Jena

"O, the sky was weeping that dreadful day,
Near and far the people were wont to say,
'O, poor Isidore, fare thee well!'
'We'll pray that they spare you from the seven hells!"

Michael Manwoody clapped his hands rhythmically as he belted out the song. Jena marvelled that he could sing as quickly as he did, even as she was unable to resist clapping along with him. Elaena was more alive than Jena had ever seen her before, laughing as Michael broke into a silly jig between the verses.

"Someone should have warned poor Isidore,
A pirate's life was no way to shirk his chores,
But poor Isidore was born to stray,
He never would have wanted it any other way!

He sailed down south, then he sailed up north,
He stole from the Durrandons and Osric the Fourth!
They sent a fleet apiece to bring back his head,
But he made sure that each fought the other instead!

O, the sky was weeping that dreadful day,
Near and far the people were wont to say,
'O, poor Isidore, fare thee well!'
'We'll pray that they spare you from the seven hells!"

Michael took longer pauses to gasp for breath. This suited the other musicians; they took great joy beating out such a wild pace on their instruments. They played a flute, a fiddle, a drum, and a strange sort of lute which Jena had never seen played outside of the eastern Stormlands. It was perhaps the most contagious music that she had ever heard.

"One day there appeared good Lord Celtigar,
He followed Isidore under sun and under star,
And when poor Isidore laid his anchor down,
He went to bed and woke up with his arms and legs bound!

O, maybe if he'd tried to sail across the Narrow Sea,
O, maybe then poor Isidore might still be free!
Instead it was to Claw Isle that Isidore was brought,
He tried to beg for mercy but twas all for naught!

O, the sky was weeping that dreadful day,
Near and far the people were wont to say,
'O, poor Isidore, fare thee well!'
'We'll pray that they spare you from the seven hells!"

"They hanged him with his back to the eastern shore,
His tears were matched by women and men by the score,
He cursed Celtigar with an early end,
But any man could see that the gods were not his friends!

So this goes out to any wayward lad,
Give up those silly dreams and count yourself glad,
For if you turn to piracy and criminal abuse,
You'll join poor Isidore hanging from a noose!

O, the sky was weeping that dreadful day,
Near and far the people were wont to say,
'O, poor Isidore, fare thee well!'
'We'll pray that they spare you from the seven hells!"

Despite her own enjoyment, Jena worried that the song was too crude for her son, but it had been far too long since she'd heard Valarr laugh this much. The boy was clapping so wildly that he'd long ago lost the tune. At one point he even sprang out of his chair and tried to imitate Michael's wild jig. Thus, she said nothing when the musicians cheerfully began to play the song a second time.

Jena had made the Queen's Ballroom her own, with Myriah's blessing. It served as a beautiful and comfortable retreat for Jena to eat her meals in peace. There were times, listening to the variety of songs and watching all sorts of acts and entertainment, that she could forget that the war was tearing the realm apart, that her family was scattered to the winds, that her dear friend was now an enemy.

Kiera of Tyrosh was one of the few who were not swept up in the good cheer.. She alternated between loudly complaining to her chaperone in Tyroshi, and pouting resentfully when she was told off. She did not look at Valarr even once, as far as Jena could tell.

For the umpteenth time, Jena wondered what Rohanne must have been thinking to suggest such a spoiled and wilful child for marriage to Valarr. Perhaps she had no idea what Kiera was like; perhaps she did, but then what cause did I give her to wrong me? Did she mean to prepare Kiera herself? What am I to do now?

"As wonderful as ever!"

Jena turned to look at Myriah Martell, who rose from her seat while applauding the musicians.

Michael bowed low, still breathing heavily from his exertions.

Jena glanced at Ronnel Penrose. Given how he had grown up right on the shore of the Narrow Sea, Lord Penrose was exactly the sort of man who would have appreciated a lively rendition of "Poor Isidore". And yet, he regarded Michael with suspicion and mislike.

Elaena and Michael were having great difficulty finding a private time alone. As the war had dragged on, noblewomen had come into King's Landing to stay at the Red Keep for their safety. Jena and Elaena were expected to play hostess, which meant Elaena could no longer slip off with Michael to some quiet place.

