Jena
Jena watched as Valarr ran around the courtyard, swinging his new sword with unabashed glee. It was decided that he was too young yet to be trained in weaponry, but a little wooden sword had been crafted for him to play with. Now, he was never seen without it. He had even taken it to mealtimes, stuffing the wooden sword into his belt in lieu of a sheath, until Daeron had pointed out that swords were not permitted in his hall unless he was a member of the Kingsguard. If he'd thought that would be the end of it, he was sorely mistaken. Valarr was now adament that he would join the Kingsguard, no matter what anyone else said.
In the Dornish Marches, he would have been wielding a wooden sword when he was able to hold a spoon. He would be learning how to loose arrows from a bow by now. Jena misliked how enamoured her son was by weapons and war, but she could understand that he was a child, and a boy. He wishes to join his father, that is all.
He was far less interested in his bride. Jena had taken him aside and told him that he was betrothed, and the explanation had bored him. He was not old enough yet to show any interest in girls, much less understand what marriage was. She misliked that he must understand it so soon, but this was the lot of princes. Daeron had already written to the Archon of Tyrosh, approving the engagement and encouraging him to send his daughter to King's Landing. She would be fostered in the Seven Kingdoms, so that she might know Valarr before their marriage.
Meanwhile, the people of King's Landing were busy with preparing celebrations for the new year. It would be the 196th year since Aegon's conquest, and Daeron was determined to drive the melancholy of the rebellion from everyone's minds. A modest tourney would be held, and entertainment would be brought to the capital. The Alchemists' Guild had offered to create wildfire for a spectacle, but Daeron refused them. He had never forgotten the guild's role in building mechanical dragons for King Aegon's Dornish invasion. Given that she had lost an uncle during that debacle, Jena hadn't forgotten either.
She also hadn't forgotten the sight of Elaena Targaryen rutting with Ser Michael Manwoody. She had not breathed a word of it to anyone, and she had no wish to speak to Elaena about the matter. Sometimes she felt amused as she remembered the absurd shock plastered on Elaena's face when she'd stared at Jena, and a shameful part of her relished in thinking of what Elaena must be going through. Thus, she was all the more determined to avoid a conversation with Elaena about the matter.
Jena often felt overwhelmed, juggling these gnawing concerns as if she were in a mummer's farce, but there was one which loomed over the others, even Baelor's absence. The child inside of her was growing more restless, and her belly had swollen to the same size that she'd been before Valarr was born. She often kept to herself, sitting in the garden with Valarr. Sometimes he would go play with the sons of noblemen being fostered in the Red Keep, and she would sit with her companions, but she often forgot the subjects of their conversations soon after they were finished.
Her condition was such that she expected to be excused from sitting on the small council, but just a few days before the celebration was set to begin, she received unexpected visitors.
King Daeron and Queen Myriah entered her chamber, accompanied by two knights of the Kingsguard. Ser Willem Wylde was one of them, with an unhappy expression beneath his helm.
"No need to rise, Princess," Myriah said immediately as she stepped inside.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Jena replied, but she felt herself growin tense. "To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"
"There has been grave news from the North, Jena," Daeron began in a solemn voice. He was holding a scrap of parchment in his hands. Black wax was still on the ends of it. "Our first contingent has set up camp at the Wall. Prince Baelor led an expedition to Skagos, but the Stoneborn were prepared. Many lives have been lost, such as Lord Stokeworth and Ser Damrod Martell. And it seems that the Crown Prince is gravely wounded."
She had known as soon as she had seen the expression on Willem's face; all the same, a cry escaped Jena's mouth, even as she covered her mouth with both hands.
"My son led the attack, it seems," Daeron continued. His composure was stony, betrayed only by a slow, shaky sigh. "Let no man ever say that he shirked responsibility."
Jena wanted to scream at Daeron. You sent him there. He wished to please you, to please those men who cried so loudly for Daemon Blackfyre. Is that all you have to say?
"How has he been injured? Is there no detail given?" Jena felt Gwenys take one of her hands in both of her own, but it did nothing to comfort her.
Daeron hesitated, even as he regarded Jena with a sad expression. "There is no other news at this time."
Queen Myriah sat beside Jena, holding her other hand as Daeron took his leave to summon the small council.
"We must send them word," Jena insisted to Myriah through her tears. "We must find out about Baelor's condition if anything changes!"
"Of course, my dear. Daeron ordered Brynden to send those orders at once."
