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There are days when the Emperor questions if the boy is his at all. Those whores had sworn it so; Sylvestre Lesage had been the only noble to lie with that beautiful harlot some nine moons before his birth. The babe had been fully formed, and nearly perfect, and no commoner might sire such a holy and blessed son. Still, as he watches that child sixteen winters passed, he questions if the boy is truly his, or a pretender. It is a gilded gift to be given Bahamut, and has ensured Sylvestre his rightful sacred claim to the throne, but he doubts. Dion is too kind, too gentle. And he looks too much like his whore of a mother, with those large doe-like eyes, and golden locks. Too soft and beautiful to be such a weapon of the Empire.
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