Jena

Thrice, she nearly confessed to Baelor what she had seen in that wretched house. Each time, however, she was overwhelmed by dread of his reaction. Her tongue seemed to be made of lead, and the words were lodged in her throat, threatening to strangle her.

Baelor was busier than ever; he had made great strides in steering his father's policies. Brynden Rivers could not deny that the Blackfyre threat had not been active for ten years. Daemon's surviving family were isolated on Rohanne's family estate in Tyrosh, especially after the Archon's trade deal with the Seven Kingdoms had gone into effect. Tyroshi ships were arriving by the dozen to King's Landing, Gulltown, and half a hundred lesser ports across the eastern shores. The Blackfyre cause was kept alive only by Bittersteel and a handful of bitter rebels. Apart from the Vulture King, the realm was finally healing. Ten years of peace had allowed plenty to return.

Baelor had always held high acclaim at court for his prowess as a knight, and then as a leader of soldiers. Now, his star was waxing in the realm of politics; with sea trade flourishing, he was hailed for his role in arranging the marriage of his son to Kiera of Tyrosh. Jena did not begrudge that, especially if it meant that Baelor would have his father's ear rather than Brynden Rivers, but she cursed the arrangement more fiercely than ever.

It was only the fourth great secret which Jena had ever kept from Baelor. The first had been her romantic relationship with Gwenys, and she had eventually admitted to it some eight years past. She still had not revealed Gwenys' affair with Princess Aelinor, for she'd promised Gwen with a solemn oath. Nor had she revealed her doubts about the circumstances of Lord Ronnel Penrose's death, for fear of what might happen to Elaena or Michael Manwoody. And now she dared not reveal that Valarr was a willing cuckold to his own beloved cousin.

On the fifth evening since that dreadful discovery, she confessed what she'd learned to Gwenys. Baelor had ridden to Duskendale on some royal errand, and so Jena was free to indulge herself without concerning him.

Gwen did not match her cup for cup, but she didn't abstain from the wine either. With Willem Wylde guarding the door to her chamber, Jena struggled not to weep as she told Gwen what she had seen.

"Gods," she gasped when Jena could not go on. "Have you spoken to any of them since?"

"Nay," Jena admitted. In five days, she had spoken less than eight words to Valarr. It was easily done because he went out of his way to avoid his mother.

Daeron was similarly embarrassed; Jena could not look him in the face anymore. She could not even think of him without seeing him thrusting into Kiera, crying out in that strange tone. Worse was Kiera's mocking tone, calling for him to fuck her whilst Valarr sat and stared.

Kiera alone was the only one who did not seem to be ashamed of herself. She acted as if nothing had happened. Due to her pregnancy, she was showered with attention by Daeron and Myriah. Jena was forced to do the same, with both she and Kiera behaving as if nothing were amiss.

"I do not know how I can carry on," she admitted to Gwen after another cup of wine. "This is a catastrophe."

"Not necessarily," Gwen urged. "Perhaps he was correct. Nobody needs to find out…"

"Of course they will find out!" Jena's fist hit the table harder than she meant, and even she was surprised by how loudly she replied. "Do you really think that Daeron can keep a secret when he is deep in his cups? What if the babe should resemble him? What if someone should find them as I found them?" Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of someone else discovering her son in such a state.

"Jena!" Gwen leaned forward; an alarmed expression was on her face as she wrenched Jena's wine goblet out of her hand. "You must keep your voice down," she hissed.

Mortified, Jena covered her face to smother the sound of her weeping.

"He was proud of it," she moaned. "He said it made him happy…"

"That much might be true," Gwenys suggested quietly.

"It cannot continue," Jena snapped. "He will never be respected as king if this should happen! He shames me, he shames Baelor, and he shames himself most of all! And for what? To spite me!"

Gwenys said nothing in reply; she simply held Jena's hands as she looked down and tried to breathe more steadily.

"He swore that he would never forgive us," Jena whispered, "but not in my worst dreams did I imagine he would go to such extreme measures in the name of vengeance!"

Still, Gwen said nothing. When Jena met her eyes again, she had a stony countenance. Jena did not blame her; she had thought of little else since she'd discovered the truth.

"I wish I knew whence this notion spawned," Jena muttered. "Was it Titus?"

"Titus?" Gwen frowned in confusion.

"He bedded mother and daughter," Jena continued to muse, "he also bedded you and your brother. Did Valarr inherit such unnatural tendencies from him? Or did he learn them?"

"Jena!"

