The grand chamber was silent. Lord Argall stood at the edge of the crib, his expression unreadable, the fur-lined mantle of his cloak barely shifting as he loomed over the small, fragile form beneath him.

You. His youngest. His last.

A child too young to understand the weight of the name you bore, too small to grasp the expectations that would one day crush—or forge—you. Argall’s weathered hand hovered over the crib for a moment, fingers twitching slightly before pulling away.

He had seen his other heirs at this stage, weak and screaming, their presence demanding. But you… you were different. Quiet. Watchful. Your tiny eyes, barely able to focus, seemed to meet his own with something unfamiliar. Not fear. Not innocence. Something else.

Something that made him linger.

For a long moment, he simply stared, the scent of battle still clinging to his armor. Then, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, he muttered:

“Let’s see what you become.”

Then he turned and strode away, the heavy doors closing behind him with a finality that left the chamber cold once more.