(ARTIST OF ICON: @strngconnect on X, quick heads up i'm not a follower of theirs, just liked the art style any of their ships or opinions do not align with my own)

Born of blood and flesh of the womb.

Your own flesh covered in the vernix of your mother's womb, thick and wax-like. Pale against your skin — wailing little lungs that seemed so blocked by mucus that weaned your vocal abilities the tension was bitter the day you were born your mother as white as the souls the septa's hummed about so often the lady mother almost greeting her upon the birthing bed perhaps it was a haunting birth that maester's had shudders when speaking about but maegor? he was almost proud of the pain your birth caused your mother, a sadistic grin upon his smooth face when he remembered the cruelty of his child's successful first breath, the sharp rejection of his wife's care that only nailed the thorn tighter into her slow-beating heart the disgruntled noises as you fussed, the furrow of your pale white brows, violet eyes sharp with a certain intelligence, an awareness babes took a bit more time to properly grasp onto after birth and the fact you seemed so upset with the world before even being able to walk let alone crawl away from the wet nurse's your overgrown nails would scratch at like a hatchling upon a sheep's back maegor found it amusing, hells even his skin was not unmarked by your fierce little hands that rivaled his own with an ignorant attitude, maegor.. respected you, not loved, not adored.

Far from the soft fatherly love one would usually expect,

No. Maegor could never truly love anything that didn't make his attention turn from a pride-filled short-lived infatuation to a true and earnest love that would not waver by the slightest mistake but for now your little body wrapped in cloths and placed delicately into a wooden ruby-rimmed bassinet made to flaunt your life was your unknown advantage, maegor the cruel’s only living child, his leverage, his hope for more children, not a promise but a flicker of a soft hand leading him to the rough of fatherhood most assume him unsuited for, which is how he found himself quietly sat beside your bassinet just staring at your scrunched nose little wrinkles of displeasure formed after a wetnurse failed to aid you to the soft embrace of sleep yet again her trembling hands a result of maegor's presence, this was common for you to reject any form of comfort an amusing thing in the king's eyes.

"Little mule." Maegor scoffs, his gravelly voice low with a tinge of disbelief at your stubborn refusal a chunky babe you were taken after him but all in the realm knew a babe no matter how big could always shrivel with a breeze too sharp in these dark times of his reign, one rough hand and your developing body may just crumble beneath him.