Jena
"Have you completed the list thus far?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The scribe was a Dornishman called Mekir. He took out a scroll from his leather bag and unfurled it. "Lord Damon Lannister will attend, as will his heir, Tybolt. There is also Lord Steffon Banefort and his family, Lord Elys and Lady Livia Marbrand, Ser Vortimer Swyft and Ser Rupert Lorch…"
As Mekir continued droning on, Jena could not help remembering how Vortimer and Rupert had been full-fledged lords before the Blackfyre Rebellion. As punishment, House Lorch and House Swyft had been forced to surrender so much land and wealth that they'd been reduced to knightly houses.
Not all houses had been punished so thoroughly. Many had been able to pay reparations with coin rather than land. Others had surrendered certain incomes.
It had been a bitter argument on Daeron's small council. Brynden had argued for harsh punishments and executions, while Baelor and Titus had fought for leniency. Daeron had often compromised between the two sides, leaving both dissatisfied.
"Very good." Baelor's elbows were resting on the table. "And what of the Stormlands?"
Thus did it continue; they went over so many names that Jena stopped listening. She was fraught with worry over the upcoming wedding.
It was set to be a grand spectacle, the biggest wedding since Jena's marriage to Prince Baelor, more than sixteen years before. It would be grander than Prince Maekar's wedding, or Aerys', and certainly grander than Rhaegel's. King Daeron, desperate to shake off the melancholy of the Blackfyre Rebellion, was determined that the whole city might rejoice in his grandson's wedding.
After ten years of betrothal, Valarr Targaryen and Lady Kiera of Tyrosh would be joined as husband and wife. It was still two months away, but Daeron and Queen Myriah were already poring over the details, eager to ensure everything went according to plan.
Baelor and Jena were both invited to take part, as parents of the groom. Baelor was also the Crown Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King. Lord Michael Manwoody and Lady Elaena Targaryen, who secretly shared the title of Master of Coin between them, were also put to work on how to manage the costs of such a grand wedding. Titus had thrown himself into his work as Master of Laws, going on another tour to the Westerlands, but he had promised to return in time for the wedding. As usual, Titus' seat at the council was filled by Daeron's second son, Aerys, though he took little interest in the duties.
Much to Jena's distaste, Brynden Rivers was also involved in organising the wedding. It was impossible to avoid, of course, but Jena had never liked the Master of Whisperers, and as the years passed, she liked him less.
"We will have a tourney, of course," Daeron observed, glancing at Elaena and Michael. "There ought to be a substantial prize to go along with the competitions."
"It will certainly draw knights to this city," Lord Michael observed. "It might make the event unwieldy if too many men take part."
"No matter," Daeron replied. "We can extend the festivities to accommodate the numbers."
"What shall the prizes be, Your Grace?" It was Grand Maester Arwood who had spoken. He was the third Grand Maester whom Jena had known since her marriage to Baelor, and she liked him the best.
Daeron turned to Elaena and Michael. "What do you think is manageable?"
Elaena peered at several sums before answering her cousin. "Ten thousand gold dragons to the winner of the joust, half that for the first runner-up, eight thousand to the melee winner, and five thousand to the winning archer."
"That will draw men to this city like flies to a corpse," Aerys remarked scornfully. He had always looked down his nose at martial prowess. His comment was not addressed.
Instead, Brynden Rivers changed the subject matter. "Your Grace, since we are adding up the costs of this marriage, I believe another one is in order. New recruits for the goldcloaks and the Raven's Teeth."
Jena glanced at Baelor. Neither one of them liked Brynden, nor did they like his influence upon Daeron. For all his many virtues, the king's blind faith in Brynden was a fatal flaw in his rule. It was whispered throughout the kingdoms that spies were everywhere. Bloodraven's fervent hatred and suspicion of the Blackfyres had not died with Daemon and his eldest sons. Bittersteel was in Tyrosh with the remainder of Daemon's family, and Bloodraven was convinced that they would attempt to undo the rebellion's defeat.
Before Daeron could reply, Baelor leaned towards Brynden. "Is there word of any planned attack? Has any threat made itself clear?"
"The threat has been clear for more than ten years," Brynden replied coolly. "And I do not prepare for planned attacks only when they announce themselves first."
They all continued to debate each other on security, as well as other details, but Jena did not follow the discussion. She was not often asked to join the small councils, but that no longer bothered her as much as it used to do.
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"He is getting worse."
"I know," Baelor murmured. "What would you have me do?"
Jena had no answer for that. She simply looked away and sipped from her goblet.
They were sitting together in the sumptuous quarters in Maegor's Holdfast. It was some time after supper, and the sun had given way to night. It was the custom of Jena and Baelor to spend time together, for this was the only time that they were afforded such privacy.
Baelor broke the silence. "Did you see him at dinner?"
"I did," Jena answered. "He did not even try to speak to her. He never does."
Baelor took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes wearily. "This cannot continue. My father may turn a deaf ear all he likes, but the whole city knows the truth of this marriage."
"What can we do? What can we say? He hardly ever speaks to me anymore," Jena admitted bitterly.