For his part, Michael was growing mindful of how the guards seemed to keep a closer eye on him than most. Daeron had not openly declared him to be a hostage, but it was clear that men suspected him of being a Blackfyre spy. Ronnel Penrose was one of those men.

The musicians collected coins thrown by the dinner guests and retired as another serving was brought up from the kitchens.

More than fifty men and women sat at the tables, eating heartily. While the room might have been alive with gossip and debate, there was little to discuss apart from the war, and no man or woman had the will to speak openly about it unless the king broached the subject. Jena was relieved that Daeron never did, saving such talk for his small council.

She was also grateful for Duckle, who ran amongst the tables to replace the distraction of music. He screeched and giggled, cartwheeling down one aisle then somersaulting down the next one.

When the aging Lord Daeil Massey arose and hobbled off to the bathroom, Duckle took great pleasure in mimicking his gait for the amusement of those around him. Then he grabbed the long braid of Lady Faile Jordayne and tried to play jump rope with it.

After a few more of these antics, Duckle turned to insults whilst parodying a nobleman's speech and mannerisms.

"It is a veritable report that the good king is fond of books," the fool pronounced, "but majesty, they weren't meant to be eaten!" He stuck out his stomach to form a pot belly.

Daeron and Myriah laughed heartily, encouraging the others to do the same.

"Good gods," Duckle exclaimed as he feigned a look of surprise. "What do we have here?"

He darted towards Ronnel Penrose and pointed at his chest. "My lord, you have a stain!"

Ronnel instinctively looked down. "Where?"

Duckle's hand darted up and gave Ronnel's nose a great squeeze while Duckle loudly imitated a goose. Ronnel turned red with suppressed wroth as Elaena shrieked with laughter beside him.

Duckle darted away and pointed at Steffon Banefort. "Lord Ronnel should buy his next coat from the Hooded Lord! Why, I once wished to buy a horse from the Royal stables! I had not enough money, but blessed Banefort beheld a poor fool's plight and intervened on my humble behalf!"

He gave Banefort a low bow whilst wildly applauding his hands. Such was his effect that others joined in. Steffon, meanwhile, frowned in confusion.

"The blessed man said to me, "Duckle, I will pay for the horse, on the agreement that you become my debtor." What a great honour that was! I agreed with a full heart and kissed his hand to seal the bargain!" Duckle danced about. "And so I rode my new horse everywhere around the capital! It was marvelous! Three days later, Lord Banefort approaches me, now, and he demands that I pay my debt to him!" The fool shook his head morosely. "A blessed man, to be sure, but very forgetful! I told him that our agreement was made on the condition that I become his debtor, and if I were to pay him back, then our agreement would be void!"

Jena struggled not to spit out her latest mouthful of food. Around her, the room exploded in laughter as Duckle performed a jig in mockery of Michael's dancing. Banefort was rolling his eyes, a humourless smile on his face.

Just then, Jena noticed Kiera of Tyrosh; she too was laughing at Duckle's jape. It was the first time that Jena had seen mirth on that child's face.

Duckle continued his routine, moving on to those who weren't in the room.

"That Daemon Blackfyre, now, I hear he's got nine children! Nine!" Duckle looked around wide-eyed as the dinner guests braced themselves for the inevitable jape. "They said he's known for his famous sword, but I always thought they were talking about the one made of Valyrian steel!"

Jena glanced at Valarr. He thankfully was still too young to understand such a jape, for he looked confused at the adults laughing all around him.

"Why, I daresay that his wife must be the only woman in Westeros who prays for him to use the back door when he comes in!"

Jena felt her smile dissolve, and her good cheer turned sour. She sighed heavily and took a strong sip of wine from her goblet. She could feel eyes watching her, but she closed her own in response. It is the fool's privilege to mock the mighty. Why should Rohanne be exempt?

After Duckle was finished, he capered off to thunderous applause, leaving Jena to wrestle between her resentment towards Rohanne and her guilt of turning on her friend.

"Jena?" It was Gwen, observant as always. Now she leaned forward and murmured so that only Jena could hear her."

"Pay it no mind," Jena murmured sadly. "It is mine own concern."

A sudden movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She saw Michael Manwoody leaving the ballroom, bidding his goodbye. Jena did not fail to notice a man in Targaryen livery following him out of the room.

