Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially those who have taken time to review it. It means a lot, so thank you.

First up, some notes that were meant to be on the last chapter. Apologies for that omission.

ANGIE B: you and I want the same thing (Blackfyre in Jon's hands). I just can't decide whether, after all this time, he actually is more comfortable with Dark Sister. Definitely see where you're coming from though and it's so tempting.

DRAGONFAN: Glad you liked how Aegon turned out and thank you, once more, for your feedback.

Chapter Forty-Seven: What Love Is.

Jon grit his teeth as another scream echoed down the Queen's outer-gallery. Every muscle in his body tensed and he held his breath until it stopped. When he remembered to start breathing again, his heartbeat raced and shot a narrow-eyed glower towards the door. It had been going on for hours now and it was like listening to his wife being tortured. Nervous, plagued with doubt, he looked at every other face in the outer-gallery with him. Olenna, recently returned from Highgarden, was reading court despatches. Every so often she looked up and scolded him for his restless pacing. Somewhere close by, although he could not see them, Megga and Ellinor chatted among themselves. They were all so casual even though the Queen sounded like she was having her insides pulled out through her nostrils. Only the other men, who amounted to three Kingsguard, shifted uncomfortably in their places.

"That's not right," he said to the room at large. "Whatever they're doing to her in there, it's not right."

Olenna raised her gaze over the top of the papers, like a disapproving tutor surveying a student's sub-par work. "Tell me, your grace, how easy was it when you last gave birth?"

"Er," he replied, mystified by the question. "I-"

"Exactly," she cut over him. "Take it from one who knows, all is as it should be."

Unwilling to be dismissed by the Queen of Thorn's mandatory barbs, he drew himself to full height. "Be that as it may, I'm not standing around out there while she's in there screaming in agony. I'm going in."

Just then, another drawn out wail resounded down the corridor and stopped him in his tracks. If a dog made a noise like that he'd put it out of its misery. Then the door was flung open as a maid in a bloodstained apron dashed out, carrying an empty water pail in her hands and bloodstained towels over her forearms. The sight of her made his stomach fold. Meanwhile, Olenna softened.

"Sit down," she said, gathering loose papers from the seat beside her and placing them at her feet. "Come on, sit down."

Hesitantly, he complied. "She's dying in there. It's been too long and you saw the blood."

"I said all is as it should be," she reiterated. "Margaery is in a lot of pain, there's a lot of blood and it takes hours, sometimes days if a woman is unlucky. That's the truth of it and you can accept it or no. But accept this, your grace, you really are the last person she wants to see right now."

Stung, he face fell. "But why?"

"Because of all the reasons I listed above, my dear," she explained, patiently. "Once, roughly nine months ago, she and you had a five minute fumble under the bedsheets and, for her, it's all led up to these hours of blood and pain. But it's all right, we women tend to forgive our husbands within five minutes of holding the babe in our arms."

Jon laughed a dry laugh. "For what it's worth, she'll never have to do this ever again."

"An opinion that is, no doubt, subject to change." Olenna smiled knowingly as she collected her papers again.

"No!" he protested. "I mean it, this is the first and last time. A boy or no, Westeros can have a female succession if the baby is a girl."

"We will see," Olenna replied, still sceptical.

As she spoke, the maid came rushing back across the outer-gallery. The same one, only she had changed her apron and now carried clean towelling and two young lads held a pitcher of hot, steaming water between them. Olenna looked and sat up straight.

"It's to bathe the babe," she told him. "The birth is close. Do yourself a favour, Jon, go about your business until it is done. I will send Loras to fetch you."

The thought of leaving filled him with a cold anxiety. "I can't-"

"Go," she insisted. "Otherwise, you will be half-mad with worry by the time it's done. Then what good will you be?"

Casting one final, desperate glance toward Margaery's door, Jon found himself offering little resistance as he was led away. Once away from those privy chambers, he found his hands were trembling so he shoved them in the pockets of his breeches to hide it. If he returned to his own chambers, right next door, he knew he really would go mad with worry. He needed to do something. He needed to be out in the training yard with a sword in his hands.

"Ser Loras," he said. "Come with me to the practise yard outside."

Catching his meaning, Loras smiled brightly. "Gladly, your grace. I think I find battlefields more pleasing than birthing chambers."

Once outside, Jon led the way with Dark Sister already drawn in his hands. The blade drank in the light of the nearby beacons lit to illuminate the darkness outside. Night had fallen and so far dawn was nowhere to be seen. He paused, sniffing tentatively at the air and finding it bitterly cold. Winter, it seemed, had truly arrived in the realm.

