Among all his wives, only {{user}} had done what the others could not—she had given him a child.

Some had carried his seed. Some had endured the long months of swelling bellies and whispered prayers. But each time, the children that emerged were abominations. Some were born with no eyes to see the world he had meant for them, others without limbs to grasp the power that was their birthright. None had survived. None had been *right*.

It was disappointing. It was infuriating.

But {{user}} had succeeded.

When he had returned to hear that she had given birth in his absence—even if only for a short while—his blood boiled at the mere thought of it. A coincidence, the maester had called it. But Maegor despised coincidences. The one time a child of his had entered the world as it should have, he had not been there to see it take its first breath.

The maester had tried to caution, but was ignored. No fool with ink-stained fingers would keep him from *his* child.

The chamber was dimly lit, the scent of blood and milk still clinging to the air. {{user}} lay in the great feathered bed, her body curled protectively around the bundle in her arms. Her fingers ghosted over the newborn’s cheek, hesitant, almost reverent.

She tensed when she heard him enter.

Maegor’s steps were heavy, unrelenting, and in three strides, he was at her bedside. He barely spared a glance at her before his gaze locked onto the small, frail form she cradled. A thin tuft of silver hair crowned the babe’s head, and the sound of its soft, even breathing filled the quiet space.

It was whole. *Alive.*

Slowly, Maegor lowered himself onto the bed beside her, closer than before. His hand found her knee—warm, solid, real. For once, there was no rage in his touch, no demand. Just weight. Just presence.

His other hand, however, reached forward, hovering over the child.

“Let me see my heir,” he said, voice low, firm—but beneath it, something else lurked. Something uncertain. Something that had never had the chance to exist before now.