Myriah sounded as though she lamented the importance of Bloodraven, but she was reluctant to speak plainly about her mislike for Rivers. Even the queen herself dares not disparage him. Why does Daeron tolerate such a dangerous man?
"*"* "*"* "*"*"* "*"*"*
The celebrations began in earnest to welcome the one hundred ninety-sixth year since the Conquest. Jena could not bring herself to leave the Red Keep, not even to accompany her son, so it was Gwenys who escorted Valarr, together with Ser Willem Wylde, whom Daeron had officially appointed as Jena's bodyguard.
She would listen as he spoke of the jugglers, the singers, the mummers, the animals that performed, the knights who rode in the tourney. He was too young to care that most of the assembled jousters were hedge knights, squires, and older men. Prince Maekar had taken charge in an attempt to show off a fine tribute to his father's realm, and Jena had heard that the middling success was driving Maekar into a foul mood that only Deanna Dayne could lift.
Jena herself was in a terrible mood. The aches and pains of her body were growing sharper by the day, leaving her worried and confused when they would surge and ebb, as the tides might do.
It was on the second day of the tourney that Jena was approached by a knight of the Kingsguard. This time, it was Lord Commander Sebastion Cave. The replacement for Red Robert Flowers was a greybeard, but much respected for his honour and devotion to duty. His origins were obscure, and his reputation was less glamourous than that of his peers, but he had endured nonetheless.
"Your presence is requested at the small council, Princess," he announced. "His Grace assures you that they are meeting here in Maegor's Holdfast to accommodate you."
Jena sighed; Daeron was a clever man, for how could she reject such a reasonable request? Thus, she followed the Lord Commander down one flight of stairs to the private dining room where she had first become acquainted with Baelor's family.
She was the last to arrive, and she was disconcerted by those in attendance. The King and Queen were both seated, and their morose expressions cast a pall over those in attendance. The Hand of the King, Ambrose Butterwell, fidgeted nervously in his seat. Grand Maester Elial, who was ailing so often that he too rarely left his chambers, had come from his sickbed to the king's table. Brynden Rivers sat to the side, gazing implacably at her. That he should be sitting so sternly... what does he know? Jena felt herself shaking as she allowed Ser Willem to help her sit down.
The king began with a respectful nod in Jena's direction. "Thank you for joining us, Princess. Accept our apologies for disturbing you."
"I only hope that you do not disturb me with grimmer news," Jena began, trying to curb the fear from her voice.
"In that you will be disappointed," Lord Brynden Rivers remarked wryly. "The news could hardly be grimmer, but it does not concern the Prince."
Jena forced herself to maintain eye contact with the Master of Whispers, repulsed though she was by his unnatural eyes. "Then why should it concern me?"
"It appears that Lord Daemon Blackfyre has finally worked up the nerve to dally with treason," Bloodraven answered.
Jena felt herself turn cold. Gods be good... has Daemon taken leave of his senses?
"This cannot be..." Jena protested. She looked to the king and queen, "I trust Lady Rohanne, she would not stand for this."
Bloodraven shook his head, "It is hardly her decision to make. In any case, whether she supports him or not is not our concern. Our only concern is what we will do about this." Although he conveyed himself in a serious and dark manner, something in his manner made Jena suspect that he was not alarmed at all by this news. Rather, he seemed to relish in giving it.
"On whose word do we have this report?" Jena asked.
"This is unseemly, Your Grace," Lord Steffon complained to Daeron. He was not so much as looking at Jena.
"Why?" Queen Myriah asked him.
Steffon seemed ready to speak, but something in Myriah's gaze made him trail off and look away.
Daeron, who had smiled at his wife's challenge, now turned to his half-brother. "I believe the princess asked you a question."
Lord Rivers gave a sigh, "Princess Jena, I assure you that I have proof. One of mine own informants was in attendance, and he sent a raven to me immediately. You might remember him, in fact. Ser Clifford Straw."
He was correct. Jena did remember Clifford well, but others did not.
"And who is this Clifford Straw?" Queen Myriah asked of Jena.
"He is the eldest son of my late father's steward," Jena explained to the king and queen, "and he was also my brother's squire."
"Ser Clifford has also served amongst the gold cloaks for several years," Bloodraven interjected, "I daresay that half the heads on our battlements are there thanks to his work."
Jena felt uneasy. She had watched Clifford grow up from a rambunctious boy into a shy young man who had been so grateful to Titus for a chance to become a knight. This is what you chose to do with that chance?
