Jena
It had not been an easy task to participate in the toasts of the evening and yet also avoid drinking too much wine and forgetting what was discussed.
Yet somehow, she had managed it, taking the smallest sips that she dared take. But the sips had still been frequent enough that she was feeling lightheaded on her feet.
The Great Hall was still half-full as Jena slowly made her way across it, followed by Gwenys and the seven Dondarrion knights who formed her escort. Ser Maynard Kellington was in charge, but he was having an even more difficult time than her standing on his feet.
"Any sign of Maegor?" Jena asked Gwenys as they held each other's hands.
"No," Gwenys answered, "but I do spy a dragon."
Jena frowned at this answer, until she followed Gwenys' line of sight.
Prince Baelor Targaryen was laughing uproariously with several puissant knights. All of them seemed worse for wear, though Baelor was still conducting himself better than his companions.
"My lady?"
It was Ser Maynard. He had a puzzled look on his flushed face, for Jena had stopped abruptly to look at Baelor.
"If you will pardon me, Ser," Jena declared, "I bid you a good night."
"My thanks," the knight answered, "but your brother ordered us to escort you back to your suite."
"And now I release you from that order," Jena insisted. "My brother is not Lord Dondarrion; he does not command me, and nor do you." She tried to keep her voice friendly as she said these words, hoping that Ser Maynard was not sober enough to challenge her.
Luckily, he yielded; he and the others made their way past her, with Gwenys accompanying them. She gave Jena a sly look, to which Jena simply grinned. The wine was making her feel bolder than she'd normally be.
She made her way to Baelor's table, but she did so as if she was lost, ignorant of the prince until he took notice of her and rose with alacrity.
"Greetings, Lady Jena." His smile was lopsided; combined with his broken nose, Jena had an urge to giggle which she barely suppressed.
Instead, she gave a curtsy, "Good evening, Your Grace."
"Are you alone?" Baelor looked around the hall. "Where is your brother?"
Jena took a few steps closer and spoke more softly, "Titus is still busy with his tasks. I did not wish to interfere."
"Of course," Baelor acknowledged, nodding his head. "But it is not wise for you to wander the Red Keep alone."
"Is it not?" Jena asked innocently. "What do I have to fear in your own castle?"
Baelor gestured to the feasting nobility. "Drink drives some men mad. Who knows what they might do when they should know better."
He gives a man's response. Jena felt a sliver of disappointment that he should prove human after all. For she knew full well, even if he did not, that men's natures were not nearly as transformed by drink as they pretended. She had seen that plenty enough thanks to her father, and the men with whom he'd shared his company. Her father had been cruel when he was sober, and worse when he was drunk. Titus, meanwhile, had never turned cruel when he was drunk, nor had men like Ser Lyle Bolt or Ser Lambert Penny.
But she did not wish to argue with him now; instead she spoke pleasantly. "Then perhaps you might see to it that I arrive safely to bed?"
Had he been completely sober, Baelor might have hesitated to go with her, but as she suspected, the drink banished his doubts in favour of his own true nature. He smiled bashfully and took her arm in his, leading her out of the hall.
Much to Jena's relief, the journey they took through the keep was an isolated one. They encountered nobody as Baelor led her through the maze.
As they walked, Jena leaned against him for support and glanced up at his handsome face. "You are not participating in the lists tomorrow?"
"Nay," Baelor laughed, "there will be no time for that. Tomorrow are the final jousts of the squire's tourney, and the archery contest thereafter."
"Ah yes." Jena had known that too, and now she felt furious with herself for asking such a banal question.
"Will you be spectating?" Baelor turned to her.
"I doubt my brother will miss me," Jena answered, "but we shall see."
"Tell me," Baelor murmured, glancing about the deserted corridor before continuing, "what news did you two uncover?"
Jena blushed. She wondered whether it was wise to speak of such things, but she saw no way to refuse the Prince of Dragonstone. Especially with purple eyes like that. "Well, you were right after all, Your Grace. Daemon Blackfyre is being used by a conspiracy."
"Ah," Baelor shook his head. "He chooses friends poorly."
"He is fortunate in his wife, though," Jena observed.
Baelor paused, then gave a stiff nod. "You are becoming acquainted with her?"
"Aye, I am," Jena replied, nervous that she had alienated Baelor, but also unwilling to forsake her friendship with Rohanne. She spoke again, "She is guilty of no crimes, Your Grace. The people of Westeros have always mistreated foreigners unjustly."
