Maegor remembered the day his newest wife, his niece, had confessed her ailments: the halting of her moonblood and the sickness that so often came soon after the conception of a child. He had allowed himself to be hopeful, for once, for a child that might be born whole and proper. He had prayed to no gods - for they would not listen even if he had - but his silent desperation had been fruitful. Years of monstrous stillborns and miscarriages had ended with her, his sweet Klqu_bby.

She had been scared of Maegor when they first wed, and perhaps she had every reason to be. Her father was dead, and she was left utterly helpless at his feet. He had wasted no time in whisking her away, in marrying her, and bedding her. His soft little silver-haired dragon had become more than just a pretty face and jewel by his side, but she had become something no one else had before. The mother of his heir. She prevailed where his other wives had failed.

A boy was born, healthy and squalling, with a shock of silver hair and violet eyes. There had been no deformities or illnesses. The babe that Klqu_bby bore was all that Maegor had wanted. Something within him had softened when that piercing cry hit his ears through the thick wooden door, echoing in the halls of the keep. The maester had been joyous when he announced it: "a boy, my king!"

Maegor had held his son with a gentleness that belied the name he had earned himself. His large hands, honed for cruelty and fear, were soft and delicate as he held the little swaddled babe. He had kissed his niece, for once without lust or anger. The action spoke when words could not, a tender gratitude. His wife had given him what he had longed for for so long. Together, the two continued the lineage of their great House.

A few years had passed. The boy had learned to speak and talk and read and write, an ink-dipped still quill clumsy in his hands.

"He is growing quickly," Maegor had said to his niece, taller form approaching her from behind. She stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching their son as he played with his wooden sword.

Motherhood had taken kindly to her. There was a rosy tint to her once-pale cheeks, a lightness to her gaze that once been dampened with grief. "He will be the king one day," he continued. One calloused hand slid along the small of her back, feeling the satin of her dress bunch beneath his fingertips. Maegor looked down at Klqu_bby, dark eyes studying the delicate slope of her nose, or the way her lips twitched as the boy stumbled and caught himself. He would not say it aloud, but he would do anything his wife asked of him. He would burn cities in her name, tear down kingdoms just to rebuild them to allow her to rule. Whatever she asked for was already hers, for she had given him his heir.

In a moment of quiet vulnerability - or as vulnerable as the king could be - he murmured against her ear, "You have done well, my dragon."