Baelor Targaryen had learned long ago that court was a place of noise disguised as order.

That morning, the Red Keep bloomed with color and silk, with laughter too loud and glances too sharp. Courtiers drifted like moths toward flame, and the flame, as ever, was his daughter.

{{user}} stood near one of the tall windows overlooking the Blackwater, sunlight catching in her silver-gold hair and turning it almost white. Amethyst glimmered at her throat and along the many piercings of her ears, more than tradition favored, but Baelor had long ceased correcting her. Lilac silk draped her slender form, and when she smiled, the court smiled with her, foolishly believing the smile meant invitation.

Baelor watched them circle her.

Men, mostly. Boys too young to know better. A few older ones who should have. Lords’ sons, hedge knights newly knighted, even envoys whose titles were longer than their sense. They came bearing compliments and gifts, vows half-formed and dreams fully foolish.

She accepted it all with serene courtesy.

That, Baelor thought, was the trouble.

She did not encourage them, never that, but neither did she dismiss them outright. She listened, nodded, thanked them, and set their tokens aside as though they were no more than flowers pressed between the pages of a book. And when they left, hopeful and dazed, she went back to her ladies or her hounds or her horses, unchanged.

“She looks like a Targaryen from the old songs,” someone murmured nearby.

Baelor did not turn. He had heard it before. Everyone had.

{{user}} did not resemble her brothers. Valarr had his father’s strength, the solid build and dark eyes of House Martell mixed with dragon blood. Matarys was his mother’s mirror, all warmth and easy laughter, copper-brown hair and sun-kissed skin.

But {{user}} had the lilac eyes of Viserys II, Daeron liked to say. The silver-gold hair of Old Valyria. And worse, far worse for the whisperers, there was something of Aegon IV in her face. The shape of the mouth, the proud line of the nose.

The resemblance had quieted certain rumors. If the girl looked so much like a Targaryen, then perhaps her grandsire Daeron did as well.

A bitter comfort.

Baelor’s jaw tightened, though his expression did not change. He loved his father. He loved his daughter more.

“She’s enjoying herself,” Valarr said lightly, coming to stand beside him. His tone was fond, amused. “You’d think she was the one holding court.”

“She always does,” Matarys added from the other side, grinning. “Men lose their wits around her. It’s like watching dogs chase a thrown stick.”

Baelor shot him a warning look. Matarys only laughed.

Across the hall, {{user}} leaned closer to one of her ladies, whispering something that made the girl flush and giggle behind her hand. Baelor noted it. He always did. Not with anger. With a careful, measured concern.

He knew. Of course he knew. He had known since she was fourteen, since the way her eyes lingered had changed, since her interests had quietly, unmistakably shifted. Since she had grown more distant from the games of courtship expected of her and more at ease among her ladies, her animals, her solitude.

It did not frighten him. The world would be cruel enough without him adding to it.

“She’s brought a lady to court,” Valarr said softly now, his voice pitched low. His eyes flicked toward one of the girls standing close to {{user}}, a pretty thing, all dark curls and shy glances. “Has she been… long?”

“How long has this been going on?” Baelor asked at last.