That last part had rung true, she could see. No doubt men and women would not dare speak ill of Baelor to his face, but he had clearly been made aware of the criticisms leveled against his background. He frowned and gave a sigh, "On that much, we agree."
Jena opened her mouth to speak again, but was distracted by his sudden stop. It took her a second to take in her surroundings and realise where they were. The door to her suite was on her left.
"My thanks to you, Your Grace," said Jena, curtseying clumsily, wishing that they had had more time together.
"No need for that," Baelor answered humbly, waving his hand as if he was brushing her words out of the air.
He had opened his mouth to speak again, but Jena was already kissing him. His mouth was warm, and tasted of Arbor gold.
It had been an impulsive decision, one which could very well cost her everything; even she had never imagined that she could be this rash, this daring, and yet the wine had affected her more than she had expected, and he was so handsome, so courteous, so gallant, and she sensed that he was interested in her, though he was too shy to admit it.
Baelor stood rock-still, as if petrified from shock at her kiss. She held it longer, heart pounding wildly in her chest.
Then his hands went up and rested on her shoulders; his lips moved to kiss her back, and a startled groan emerged from within his throat.
She gasped for air when they finally broke off their kiss, staring wild-eyed up at the astonished prince.
"Are you mad?" The question was asked quietly, even gently, but anyone could sense his surprise.
"I might be." She could not think of anything else to say. Well, the worst has been done. What else do I have to lose?
She kissed him again, and it was her turn to give a low moan. She moved a hand upward, so that her fingers ran through his dark hair.
Once again, Baelor did not push her away, nor did he protest. His hands trembled for a moment as he held onto her shoulders. Jena wished that he would take charge of her, undo her dress in the hallway, pin her against the wall. Gods! What's happened to me?
Much to her relief, she felt his hands slip down to her hips, holding her in place as his own tongue began to explore. The kiss became a duel of tongues, though Jena could not possibly imagine what the rules were for such a joust.
Baelor suddenly pulled his face away from hers, still speaking in that quiet, shocked voice, "What are we doing?"
This time, Jena thought of half a dozen things she could say, none of which would help the situation. She kept herself in check for once and simply looked up at Baelor.
Baelor sighed, "Jena, I cannot do this."
She felt that inflamed sensation whenever he called her by her name, combined with a drop in her stomach at his stubborn diffidence.
"You are the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms," she burst out angrily, "If you cannot stand up to your father, how can you be expected to rule other men?"
Baelor blinked, but said nothing.
"Are you betrothed to anyone?"
Baelor shook his head, "Not that I am aware. My father has been using this tourney to invite several ladies to the capital, but he has not made any firm decision yet, far as I know. He seems to be favouring Dyanna Dayne."
Jena remembered her from the march. She was Ulrick Dayne's younger sister; eleven years old, blonde, aquiline nose, purple eyes. She might as well be a Targaryen herself. Dyanna had kept her distance during the procession, so Jena had never gotten to know her well; they might have only spoken six words to each other during the entire ride to King's Landing. But Jena recalled how she would ride close beside her older brother; she had wrapped herself in Dornish cloth, but whether that was due to the sun or the cool spring weather, Jena never found out. A delicate flower guarded by the Sword of the Morning.
Even as she reflected on Dyanna, a thought suddenly occurred to her. "How do you know that he favours her?"
She should not be speaking to a prince in such a manner, but Baelor did not remind her of that.
"He has often placed her at table beside me," Baelor answered, "but he has done the same with other ladies."
"But not me," Jena pointed out, unable to restrain the resentment in her voice.
Baelor looked away from her, awkwardly shuffling his feet, "I do not know why that might be."
"What do they know about me? Have you said anything about me?"
"No," Baelor replied, then realised his mistake. He opened his mouth to speak again, but he had no words.
"I see." Jena felt tears welling behind her eyes, but she had long ago learned how to hold them at bay until she was alone.
"You do not understand," Baelor insisted, and beneath her hurt feelings, Jena was astonished to hear a pleading tone to his voice.
He continued before she could speak. "I do not have the privilege choosing my own bride. None do, not even in Dorne. Not even if they try to ambush them on the strength of wine."
The last one was said with a measure of reproach, and Jena blushed, resentful and guilty at the same time. "That isn't fair..."
