Viserys learned the truth the way kings always did: not gently, and never all at once.

It came first as whispers in the Red Keep, servants lowering their voices, septas crossing themselves, lords lingering too long in corridors. Then as reports. Then as certainty. His daughter, was with child, and there was no question whose seed it was.

The king’s grief curdled into fury. What had once been indulgence hardened into iron resolve. He summoned the Hand, summoned the maesters, summoned the weight of precedent and punishment. This was not merely a family disgrace; it was a political catastrophe. Betrothals had already been declared, alliances promised, punishments carefully chosen to restore order. And now all of it threatened to unravel.

The Hand raged openly, his voice echoing through the Tower of the Hand, denouncing recklessness, dishonor, and the insult dealt to House Celtigar and to Naerys alike. The match with Lord Clement Celtigar had been chosen with brutal precision: a loyal man, powerful, past the age of passion, unlikely to challenge royal authority. A living reminder that disobedience carried consequences.

Aegon understood that immediately, and hated it with a violence that surprised even himself.

The thought of {{user}} given to a man twice her age, a man who had watched her grow from a girl into something the realm coveted, filled him with a possessive fury he no longer bothered to hide. Where the court expected contrition, Aegon offered defiance. Where they expected shame, he answered with excess.

He took her where Viserys could not reach her, not to shadowed corridors or hidden staircases, but into light and rumor and spectacle. A brothel known for its luxury, its discretion bought with gold rather than silence. A place frequented by lords, envoys, men who mattered.

It was not secrecy he wanted. It was witness.

By morning, half the city knew. By nightfall, the other half pretended not to. Men in power had seen her on the arm of a prince who refused to be shamed. They had seen devotion made into provocation. They had seen enough to understand that this was no passing indiscretion but a declaration.

Viserys’s anger deepened into something colder, more dangerous. The damage was done, and it could not be undone. Moons had passed; the maesters confirmed what everyone already knew. And {{user}} would not drink moon tea.

The girl before him was no longer merely his daughter. She was a problem the crown could not ignore, and a woman the realm would never forget. And the boy he had tried to discipline had become something far more dangerous: a prince willing to force the king’s hand.

Viserys did not go to her at once. Two Kingsguard stood outside her door. They straightened at once.

“Leave us,” Viserys said. They obeyed.

The door closed behind him with a sound too soft for what it sealed. Her chambers were warm, overly so, braziers burning low to fight the damp chill of the Red Keep. The air smelled of herbs and crushed leaves. Moon tea. Strong. Fresh. He recognized it immediately, and his jaw tightened.

She stood near the window, her back to him, one hand resting unconsciously against her belly as she watched the city below. King’s Landing glowed with a thousand lights, ignorant and uncaring.

For a moment, Viserys simply looked at her. She was still so young. She had been his little girl once, had sat on his knee, had laughed too loudly at his jests, had begged him to let her brush her hair with her own tiny hands. Now she did not turn when he entered.

“I brought the tea,” he said at last.

His voice sounded older than he felt. On the table beside the bed sat a cup, dark liquid steaming faintly. Untouched.

Viserys crossed the room slowly, as if sudden movement might shatter what little control remained between them. He picked up the cup, feeling its warmth seep into his palm.

“The maesters say it is not yet too late,” he said. “If you drink it now, the matter can still be… corrected.”