Jena

"Welcome home, my son."

Queen Myriah stepped forward and put her hands on either side of the prince's face and kissed his forehead.

"Thank you, Mother." Maekar did not shake off this display of affection, but Jena could see the discomfort and embarrassment clear on his face. His voice was no less gruff when he responded to Myriah, nor did he return her kiss.

His children stood about him, half of them in the company of wet nurses. All of them were formal and despondent, still grieving the terrible loss which they had suffered.

Daeron, the eldest, was close to Valarr's age. Though she'd never dare voice such wicked thoughts, Jena had always thought him less handsome than her own son. While Valarr's skin had a trace of olive tone, Daeron's skin was sallow. His hair was a sandy colour, which Jena could only attribute to his Dornish legacy, for he certainly hadn't gotten it from his mother or father.

Aerion, just two years younger, was every inch the Targaryen prince. He'd inherited Dyanna's pale skin, Maekar's silver locks, the violet eyes of both his parents, and the sharp, handsome features of both parents. As far as Jena could remember, he had always enjoyed the attention which he'd received. By now, just by the way he carried himself, she could see that he considered it his due.

Maekar's younger sons resembled Aerion more than Daeron. Purple-eyed and silver-haired, Aemon was eight and Aegon was six. Jena did not know enough about either of them, for they had mostly grown up at Summerhall, except for formal occasions.

Maekar also had two daughters. Daella was a girl of seven years, while Rhae was only five. Both were more Dayne than Targaryen, with blond hair like their mother's.

"Welcome back to the capital," said Jena as she tried to look all Maekar's children in the eye. None of them smiled or thanked her; the absence of their mother was still a dreadful pall over their lives.

Jena felt a pang of guilt; it was the same sensation which she'd felt for a year whenever she thought of Dyanna Dayne. The first time it struck her was when she had heard the princess had fallen from her horse during a hunt.

Dyanna had once been strongly considered for Baelor's hand in marriage. Although she'd only been a girl of eleven at the time, Jena had always kept her distance from Dyanna, even after her marriage to Maekar. Then again, she could not take all the blame; Maekar had never been sociable, and though Dyanna was able to put a rare smile on his face, she had seemingly shared his disregard for social events.

"Thank you, goodsister," Maekar replied on behalf of his children. "And our congratulations to you on your cause for celebration."

Only Maekar could make a compliment feel insulting. Aerys had once made that jape about his youngest brother. For her part, Jena would rather die than admit that she secretly agreed with the sentiment.

Maekar was not finished. He turned to look at Valarr directly. "Long life to you and your bride."

Even from the corner of her eye, Jena could see Valarr, stone-faced as his uncle, give a stiff nod in response to these well wishes. For which of them was that exchange more painful? Jena bit her tongue, unsure if she was about to burst into tears or laughter.

The farce continued across the next several days. Wedding guests arrived by the dozen, bringing lavish gifts. Lord Velaryon brought several casks of rum from the Summer Isles. Lord Medgar Tully gave Valarr a hauberk of scale armour made up of silvered steel scales. Lord Donnel Arryn provided two saddles made for hunting coursers. Lord Stark and Lord Manderly brought warm cloaks and clothing made of the finest furs. Lord Titus gifted a breastplate of black steel to his nephew and a beautiful necklace of rubies and amethyst to Kiera.

For their part, Jena and Baelor had commissioned a special gift for Valarr from the city of Qohor. It was a long dagger, resting in a sheath made of the finest leather. The famed smiths of Qohor were known for their superior steel, often inlaid with a variety of deep colours. This dagger was no exception. The hilt was black, but the blade was the same shade of red as the Targaryen dragon.

When they presented it to their son, Valarr drew the dagger from its sheath and held it up to catch the light. For a brief moment, his eyes widened with wonder, but then the excitement left him, and his face was stern once more.

"I thank you for this marvellous gift," he told Baelor and Jena, but he spoke as if they were foreign dignitaries rather than his own parents. Jena felt miserable and sour as everyone else applauded his courteous words. The only indication she gave of her melancholy was to squeeze Baelor's hand.

Only once did Valarr smile when he was presented with a gift. Daeron accompanied his father to present a longsword whose steel blade was inlaid with a silver sheen and a golden 'V' just below the hilt. "In case anyone forgets to whom it belongs," Daeron quipped. Valarr grinned at the jape, prompting others to laugh in approval. For her part, Jena found it impudent, especially since Daeron already appeared to be drunk.

Besides that flash of mirth, Kiera of Tyrosh and Valarr both looked utterly miserable together. Most would not see it that way, of course. Either by delusion or by calculation, Jena knew, the witnesses would declare that they were solemn, accepting the burden of their life together with a calm and royal dignity. It was all flowery nonsense to gloss over the simple truth that neither of them had any love for the other.

They looked beautiful, at least; Valarr was dressed in red and black. His gold circlet bore a large purple jewel in honour of House Dondarrion. Kiera's hair had also been dyed a deep purple in honour of her goodmother. Her dress shimmered, seeming to alternate in colour between green and blue. Gold jewelry bedecked her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers. She was the exotic princess who still spoke Westerosi with a foreign accent, who only feigned worship of the Seven. The people might never love her, but they will love to trade with Tyrosh, Jena thought ungenerously.

