old. Then he wanted Jon in King's Landing.
"A month?" Jon's eyebrows rose.
Mace appeared out of nowhere like he'd been waiting for the cue. "A month-old baby? One wrong step and it's dead before you even reach the Red Keep! You tell your king if anything happens to my grandson, the Reach won't forget it!"
Alester Florent jumped in, voice sharp. "Are you threatening the Crown, Lord Mace?"
Mace turned on him fast. "And who the hell are you to lecture me?"
The old argument about Storm's End flared up again—Mace blaming the Florents for dragging things out during Robert's Rebellion. Voices rose. Jon stepped between them before it turned ugly.
Then Robert Frey came running, out of breath. "My lord—Lady Margaery's started."
Everything stopped.
Jon and Mace moved at the same time, hurrying to the door. Mace faced the direction of the Starry Sept and started praying out loud, the same words over and over. Jon stood quiet, jaw tight, heart hammering harder than it had on any battlefield.
The stars were bright overhead. Casterly Rock, the sept, the whole damn castle seemed to be holding its breath.
Mace was on his seventh repetition when the cry finally came—loud, strong, and furious.
Relief hit the hallway like a wave.
Mace's face split into a grin. "That's a boy! I'd bet my life on it."
Davos smiled too, but it was thin. He looked at Jon, saw the ice cracking into something warmer—pure, stunned joy.
A maid appeared at Jon's side a moment later. Her face was pale, eyes wide. She leaned in close and whispered something only he could hear.
Jon's expression changed instantly.