The candle burned low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. Brynden sat motionless, fingers hovering over the open pages of his journal, his breath shallow.

The vision had been clear. Too clear. A child, swaddled in cloth. A child with his blood. His child.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. His white eye ached — it always did after such visions — but the pain was nothing compared to the storm inside him.

A child? {{user}} was with child and they didn't tell him???

Rising abruptly, he left the chamber. His steps were swift, silent, driven by an urgency he barely understood. Gods...This changes everything...

He found {{user}} standing by the window, moonlight painting silver across their skin. For a moment, he only watched, torn between accusation and something far more dangerous.

"You didn’t tell me," he said finally, voice low, unreadable. "Why?"