"No, and neither is my position," Baelor countered, "yet you continue on as you've done."
"If I change who I am, they win."
Her brother's words came so easily to her lips that she'd defiantly said them before she could think.
"They?" Baelor was giving her a puzzled look.
"Forgive me," Jena said, "I thought that you might at least have wished to try on my behalf."
Baelor looked shamefaced, and he was about to speak, but Jena had already turned her back on him and gone to her suite door.
In her haste to get away from the prince, however, she pushed her key too firmly into the hole, and the old metal snapped in two when she turned it the wrong way by mistake. She was left holding half of it in her hand.
Oh no... She knocked on the door to try and get Gwenys' attention, but there was no answer.
"Gwen?" She knocked louder, fuming as she felt her skin grow hot.
"Lady..." Baelor stood by, still, still shamefaced, but also working hard to stop a smile from breaking across his face.
Jena glared at him and threw the broken key at his feet. "This is not funny!"
It seemed to break a spell. Baelor burst into laughter, leaning forward, one hand over his mouth and the other on his knee.
Jena, despite herself, began to laugh as well.
"Oh gods," Baelor gasped, "I am so sorry, but that was some of the worst luck I have ever seen!"
Jena laughed harder, reaching out with one hand and holding onto Baelor for support.
After some time, their shared laughing fit began to wind down, and Jena shook her head, "What am I to do now?"
Baelor examined the keyhole of the door, "We will have to summon a smith tomorrow. I'm afraid that you and your household are locked out. Or locked in, if they are already asleep."
"Nothing to be done, then," Jena sighed. She looked around, "Where will I spend tonight?"
"I believe I can assist with that," Baelor answered, "It is past time that you were properly introduced to my family."
"*"* "*"* "*"*"* "*"* "*"*"* "*
Jena was equal parts thrilled and terrified as she walked with Baelor across the drawbridge which led to Maegor's Holdfast. He spoke of his brothers, his parents, and his more distant relations, in order to prepare her for introductions. But there was no true preparation for such an abrupt and embarrassing intrusion. Jena regretted her outburst and her hasty actions with the key; going to bed miserable was preferable to this kind of introduction.
Baelor himself was infuriating too; she knew why he was doing this, and she still felt annoyed that he had had to be prodded so thoroughly into showing his interest for her. Still, he was finally doing what she'd longed for him to do, and he had not been wrong with his criticism of her own behaviour.
"Just a little further now," Baelor announced as they made their way through what he described as the Queen's Ballroom. It was much smaller and far more graceful than the Great Hall. The walls were made up of elaborately carved wood and mirrors of beaten silver.
"Wait," Jena interrupted, stopping where she was, "I am sorry for my part, and-"
"-Enough of that. It is I who must apologise, Jena," Baelor interjected, holding both her hands.
"That is not what I mean, I... You need not bring me here," Jena protested, trying to ignore the somersaulting sensation in her stomach.
"I think I do," Baelor retorted softly, "You said it yourself, Jena. A man must rule his own affairs, as must a king, for how else can he be expected to rule his kingdom?"
Another thought troubled Jena, however. "You never answered my question."
"Which one?"
"Why should I be excluded? Who has spoken out against me? Or was I discounted?"
"Ah," Baelor began, and after a pause, he resumed. "It was my aunt Elaena. She no longer trusts you, for she suspects that you are in Blackfyre's camp."
Of course. Jena seethed inwardly. Do these Targaryens not realise what they are doing?
"But you shall have a chance to speak for yourself," Baelor continued. He linked her arm in his own, and led her through the rest of the ballroom.
At one point, a voice called to them. It belonged to a tall knight of the Kingsguard; Jena did not recognise his voice, and he was fully armed and armoured, with a helm which covered much of his lean face, while much of the rest was hidden behind a scraggly brown beard.
"Your Grace," he declared, bowing to Baelor, "We were tasked with finding you."
"My apologies, Ser Clarence," Baelor acknowledged ruefully, "but Lady Jena Dondarrion has been locked out of her chamber. She shall be staying in one of our apartments tonight, and then she can break her fast with us."
"As you say, Your Grace," Ser Clarence answered.
It took some time to find a servant who was still awake, but Jena was soon escorted to her new suite, which was far more expansive and regal than her own. She felt dreadfully out of place, even when she lay her head down to sleep, wearing borrowed night garments made of costly silk.
