Jena
It was clear to Jena that the tourney's organisers were determined to keep the masses in King's Landing focused entirely on the new jousts, and to make them forget that Ser Garrison Dalt had died just the day before.
When she and Gwenys arrived at the lists, Lady Rohanne was waiting for her. Once again, she sat with her twin sons and their wetnurse, and she smiled and waved to Jena when their eyes met.
Jena hesitated; she did not know if it was wise to align herself with Daemon Blackfyre's wife, especially given his rivalry with Prince Baelor, but she could think of no reason to snub Lady Rohanne. That's what Cass would do; she'd have never even bothered speaking with Rohanne in the first place.
"You were almost late, my lady," Rohanne observed as Jena and Gwenys sat down beside her. She said the words more as a question than an accusation.
"I wished to see my brother before the jousts began," Jena explained, "He is standing vigil over Ser Garrison's body at the Sept of Baelor."
"Ah," Lady Rohanne inclined her head, "My sympathies to his family and yours."
The words were earnest; Jena smiled gratefully, and was about to thank her. Instead, their attention was drawn to the herald who announced the first joust of the day.
As a knight called Ser Eustace Osgrey rode against Ser Harwin Shawney, Jena was baffled by how easily and how casually life was continuing on. A man died right in front of everyone's eyes, and yet nobody thinks twice. For her part, Jena discreetly closed her eyes when the knights clashed, fearing another grisly outcome.
Thankfully, Rohanne proved a pleasant distraction. Jena spent the day speaking with her in between jousts, and occasionally laughing at her sons' antics while they cheered for one knight or the other.
The rounds were shorter, since fully half the knights had been eliminated the day before. And since the best moved forward, it meant that each joust proved to be more thrilling, with thousands cheering and taking sides. Fights and bets began with wild abandon as the greatest knights of the realm charged each other again and again.
So esteemed was the list of participants that even the names of the fallen were renowned and admired. Lords Baratheon, Lannister, and Velaryon were defeated, as were Buford Bulwer, Byren Flowers, Gareth the Grey, Orryn Trant, Quentyn Blackwood, Lord Lucifer Yronwood, Qyle Santagar, and Guyard Selmy.
Meanwhile, those that did succeed to the third round were fast inspiring songs of their valour and skill. The crowds cheered wildly for Daemon Blackfyre, Quentyn Ball, Aegor Rivers, Gormon Peake, Maegor Toyne, Willem Wylde, Arson Tork, Ulrick Dayne, Donnel of Duskendale, Gwayne Corbray, and of course, Prince Baelor Breakspear.
Although Rohanne stiffened and pointedly maintained an icy response to the Crown Prince, Jena applauded fervently when he rode out among the crowds. She began to wonder if he would win the tourney. Who will he crown as his queen of love and beauty?
Baelor certainly proved his skill when he unhorsed Lord Dontos Darklyn and Ser Corwyn Hersy. When the third round began later that day, he rode against Ser Aegor Rivers. Cries of "Breakspear" and "Bittersteel" echoed so loudly that they almost drowned out the noise of lances crashing against armour.
When the clang of metal ended, and the cheers erupted, Jena opened her eyes again. The prince was still horsed, slowing his mount to a halt. Behind him, Ser Aegor was already getting up from his sprawled position on the ground, slamming a mailed fist into the earth like an angry child.
Jena stood up to applaud Baelor as he rode past. He had lifted his visor, so she could see his face. Drenched with sweat, he was still clean-shaven, still handsome, especially with that bright smile of his. Jena felt her heart give a flutter when their eyes met for a brief moment.
As she sat back down, she saw Rohanne give her a measured glance. Much to her surprise, Jena felt flushed at this silent judgment. Who is she to look down on me?
"Is something amiss?" Jena asked calmly.
Rohanne blinked, then shook her head, "No, my lady, not at all. I was just reminded of an unpleasant memory."
Jena frowned. Does she take Baelor's defeat of her husband so personally? All the same, she chose to answer naively. "What might that be, if I may ask?"
Rohanne sighed, then turned away, "The way you and the prince look at each other. It reminded me of how my husband always looks at that bitch."
Jena was about to ask who Rohanne was referring to, but she realised that Rohanne was not looking away out of shame. She was glaring at the stand where the royal family sat. Jena followed her gaze, and saw Princess Daenerys, sitting beside her husband, Prince Maron.
