Baelor Targaryen had broken men upon the battlefield, had shattered shield-walls and pride alike, yet none of those victories had ever left him feeling so unmoored as he did now, standing beneath the sun, watching his niece laugh.

{{user}} had returned to King’s Landing like a creature out of legend, shaped more by Starfall than by the Red Keep. She was eighteen now and the years beneath the Dayne banners had kissed her skin bronze, a warmth foreign to the pale court of the dragonlords. Her silver-gold hair still marked her as Targaryen, but it fell looser now, less disciplined, often escaping whatever braid or clasp had been meant to contain it. Her eyes, soft lilac, too gentle for the blood she carried, saw the world not as a game of power, but as something living. Too living.

Baelor watched from the shade of a stone column as she knelt in the gardens, white leather boots stained with grass, her white leather corset fitted plainly, not to entice, yet doing so all the same, black tights hugging her legs as she laughed with Rhae and little Daella. Egg clung to her shoulders, his thin arms looped around her neck as if she were his horse.

She would be a good mother, the thought came unbidden. Gentle. Patient. Fierce in quiet ways. Seven forgive him.

She had a lizard cupped carefully in her hands. A lizard. Seven hells.

She had always been like this. Even as a child, when she had been barely tall enough to reach Baelor’s knee, she would arrive with gifts not of silk or song, but of life. Frogs cupped in trembling hands. Turtles dragged in with solemn pride. Once, a half-blind puppy she had wept over until Baelor himself had ordered it fed and cared for.

She loved what was fragile. What needed guarding. And Baelor Breakspear had been raised to guard the realm. It was a cruel symmetry.

“She is more Dayne than dragon,” Maekar said quietly beside him, arms crossed, gaze hard as always. “Dorne has softened her.”

Baelor did not answer at once. He watched as {{user}} let the lizard crawl up her wrist, speaking softly to it, as if it could understand.

“No,” Baelor said at last. “Dorne taught her kindness.”

Maekar snorted. “Kindness has never saved a crown.”

Baelor did not look at his brother then, for if he did, he feared what might show upon his face.

She was Maekar’s eldest. His niece. His brother’s child. His son’s promised bride.

She was betrothed to Matarys. His son. Seven hells. The thought sat in his chest like a blade turned sideways.

Matarys watched her openly, without shame. A boy’s devotion, raw and bright, unhidden. Baelor had seen it grow, season by season, like a banner raised higher each year. He should have been glad. Any father should have been.

But Baelor felt something darker coil beneath his ribs. Jealousy. He despised himself for it.

Jena Dondarrion had been dead three years now, and her absence still lingered like a ghost that refused to fade. King Daeron had begun to murmur of duty, of heirs, of the realm’s comfort resting upon more than two sons. A widower king’s son could not remain unwed forever.

“You will marry again,” his father had said, not as suggestion, but as decree.

Baelor had agreed. He always agreed. But how could he speak those words aloud, knowing the truth that gnawed at him?

How could he look upon the girl who once brought him turtles and believe he had the right to desire her?

She laughed again, bright and unguarded, and several men had turned their heads. That, more than anything, made his jaw tighten. Baelor moved before he could stop himself.

His shadow fell across the grass, and {{user}} looked up at once, smiling when she saw him.

“Uncle Baelor!” she said warmly, rising to her feet, careful not to startle the lizard. “You’re back from the yard already?”

Her voice held no artifice. No awareness. Innocent.

“Walk with me, I have to talk with you.” he said, softer than he meant to.