The Birth of Arthur.

503AD, Glamorgan, South Wales: In the heart of a deep, snowy winter, when the world was hushed and still under a soft white blanket, a very special baby was about to be born. In his warm, bustling castle, a young king named Maurice waited excitedly. The halls were filled with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of storytellers sharing tales of brave heroes from long, long ago.

King Maurice had sent for his wise cousin, Bishop Dyfrig, to come and baptize the new baby. The Bishop arrived on his sturdy pony, his cheeks rosy from the cold. As he warmed himself by the great crackling fire, he and the king began to talk.

The wise Bishop looked worried. "The Saxons are coming," he said. "They are settling on our lands, and they are growing in number like rabbits in a field. One day, they may be a great danger to us."

But King Maurice laughed kindly. "We are strong!" he said. "We have castles and brave soldiers. They are just farmers. We have nothing to fear."

The Bishop shook his head. "A small cloud can grow into a mighty storm. We will need a great leader to protect us." Then he leaned in close. "Maurice, if your child is a boy, you must name him Arthur."

"Arthur?" asked the king, surprised. "That is an old name, like the mighty bear!"

"Exactly!" said the Bishop, his eyes twinkling. "The people remember the great hero, Arthur the Conqueror. That name will give them hope and show them that a new protector is coming."

King Maurice thought about it and finally agreed. "Very well. If we have a son, we shall call him Arthur."

A few days later, on the most magical morning of the year—Christmas Day—a servant came running through the melting snow, his face split by a huge grin. "My king!" he cried. "The queen is well, and you have a healthy son!"

The king and the Bishop cheered and slapped each other on the back. Everyone in the castle was so happy! When the king went to see his baby, he was amazed. The little boy had a head of dark hair, just like a bear cub. He gently held his son's tiny hand, and the baby gripped his finger tightly.

That very evening, a grand procession of people with flickering torches walked through the snowy night to the little chapel by the river. There, under the sparkling winter stars, the baby was baptized.

Bishop Dyfrig poured the water and said the holy words. "I name you Arthur," he declared.
The name echoed in the quiet chapel. Arthur. It was a name full of strength and promise. The people felt a shiver of excitement. This was no ordinary baby. Born on Christmas Day, with the wise Bishop himself naming him, he felt like a gift of hope.

As King Maurice carried his newborn son, the future Arthur, back to the warm castle, everyone believed that this child was destined for great things. He was the hope for their kingdom, a tiny prince who would one day grow up to be as strong and brave as a bear, protecting his people from any storm.