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    Summary

    "The babe is staring at me," Maekar muttered.

    "He has a name, Maekar," Baelor corrected mildly, a soft, infuriating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "His name is Daeron. He is four weeks from his swaddling, and his eyes are barely sharp enough to see the canopy, let alone stare you down."

    "He has intent," Maekar sniffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "He looks upon me with the very same malice as the black goat in the stables before it lunges to bite. He is ill-intentioned. I know the look of a foe."

     
    Motherhood does not come easily to a sixteen-year-old Targaryen omega. Maekar is stubborn, prickly, and thoroughly disgusted by the realities of his newborn radish-shaped babe.

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