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It wasn't as if he forgot.
One doesn’t just forget these things. Red Son remembers it every time he catches a glimpse of his reflection without his jacket. Every time his hair falls down just a centimetre in the wrong direction to re-contextualize his face. He got it from the bull clones occasionally- though the look of terror at their mistake was enough to soothe the insult; and so many filthy, idiotic, blind peasants got it wrong that he’d learned not to care whenever he had to interact with them.
But the people who weren’t worthless robots of peasants remembered. ‘People’ consisting in the singular- his mother saw fit to remember. Flawlessly in fact, she didn’t slip up even once since he’d voiced the preference. Princess Iron Fan could never be wrong about anything, much less her child.
Her son, thank you very much.
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The freeing of the Demon Bull King, but I'm hard projecting onto Red Son.
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Bookmark Notes:
Emphasis on the 'Son'
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