Jena was startled by the anger in her friend's voice, and doubly so by the expression on her face.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Gwenys was sitting upright; her hands were removed from Jena's. "How can you speak of Titus like that? After all he did for you and your family?"

Jena could not recall the last time that Gwenys had spoken to her like that. It was a shock which robbed her of speech, and even of clear thought. Or mayhaps that was the haze of her mind growing too strong to overcome. She put a hand to her head, supporting it with her elbow.

"Shame on you," Gwenys hissed, keeping her voice down. "Titus had nothing to do with your son's desires. And Valarr is not doing this to spite you!"

"He is not?" Jena found her outrage. "Of course he is! Why else would he do this to me?"

"To you?" Gwenys' voice was equal parts incredulity and outrage. "He did not invite you to spy upon him! You did that on your own, did you not?"

Jena had nothing to say to that. It was becoming difficult for her to think. She reached for her goblet, but Gwenys held it out of reach.

"You have lived in this castle for too long," Gwenys exclaimed. "I hardly recognise you anymore."

"What does that mean?" Jena gripped her forehead to stop herself feeling dizzy. "What does that mean, Gwen?"

"Look at yourself! You see nothing but ill in Valarr, you drink yourself to sleep every night, and you do not spare a thought to Matarys!"

"It is not every night," Jena murmured, though she could not recall the last time that she'd abstained from wine. Before the wedding… gods be good…

"And the worst of it," Gwen continued in a quieter, more disappointed tone, "is that you cannot even see who you are beginning to resemble."

Jena looked up again. She was fading, but not so far gone that she did not realise what that meant.

She did not think about her reaction, she simply did it. She arose to her feet with such haste that she knocked the candlestick with her arm. It clattered to the floor, spilling melted wax across the floor. For one moment, she thought of striking Gwenys just as she'd struck Elaena all those years ago. Even in such a state, however, something stayed her hand from carrying out such a thought.

"Get out," she yelled instead. "Get out of my sight!"

Gwenys needed no second bidding; she stood up and stalked out of the room as Jena swayed where she stood, too indecisive in her wrath to give it full rein.

Gwenys did not need to open the door; Ser Willem Wylde had already opened it and entered the room. He stepped aside so Gwenys could pass by.

How dare she... How could she ever even suggest… Jena could not even finish those thoughts. Fury coursed through her veins.

When Gwenys had left, her eyes shifted to the Kingsguard knight. The expression on his face was stony and grim, as it so often seemed to look these days.

"That was badly done, Your Grace," he declared softly.

"I did not ask for your opinion," Jena snapped.

Willem said nothing more, but before he stepped outside, he regarded her with an expression which hovered between pity and disgust.

Jena slumped back into her seat, but sobs were already leaving her. She held her head in her hands as she recalled the words Gwen and Willem had said. Their expressions were all she could see in her mind. I wanted to hit Gwen… I truly wanted to do it… oh, gods, she was right… she was right…

She did not even undress herself to lie in bed. Her maids were sent away whenever they called upon her. Eventually, she declared that she was feeling ill, and would not leave her chamber.

The morning came and went, dragging the sun across the sky, until it began to set. Jena hardly stirred the entire time, ruminating on everything that had transpired. Her thoughts went in circles, even as she alternated between loathing for Gwen, for Valarr, for Titus, for Father, for Daeron, for Kiera, for Rohanne, for Daemon Blackfyre, and for herself.

Worse still was when she was visited by Grand Maester Arwood, who asked her kindly questions about her condition.

"I feel weary," she murmured. "I have been flushed for some time, and I have had a terrible pain in my head." She did not have the nerve to admit what might have caused this state of being.

"I see," the old man replied as he consulted a tome. "Have you felt ill to your stomach, Your Grace?"

"Only once, in the morning," Jena admitted. That had been no lie; she had barely slept that night, and the tempest of emotions had raged throughout her intoxicated body. She had been sick in her chamberpot, shaming her yet further when a maid collected it. She had been unable to stop herself from wrinkling her nose at the smell. She will know what is wrong with me, Jena realised with mortification.

Arwood was not so quick, or else he was too discreet to suggest such a reason for her supposed illness. "It might be any number of things," he mused. "It might be a passing illness, or some sort of woman's complaint. I'm afraid that I am rather unversed in the latter," he added apologetically.

"I will wait it out," Jena urged, desperate to put this matter to an end.

"As you say, Your Grace," Arwood allowed. "All the same, I will send someone to examine you."