"We must make our decision swiftly," Daeron announced, resuming control of the council. "I would have allowed Daemon to live in peace, as a leal lord in my realm, but he has overreached himself. Now comes the matter of what must be done about it."
"Your Grace," Lord Butterwell called out, "I do not deny that this... this development is a dire one. All the more reason why we should not act rashly."
"Rashly?" Bloodraven straightened in his seat. "There is only one thing to do. We must put Daemon Blackfyre in chains. He has many friends across the realm, and we must send them a reminder of what loyalty to the Black Dragon will cost them."
Jena trembled. She thought of how pleasantly Daemon had spoken with her and Baelor. She thought of him being dragged to the executioner's block, even as Rohanne and the children wailed. Then she imagined that Rohanne and the children were also dragged to the same block, slippery with Daemon's fresh blood. Gods help us...
Grand Maester Elial's reedy voice broke through her visions. "It would be best if the princess remove herself. She is in no fit state to be present."
Jena turned and glared furiously at Elial. "Spoken by an invalid who is too sick for my condition but healthy enough to attend this council!"
Sigfryd Velaryon failed to conceal his snort of laughter. Lord Ronnel Penrose and Steffon Banefort gave scandalised expressions. Elial began to splutter out a protest, but he was defeated by a coughing fit. Brynden Rivers' eyes seemed to be hooded, just like the head of an executioner.
"Princess," Daeron began quietly, but Jena would not hear of what he had to say.
"If you will excuse me, Sire, I will take heed of the Grand Maester's kind concerns," she observed. She gave Elial a scathing expression to go along with her sarcastic words, even as she pulled herself up from her seat. Immediately, Ser Willem Wylde approached her and held her steady. She wanted to storm out of her own accord, but her weariness won out, and she leaned on the Kingsguard knight for support as he helped her out of the hall.
"As I was saying, the proper course is clear," she heard Bloodraven declare. "They are early yet in their treason. They will not suspect-"
She heard no more as the doors closed behind her. She was filled with a wild urge to write a letter and send it to Rohanne, warning her that she must flee. Daemon can make a living for himself in Essos. He might become a lord of sorts, and why not?
She knew it was fruitless to think of such things. Ser Willem was fond of her due to his friendship with Titus, but he would not betray his vows. And Jena did not doubt that Bloodraven had a spy or two following her, and they would not hesitate to inform him of her treason should she commit it.
"I will go the rest of the way myself," Jena told Ser Willem when they reached her chamber door.
"As you say, but I will be near if you require my service," Willem replied.
He had just turned and walked back around the corner when Jena sensed someone else approaching from the end of the hall.
Elaena Targaryen was dressed like a queen, in various reds and blacks as befitting her house. Her disposition was coldly regal and Jena might have once been intimidated by her presence. Now, all she could think of was how Michael Manwoody's hands had gripped her sagging bosom, how her eyes and mouth had flown open when she realised she'd been caught, and how Michael's cock had continued to thrust inside of her even as he'd turned to see who had come into the room.
"What do you want of me?" Jena asked, raising her chin and resting her hands on top of her belly.
"I might ask you the same," Elaena answered.
"If I wanted something from you, then I would have already made my demands," Jena answered. "But since you do not take silence for an answer, let me make it plain. I am sick of your constant disrespect, and your insufferable judgment towards me." Jena had always been outspoken, but since her marriage, she had not dared to be as vocal about her honest opinion. It had been one of the first lessons she had learned from her older companions, but she was heartily sick of being poised when her back was too sore to stand straight.
"Is that it, then?" Elaena persisted, closing the gap between them. "Must I sing your praises in public? Must I kiss your hand before the realm? Go on and tell me your price! I will not have you dangle this over my head for the rest of-"
She stopped mid-sentence as Jena's hand flew out and slapped her face. Her eyes and mouth widened, and a startled gasp cut off her words.
"How dare you," Jena snarled, too angry to fear any consequences. "How dare you speak of blackmail and bribery! You know nothing of me, you haughty, judgmental bitch!"
Both women breathed heavily as they stared at each other. Jena saw tears in Elaena's eyes, and the sight of them filled her with renewed wroth. What right does she have to weep? She was tempted to slap Elaena again, but her hand hurt too much. "You think that I would purchase your respect for me? Do you rate me so low? Or is it that you rate yourself so high?"
Elaena did not speak, and Jena could not be sure what she was thinking or feeling. A red welt had formed on one of her cheeks where Jena had struck her.