An uneasy feeling grew within Jena. She had heard snippets of gossip about Daemon Blackfyre before, but this was the first time that she'd heard anything which could not be waved away as idle speculation. She knew that she ought to say something, but everything felt wrong to her mind.
Before she could make a decision, a herald announced the next combatants.
"Lord Daemon Blackfyre! Ser Quentyn Ball!"
Aemon and Aegon jumped up and cheered as their father emerged, fully armed and armoured. "The Black Dragon" was shouted from a thousand throats as his horse cantered down the list, to the far end.
Jena applauded him, as did Rohanne, though she noticed that the Tyroshi's smile was strained; doubtless she was still thinking of what she'd confided, and Jena felt a wave of sympathy for the blue-haired woman.
On an impulse, she watched Daemon closely when he made his way past the royal family. If he was looking up at Princess Daenerys, then he only did it from behind his visor; his helm did not move. For her part, the pale princess kept her gaze fixed on the Black Dragon's opponent.
Ser Quentyn had none of Daemon's flair, but all of his skill. Jena had already seen him unhorse Ser Eustace Osgrey, Ser Orryn Trant, and Lord Westbrook. He certainly earned his position as master-at-arms.
"This will be a formidable joust," Jena remarked as the cheers began dying down.
"Ser Quentyn trained my husband when he was a boy," Rohanne explained, "If anyone can best Daemon, it is him."
Or Prince Baelor. Jena applauded again as the two knights began their thunderous charge towards each other.
By the time that they were charging each other a fourth time, Jena's hands felt sore from clapping, and she wished that they would make an end of it. Everyone else was thrilled, even Gwenys, who gave a whoop of surprise and alarm when the unthinkable happened.
Ser Quentyn - Fireball, as the commons were calling him - managed to get his lance at the perfect point on Daemon's body. It was too far for Jena to see what exactly had happened, but when the horses crossed paths and passed each other, Daemon was motionless on the ground, and Quentyn was still on horseback.
The din was deafening. The Fireball had bested the Black Dragon. Jena, who had no loyalty to either man, was nonetheless astounded at this upset. Baelor will have no need to defeat Daemon a second time.
Lady Rohanne had given a cry of alarm when she saw her husband fall, and her sons were shouting in protest at the outcome. Jena did not fail to note that Princess Daenerys was watching with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
Ser Quentyn might have ridden down the lists, but instead he clambered off his mount and hurried over to Daemon, who was beginning to rise. He seemed dizzy, but when he stood erect again with Ser Quentyn's help, he waved a hand to the crowd. One of the dragon wings on his helm was dangling from his helm, and when Daemon snapped it off, he present it to his opponent with a small bow. Ser Quentyn returned the bow as he accepted it, and the crowds redoubled their cheers at this display of chivalry.
Even Jena was impressed. Would that all the knights in the realm were like those two men. Father certainly wasn't.
"* " * " *" *" *
"Ser Quentyn will be pleased," Lady Rohanne remarked before sharply reprimanding her sons in Tyroshi. They answered her back in the same tongue as they clambered into the litter.
The jousts were at an end to allow for dinner, and so the nobles were being taken back up to the Red Keep. Jena and Gwenys, trailed by their Dondarrion guards, had followed Rohanne and were now sitting opposite her and the wetnurse.
As the twins scrambled into the litter, Jena gave an inquiring glance at her companion, "What do you mean by that, Lady Rohanne?"
"Ser Quentyn is hoping to join the Kingsguard," Rohanne answered, "He has wanted to join it ever since Daemon's father was king. Far as he tells the tale, King Aegon promised him a place when there was a vacancy. He even made his wife join the silent sisters."
Jena stiffened; her feelings on Fireball soured immediately, as if she had eaten something disagreeable, "What a brutish thing to do."
Rohanne said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a half-smile, "He is a very determined man."
"King Daeron is not his father," Jena mused, "Will he honour his father's promise?"
"I do not know," Rohanne shrugged, "he has proved himself to be a fickle man. Sometimes he is gracious, and sometimes he is not."
That was all she said, but the bitter edge to her voice made it clear what she was really saying. Daeron arranged for Daemon's wedding to Rohanne, as his father had promised, but he had not allowed Daeron and Daenerys to marry.
"I suppose it is a toss of the coin, then," Jena quipped, "how very Targaryen of him."
Rohanne smiled at Jena's jest, but if she meant to speak again, the litter's sudden halt made an end of that.