Jena wished she could tell him not to do it, but she dreaded what he might think of that. She simply whispered her thanks and lay in her bed, wracked with shame. Gods, let it be no more, all this wretched business. May it be no more?

As the day turned into evening, Jena felt a growing ache in her stomach as she changed out of her clothes into a night shift. She had not eaten since supper the previous day, but she had no wish to go to the Great Hall or even the Queen's Ballroom.

Eating and drinking too much, she thought miserably as she examined her body in the mirror. How can Baelor even stomach the sight of me anymore? Mayhaps that is why he is always so busy of late.

She went back to her bed and hid under the sheets; she wondered what the others must be thinking or saying of her. Is Gwenys cheered at my illness? What if Queen Myriah should visit? How am I to face anyone who is concerned for me? Is it worse if they are not concerned at all?

She thought miserably of Valarr, wondering if he was thinking of her. She wondered if Kiera was bold enough to flirt with Daeron in public. She had always been friendly with him, but Jena had never suspected anything amiss; Daeron was friendly with everyone, and Kiera had - admittedly- been subtle in her affection. But now Jena dreaded some mistake, some misspoken word, some hint to the world what her son's marriage had become.

Even as all these endless wonderings tormented her, the door to her chambers opened.

"Good evening, Your Grace," came a cheerful call.

Gods... what is she doing here? Jena stirred as she gazed in surprise upon her visitor.

To say that Shiera Seastar was beautiful would be as trite of a comment as to say that the sun was bright. The woman was approaching thirty, but it seemed as though she'd ceased to age when she reached her eighteenth year. She still boasted silver-gold curls of hair which tumbled down to her waist. Her body was still slim and shapely in the way men adored, and her eyes were like bright jewels - one sapphire, one emerald - in that heart-shaped face.

Jena had heard many stories of men who had given everything to pursue her affections, even their lives. Titus had never forgotten her part in the death of his friend, Orys Trant. Others had fought duels over her, and the blood seemed only to amuse her. Even Brynden Rivers, that most bloodless of men, had reportedly begged her for her hand in marriage, at least a dozen times by last count. Every time, Shiera had refused him, toyed with him, bedded him, then bedded others to seemingly spite him. Jena had made it a point to be polite with Shiera, but refused to make her a close companion.

Now, however, Shiera gave her a smile which might have been warm if anyone else had given it. "Is there something amiss?"

"Nay," Jena replied quickly. "I was expecting Septa Florence."

"I'm afraid the septa is indisposed," Shiera replied. "There was a tragic incident which called for her attention."

"I see," Jena muttered. "I thank you for telling me, Lady Shiera. Pray, do not trouble yourself further, it shames me to see you go so far out of your own way."

"Your Grace is too kind," Shiera assured her sweetly. "But this is no burden. I urged the Grand Maester that I would be honoured to assist you."

Jena seethed inwardly as Shiera put a hand upon her forehead. She looked away from the younger woman's gaze.

"How long have you been afflicted?"

"Since yesterday," Jena remarked. She braced herself for another round of questions.

Much to her surprise, Shiera did not pose any further questions as she stood beside Jena's bed. Her hand did not leave Jena's forehead; it was surprisingly warm without causing her to exude sweat upon Jena's brow. It was a strange sensation, and though it comforted Jena, she found herself growing deeply uncomfortable by the silence.

"Pray tell me," she told Shiera, "what was that tragedy which you alluded to?"

"Two of the servants," came the quiet reply. "One is dead and the other might be dying. I could not find out more about it before I heard of your condition."

Jena was alarmed, but she knew it was useless to question Shiera further. It was entirely plausible that she had not bothered to inquire after the plight of servants. If she was lying about her ignorance, she did it very well. Jena considered going to investigate the matter, but she could not. After staying in bed for so long, however, she did not know how she could justify an immediate recovery.

"Think no more of that," Shiera urged. "What matters is your own condition. I do sense that there is something gravely amiss with you."

Jena paused, wondering what Shiera was going on about. She had heard rumours of Shiera's interest in the arcane arts, but those stories had never been confirmed by reputable sources, so she had dismissed them as mere calumny. Still, she recalled them now as she met those mismatched eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Why, it is a complaint common to mothers," Shiera smiled gently. "It is always a heavy toll when their children are unhappy."

Jena sighed. She had always suspected that Valarr and Kiera's outward appearances would draw suspicions and speculations amongst those at court. None would normally dare to voice such thoughts, but Shiera spoke with such sweet pity that Jena felt disarmed. If this woman ever discovered the truth about Kiera… She shuddered at the thought.

