Jon was not sure who placed the babe in his arms. He honestly did not care. His whole attention, his whole being, was focused on tiny little boy he held. The babe was beautiful, almost unnaturally so. Jon thought he might have been more frightened, had he not been face to face with his own apparent aunt just moments ago. It still felt foreign, frighteningly so, but Jon could not possibly love this babe less for the tuft of silver hair on his small head or the black-purple eyes blinking up at him. Damson, he thought, but he had never really paid that much attention when Maester Cressen went into colour studies.
The babe in his arms stretched on a long deep yawn, and all Jon's thoughts seemed to just vanish into thin air. He could not stop looking at the tiny little human being in his arms. He truly did not think he could ever love anyone more, that it was even possible to do so. His throat tightened and his chest felt so heavy he was surprised each and every one of his breaths did not come out a sob. The slight, warm weight in his arms grounded him in a way nothing ever had. He could not look away. Did not think he would have been able to, had the whole world threatened to fall down around his shoulders.
For one brief moment, Jon was painfully aware of his own age. He was four-and-ten namedays old, as much a boy as a man grown, still two years away from his majority. And he was so utterly inadequate, so unqualified to give this son of his what he needed. But his son was here, warm and real in his arms, and come what may, Jon would just have to be grown enough to take care of him, to shield him and be the father he would need. He wondered if Eddard Stark and Arthur Dayne, his own fathers in all but blood, had felt this way when he had been a babe himself. Tiny, incredibly strong fingers closed around his thumb, and Jon swallowed down a sudden stab of emotion. He leaned down, pressed his lips against his son's forehead. Never had he, nor would he, love another person more deeply.
The babe was the one, in the end, to pull Jon out of his trancelike state. He was screaming by then, tiny body wriggling, and nothing Jon did seemed to make any difference when it came to calming him down. "The babe needs his mother," Lady Olenna told him. "He is hungry, I believe."
Jon nodded, and let himself be led into the birthing chamber. All the fears he had been doing his best to push away were there, suddenly, pulling and pushing at him, repelling and drawing at him. Margaery was strong. She believed in herself, in her future, in a way Jon's mother had not. She had a trained, experienced maester to help her. Jon had to believe that would be enough. He was not an idiot. He knew well enough that a younger mother was that much more likely to be lost to childbirth, and his own dead Lady Mother had been more than a year Margaery's senior. Ever since Uncle Arthur had told him the truth of his origins, that part of it had played itself out over and over again in his mind until it had driven him close to mad. If Loras had not taken him out into the yard, if his aunt had not showed up... Jon did not know how he would have made it through Margaery's labour with his sanity intact. "Of course," he said, and let Lady Olenna guide him into the birthing room.
Someone must have changed the sheets. They looked pristine, white as fresh fallen snow. Margaery was paler than Jon had ever seen her, her cheeks milky and her eyes unbearably tired. But there was life in her yet. That lopsided smile of hers played on her lips regardless of her exhaustion, and there was still a glimmer in her eyes that made Jon wish he had the courage to step close enough to kiss her. Margaery stretched out her arms, seeming somehow unbearably weak and incredibly strong all at once. "Give him here," she ordered, and Jon could no more have denied her than he could have stopped winter from coming.
As gently as he knew how, trained by near a handful of younger siblings, he deposited the babe back into its mother's arms and watched as she pushed her shift aside and allowed the babe to suckle at her own breast. For long moments, all she did was stare at the babe, seemingly as captivated as he was, and Jon was truthfully so captivated he did not think it was within him to ever look away. He could not help the audible sigh at relief when she accepted this babe that did not look like either one of them, looked like something out of a song or a fantasy instead, a babe that had the potential to put them in as much danger as his own dragons would when they grew. "By the Seven, Jon," Margaery breathed. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the tiny form in her arms. "He is perfect."