"Ser Loras, you loved King Renly didn't you?" he asked, out of the blue.

"I did, your grace, he was my king-"

"No," Jon cut over him and turned to look in his eyes. Something in Loras' expression had closed off, like he had retreated in his own body. "What I mean is, you loved King Renly."

Ser Loras drew his sword and could no longer look Jon in the eye. "I don't know about you, but I'm freezing. The sooner we get stared, the sooner we warm up."

"Forgive my impertinence," Jon said, ignoring his complaint. "I'm not asking so I can judge you. I'm asking because …." he trailed off as he tried to frame exactly why he was asking without giving too much away. "I know someone like you, who was in love with another man and things have gone badly for him."

Loras seemed to relax a little, but still his dark brown eyes were focused somewhere to Jon's right as he distracted himself with his sword. There was nobody else around, but he glanced over his shoulder to make sure anyway.

"I loved him with all my heart," he whispered. "I still do."

"Even now, after two years?"

"Even now, after five years, your grace," Loras gently corrected him. "Renly and I were together for three years before his murder."

Realising he had made a mistake, Jon quickly made up for it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant since his murder."

"It's all right, Your Grace," replied Loras, quickly. "But, now that I have revealed the deeply personal to you, who may I ask is it you're worried about?"

"Jon Connington," he replied, sighing heavily. "They say he was in love with my birth father."

Loras mulled it over for a few moments before replying. "Jon Connington is the architect of his own downfall. Had he been honest with you from the start then he may have had hope."

"I know, but he raised Rhaegar's son for love of Rhaegar," said Jon. "Turns out he was lied to. Varys and Mopatis exploited that love and used it to their advantage. Just imagine if it happened to you, and they tried to say it was Renly's son."

"Renly's son wouldn't be Renly, your grace," Loras pointed out, curtly. "I am sorry for Connington's troubles, I really am. But he came here to kill you and you must now do your duty to the realm and execute the man who nearly plunged Westeros back into chaos. And no amount of lovelorn weeping over dead Rhaegar is going to change that."

If he did not, Jon knew he would look weak. This wasn't about him nearly dying, it was about a man who almost reignited a civil war that would have led to the deaths of thousands. "You're right, of course. He must face the king's justice. Before that, I want to speak with Aegon."

It was always the same when he was overly nervous. He found himself flitting from one thing to another in a bid to keep his mind occupied. Now that he had reached the practise yard, he realised he needed to be somewhere else.

"Damn this," he said. "I'll speak with Aegon later. For now, fight me Loras."

The other man laughed. "Gladly."

It was Theon's lucky night. He drew first watch and sat atop the wall overlooking the endless darkness. Only the fire in the beacon at his side gave him a modicum of warmth as he huddled inside his thick, black furs. In profile, he resembled some great crow with oily feathers sprouting from his shoulders, the furs were so old. As if things couldn't get any better, as soon as morning came – the hour at least, if not the actual daylight itself – he would ride forth with no sleep. In fact, he'd be lucky if he was spared a few rashers of cold burn bacon on which to break his fast.

Not far from the north face of the wall, he could see the fires of the wildling camp nearby. When the wind died down, he could hear their voices raised in song and could catch a whiff of the cookfires. Small dark figures were silhouetted against the burning fires that ringed their camp to keep the white walkers at bay. Not that there would be many around anyway. He had convinced the wildlings to cooperate with him in so far as they now all burned their dead in an organised and systematic manner. But these small concessions the Watch made to the wildlings would not last. Soon, their dire circumstances would dictate that they needed more and more. As it was, Ser Alliser and a few others already thought him a turncloak just for talking to them in the first place. They would hang him if they ever discovered his other little secret: that he actually liked one or two of them and enjoyed their company.

Tormund Giantsbane was all rugged and bawdy jokes, but a fierce and proud warrior. Ygritte said she was 'kissed by fire,' while Theon thought her fire itself in female form. Meanwhile, there was Mance himself. An eminently reasonable man. There was something about many of the wildling tribes that reminded him of the Iron Born, or at least how he remembered the Iron Born to have been in his day. Fierce, independent and loyal to their own. Fast friends, but enemies to be feared. They did not sow, either; they thrived against adversity.

Approaching footsteps soon drew him from his musings. He looked down the pathway, to where Jaime Lannister approached with a black fur cloak drawn around his golden armour. Nothing was going to stamp the Lannister pride out of that one, he thought to himself.