As Jena got out of the litter, she noticed Lady Elaena Targaryen and Lord Ronnel Penrose about to make their way into the Red Keep. Remembering the day before, Jena smiled and waved to Elaena. Much to her shock, Elaena did not return the smile; she simply nodded curtly and turned away. It was the closest to a snub that she was permitted by courtly manners to do, and Jena felt mortified.
Only Gwenys had noticed, and she quickly held Jena's hand, "Pay her no heed."
"What did I do?" Jena whispered, panic and outrage threatening to raise her voice.
"Mayhaps it's the company we keep, lady," Gwenys murmured as softly as she could, for Rohanne had just stepped out of the litter.
Jena flushed. Baelor will surely feel the same about me now. She felt stupid that she had thought so little of the factions in King's Landing. Of course there would be consequences for making friends on both sides. And yet, she did not regret her new friendship with Rohanne; she seemed a fine lady, kind and charming. If the Targaryens were going to sneer down at her for associating with Rohanne, then so be it. That was what she told herself, in any case.
The food was exquisite, but she tasted nothing. Her insides were consumed over what had happened. She spoke pleasantly with Rohanne and her husband, who had joined them in the Great Hall and graciously kissed her hand when Rohanne introduced her.
Several of the knight in the tourney were in Daemon's company. Ser Aegor Rivers, Ser Quentyn Ball, Ser Arson Tork, Ser Robb Reyne, Ser Eustace Osgrey, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Ser Gormon Peake, Ser Byren Flowers, Ser Buford Bulwer, and all their retinues. These included two of Ser Eustace's sons, who were serving as squires to two of the knights. It was also the first time that Jena was introduced to Daemon and Rohanne's daughter, Calla. She might have been silver-haired, like her father and brothers, but she had dyed her hair a bright green colour in the Tyroshi tradition.
Jena felt uncomfortable sitting with all these men, knowing that they were among the foremost of those who looked with askance at the bookish King Daeron II, but she did not wish to insult Rohanne. Her brother was not at dinner, and she could not see the Dalts anywhere, so there was nobody else to sit with at the dinner.
"Pray tell me, lady," Daemon asked her, "Where is your brother?"
"I know not for certain, but I imagine that he is standing vigil for Ser Garrison Dalt, Lord Daemon," Jena answered, "in the Sept of Baelor."
Rohanne turned to her husband, "Perhaps you can pay your respects to a fallen knight?"
Daemon nodded, "Aye, it would please the gods, no doubt. Mayhaps I will go see him later."
Jena gave Daemon a smile, and tried to finish her plate of peppered boar to stop her stomach from tying itself in knots.
Truthfully, all of the knights were courteous to her, apart from Aegor Rivers, who simply glowered and saved his words only for the occasional murmur to Daemon and Ser Quentyn.
A dance began after dinner was concluded. Jena dutifully accepted invitations to dance with several of the knights. She was relieved that the sour-faced Aegor Rivers did not make such a request, but after her excruciating dance with Ser Buford, he almost seemed preferable.
Others saw her on the dance floor and asked for the privilege to dance with her, so she found herself going the rounds with such men as Lord Baratheon, Ser Norbert Thorne, Lord Cargyll, and several of the Dornish with whom she had travelled.
By the time that she took a moment to herself, it seemed as though she had been dancing with half the nobles in the hall, and she felt utterly tired. She was about to make her way outside for some air, when someone caught her attention.
"My lady?"
His voice sent a shiver down her spine. She turned and gave a deep curtsy to the prince. "Your Grace!"
Baelor was dressed formally, but not garishly. He wore all black, save for the red dragon across his front and another on his back. It went very well with his olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes. He gave a small smile as he took her hand and kissed it when she straightened again.
"Would it please you to accompany me for a little while?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Jena answered brightly. She slipped her arm in Baelor's as he led her past a few angry noblewomen who were dressed in far more expensive dresses. Baelor paid them no more heed than if they'd been serving maids.
The sun was beginning to set as they made their way out of the keep to a walkway through a well-cultivated garden. Beyond that was the godswood, looming up like a great forest. Further still, the ground gave way to a magnificent view of the Blackwater Rush.
Baelor led her along at a leisurely stroll, past other revellers who nodded respectfully to the prince. Jena could barely stop herself from trembling. Her nerves wavered over whether to worry about offending Baelor by mistake, or being seen by Daemon and Rohanne. Men ride the lists, and women make their way through the courts. I would take the archery butts any day.