Even for one such as her, who was used to servants looking after her needs, Jena was floored by her treatment the next morning. She was given a hot bath which included several soaps of varying scents. Warm towels were used to dry her, her hair was oiled and combed so that it was sleek and shiny, then it was braided exactly to Jena's liking. She felt dizzy as she was also given more finery in the Targaryen style, and she took a moment longer than necessary to admire herself in the mirror. A red dragon suits me very well.
She was led to a rich chamber where the royal family sat at a private breakfast, watched over by two members of the Kingsguard.
King Daeron II sat at one end of the table, and Queen Myriah sat at the other. As the Crown Prince, Baelor might have been expected to sit at his father's right hand, but instead, he sat in the centre of the table, between two of his brothers.
Aerys was the second-eldest of Baelor's brothers, though Jena could not be sure by how much. He was very thin, with wispy hair across his the bottom half of his long face.
Maekar was the youngest, a boy of ten with white-blonde hair. Jena thought he had quite a surly expression, but she was not sure if that was due to the pox marks which marred his face.
Sitting apart from his brothers at his mother's left was Rhaegal. Jena had heard her share of rumours that Rhaegal had inherited his family's madness, and she believed it from the look of him. Although he was a well-groomed youth, he was hunched over his plate, eating without any utensils and muttering to himself. Is he eating with his hands because he chooses to, or because he is required to?
Two Targaryen princesses also ate at the table, along with their spouses. Princess Daenerys sat at the right-hand side of her brother, King Daeron, while Prince Maron Martell sat on her other side. Older by far than her cousins, Elaena sat at the king's left. Unlike the Dornish prince, Ronnel Penrose did not sit next to his wife. Six children sat between Elaena and Ronnel, though Jena had little idea of who they were. The youngest seemed no older than two, while the eldest two were twins of twelve or thirteen.
Rounding out the group was a weedy-looking youth who sat alone, with two empty spaces one either side of him. Jena was not surprised by that, for the youth had a sinister air about him, with a large red birthmark on his face and neck.
"Lady Jena Dondarrion, Your Grace," a servant announced to Daeron.
Baelor rose to his feet, smiling as Jena entered the room, "You look radiant, Lady Jena."
Jena curtseyed, unable to look at Baelor for fear of blushing.
Daeron had also stood up, though more out of courtesy than his son. He gestured to the table, "Be seated."
Jena curtseyed to the king before going to the table. She already knew that she wished to sit as far from Elaena as possible, so she sat down at the empty seat across from Rhaegal, at Queen Myriah's right hand side.
Baelor's mother was olive-skinned like her brother, and her black hair was streaked with grey. She had evidently not expected Jena to sit beside her, but she gave a courteous smile nonetheless.
"It is good to make your acquaintance," she spoke in her accented voice, "though we lament the circumstances."
Jena started for a moment before she remembered the broken key. "Yes, indeed, but it was mine own fault, Your Grace."
The servants quickly placed plates of bacon, eggs, bread, fruits, and cakes before her. She ate delicately while listening to the conversation around her.
"... as I was saying, I suspect that he will request it as his reward," Daeron mused.
"It would not be an unreasonable request," Prince Aerys interjected. "Many knights of the Kingsguard have earned their place in such a manner." For someone as young as he, the prince spoke pompously, as though he sought any excuse to name off all the knights in chronological order.
"Word of Red Robert's death has gotten out, too," Daeron continued, nodding in acknowledgement of his son without encouraging him to talk again.
"It is unspoken, but certainly it will be expected," Prince Maron contributed between mouthfuls of blood orange slices.
Daeron sighed, "He has been haunting me for years about fulfilling that promise. But I suppose it would be impossible to deny him now."
It did not take Jena long to realise they were speaking about Ser Quentyn Ball, but she was too nervous to speak unless spoken to.
Ronnel Penrose had no such inhibitions, for he chose that moment to grin at Ser Baelor, "I suppose you will have to trounce him in the lists tomorrow!"
Baelor smiled politely and inclined his head, "Gladly."
"Enough of this," Myriah interrupted. With a jolt, Jena found herself looking the queen in the face as she spoke to her, "Tell us, Lady Jena, what do you make of your visit to the capital?"
"It is... beyond all expectations, Your Grace," Jena replied shakily, wishing she has Gwenys beside her for support.
"You certainly seem to be acquainting yourself well," Elaena observed passively.