"Lord Greyjoy," Lannister greeted him.

"I'm not Lord Greyjoy now, Lannister," he replied, flatly. "Gave up everything when I took the black."

"Even your pride, it seems." Jaime unknowingly echoed Theon's own sentiments about him.

"If you've come to taunt me, then turn right around and go back to barracks," he calmly stated. "Doesn't take two to man one watch post."

"Oh, don't be like that," Jaime retorted, sitting down beside him. The scales of his armour grated against each other in the cold night air. "You and I both know we're more than a cut or two above these other … whatever you call them."

"I call them my brothers." Theon had hated almost all of them when he arrived. In fact, he still did by and large. But he worked with them to make life a little easier. Slowly, as time passed, he learned to stop looking down on them and he hoped Lannister would too. After a moment's silence, he turned to look at the proud lord, noticing the emptiness in those green eyes. He was a shadow of the man who had arrived at Winterfell, all those years before. A shadow now living in an endless shadow. All his pride and haughtiness was now was a shield to protect him from the reality of the depths he had sunk to. "We ride out in a few hours, Lannister. You might want to rest."

"Well I don't," he answered. "I want to talk. Preferably to someone on the same level as myself and you're the closest I'll get around these parts."

"Lucky me," he replied, and offered no more than that.

Undeterred by his curt replies, Jaime continued: "So, you betrayed the Starks and you ended up here. Your actions seem all the more foolish, given who Jon Snow's real parents were."

"I didn't know about that," he stated, defensively.

Jaime looked at him disbelievingly. "How long were you at Winterfell for? Ten years, wasn't it?"

"About that."

"All those years growing up alongside the boy and you knew nothing?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked. "Come off it. Even you aren't that blind."

"Nor am I a clairvoyant," he snapped. "All the time I was there Jon was nothing more than the bastard of Ned Stark. Nothing more."

He remembered how everything changed after Jon had been abducted by the Boltons. Lady Stark was kinder to him, going so far as to legitimise him where before she had wanted to leave him for the wolves to finish off. Then he and Robb would spend hours huddled away, talking to each other about secret things he was not privy to. He had felt excluded then, frozen out. One minute Robb treated him and Jon like trueborn brothers, then it was all about Jon.

Only now, in retrospect, did it make any sense.

"Jon and I never got on, anyway," he added. "And I had my reasons, other reasons, for doing what I did."

"Which are?" Jaime prompted

"No concern of yours," Theon gruffly replied.

"Very well then, hold your secrets hard in your heart," Jaime sighed heavily, his breath fogged in the freezing air and caught the firelight. "But you must have a regret or two now that Jon is king and Robb Stark is set to take the North."

Unnoticed by Jaime, Theon rolled his eyes. "Are you so much Tywin Lannister's son that you just cannot give up? I already said I don't wish to talk about this."

"I'm curious, that's all," Jaime protested. "I mean, that boy you liked to tease for being a bastard is now your king-"

"The Night's Watch play no part in the wars of men and we have no king," Theon cut in, bristling against being reminded so sharply of his youthful follies and failings.

"But it must hurt," said Jaime. "Fair enough, it sounds like you wouldn't have been too welcome around the galleries of the Red Keep with Jon on the throne. But Robb's another matter, from what I hear. You could have been his Hand-"

"The Kings of the North didn't have a Hand," Theon interjected. "Northmen don't rely on others to do their dirty work." As an afterthought, he added: "And why would I anyway? I would have had my own kingdom to run. The Iron Islands."

"Fair enough," Jaime conceded. "But you missed out on that too, didn't you. Just think, had you not betrayed Robb Stark, he would be pressing your claim to those shit stained rocks right now. Instead, he's sent men to help your sister stake her claim. By force if needs be. Instead you're here, sitting on a mountain of ice, looking at savages dancing around their camp fires. That's got to really hurt."

"You know what else hurts?" he asked. "Being pushed off said mountain of ice to a painful death. Pushed off, the same way you pushed little Bran off that tower. It would be a fitting end for a man like you. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Sister Fucker."

"Oh, the same little Bran you tried to kill during your stint as King of Winterfell," Jaime laughed, but it was hollow. "You and I are very imperfect people, Greyjoy. It's why we're here and not enjoying the fruits of our families political game playing. So, now that we have all our grievances out in the open, why don't we work together to redeem the dregs of our honour and find out what lies in wait out there."