Both of Jena's hands were on her belly now, one of them throbbing. She gasped louder as a sharp pain went through her. The damned contractions were back; she uttered a loud curse. "Not again, why can't this madness stop! Am I not suffering enough?"
"Jena..."
It was the first word which Elaena had spoken. It was not angry, nor even loud; just a simple statement of her name. Jena looked at her, only to see Elaena pointing downwards, beyond her swollen belly.
Jena looked down and pulled at her dress to see what Elaena was looking at. Wherever she touched, she felt a dampness, and when she yanked part of her dress out, she saw it was soaked through.
Oh no. No. No. Gods no. Mother save me, please no!
"Jena!"
She looked up at Elaena again. Only then did she realise that she'd been shouting her thoughts aloud.
"Alarm!" Elaena called out, in a voice louder than any she'd ever used before. Jena felt herself sob aloud as she realised that the contractions were slowly growing stronger. Not now, please, not while Baelor is so far away.
Footsteps pounded, echoing in the corridor, and suddenly there appeared a man in flashing white armour. "What is it?"
"Princess Jena's labours have begun!" Elaena told him.
Willem Wylde stepped forward, putting an arm around Jena. She gave a cry of pain as she forced herself to walk forward. Elaena was on her other side, one arm around her.
"Guards!" Willem shouted as he struggled to support Jena as best he could. Jena heard other footsteps, other shouts, but she no longer paid attention to the words. She felt hands grab her, even lift her up, carrying her as she writhed and whimpered, shutting her eyes rather than behold what was happening.
A hand grabbed one of hers. Elaena spoke in a low voice. "Be calm, Princess. The birth will be worse if you despair."
How can I not despair? I have lost three babies before this one. I almost lost Valarr. I might lose this one too. And Baelor is dying far away. She could only weep with fear as she felt herself be carried up a staircase.
"Be gentle, you fools!" Elaena snapped. "Move slowly, and do not jolt her!"
Another pair of hands held Jena's other hand, and a she heard a familiar voice call her name.
"Gwen," she sobbed. "It's too soon, Gwen, the baby is coming too soon!"
"It will be well, Jena!" Gwenys murmured, but Jena could sense the fear in her voice.
The men holding her were suddenly lowering her onto a bed. It was soft and large; she could not touch the edges with her hands and feet.
"How many weeks has she been pregnant?" Elaena demanded.
"Thirty three, I think," Gwenys answered. "Where is the grand maester?"
"Baelor!" Jena sobbed. She heard Elaena and Gwenys speaking to her, other voices too, but she paid them no heed. The contractions began to overwhelm her body. She felt two hands on each of her own, and she gripped them as hard as she could.
"Baelor isn't here, Jena." Gwen told her.
"He must be here," Jena stared into Gwen's tear-stained face.
"Mama?"
Valarr had run into the room. He pushed his way to stand beside Gwenys, looking terrified.
"Valarr," Jena called to him, struggling to calm herself. She pulled her hand free of Gwen's grip and took Valarr's small hand in her own.
"This is not fitting," someone declared. "Take the prince away."
"No!" Valarr's hands gripped Jena's tighter.
Jena felt too weak to argue, but nor did she let go. She had plunged into a realm of shadow; darkness was all around her, but for one light which endured, which gave her hope. Shadows seized her wrist and tried to wrench the light from her hand. She could not fight them, but she screamed and writhed, all while she gripped harder than before.
"Jena," Elaena spoke again. "This is no place for the young prince..."
It made no difference to Jena; she held Valarr's little hands all the more fiercely. They would take him away just as they took Baelor away. All the while she began to scream louder as she felt a tightness below her abdomen. Valarr's wide-eyed face disappeared from her view as she shut her eyes and sobbed aloud.
Elaena and Gwenys whispered to her, but she heeded them not. She felt Valarr squirming, even as her hand became slippery with sweat. In an instant, her hand closed on nothing, and she looked around frantically for her son.
"Where is Valarr! Bring him back!" Jena shrieked.
Nobody listened to her. Men and women had filled the room, but none of them spoke to her. Familiar faces floated around her: the king and queen, Gwenys, Elaena, Elial, septas and septons, Janyce and Faile, Valarr, Rohanne, Titus, Cassana, her mother and father. Finally, she saw Baelor standing over her, an easy smile on his face, even as she wept harder from the pain.
Even as she gave one final scream, it seemed to her that it echoed in the room. Just as the darkness consumed her, she realised that it was not an echo, but a smaller, high-pitched cry.