There were those who whispered—softly, always softly—that seven was a sacred number, belonging to the gods of the Faith. To wed a seventh time was to tempt them, to challenge them, perhaps even to mock them. But Maegor Targaryen had long since ceased to fear gods, if ever he had.

He had buried too many queens to fear anything unseen.

Ceryse, cold in her bed.

Alys, screaming until she could scream no more.

Tyanna, broken and confessing beneath the weight of her own lies.

Jeyne, her wom.b yielding only horror.

And the others—Elinor Costayne, pale and enduring, and Rhaena Targaryen, proud even in captivity—both marked by loss. Elinor had too brought forth a chi.ld that was no chi.ld at all, but a twisted mockery of life.

Yet Maegor would not yield.

He took a seventh wife with little ceremony, no great feast nor blessing, only a binding of words spoken before witnesses who dared not refuse him. She was brought to him as all things were brought to him: because he willed it.

And so the nights began.

One queen, then the next, then the next again, in a relentless turning, as though he might force fate itself to bend through sheer repetition. There was no tenderness in it, no illusion of courtly affection—only duty, expectation, and the heavy weight of his need. Each dawn came with silence. Each night returned with the same grim purpose.

Until at last, something changed.

The whispers came first.

Then the maesters, cautious and grave. Then the midwives, speaking in low voices behind closed doors. At last, the word reached him plain: she was with chi.ld.

Maegor did not smile.

He doubled the guards.

No one entered her chambers without leave. No one spoke to her unobserved. The kitchens were watched, the servants questioned, the maesters scrutinized as though they themselves might poison the wom.b by glance alone. He trusted nothing—not the women who tended her, not the food she ate, not the gods men prayed to.

He had seen hope before.

It had always rotted in his hands.

The months dragged like chains. Each passing day seemed to sharpen him further, carving him into something harder, colder, more watchful. He visited often, though he spoke little, standing over her like a sentinel carved of black stone, his violet eyes fixed as if he could will the chi.ld to live by force of gaze alone.

And then came the day.

The birthing chamber stank of sweat and blood and fear. Midwives moved in haste, maesters murmured over basins and cloths, their chains clinking softly in the tense hush between cries.

Maegor did not sit.

He stood at the edge of it all, a dark shadow cast against the torchlight, unmoving save for the slow tightening of his jaw. His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, though there was no enemy here he could strike.

Only fate.

The woman labored long. Longer than any dared speak aloud. Each cry seemed to scrape against the walls themselves, each breath a struggle against something unseen.

The maester leaned close, his voice low, urgent. The midwives worked with hands slick and sure.

At last—at long last—a cry split the air.

Not the thin, broken wail of something wrong.

But strong. Loud. Living.

The room stilled.

The chi.ld was lifted, slick with blood and life, his limbs whole, his skin unmarked by the gro.tesqueries that had haunted Maegor’s line. A bo.y.

A son.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one dared.

Then the maester turned, slow as if fearing the moment might shatter.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice trembling despite himself. “A healthy chi.ld. A prince.”

Maegor did not answer at once.

He stepped forward, each footfall heavy, deliberate. His gaze fell upon the chi.ld, searching—not with wonder, but with suspicion, as though expecting the truth to twist before his eyes.

But it did not.

The bo.y lived. Whole. Strong.

Maegor’s hand hovered, just for a moment, above the chi.ld’s head. Not touching. Not yet.

“Mine,” he said at last, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

Then, harder: “He will live.”

It was not hope.

It was a command.