In the high prince Aerion's solar, the last light of the evening spilled through the tall, narrow windows, casting long bars of gold across the stone floor. The sky outside burned red, the sort of red Aerion Targaryen liked, the sort that reminded him of dragonflame and purifying fire. He stood beside the window now, chin lifted as if accepting the homage of the dying sun, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other twirling a strand of his silver hair. He liked to imagine that the light bent toward him out of reverence.

Behind him, {{user}} moved gently back and forth, cradling the squirming infant in her arms. The child, a boy of only two months, whimpered softly, too tired to cry properly and too restless to sleep. She rocked him with a quiet, repetitive motion, her own eyes rimmed red with weariness. His name was Maegor. Aerion Targaryen’s choice, of course. It had not been a discussion. It had been a proclamation.

He had spoken the name as if it were a crown he was placing on his son’s head. {{user}} had said nothing then, and she said nothing now. A soft hiccup escaped Maegor. {{user}} shifted him, whispering nonsense sounds meant to soothe him. Aerion ignored both mother and child.

{{user}} pressed Maegor closer to her chest. The baby made a thin, miserable little sound. Aerion finally turned his head. His eyes, Targaryen eyes, pale violet and unblinking, fell upon mother and son.

“He is troublesome tonight,” Aerion remarked. Not a question. A statement.

“He’s only tired,” {{user}} murmured. “He’ll settle soon.”

“Hm.” Aerion walked toward them with slow, deliberate steps, the soft gold of the lanterns glinting along the embroidered dragons on his sleeves. He stopped just short of touching Maegor, merely studying him. “His lungs lack strength. A true dragon’s son should roar, not whimper.”

{{user}} stiffened, “He’s two months old, Aerion.” she whispered. Maegor gave a fretful cry. Without thinking, {{user}} rocked him more urgently, trying to calm him before Aerion’s disapproval sharpened.

Behind him, Maegor began to fuss again, rubbing his tiny face into {{user}}’s sleeve. She bounced him lightly, whispering to him. Maegor’s cry rose, thin and sharp. {{user}} rocked him desperately, whispering soft words for boy.

Aerion approached again, his expression almost bored. “Do quiet him, {{user}},” he said. “His noise offends me.”