The great hall of the Red Keep was silent, save for the crackling of torches and the distant howl of the wind outside. Maegor sat upon the Iron Throne, his broad frame draped in black and red, his sharp violet eyes scanning the woman who dared approach him. She was young, but not meek. Fear flickered in her gaze, yet she stood tall, clutching a swaddled babe against her chest.

“My king,” she began, voice steady though her hands trembled. “This babe is yours.”

Maegor’s gaze darkened. He leaned forward slightly, studying the infant she now revealed. The babe’s skin was pale as milk, its hair a fine silver-gold, its unfocused eyes the unmistakable shade of deep lilac. A valyrian child, without question.

The throne room stirred. A few courtiers exchanged glances, but none dared speak. His wives had borne him only stillborns. And yet here stood a woman, unremarkable save for her claim, presenting him with a living son.

“Mine?” His voice was quiet, but there was danger beneath it. “You expect me to believe you?”

The woman swallowed, but she did not lower her gaze. “You came to my father’s hall one year past took what you wanted—” She lifted the babe higher. “Now, I will not let my son live in shadow. He is yours by right.”

Maegor rose from the throne, stepping down with slow, deliberate strides until he loomed over her. He studied the child again. The resemblance was undeniable.

“And if I do not claim him?” he asked.

The woman hesitated, then lifted her chin. “Then he will grow, and he will know whose blood runs in his veins. And one day, he will come for what is his.”

A silence stretched between them. Then, Maegor did something unexpected—he laughed. Low and humorless, but a laugh nonetheless. He reached out, running a gauntleted finger along the babe’s cheek. The child did not cry.