Jena forced herself to speak as politely as ever, "I'm obliged, Princess, but I have yet to meet your children." She had already noticed that two of the children, the ones sitting closest to their mother, drew hostility from the other children sitting closer to Ronnel Penrose. Ronnel himself frowned whenever he looked at them, which Jena had also noticed.
Even from the other end of the table, Jena could see a flash of anger in Elaena's eyes before she turned to her brood and pointed them out. "These are my twins, Jon and Jeyne. And these are Robin, Laena, Jocelyn, and Joy."
None of her children returned Jena's polite smile, but nor were they openly hostile either.
"We have been very remiss," Daenerys suddenly interjected, "for having you in our company is the least we could have done after you saved my nephew's life."
The others reacted with surprise, Jena most of all.
"I did nothing more than any other would do," she protested, but Daeron lifted a hand to stop her as he turned to his sister. "What's this, then?"
Daenerys told them her account of the hunt outside Blackhaven.
Daeron and Myriah both reacted with alarm to the story; Myriah gave Jena a look of gratitude, while Daeron glanced at his son. "Why is this the first time we are hearing of this?"
"I thought it a trifle," Baelor admitted modestly, "and I did not wish to frighten you with an accident."
Jena had always had her doubts about that, but she said nothing to contradict Baelor in front of his family; the presence of so many royals did more to calm her impulses than anything else she'd ever come across in her life.
Elaena was not done, however. She gave Jena a quick look before speaking generally to the table, "Lady Jena certainly has good timing, it appears. How goes it with Lord and Lady Blackfyre?"
The magic words had their desired effect. Daeron's face fell, and he seemed ready to order Jena away. Baelor flushed and looked from Jena to his parents worriedly. Maron's face turned stony, determinedly looking away from Daenerys, who was fixating on her plate. The children were staring at Jena with hostility, while Elaena dabbed at her lips with a cloth. Worse than all the other reactions was that of the scrawny youth with the birthmark, whose smirk looked both scornful and dangerous at the same time.
Jena wished she could melt into a puddle through the floor. She wished she could transform into a bird and fly away. Her body was inwardly cold, and she felt as though she were shrinking within herself. She was reminded of her mother, cowering at the table while her father had snapped or shouted at her over some quibble.
"To my knowledge, they are both well," Jena answered.
Baelor cleared his throat nervously befoe jumping into the conversation again. "Lady Jena was honouring an invitation to sup with them last night, and-"
"-Oh there is no need to clarify, cousin," Elaena overrode him, "One must always take care to choose one's friends."
"I agree," Jena replied. She straightened her back and gave Elaena a level look, "For example, I thought it friendly of you, Princess, when you offered to take me to the tourney in your litter. I presumed such friendliness was expected in the city, and so I extended that same friendliness to a woman whom I thought needed such."
There was no mistaking the message in Jena's words, though she had not raised her voice nor changed her tone. Elaena glared icily at her, while the others said nothing. Baelor was gazing at her with wide eyes. Jena could not tell if he admired her or feared for her.
"And do you think you would do the same today?"
It was Myriah who asked the question, expressed with thoughtful curiousness rather than any accusation.
Jena turned to look at the queen, "Yes, I would, Your Grace. Lady Rohanne has done me no ill will in all the time I have known her, nor has her husband. I think one can only do one's best in keeping peace. My brother proved that to me when he travelled south to assist the Crown with forging our new peace. I am guilty of no treason, nor will I ever be, but nor will I drive others to my enemies' camps by treating them with disdain."
Myriah continued to regard her closely, even as a small smile formed on her face. "Well spoken, Lady Jena. Would that more in the realm had your spirit and open heart."
"Indeed, for then we would have no enemies and we would all die of old age."
It was the scrawny youth who had spoken, in a voice which only seemed to feign at formal courtesy, giving it a mocking tone.
"Mind yourself, Brynden," Daeron warned, pointing a finger at him. Brynden smiled at the king in a way which might have been deemed deferential and conciliatory if anyone else had given it.
Brynden Rivers. Jena remembered all that Titus had said about him, as well as the disgust in Titus' voice when he'd done so. He was too generous by half.
Thankfully, she had a chance to look at Baelor instead. He caught her eye and gave a smile of encouragement. She felt flushed and turned back to her plate. She sensed that eyes were on her, but even she needed moments of respite from impulsive defiance.