"I do hope that the capital suits you, my lady," Baelor spoke again after they'd exchanged pleasantries with Lord Celtigar and his wife.
"Very much so, Your Grace," Jena murmured.
"You seem to have made some new friends," Baelor began, but then let the observation hang. Jena could not tell whether he had done it intentionally, or whether he was himself too awkward to continue. Either way, she felt herself suddenly grow incensed, and she could not restrain herself from speaking plainly.
"Are you afraid that I am cavorting with your foes, Your Grace?"
Baelor had not expected such a challenge. His eyes and mouth widened, his cheeks were flushed, and a splutter of indignation seemed to be resting on the tip of his tongue. Jena did not wish to hear it, so she cut him off.
"I am new to King's Landing, Your Grace, and I did not come here to be embroiled in whatever madness is playing out between the dragons. I was given kindness by your cousin and by your aunt." She did not have to specify which women she was referring to, it was plain that Baelor understood.
Baelor opened his mouth, then closed it again. His expression was difficult to read, and for a moment, they stood in silence. Jena braced herself for the possibility that he might abandon her where she stood and go back inside.
Instead, he surprised her. A frustrated laugh forced itself from his mouth as he gave a long sigh, "As bold as ever, my lady. I almost forgot how sharp your tongue was."
Jena said nothing. She clenched her teeth to restrain herself.
Baelor smiled again, "I confess, I did wonder whether you had fallen under the Black Dragon's spell."
"Lord Daemon has not cast any spells as far as I have noticed," Jena retorted, "And if you are speaking of Lady Rohanne, that is an unjust accusation."
"Mayhaps it is," Baelor answered, "And I can only ask your pardon in that case. But I have heard enough from my father and uncle to know that Lord Daemon presents a danger to my house. Maybe through no fault of his own, perhaps, but there are those in his company who have danced on the knife-edge of treason."
It was gently said, without malice or anger, yet it was nevertheless a rebuke. Jena felt embarrassed, and she looked away from his gaze, "I too must apologise, Your Grace."
"Nay," Baelor countered, "You have a good heart, just like your brother. You wish to see the best in those around you."
It was a handsome compliment, though Jena felt it was quite untrue of herself. "And you, Your Grace? What do you see?"
Baelor paused, then his flush seemed to darken, "Before me? I see a beautiful young woman who is not afraid of me. I see a woman whom I was warned against tonight, but truthfully, I think I would much rather spend my time with you than any other in that hall tonight."
Jena felt weak at the knees, and she wished so badly that he would kiss her as Gwenys had done. She could not look anywhere except down at her own dress.
Both were spared the need to speak when they were greeted by a loud voice greeting Baelor.
It was Lord Ronnel Penrose, with Elaena Targaryen at his side. She had a neutral expression on her face, but Jena began to suspect that this was no innocent crossing of paths. Maybe that is an unjust thought, but what else could it be after what she did before?
"How do you fare, Lord Ronnel?" Baelor asked courteously.
"Well enough after that meal!" Ronnel patted his stomach with a strange sort of affection, "Do you know who you'll next be riding against tomorrow?"
"I believe it will be Ser Gwayne Corbray, Lord Ronnel," Baelor replied, "and then beyond that, I cannot guess."
"Well, it certainly won't be Lord Daemon," Elaena observed. She turned to Jena, "Do give him my best wishes when you see him next."
Jena felt hurt. She tried to remember what Baelor had said before, about how Daemon's supporters wished to see him on the Iron Throne, but she could not feel responsible for any of that. All of it made her resent Elaena, and she bit her tongue to force down the retort which came to her lips.
Baelor stood by, an unreadable expression on his face, but his eyes flitted back and forth to Jena and Elaena.
Only Ronnel Penrose seemed to be ignorant of the tension. "Would that I could ride in the lists one more time," he observed to nobody in particular, "If the damn sun wasn't in my eyes, I would have won my last tourney."
"When was that?" Jena asked, relieved to have a distraction.
"That was about ten years ago, now," Ronnel reminisced, "It was at Storm's End, now that I think about it."
A sudden thought came to Jena's head, and she could not resist speaking it, "I was there, as it happens, Lord Ronnel."
"Oh really?" Lord Ronnel was surprised, and though his smile widened, there was a different expression in his eyes.
