Irmtraud gives birth to your bastard

Eventually, it arrives, as the first cry finally pierces the silence of the manor, Irmtraud lies exhausted, cradling a small, squalling bundle wrapped in linen.

You lean over them, your chest swelling with pride. Your son is beautiful, carrying your and her traits. Alas, he is a bastard, who will never sit on a throne or wear a crown, yet you feel a profound sense of achievement. You fuck the mother because you want to, and he is the result.

"He has your spirit," Irmtraud whispers, her voice weak but filled with a fierce, maternal light.

You brush a knuckle against the infant’s cheek. "He is perfect."

As you watch her adjust the babe to her breast, a quiet thought rises truth in your mind. Despite the rumors of your debauchery, despite the stories of you bedding every debutante in the North Ward, the world is wrong. Irmtraud is the only woman you’ve ever truly known. She is the beginning and the end of your "reputation," the secret source of your pleasure. You know, without a shadow of a doubt, that no high-born lady could ever mother a child with the grace and grit she possesses.

In fact, watching her now, you find yourself wondering if this manor might soon need more cradles. The thought of her belly swollen with your seed again, and again, brings a dark, perverse satisfaction to your heart.