AITA for Serenading the Wrong Balcony?

[BARD]

Dearest listeners of this digital tavern! Last eve I, Lyrian Goldtongue, troubadour supreme, did endeavor to woo the fair Lady Seraphine with a ballad sweeter than honeyed wine.

Alas, my feet, drunk on the moonlight, led me astray! I positioned myself beneath a balcony, strummed my lute, and unleashed the full fury of my romantic genius. The ballad soared! The stars themselves wept!

Then the shutters flung open—not Seraphine, but her father, Duke Harrowmont, resplendent in nightcap and wrath. My final verse (“thy lips, a rose divine”) became, alas, an ode to his mustache.

Now Seraphine thinks I wooed her father, the Duke demands I “formalize our arrangement,” and the townsfolk have taken to calling me the Mustache Minstrel.

So—AITA for wooing the wrong window, or merely the victim of cruel architecture?