On impulse, she turned and looked to her right. Elaena sat between her and Ronnel. Both were taking note of Michael's departure, but while Elaena did so with the briefest and most secretive of glances, Ronnel stared openly at the departing Dornishman.

Once again, Jena was seized by doubts and concern. She waited until Ronnel was caught up in a conversation before whispering in Elaena's ear. "I think your husband might know about your affair."

"He cannot know," Elaena insisted. "If he suspected what I was doing with Michael, he would not keep quiet about it."

"Perhaps," Jena acquiesced. "But what shall you do now?"

"There is nothing to be done," Elaena admitted bitterly. "We are at war, and if this is my burden, I shall count myself fortunate that it is not worse." Jena knew exactly what she meant.

It had been over two months since Elaena had heard from her son. The last that she had heard of him, Jon had survived the Sack of Gulltown, as it was becoming known, and he was leading what remained of his command into the Vale. It had become a habit for Jena and Elaena to visit the rookery and inquire whether there had been any messages for them.

The following day, after Jena awoke in Gwen's arms and arose from her bed, she put her son to her breast and sat on her balcony, looking out as the sun arose.

He slept in her chambers and she kept him close by her side as often as possible. It was much the same as when Valar had been born; Baelor had once japed that their nursemaids on Dragonstone had been guests more than anything else. Even he, who'd grown up surrounded by maids whose milk he'd drank, had never fully understood how much it meant to Jena. He had wept with her when her pregnancies had failed, but the pain was always hers foremost, and reminded her how easily her happiness could be destroyed.

She was beginning to worry for her son. He was smiling on his own now; whenever he saw her, his little face broke into a grin. Whenever she spoke to him, he gurgled and cooed back, as if he were imitating her speech. He could hold his head up, he was reacting to things he could see, and he was beginning to reach out with his little hands.

He must have a name. Jena was sick of that advice; she had heard it from Gwenys, Elaena, Myriah, Daeron, Grand Maester Elial, so many people that Jena wanted to scream. She knew full well that they were correct, but she couldn't bring herself to do it alone. She and Baelor had decided on Valarr's name together. They had decided on names for her previous children before she'd miscarried. After the third, she and Baelor had decided to wait until after the baby was born before they discussed names.

When her baby was full, Jena laid him back in his little bed to begin his morning nap. When she was washed and dressed, she went back to the Queen's Ballroom for the morning meal.

By the time that she arrived, most had finished eating. One man who was still eating was Ser Michael Manwoody. Yawning between bites of bacon, he arose from his seat and gave Jena a bow. "Your Grace."

"Good morning, ser," Jena answered. "May I join you?"

"Please," Michael sat down again, even as servants hurriedly placed food before Jena to fill her plate. "You slept well?"

"I did," Jena answered. "And after last night's performance, I trust you did the same?"

Michael grinned at Jena's compliment. "Very much so, Princess."

As King Daeron had called those Dornishmen who dwelled in the Red Mountains, Michael was a stony Dornishman. His skin was fair and heavily freckled, his hair was chestnut-brown, and his eyes were hazel. Even his accent was milder than most of his fellow Dornishmen.

Thinking of his accent, she could not resist giving voice to her curiosity. "I was amazed how you sung "Poor Isidore." I've only heard that sung by eastern Stormlanders. And you sounded as if you came from Tarth. Have you spent time there?"

"You flatter me," Michael protested, but he did so with an appreciative grin. "My voice has always been my greatest talent, or so my darling likes to say." He gave the barest hint of a wink to Jena as he said those words. "I have never been to Tarth myself, but I knew a Tarth lad when I was studying at the Citadel."

Jena nodded. She had spoken with Michael before about his years at the Citadel. He'd forged enough chain links to take his maester's vows. Instead, he had returned to Dorne and charmed his way into the confidences of House Martell. Men who hated him liked to spread salacious rumours of how Michael had done so; they claimed that he'd become Myriah Martell's paramour, Maron Martell's lover, or both at the same time when brother and sister had shared a bed with him.

In King's Landing, there was no surer way to a painful death than to speak those slanders aloud. However, that did little to improve Michael's standing with the other members of Daeron's court. Knights despised Michael, for his own knighthood had been gifted rather than earned; Elaena Targaryen had ensured his elevation as a member of her cousin's court. The educated men were little better; they envied Michael's quick wit, his scholarly achievements, and his skill at music. Do they also guess that he is cuckolding the Master of Coin?