"What of Matarys, then?"
"If Matarys knows anything, he is keeping it to himself," Jena answered. She doubted that Matarys knew anything. Valarr had seemingly never forgotten how Jena had nearly died giving birth to Matarys. She certainly hadn't forgotten how coldly he'd regarded his baby brother.
"You're right," Jena spoke again, more forcefully. "We must speak to him ourselves."
From the very beginning of their engagement, Valarr and Kiera had disliked each other. Jena had done her best to push them together, to allow a chance for them to bond. Kiera had long ago become fluent in the Westerosi tongue, and she even began to dress in Westerosi fashion. The only Tyroshi traits that she retained were her accent and her dyed hair, but that did not matter. Any man in the realm had to admit that she was a beautiful and graceful lady, worthy of any Targaryen king.
As for Valarr, he certainly looked the part. He had always been a handsome boy, and he was more handsome than ever at sixteen. Though not yet as tall as his father, and paler in complexion, Valarr was unmistakably his son, and a Targaryen besides. The lock of white hair streaking through his brown locks could only belong to the house of the dragon. Ladies cooed over Valarr, and maidens whispered shyly amongst themselves as they eyed him. All say they are beautiful, especially when they are together. Why can they not be half as happy as the rest of us are for them?
Jena called for the Kingsguard knight who stood outside their quarters.
Willem Wylde was thirty-eight, the same age as Titus. He was still fit and lean, but he was losing most of his hair, and his beard had more grey in it each passing year. Still, he was an honourable and brave knight, and Jena trusted him more than any other who wore the white cloak. "What is it, Your Grace?"
"Is Valarr training in the yard tonight?"
"He was," Willem replied, "but I saw him go to his chambers not too long ago."
Valarr might have sprung from Baelor Breakspear's loins, but he had not inherited all his abilities. He no longer trained in the yard when others were in attendance, for fear that rumours would spread of his lack of skill. Instead, he trained when others were in bed, or when they were about other tasks. Jena had sought out the Kingsguard, the master-at-arms, her brother Titus, Baelor himself, but none seemed able to make a warrior of him. He was not lazy or cowardly, and he had mastered all the rudimentary skills necessary to appear knightly, but any warrior could see that he was no second Breakspear. It might not matter, if only it did not wound Valarr's pride so deeply.
"Bring him here, please."
Willem gave a short bow and left the room.
"Am I as grey as Willem?"
Jena looked at Baelor, who was smiling ruefully. "Not yet, darling. But it only makes you more handsome."
Baelor's smile widened, but only for a moment. "Where did we go wrong?"
Jena had no answer, at least none that she was willing to utter aloud. "Perhaps Valarr went wrong on his own?"
She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. Perhaps it was the second cup of wine which she'd drunk. Or was it my third?
Before long, Willem re-entered the room, with Valarr at his heels. Jena felt alarmed at the surly expression on his face. His mouth was set in a resentful frown between his hollowed cheeks. His bright eyes shone in the torch-light, but there was no warmth emanating from them.
"Mother," he said curtly. "Father."
Jena put down her goblet and stepped forward. "Is there anything which you would like to say?"
Valarr's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he said nothing.
"Son," Baelor interjected harshly. "Did you really think your feelings have gone unnoticed? You speak more with the rats in the castle than you speak to your betrothed. And if anyone reminds you of your upcoming wedding, you look as if it were your funeral instead."
It was not often that Baelor spoke in such a tone, and the effect was immediate. Valarr was taken aback, blinking in surprise. But then something seemed to snap inside of him. Instead of being cowed, his face took on a fury as Jena had never seen on his face before.
"My wedding? How can it possibly be mine?"
Only rarely in the last ten years had this old argument surfaced. By contrast Jena had long ago lost count of the prayers she'd made, wishing for Valarr and Kiera to put aside their differences and accept their engagement. But the years seemed to have only deepened their rift. Now, however, she forced all doubts from her mind.
"A wedding I never asked for," Valarr continued accusingly, "to a bride I never chose! I am the blood of the dragon! I can command whomever I wish! But I cannot command whom I will marry?"
"You forget yourself," Jena admonished him. "How many Targaryen kings chose their brides?"
"Jaehaerys did," Valarr countered. "So did Aegon the Conqueror!"
"And what about your grandfather?" Baelor folded his arms. "Neither Daeron nor Myriah had a choice in their marriage pact. It was arranged by their fathers, just as yours!"
Valarr saw that he could not win with that argument, and so he blithely chose a different tactic. "My marriage pact was made with a traitor! It should have been annulled years ago!"
Jena recalled that fateful day. Daemon Blackfyre and Rohanne of Tyrosh had come to Dragonstone, in a hopeless and fruitless bid by Jena to make peace between the red and black dragons. Rohanne had proposed the marriage which might tie the realm further together, but it was no use. The realm had bled, Daemon had died, Rohanne had become a fugitive, but the marriage pact had endured.
"We did not make that pact with a traitor," Baelor reminded his son. "We made it with the Archon of Tyrosh! What would he have said if we'd sent his daughter back home in disgrace?"
