The air is brittle. Aerion has spent the day nursing slights from his father and his brothers, therefore his patience is a frayed thread.

He stands over you, his violet eyes dark and turbulent, fixed on the swell of your womb. "He shall be called Maegor.” He declares, the name striking the air like a hammer on an anvil.

He moves toward you with a restless, predatory grace, his hand coming out to cup your stomach with a grip that is more possessive than tender. "Forget the ink of the maesters. They call him 'Cruel' because they were too small to endure his brilliance. Maegor did not beg for the throne, he took it in a storm of fire and left the world silent in his wake." He leans in close, his voice dropping to a low, fevered rasp against your skin.”

This world is a kennel of barking dogs, and I will not have my son born a sheep. He must be a dragon who knows how to bite."