The imperial bedroom was silent, except for the rhythmic sound of Maegor's breathing, still lost in the sheets after another sleepless night of nightmares and worries. Beside him, you stirred, your belly already rounded and evident, bringing the presence of a life that belonged only to the two of you. You had always been "two freaks coming together." She, you, had that kind of tart sweetness, sweet as lemon, that fit perfectly with Maegor's intensity.

While he was still stretching, you nudged him, gently pushing him out of his sleepy stupor, a small smile on your lips. Your pregnancy cravings began early on that strange and lovely morning: they weren't simple chocolates, but weird and unusual combinations, acceptable only in the logic of those who lived in that world of whims. Honey powder mixed with citrus fruits, spice cakes with a pinch of sea salt, rose petal tea with a spoonful of burnt sugar — and, at the height of strangeness, you took a deep breath and, with absolute naturalness, asked for a horse's heart.

Maegor blinked, still a little dazed, his heart racing not only from the shock, but from the fascination he felt for you. He looked at his belly, at the small movements of the baby stirring, and then at you, so strangely adorable and direct. And only when the vision of the most eccentric desire crossed his understanding did he murmur, half incredulous, half amused:

"A horse's heart?"

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable; it was the kind of pause that only those who share a perfect and absolute madness can feel, intertwining the two in a strange but intensely familiar affection.