The tourney began after the gifts were all presented. Over two hundred knights were to take part in the jousting alone.

As the first day of jousting dragged on, Jena sat in the Targaryen box, given the best view of a sight she despised. She had never been able to enjoy watching tourneys after witnessing the death of her brother Orwyle. Seeing the death of Titus' lover, Ser Garrison Dalt, had only strengthened her disgust for the practice. Now, whenever she sat in a tourney, it only reminded her of Kiera's kinswoman, Rohanne, who had been Jena's first friend in King's Landing.

Instead of Rohanne, now it was Titus who sat with her. He had declined to participate in the joust, claiming it was a young man's game.

She hadn't been able to speak to him privately since his return. The wedding took up most of her time. As for Titus, he was either busy with the small council, pursuing his own pleasures on the Street of Silk, training with his knights, or raising that small pack of waifs which he'd been keeping for the last seven years.

Now, as they settled down to watch a Frey knight charge against Ser Todrik of Duskendale, Jena finally had an opportunity to voice her concerns. Leaning away from her husband, she spoke softly so that only Titus would hear her words.

"I heard a strange rumour about you before you returned," she murmured to Titus. "You intend to make those orphans your heirs."

Titus, as she half-expected, smiled at her. "Pray tell, who passed that bit of calumny your way?"

"Be serious, brother."

Titus' grin widened. "What if I did? What do I have to bequeath them?"

"That is not the point," Jena exclaimed. "Is it true?"

Titus' grin left his face. "I don't fully know. Andrew was the first one to call me "father." Who was I to refuse him that? Who would I be to refuse any of them? I have not spoken of it with them, but if they wish to do so, I see no harm in it."

"Titus," Jena chided him, but she could see the way his jaw was firmly set. He'd already made up his mind, and he was going to defend his decision from the whole world. This is no way to make him see sense.

All the same, she was compelled to try. "Titus, this is blindly idealistic, even for you! Your reputation needs no further dents!"

"What dents might you be referring to?"

"The Grey Lion is here," Jena explained. "And he told Baelor a story he heard from when you visited Crakehall. Gods be good, Titus, did you really drag Crakehall's steward away from breakfast and cut his head off?"

"Aye," Titus affirmed; a fire was kindling in his eyes. "And if you knew what that steward did to Miru, you would have cheered me for it."

Jena glanced at the quiet girl, her eyes lingering over the splotches of skin forever scarred by fire. She believed Titus, without needing to hear the details.

Miru was the latest orphan that Titus had scooped up on his travels. Upon his return, he had brought her before the royal family and introduced her as "Lady Miru of Crakehall." It had been a farce, but everyone had played their part and made the terrified child feel welcome. Titus had done this several times already, after all.

For her part, Jena's heart had melted when the girl had nearly tripped over her own curtsy when presented to the King and Queen.

Myriah had doted upon the unfortunate girl, as she did for all of Titus' wards. "It is not often that I meet someone whose name is similar to my own," she observed before kissing Miru's forehead. The girl had shuddered at this gesture, looking distressed and anxious, leaving Titus to apologise for her nerves.

"All the same," Jena replied in a gentler tone, "you will lose respect for that. Nobles will despise you and they will do what they can to undermine your authority."

"Let them try," Titus scoffed. "So long as I speak for the king, they cannot defy me."

Jena was getting very frustrated with her older brother, and though she did not say a word, Titus saw it plain on her face. "What would you have me do? Wed some pompous young lady such as Leonette Tyrell?"

"Wed? Who says this has anything to do with marriage?"

Titus frowned, and gave a dismissive wave. "It's always the same with these nobles. They only see my title and seek some foothold in Daeron's inner circle. And if they fear me, it means I am doing things right!"

Jena did not miss his deflection, nor was she ignorant on why he indulged himself, and why he sought fatherhood in ways which did not involve his own blood. It was this understanding, and this sympathy, which made her last bit of news the most painful to deliver.

"There is something else," she murmured quietly. "Lord Redfort has attended the wedding."

Her brother grew tense. "What of it?"

"His daughters are in attendance too. One of them has named you as the father of her child."

Titus closed his eyes and sighed. "I should have known Kyra would lie about drinking moon tea."

"Damn you, Titus, what are you doing?" Jena felt a wave of anger for Titus like she hadn't felt since she'd learned about the reason for his exile. "You cannot keep gallivanting and dallying like this! You are almost forty years old!"

"So it is about family after all," Titus observed. "You want me to settle down, is that it? Should I marry Kyra, then?"

"Even if you wanted to, her father won't hear of it," Jena retorted. "He heard those rumours about your waifs too. Now he wants you to take your child, he wants a good marriage for his daughter as compensation, and I'm quite sure that he'll be happy to never see your face again. Kyra seems to share his mind, from what I saw."

For the first time, a guilty expression crossed Titus' face. He gave a curt nod. "Aye. I'll do my part, and may the gods help that ill-fated child."

Jena felt a pang of remorse for her anger, and a wave of sympathy for Titus as she recalled his anguish. "Titus, you are not cursed."