"From what I recall, though," Jena went on, "I seem to remember that the lists were positioned north and south on that day. I was only six years old, though, I could be mistaken."
From the look on Ronnel's face, she was not mistaken at all. His mouth opened and closed awkwardly.
Jena kept herself neutral, but she noticed Elaena and Baelor's mouths twitching.
"Mistaken, yes, must be mistaken," Ronnel observed haughtily, "Anyway, I daresay it's time for another dance. My dear?"
"Of course," Elaena observed drily, allowing her husband to steer her back towards the castle.
Baelor put a hand over his mouth, looking equal parts ashamed and astonished, "Gods, but that was cruel."
Jena shrugged, "His wife did not seem to mind."
Baelor shook his head, "Well, that can't be helped. Marriage is not about choice, after all."
"Not even for a prince?" Jena could not stop herself.
Baelor paused, then regarded Jena a long time. "Nay," he finally responded, giving a smile that looked more sad than if he'd began to weep, "especially not for a prince."
Jena felt a lump rising in her throat, but she forced it back down into her guts. It cannot end this way. It cannot.
They resumed walking, but their enthusiasm had faded. The air itself had seemed to chill around them, and Jena groped for something to say.
"Pray," she suddenly exclaimed, "could you remind me why your father and mother were betrothed?"
Baelor gave her a queer look, but answered her, "It was a match made by my namesake. He was trying to forge a peace between Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms."
"And your father has continued that work, has he not, Your Grace?"
Baelor nodded. A frown was forming on his face, perhaps out of confusion more than anything else.
Jena felt herself faltering, frantically trying to choose the best words for her point. "Mayhaps more is needed to unite Dorne with the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace."
"More?" Baelor cocked his head as they halted before the godswood. "And what more would you suggest, Lady Jena?"
"You are a man of House Targaryen, Your Grace," Jena observed, "and also a man of House Martell, through your mother. You will pass that shared heritage onto your own children."
Baelor nodded again, but it was clear that he was growing impatient with being told facts that he already knew.
"So then," Jena continued, "where is the strongest opposition to Dorne coming from?"
Baelor paused in thought, "From what I have heard, Daemon Blackfyre's camp."
"I meant what region, Your Grace," Jena pressed.
Baelor paused again, then a strange light came into his eyes, "The Stormlands or the Reach, I would reckon. But I suspect you mean something more specific than that?"
"The Dornish Marches, mayhaps?" Jena smiled, "Would they not be more inclined to follow a king who shares their own lineage?"
Baelor returned her grin.
"Some might say that you are too clever by half, Lady Jena," he remarked wryly.
"If they say I am too clever, then they will have to take it up with the gods," Jena quipped, "Which one is responsible for imparting cleverness?"
A loud chuckle escaped Baelor's lips. He glanced around, as if to make sure that nobody had seen his composure broken, then turned back to Jena, "Perhaps it is my turn to speak frankly. Are you spoken for?"
"No, Your Grace," Jena answered, "My father tried to arrange a betrothal for me, but he died before he found a man who wished to take up his offer."
"More fool them," Baelor answered, almost by accident. He seemed to realise what he had said only after the words left his lips, for he quickly looked away and cleared his throat. For her part, Jena's heart was beating rapidly.
It was then, however, that they noticed the setting sun, slowly beginning its descent into the west.
"Perhaps we should return, my lady," Baelor suggested. He sounded as if he was trying to apologise.
The moment was over. Jena sighed and returned his look, "If you must, Your Grace, I will go as you will."
Baelor recognised what she meant, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead he looked sad and led her back through the garden towards the Red Keep.
" * "* " * "* "* "" * "* " "* "*
The rest of the evening was a blur to Jena. She spoke amicably to anyone who addressed her, and she retired early for the night, but up until the minute that she fell asleep, her mind was on Baelor, remembering the sound of his laughter, the way he'd spoken of her, the way he'd looked at her, and the melancholic farewell which he'd given her before parting ways. It made her want to weep for sorrow and pleasure at the same time. She had filled herself with hope that her point about marriage might give him an excuse to choose her, but she'd spent the rest of the evening cursing herself for her folly. What good will that do? Baelor's parents will decide who he shall marry, and that will be that. Be damned what a marcher woman has to say about politics, what am I to them?
She awoke with a bitter pall hanging over her head, requesting breakfast be brought to her suite instead of going down to eat in the hall. She had not the heart to put on a smile.