He nodded toward the farthest distance in the north, past the wildling camp and over the Frostfangs and Hardhomme and everywhere else that lay in that unfathomable wilderness. Theon drew a deep breath, letting it go in a long sigh. Lannister was right, they were just two broken lordlings with nothing left but the last traces of the pride they had been born with. They had both reached a fork in the road and, whether they meant to or not, taken a wrong turn that led them to Castle Black.

"So what's really out there?" he asked. "All that stuff about ice monsters and the dead rising. It cannot possibly be true."

Theon laughed. "You'll see. And when you do, you'll wish you took it seriously. And if Robb and Jon Stark aren't so proud as to come out here and hear me and my men speak, they will live to regret it."

"And the woman in red. What's she here for?" he asked. "I didn't think women were allowed at Castle Black."

"They aren't." he stated. "But she's different."

He had seen Melisandre of Asshai. She spent large swathes of time locked up with Alliser Thorne and he had been surprised to find that the Lord Commander was not fucking her.

"Thorne thinks she knows a thing or two about the Others," he added. "I'm sure she'll get bored and move along, soon enough."

Even though winter had come, the wall was weeping more than ever. Every day, he came out of his barracks to find another fissure in its surface. Just two days past, a great chunk of it had fallen away. He had blamed the fires burned by the red woman, amongst others. But then a brother station at Eastwatch by the Sea had been killed by a falling glacier breaking away from the face of the wall. Now he found himself wondering whether the wall was finally showing its age. Or, worse still, whether it was beginning to crumble away altogether. If that happened, the whole realm would be damned.

Margaery took hold of the one of the ropes that he been suspended from the top of her bed frame, wrapped it around her wrist and pulled as hard as she could. Teeth gritted, sweat dripping from her brow, she heaved and pushed and strained so much the veins at her temples bulged. Still the contractions came. Wave after wave of pain; it felt like she was being cleaved in two. Meanwhile, her mother rubbed her back and held damp cloths to her brow and made shushing noises in her ear. After five minutes of that, she wanted to punch her in the face.

As another contraction passed, she collapsed against the pillows and fought to get her breath back.

"Mother," she panted. "Mother listen..."

Lady Allerie perched on the edge of the bed, damp cloth in hand. "Sweetling, it will be over soon. You are doing so well!"

"I don't care," she said between laboured breaths. "I need you to tell Jon…. Tell him …. tell him, I want to tear his bollocks off."

Allerie's smile became rictus as she pressed the cool cloth against her daughter's forehead. Behind her, a septa choked but the midwife, a merry and rosy cheeked woman, smiled like she had heard it all before. She probably had. Meanwhile, Allerie patted Margaery's hand reassuringly.

"That's not how one is accustomed to addressing one's king-"

But Margaery was determined. "Tell him!" she gasped through gritted teeth. "I am your Queen, so tell hi-AAAAAHHHH!"

She cut herself off as a contraction swept away the rest of her sentence. Her nails dug into her mother's hands, the pain ripping through her belly. Beneath it all, deep inside her, she could feel the actual baby squirming through her thighs. When the contraction passed, she fell back again and found her mother looking down at her, smiling pitifully.

"When this is all over, you can tell him yourself," she said. "Then you'll be able to see the glimmer of fear in his eyes too. Won't that be nice, sweetling?"

Margaery hesitated, then nodded her head vigorously as she limbered up for another contraction. "Yes," she gasped. "Yes, I like that. Good idea."

Allerie smiled with relief. "Excellent, my love. Ready now?"

"Oh, yes!"

"One more push, your grace!" the Septa and the midwife chorused.

It hit her like a landslide, one that she rode with and heaved with all her might. Through a haze of pain she noticed the maester. A chainless maester who had his back to her, preparing some potion or other. Qyburn turned to face her, like a premonition from a nightmare.

"Very good, your grace," he said. "Just one more to go now, I think."

She screamed at the top of her lungs, kicked out at him with one stray leg and bore down on herself with all her might. Until something wet and slippery slithered from between her thighs. Suddenly, on the turn of a hair, the pain washed away until only a dull ache throbbed in her loins. The realisation that it was all over came on a wave of euphoria.

The sun had failed to rise and the courtyard remained in darkness. Even when the rain began to fall, Jon and Loras continued their sparring. His hair was sodden, the fringe flopping into his eyes whenever he blocked a thrust and water flew off Dark Sister's blade whenever he took a swing. He had won three rounds so far, and yielded only twice. Earlier, he had fallen backwards and now had the taste of blood at the back of his throat and every muscle ached. But he did not stop. Not until the breathless messenger arrived, panting and gripping a wall for support as he rounded the bend into the yard.

