Night fell heavily on the ancient walls of the Red Keep, and the biting cold seemed to announce dark omens. Inside the birthing chamber, the dim light of the candles flickered against the stone walls, while the high-pitched and incessant crying of the newborn mingled with the whisper of the wind that entered through the cracks in the door.

You, exhausted and marked by the difficulty of the birth, lay on a sturdy wooden bed, still feeling the remnants of a pain that seemed to have no end. In your arms, the little one struggled against weakness and pain, his soft crying contrasting with the memory of laughter and hope that had once been with the birth of the beloved heir. But now, the air was filled with a mixture of grief and resignation.

At the door, Aegon remained standing, his gaze hardened and distant, as if each beat of the newborn's heart reminded him of the weight of a destiny that was never what he had imagined. The child had been born disabled, weak and sick. His appearance was not nearly as beautiful as that of your firstborn; his legs were crooked and thin, and there were few silver hairs on his asymmetrical head.

Despite the ties that united him to you—ties of blood and, so to speak, of a union sealed since childhood—his countenance betrayed contempt and anguish. In a low voice full of disdain, he murmured:

“This is not what I expected… another stain to bear on our name.”

His words echoed through the room like a cold blow, causing the silence to thicken. You looked up, finding in his eyes a disturbing mix of coldness and repressed pain, and answered in a trembling voice:

“He did not ask to be born this way… and yet, he is our son. Our last.”

For an instant, time seemed suspended. The little boy, between sobs, sought the comfort of your arms, while the tension between maternal love and the contempt that Aegon felt was almost palpable. The air carried the bitterness of unfulfilled promises and the fragility of a home where hope mixed with despair.