"*" *"**"* "*"* *"* "*"* ""* "*"*"*"* "
After breakfast, the Targaryens went their separate ways. Elaena and her husband shooed the children away, with the help of several maids. Daenerys and Maron departed for the tourney together, followed by Maekar and Aerys. Rhaegal was led away by two servants who handled him delicately but firmly.
Jena rose to leave as well, but the king motioned for her to sit down again. It was only he, Myriah, Baelor, and Brynden at the table now.
"My son has told us some of what you and your brother overheard last night," Daeron explained, "and your brother has also confided in Brynden, but I should like to hear everything from your own mouth."
With some pauses, Jena told Daeron everything which she remembered.
When she was finished, Daeron turned to look at Brynden. "This Maegor Toyne... have you found him yet?"
"My eyes are all open and alert, brother," Brynden answered. "Assuredly, you shall be the first to know when I get my hands on him."
"So be it." Daeron leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers together so that his nose rested on his finger tips. "None of this truly proves that the Dalts are innocent, of course; the trial must continue as planned."
He turned to his half-brother. "Carry on."
Brynden rose, gave a formal bow, and departed through a side door.
The king turned back to Jena, "I understand that your brother and his squire are participating in the tourney, but I would ask you to stay here a little while longer."
"Of course, Your Grace," Jena answered anxiously.
It was not Daeron who spoke again, but his wife. Queen Myriah once again had a thoughtful expression upon her face. "I take it, Lady Jena, that you are not spoken for?"
"I am not, Your Grace. And I have nobody left who can speak for me."
Daeron's eyebrows were lifted upwards, "Your mother and father may be dead, but you still have an older brother, surely?"
"And an older sister," Jena added, "but neither of them have been named the ruler of Blackhaven, Your Grace."
"Something tells me that they would find it very difficult to command you even if they spoke with our words," Myriah said, but the words were softened with a smile.
Jena had a strange feeling, that these two knew much more about her than she'd first supposed. But she dared not give voice to her suspicions. She glanced at Baelor reflexively, but he seemed just as disquieted as her.
"We have heard a great deal about you," Queen Myriah continued, "both good and bad alike. Truthfully, I am grateful that my son presented you to us."
Daeron did not seem to share her wife's thoughts, for he was not smiling, but he also did not contradict her either.
"One thing which interested me was spoken only this morning, before you arose. Baelor wished to point out that a bride from the Stormlands, particularly the Dornish Marches, might help assuage the people's feelings about their Crown Prince."
Jena blushed, unsure of where to look or how to react.
"This is unseemly," Daeron broke in, "This is not how important matters were ever decided."
"Why, husband? Because Lady Jena has suggested it before you?" Myriah smiled broadly now, leaning back in her chair. "I know you have had your heart on Dyanna Dayne, but she is young, only just flowered. Anyway, we have four sons, by my last count, and nothing has been promised."
"I am aware how things are done in Dorne," Daeron pointed out in a gentle voice, "but I hesitate to have such frank talk before those whom it concerns."
"Why not?"
Daeron and Myriah looked at their son, who was looking his father in the face. "I am a man grown, and I would wish to have some say in who I shall name queen."
Jena was relieved and thrilled to hear those words from Baelor's lips, but she also felt uncomfortable. Never had she imagined that she would actually be privy to this discussion, and as the speakers were royals, she felt bound to stay silent unless she was addressed.
"The realm must be bound together," Myriah urged her husband, "and what better way to do that than to do it with those who are most willing to set such an example?"
Daeron regarded his wife for a moment which seemed to stretch on and on. Then he turned back to Jena. "Tell me this. If the only obstacle to this betrothal was your friendship to my half-brother's wife, would you renounce her?"
All three of them regarded her. Jena sat where she was, stunned by the question. She knew that she should try to unravel the consequences, weigh the options, predict the consequences, but there was no time for such abstract contemplation. Instead, she looked to Baelor, and stared into his face, which could not hide a measure of longing.
She thought of the feel of his lips on hers, the way he said her name, the astonishment on his face when he'd reminded her of his position and the audacity of her pursuit. Her answer echoed back to her.
Change who you are, and they win. They are my words, and I shall not abandon them, not for anything.
Jena turned back to Daeron, "Respectfully, Your Grace, I will do no such thing." Gods help me.
Daeron nodded slowly, considering her answer. Then for the first time since breakfast had ended, the corners of his mouth turned upwards. "Good."