Much to her alarm, Titus burst into the suite late in the morning, looking worse than she felt. Only when he explained the death of Red Robert Flowers, the arrests of Ser Garrison's sons for his murder, and his own appointment to defend their case, did she understand his plight.
"What will you do?" Jena asked.
"First I must find out what happened," Titus answered testily. She tried not to resent him for it, he was agitated and had clearly not slept well through his grief for Ser Garrison.
"It is good that the brothers will have some defence," she offered as a lame encouragement.
Titus nodded absent-mindedly, even as he called for his squire to request a meeting with Grand Maester Elial.
While Clifford Straw ran off to obey Titus' command, only to be followed out the door by Titus himself, Jena ruminated on what had happened. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was dead, murdered in his sickbed... such a scandal was unthinkable, and she understood immediately why the king would want to keep such information a secret.
And yet, she could not help but remember something that Rohanne of Tyrosh had told her the day before. Ser Quentyn is hoping to join the Kingsguard. He has wanted to join it ever since Daemon's father was king. Far as he tells the tale, King Aegon promised him a place when there was a vacancy.
A horrible suspicion began building in her mind, augmented by the words which echoed in her mind from her walk with Baelor. Lord Daemon presents a danger to my house. Maybe through no fault of his own, perhaps, but there are those in his company who have danced on the knife-edge of treason...
Jena felt a strange sensation, as if she was going to be sick, but had no need to retch. She needed to speak to Titus about it, but he had already left.
She did not see him for the rest of the day. At one point, one of Rohanne's servants came by to see if she was still going to attend the tourney, but she feigned illness so that she could stay in the suite and wait for her brother. But he did not return, not even when night fell. She sent Gwenys out to thrice to find him, but it was no use.
Finally, when the sun was making its journey across the sky, did Titus wander into the suite, looking troubled and tired.
"Where have you been?" Jena approached him.
"I went to see the brothers," Titus answered heavily, "and I had more evidence from-"
"-What about the night before?" Jena was too frustrated with him, and also suspicious of his absences, "Where did you sleep?"
Titus gave her a look, recognising her question for what it was, then shrugged, "Elsewhere."
Gods, he is incorrigible. "Well, in any case, I think I have some information which you need to know."
He was skeptical, until she explained what Rohanne had told her about Ser Quentyn Ball's ambitious to become a Kingsguard knight. Then he began to pace the room and reveal what Brynden Rivers and the Dalt brothers had told him about Ser Quentyn.
"I need to find Maegor Toyne and learn the truth of this," Titus concluded.
"Maybe not," Jena declared, eyes wide as she recalled another part of the dinner, "It was not Maegor who sent Daemon to your side, it was his wife."
"Lady Rohanne?" Titus turned around and looked at Jena. "Then why would Quentyn say it was Maegor? What does that gain him?"
Jena had no answer for that, but something else crossed her mind, "Red Robert's murder gains him a Kingsguard vacancy."
Titus seemed to turn pale, if that was even possible for him, "You cannot mean to accuse him of murder. Anyway, he couldn't have done it, he was with me at the Great Sept when it was already night, he would have had to run back to the Red Keep, with poison, and avoid detection... there was no way he could do it."
"Maybe not," Jena agreed, "but he would be one of the first suspects, would he not?"
"Aye, that's true." Titus slapped his forehead in a moment of realisation, "Gods, that's why they came to the sept! Or why he did, anyway! I can see why Daemon went, but Quentyn must have seen it as an opportunity! For now he has three witnesses who can prove that he was not Robert's killer and be free to take his place!"
Jena's own mind was racing as she listened to her brother talk; but now she gave a great gasp and looked her brother in the face with wide eyes, "Did you say that Maegor was encouraging the Dalts to go seek out Red Robert?"
"Aye, they said so," Titus answered.
"That's what Quentyn was doing when he named Maegor," Jena proclaimed, "He wasn't just protecting himself; he was protecting Maegor! The Dalts would protest, but they would be dismissed as liars, and then they would be executed in place of the real killers."
Titus sat down heavily on the floor, "Maegor... I've known him for five years. I called him my friend!"
Jena was stunned; she had never dreamed that these factions would turn to murder in order to gain what they wanted. All the deceptions and brutalities that she'd read about in the history books had seemed so abstract that she couldn't really fathom them happening to people she knew. Now, Baelor's warning seemed far too mild by half. Not even he knows just how far these conspiracies are going.