Knowing why he had come, both Loras and Jon dropped their weapons and fixed him in a hard stare.

"Your Grace," the man tried to bow. "Her Grace is safely delivered of a healthy baby boy."

It took a second for the meaning to hit home, a second during which Jon hadn't realised he had stopped breathing. Letting the breath go in a sharp gasp, he whirled around to Loras and pulled him into a firm bear hug. A split second later, the silence was torn apart by the pealing of bells. Soon, more bells joined in until the sonorous clangour of the Great Sept of Baelor rang out the news of the Prince's birth. As though the clamour had pulled him to his senses, Jon hurried after the messenger.

By the time he reached the Queen again, she had been transferred to a clean bed in aired chambers. Her hair was in a neat bun and in her arms she held a bundle of woollen blankets. Jon paused in the doorway, just to look at them both. She was smiling, a tear of joy dripping from the end of her nose and splashing the infant in her arms. Just then, a tiny pink leg kicked upwards over the swaddling, breaking the trance he seemed to have fallen under.

"Marge," he said.

She looked up at him with the biggest, happiest smile on her face. Her joy beyond words, she said very little. "Come and meet our son."

He approached the bed and carefully lowered himself down beside her, scared of disturbing either of them. As she transferred the baby into his arms, he could see it was just a tiny scrap of humanity. His eyes were closed, a tiny mouth sucked a tinier thumb but his legs kicked and pushed at the towels that bound him. Beneath the cap that Lady Roslyn had sown, soft dark brown baby curls struck out, thin but unruly already.

A soft mewling cry preceded the infant opening his eyes. Dark grey eyes, just like the Starks. So dark they were almost black, just like his father's. It was then that Jon understood what love is. He raised his son up and kissed his cheek, then turned to Margaery with tears in his eyes.

"He's perfect, thank you."

Margaery tried to stop herself from crying again, grimacing badly but still beautifully to him. "He's thirty minutes old and already I don't know how I lived my life without him."

Nobody else was in the room. It was just the three of them. For ten precious, priceless minutes, there was nobody else. Jon and Margaery savoured every second of it, with their newborn son. Only the proud grandmother, Lady Allerie, intruded after that length of time.

"Wasn't there something you wanted to say to his grace, sweetling?" she asked, kissing the baby's forehead.

Curious, Jon tore his gaze away from his son and to Margaery, who's smile had become fixed. "What's that?"

"Nothing," Margaery replied, over brightly. "Just mother's idea of a little jest. One day, I'm sure baby and I will have lots of similar little jests."

Allerie winked at her. "What's said in the birthing chamber stays there. That's my motto." After a pause, while looking between them both, she added: "So, what's my grandson's name?"

Jon felt the breath catch in his throat. He felt the same in that moment as he did whenever he closed an automatically locking door with the key left inside. It was something fundamental that had slipped his mind. When he glanced at Margaery, hoping she could throw a lifeline, she looked how he felt. Caught out.

"I was thinking … Eddard," she suggested, hesitantly.

Jon shook his head. "Robb and Sansa both plan on naming their firstborn sons Eddard. There's going to be scores of Eddards in our family."

"Then, Rhaegar?" Allerie suggested.

Jon liked it, but it didn't suit the infant in his arms. "What about Garth? The founder of your house."

Margaery and Allerie both choked. "Not a chance!"

"Brandon?" Margaery suggested.

Again, Jon shook his head. "There's been hundreds of Brandons in House Stark already; there will be hundreds more in the future."

"What about Rickard?" Allerie asked. "After your grandfather."

"Yes!" Margaery agreed. "Rickard."

Jon went over it in his head. 'Prince Rickard', and disliked the sound of it. "I don't know. Prince Rickard sounds odd."

Allerie sighed. "I can't believe you haven't already thought of this!"

"We've been busy," Jon protested. "Well, I like Daeron. After Daeron Targaryen, who conquered Dorne."

It was Margaery who brought an end to the matter with an expansive yawn. She still hadn't slept after the birth and it was clear no consensus was forthcoming that night. IN the meantime, Jon wanted to show his nameless babe to everyone.

Thank you again for reading; reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.

Also, question: what baby name do you prefer? Rickard, Rhaegar or Daeron. (Daeron, because the Young King was one of Jon's heroes).