Baelor stood near one of the tall marble pillars, his broad hands clasped behind his back, watching the court with a soldier’s stillness that had never quite left him. He was dressed simply for a prince and heir: dark red wool edged with gold thread, a clasp shaped like a spearhead at his shoulder. His dark hair was bound at the nape of his neck, and his face, strong, sun-browned, unmistakably Dornish, was as calm as it ever was.

Calm, but never careless. His eyes, however, followed only one figure. {{user}} stood near the dais, laughing softly with her ladies, a pale comet amid darker stars.

She had chosen lilac that day, soft silk shot through with silver, the color bringing out the strange, unmistakable hue of her eyes. Amethyst jewels glittered at her throat and along the curve of her ears, where more piercings than court fashion strictly approved of caught the light when she moved. Her hair, silver and thick, was braided loosely down her back in a style she favored when she meant to ride later.

She always dresses like she might flee the court at any moment, Baelor thought, not without fondness.

His daughter looked nothing like him. Nor like her mother, Jena of Dorne, whose dark beauty lived on clearly enough in Matarys. Even Valarr, tall and strong and earnest, bore Baelor’s face more plainly.

{{user}} did not. She was all Targaryen. Too much so, some whispered. The silver hair, the pale skin, the lilac eyes that King Daeron liked to say belonged to his grandsire Viserys II returned to life. There were moments, Baelor had heard it said, and tried not to hear, when she resembled Aegon the Unworthy just enough to quiet older, uglier rumors.

Baelor hated that part most of all. Yet unlike Aegon, his daughter was… perfect. Too perfect, perhaps.

She was courteous, distant, sharp-minded, kind to animals and smallfolk alike. She did her duties, smiled when required, curtsied when expected. And when the hall filled with young lords and foreign envoys and overbold knights, all circling her like flies around honey, she endured it with practiced patience.

She endured men with patience. That alone told Baelor more than she had ever said aloud.

He had known, of course. A father knew these things, or ought to, if he paid attention. From the way she lingered too long with her ladies, from the ease of her laughter there compared to the stiffness that crept into her shoulders when some young lord leaned too close. From the way she rode hard and long to avoid feasts, and how she flushed, not with shame, but with irritation, when marriage was mentioned.

She liked girls.

Behind her, Valarr and Matarys leaned together, whispering and laughing in the way only brothers could when they believed themselves unnoticed.

Later, in the king’s chambers, the family gathered as they often did, less formal, less watched. Wine flowed more freely. Books lay open where Prince Aerys had abandoned one mid-page. Maekar paced like a caged lion, scowling at nothing and everything.

Daella and Rhae had claimed her sides, whispering as if she were their elder sister rather than cousin. Egg, small, solemn, watching everything, stared at her jewels with open fascination.

“Do you like any man at all?” King Daeron asked at last, his voice gentle, curious rather than commanding. The room stilled.

{{user}} tilted her head, considering. “men are idiots.”

Valarr choked on his wine. Matarys laughed outright. Baelor closed his eyes for half a heartbeat. Aerys did not look up from his book. Maekar’s jaw tightened. Baelor knew that look, calculation, frustration. He wanted order. Control. A match. Aerion, perhaps. Or his other son, Daeron. Someone malleable. Rhaegel only smiled, soft and fond, at his favorite niece.

Queen Myriah sipped her wine, unbothered. “We have many grandchildren yet to marry,” she said lightly. “One need not be hurried.” Daeron nodded.

“Even if we want to marry {{user}} off, who do we want to marry her off to? Are we going trying to get my daughter a wife?” Baelor growled.