"Kinslayers are always cursed," Titus observed wryly. "And I have lost enough people I love to know the truth of it."

Jena put a hand on his shoulder. "That was war. What harm has befallen us since then?"

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud trumpet blast. After three charges, Ser Todrik had proved triumphant. Exultantly, he rode down the line.

As his former ward took in his victory, Titus stood up and applauded loudly, calling to Ser Todrik. Jena watched as Todrik led his horse to the royal platform, drew his sword, and saluted Titus. Despite their spat, Jena could not help but smile as she applauded along with him.

"He has come a long way," Titus remarked as he sat down again. He was pretending to rub his eyes, even as he blinked rapidly. "Gods, the sun is bright today."

For a while, the siblings said nothing. Then, after taking a deep breath, Titus turned back to his sister. "My child… What do you know of…?"

"A boy," Jena replied. "Kyra has not named him, and she does not wish to know what you name him."

Titus stared at Jena with a hurt expression on his scarred face. "A fine way to think of her own child."

"He will not be her child, Titus," Jena reminded him, though she made sure to speak more gently. "She has already endured the shame of birthing a bastard. And soon she will be wed to a man who will not love her, who will likely judge her for wanton virtue. Do you wish to give her any more pain?"

Titus blinked, then looked away once more. "I suppose I earned that too." As the next two knights prepared to joust, he arose from his seat. "Where are the Redforts? If she wishes to put that behind her, I'll not draw it out."

"Were you not listening to me? If the Redforts never see you again, it will be too soon." Jena tugged at his sleeve, urging him to sit down again. "I have already taken charge of your son, and I found a good wetnurse for him."

Titus sat back down again. "Thank you." After a moment, however, his countenance shifted from contrition to thoughtfulness. "You seem quite exercised about marriage yourself."

Jena shuddered. "You know my reasons." She glanced at her brother to avoid the knights' clash. "Does he confide anything in you?"

"Nothing that you don't already know, I'll warrant." Titus scratched an itch on the back of his neck. "You had no choice in his betrothal, sister."

"Yes I did," Jena murmured quietly. "I could have refused. I could have lied to Rohanne that Valarr was already betrothed."

"She would have seen through it," Titus argued. "And besides, she was your friend." He paused, then lowered his voice to just a whisper. "Has she written to you?"

Jena shook her head. "Still nothing."

Titus nodded. "How often do you write?"

"Only when Michael and Elaena sail abroad," Jena answered.

"Do you think she receives the letters?"

"I know she does," Jena affirmed. "Michael once saw her at her family's estate and put the letter in her hands."

Titus nodded slowly, pondering her words.

Jena took a moment to glance at Rohanne's kinswoman. Kiera was perfectly poised, sitting with both hands folded on her lap. She seemed to be closely following the jousting, but Jena could sense that she was not truly paying attention. Valarr, by contrast, was utterly absorbed, not so much as looking at his bride-to-be.

"You are a good friend, Jena. And no matter what Valarr might feel about you now, you have always been a good mother."

Now it was Jena's turn to weep. She urged Baelor not to worry as she hurriedly cuffed at her eyes. She reached out and held her brother's hand, squeezing it affectionately.

Just then, a man in Targaryen livery stepped onto the platform. As Jena and the others looked up at him, he hesitated after his customary bow.

Queen Myriah spoke first. "Is anything the matter?"

"There is," the man replied. "It concerns House Dondarrion, Your Grace."

Cassana. Jena had been wondering where her older sister was, and why she and her family had not arrived yet. She and Titus stood up, facing the messenger.

Baelor arose with them. "Let us go somewhere quieter."

The three of them followed the man off the platform and away from the spectators. Once they were in a quiet place, the man turned to Titus and Jena.

"My condolences, Your Grace. Lord Titus," the man urged. "We received word from Blackhaven. Your nephew Caspor has been murdered."

"No!" Jena gasped. Titus lowered his head and turned away. Neither of them had known Caspor very well; Cassana had never encouraged a close relationship. All the same, Jena could only imagine the grief which she must be enduring now. "Gods help us," she exclaimed. "The poor boy…"

"Is it known who killed him?" Baelor asked. He already had a hand on Jena's shoulder, drawing her close in that protective manner of his.

"Difficult to say, Your Grace," the messenger replied cautiously. He handed them a scroll. "It only says that Lord Baldric has gone to find and punish the outlaws responsible. Your sister promises to send their wedding present to the capital and she begs forgiveness for her absence."

Even in the midst of her sorrow, Jena found those words to be very tactfully chosen. Cassana had never begged Jena's forgiveness, let alone Titus'. Still, she said nothing as she went over her sister's message. She did not question why Cassana would not bring her surviving children to King's Landing, where their relatives might help them with their grief. She had long ago given up on the idea that she might have a cordial relationship with her sister.

"Best wishes to Baldric," Titus muttered. "May he find the culprits and bring them to justice."

There was something in the way he said that which made Jena shudder. She said nothing about it; it was bad enough that Titus was so convinced of the curse hanging over his head, but it would be quite another thing if Jena began to believe it too.