"I don't care!" Valarr's voice cracked as he screamed those words. "I do not love her, and I do not want her!"
Baelor sighed. "You are not expected to love her now, Valarr. Marriage is a difficult road for many. Your grandfather did not choose his bride. It was arranged to make peace, and better the lives of thousands. That is what our titles demand of us."
"And what of you?"
"I?" Baelor asked the question with an innocent air, but Jena knew him well enough to sense his growing agitation. She herself could sympathise; she had dreaded what Valarr might say in his own defence.
"You chose Mother, did you not?" Valarr glared at Jena when his father did not answer. "You said so yourself! You told me that story a dozen times! Was that a lie?"
Feeling Baelor's eyes upon her, Jena gave a shaky sigh. "We did desire each other, that is true. It was not a sure thing, however. In ordinary circumstances, we would never have been wed. But the realm needed assurance, it was unused to Dorne's joining, and your grandparents thought it best that their son marry a Marcher lady."
"Exactly," Baelor added. "It was good fortune for us both. It might very well have gone otherwise."
"How convenient for you," Valarr snapped.
Jena gasped. Her son had never spoken so disrespectfully to his father. "Valarr!"
Baelor turned to her and held her hand, gently but firmly. When she forced herself to bite back her angry words, he turned back to their son.
"The realm is not a convenience," Baelor insisted. He never raised his voice in anger, but there was a steely tone to his voice which had always cowed the boys when they were younger. "Kiera's brother is the current Archon. Her dowry includes a treaty between Tyrosh and the Seven Kingdoms."
"So?" Valarr shouted, too angry to see the sense in his father's words. "What of it?"
"You know full well what such a treaty will mean for us," Baelor countered. "Increased trade with Tyrosh will benefit the crown, and more importantly, the people of the realm. Your future subjects. Think how many men and women will find work and prosperity. This wedding is not just for your pleasure, it is far greater than that!"
Valarr had no words against this. He could see that neither Jena nor Baelor would give him what he wanted.
Jena stepped forward and forced herself to speak gently. "This is no way to speak to your father and mother. And certainly no way to speak of the woman who will bear your children. You had best go and pray. And may the gods help you to see things differently."
This only seemed to infuriate her son even more. "I'll never forgive you for this," Valarr swore. His eyes, so full of hurt and anger, flickered from his father to his mother. "Neither of you! Never!" With that, he turned around and stormed out of the room.
"Let him go," Baelor urged Willem Wylde, who had made a move to follow the prince. "He will do his duty."
Jena's vision was blurred; never had she thought to hear such loathing in her own son's voice. She turned her face away from the others to hide her despair, walking out to the balcony.
The sickle moon seemed larger than usual against the black sky. The stars were dimmer than usual, thanks to the overwhelming glow of King's Landing. Even at night, the city did not rest. How many of them below me are preparing my son's wedding? So much work is being done for a bride and groom who despise each other.
Girls and young ladies were supposed to gleefully await marriage, longing to say those vows and beginning the next part of their lives. Jena had always dreaded the day. It was not just that she had loved Gwenys; she had never been able to imagine what sort of dreadful man Father would hand her off to; she'd been the youngest of his children, and he had never liked her. There had been talk of finding a match for her, and even some dinners where she was made to spend time with an assortment of men. Luckily, nothing had been arranged before her father's death.
She had not known what boys felt about their own marriages. She had once assumed that they looked upon it with the same hope that girls did. Then, when she was older, she wondered if they looked upon it with dislike, seeing it as an end to their freedom and the shackling to responsibilities. But not even those suspicions had prepared her for her own son's desolation. Her heart had broken half a dozen times just from her own thoughts. The reality made those thoughts seem paltry.
"He did not mean those words."
Jena sighed as she felt her husband's strong hands on her forearms, his warm breath upon her neck. She only loved him more as the years went on.
But not even he could lessen her melancholy, nor convince her that things would get better. She wept as she remembered Valarr's bitter tears and the pain in his voice.
"What if he did mean it?" Jena could barely speak as she started sobbing. "Gods be good, I have tried so much! I have spent so long wishing and praying, begging the gods that he will be happy…"
"Happiness is fleeting," Baelor murmured. "And it is often learned rather than chosen. This will be a harsh lesson, but a necessary one."
Jena wiped tears from her eyes. "Necessary for him, but not for us? He was not wrong when he said those things."
Baelor gave a slow sigh. "That is unjust. I do not like it any more than you. You know that."
He did not speak those words as a reproach, but as a plea. For the first time, there was pain in his voice which matched her own. Stricken with guilt, Jena spun around and held him. "I do. But Baelor, I cannot stand it. I cannot!" She wept harder. "How could I condemn Valarr to such misery?"
"It is a misery for now," Baelor admitted reluctantly. "But mayhaps that will change."
There was nothing else to say. Baelor embraced her, running his fingers through her hair. She was no longer weeping, but nor was she at peace. Marrying Baelor had been one of the happiest days of her life. She might have known that Valarr would never feel the same way about his own wedding, but it was made all the worse when she was the cause of that unhappiness.