She kept those fears to herself as she ate with Michael. "If I may ask, ser, what made you leave the Citadel?"

Michael dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief before answering. "Truthfully, Princess, I was bored. I was sent to the Citadel by my father because he already had an heir and a spare. But don't mistake me, I am grateful that he did. I loved Oldtown; so many people, so many stories, so much knowledge to learn. I spent ten years in the Citadel, but I did not learn everything from the maesters. I learned a great deal from the sailors, from the merchants, from the artisans and poets. I learned how to speak languages and change my voice. I learned how to dance and how to… well…" He broke off with the faintest blush on his face.

Jena smirked mischievously. "Come now, ser, I have seen an example of what you speak. Did you forget?"

"I had not, Princess," Michael answered quietly. "That is why I halted."

Jena laughed. "Gods, I thought I was going mad!"

Michael burst into nervous giggles of his own. "I must thank you again for your discretion that day, and all the others since."

Jena's smile faded; not only because she recalled her own qualms about what she was helping to hide, but also because Grand Maester Elial had entered the Queen's Ballroom.

He looked irritated as always, fixing a beady eye upon Jena. As he made his way towards her, Jena bolted up from her seat and finished the distance. She had already guessed why he had arrived.

All the same, she was shocked to see her prediction proved true. The old man held out a scroll, sealed with wax bearing the royal insignia of the Crown Prince. There was only one ring in the world which could have made that mark.

"For your eyes, Princess," Elial grunted. "But the king requests that any pertinent information must be shared with him."

"Of course," Jena gasped as she snatched the scroll from his outstretched palm. "Thank you!" She was so delirious with joy that she was tempted to embrace the grand maester and kiss his cheeks. Thankfully, he was already turning and shuffling out of the room again.

Michael, who guessed the meaning of her ecstasy, rushed to her side. Jena turned to him, but she had no words.

"Best go somewhere private, Your Grace," Michael suggested. He escorted her from the room, but Jena hardly noticed his presence.

They went into an unclaimed apartment. Such was their excitement that they did not bother to close the door behind them as Jena stood in the centre of the room and tore away the wax with shaking fingers.

She recognised Baelor's hand, just as she might recall a language which she had not spoken for years. There was a mixture of strangeness and familiarity to the way those words had been written on the parchment.

My love,

I have never read such sweet words as those from you. They warm me as nothing else in this bitter cold. I think of you and both our sons every day. I long for the day when I can hold you all in my arms once again.

Maegon or Viserys. Make of those what you will, but I trust your judgment completely.

-Baelor

She read the words four times in rapid succession. Each time, the words seemed to blur, and became more difficult to read. Finally, she dropped the scroll and gave over to sobs.

If Michael did not hold her up, she might have collapsed to the floor. All the pain and anguish struck her harder than ever, but this time, there was a delight and relief which numbed her misery.

"Your Grace," Michael slowly urged her towards the bed. She sat down heavily and continued to bawl, unable to control herself any longer.

"Jena!"

Gwenys was suddenly beside her. "What happened?"

Jena half-heard Michael murmuring to Gwenys, holding Baelor's note. She could also hear the sound of an armoured knight enter the apartment, and she saw Willem Wylde through her tears.

"My congratulations," he told her when Michael had explained the situation to him.

Gwenys sat upon the bed beside her, holding the scroll in her hands. "Which name will you choose?"

Jena looked at her, then down at the two names. Truthfully, she did not care greatly for either names, except for the fact that Baelor had suggested them. She pondered the names silently, trying to imagine which of the names suited her son better.

Make of those what you will, but I trust your judgment completely.

"If you cannot choose one name, Your Grace, then why not both?"

Jena looked up at Michael. "What do you mean? Both?"

"I see what he means," Gwen interjected. "Put them together and make a new name. One which no Targaryen has yet had."

"Yes," Jena answered. "I like that." She took the note back from Gwen and studied the two names. Maegon. Viserys. Maegon… Viserys…

NOTE: I must confess that I once again wrote these original lyrics to a pre-existing tune. If you're curious, I was inspired by this marvelously catchy song: watch?v=-Ql32DvngeM