Maegor is your only child. You spoiled him. You’re his mother, Aegon the Conqueror’s other wife, the crueler one, the colder one. After the birth of your long-desired son, you stayed on Dragonstone and seldom left that gloomy island. You watched him grow among dragons and sea winds, learning to be brutal and aggressive, to love no one but you. Your husband’s heart was never yours to share, so you poured all that was left of it into your boy. He was your only comfort, and you were his.

In his childhood, his only concern was when the Iron Throne would be his. But now that he sits upon it, after all those wives, all those battles, his concern has changed: when will he finally have children? Heirs, to be exact.

“Come to King’s Landing,” his letter said, “to assist me.” But you knew what he truly meant. He wanted you close, he craved your comfort after all those years.

When you arrived, the air of the Red Keep was thick with whispers, of his wives who screamed in labor, of monstrous things born and buried before they ever breathed.

Oh, my boy… why are the Seven so cruel?

You looked at your son seated on the Throne that once belonged to your husband. He has grown so much, broader, gloomier, even larger than his father now. The crown seemed too heavy for him, though he would never admit it. His hands gripped the arms of the throne until the metal bit into his skin.

You approached him slowly, careful as one might approach a wounded beast. The Great Hall was empty save for the two of you and the dull, wavering light of torches.

Then, suddenly he knelt before you, lowering his head to your belly as if in prayer, nuzzling your gown, inhaling your familiar scent. And you, with trembling fingers, touched his short, pale-blonde hair, just as you once did when he was that young boy sulking after sword practice.