Olenna had not merely imagined the possibility of a partnership. Jon no longer avoided Margaery, and though she still made him blush, Olenna was certain there was little embarrassment left in it. He was sweet with her, sweeter, even, than Olenna had dared hope, looking to her for a reaction when he spoke, taking her for walks in the gardens and visits to the harbour market, inviting her to his Godswood and even allowing her to take him to the Sept. Which was just as well; one day he would have to be able to follow both religions, even if he would not foreswear his Old Gods, and Margaery would have to be his guiding hand there. Within a few moons of their newfound connection, Margaery sat the petitions with him, went over the books with him and Lord Benjen.
Margaery was softening to the boy as well, of that Olenna had no doubt. She brimmed with pride when he wore a doublet she had embroidered. Her smile, when he caught her eye from the training yard, was natural now, unselfconscious, no longer a ploy. Olenna could have done without the once she had caught them kissing in Aegon's Garden, but it had been a reassuring sight nonetheless, and perfectly natural for a pair of children their age. And the sweet girl would get an almost vacant smile on her face sometimes, fall into long silences as though lost in thought, and when she stirred back to awareness, more often than not her first word would concern Jon. It was sweet to see.
Today, however, for the first time in a long while, Margaery looked troubled, biting her lip as she glanced surreptitiously between Olenna and her stitching. It took three bouts down in the yard, this time of the long ones between Ser Arthur and Jon, before Olenna had finally had enough. "Out with it, girl," she demanded.
Margaery wrung her hands, her sewing lying forgotten upon her lap. For long moments, she did not speak at all. Then, at long last, "What is it like to birth a babe?" she asked.
Olenna kept her own eyes from widening, kept from giving away her joy and relief. A babe. Her sweet granddaughter was with child. And not just any child. A child that might very well sit the Iron Throne one day, a child who would have the allegiance of five of the Seven Kingdoms. She took a breath, kept herself grounded in the here and now, the slow building of things, rather than skipping ahead to where she planned for them to one day be, whatever schemes it would take to get them there. "It is painful," she said. "I will not lie to you, child. It will hurt worse than anything you have ever felt. But it will be more than worth it once the maester places your babe in your arms. You will have never known a love like it."
Margaery gave a soft, apprehensive smile.
"How long has it been since your last moon blood?" Olenna asked.
Margaery flushed. "At first, I thought it might just be irregular again, like it was at first," she said. "But it's been two moons now, and I keep feeling ill in the mornings. I have not spoken to the maester yet, but I do not know what else it could be."
Olenna reached out, plucked Margaery's sewing things off her lap and deposited them in their basket for the servants to return to her rooms. "Come, child," she said. "Let us go pay old Maester Cressen a visit."