"You have my sympathies, Your Grace," Shiera went on, "for it pains me to see you struggling so much with that burden."

Jena felt wretched, but she was so weary that Shiera's words were a comfort.

"It pains me also to see the Young Prince in such a gloom. One would have hoped that his nuptials would be a source of joyous celebration."

Something within Jena began to stir. She was not sure what provoked it, but she could feel the seed of rebellion sprouting inside of her, recalling who it was that was comforting her.

Shiera was oblivious to this, however. She took her hand off Jena's head and knelt down, so that her head was level with Jena's. She continued on in that honeyed tone. "I understand that you have regularly lit candles in the Great Sept. I pray alongside you, Your Grace. But I also wish to say that if the gods would leave you impatient, I might be able to assist in some small way."

"Assist?" Jena was more alert. She looked up at Shiera as she pushed herself into a sitting position.

"It is remarkable what knowledge can accomplish," Shiera replied airily. She did not move from where she knelt. "The Crone herself is known for her wisdom, is she not? We women go so often to the Mother and the Maid, but I have found that the Crone is our true guide. She lifts a light against the darkness and guides us through it. I have met her disciples many times, and I have learned much from them. There are poultices and remedies which the maesters and septas prescribe, but most of them are incurious. For those who wish to venture further, the Crone is eager to assist."

Crone, Jena thought bitterly. Rich words from one such as you, blessed with eternal youth. She was fast turning against Shiera again, as if she were in some dream which was quickly becoming a nightmare.

"Perhaps there could be some way to persuade the Young Prince and his princess," Shiera offered. "Happiness is a fickle thing, after all, but there is no use giving up on our search for it."

"That is so," Jena murmured, wondering fearfully what Shiera was saying. How much does she know about Valarr's happiness? "But tell me, how could I ever repay you for such a kindness?"

Shiera smiled sweetly as she leaned forward. "Such kindness is its own reward, Princess. We are kin, after all, by marriage if not by blood. It does our family ill to have seeds of discord growing amongst us. We should be more united against our common foes, for they would surely strike out at us if we were divided."

Jena had heard enough. She is toadying, and she does it so well that I almost did not see it. She wishes to ingratiate herself to me. She is fighting to restore Brynden Rivers' influence.

"The only discord is that which wagging tongues produce," Jena snapped.

Shiera's smile left her face, but she seemed nonplussed.

"I thank you for your visit, Lady Shiera," Jena told her in a coldly polite tone, "but I will put my trust in the gods. If the Crone has such wisdom, then let her bring it to me herself."

The younger woman slowly stood up again, regarding Jena with an expression that Jena could not place. Then, a small smile returned to that beautiful face as Shiera gave Jena an elegant curtsy.

"As you wish, Your Grace," she replied. With that, she turned and left the room without another word.

Jena lay back down in her bed. What disturbed her most was how close she'd come to falling for Shiera's show of goodwill. Is this how far I have fallen? Driving away my closest friend, suspecting my brother, concealing from my husband, trusting such a woman as her? What good would she ever do for me or Valarr? She is not to be trusted, no more than Lord Rivers.

Although nothing had been resolved, Jena slept soundly that night. When she arose the next morning, she found a familiar face looking over her.

Baelor had evidently returned some time in the night, for he was undressed and lying beside her in their bed. His expression was one of concern and of love.

"I heard that you were ill," he whispered when he saw that she was awake. "What is ailing you?"

"No sickness, darling," Jena urged him. "Truthfully, it was my own doing. I have been behaving very badly."

She did not have the heart to speak of Valarr, not yet. But she spoke of the wine, of some of the words which passed between her and Gwenys, and of some of the misery which had plagued her.

Baelor listened attentively, and with growing concern. "Gwenys will forgive you," he urged. "She has always loved you."

He was so understanding about Gwenys, Jena recalled. He could have been jealous or angry or mistrustful of Gwenys. But he never sent her away. He encouraged our friendship to continue. "I never told you how grateful I was."

"Grateful?" Baelor gave her a bemused look. "What did I do to earn your gratitude?"

"What don't you do?" Jena moved toward him and embraced him. She thought she might burst into tears. "You are the sort of man that any woman would pray for; a husband, a father, everything which she might desire in the man she married. I love you more than I could ever describe."

Baelor was silent as he held her in a tight embrace; it seemed to Jena that he was astonished by the fervour of her words.

"I love you too," he finally answered, in a voice that he never used except when they were alone together. "I know we have struggled greatly this past while, but we shall weather it, as we always have. We will endure it together."