Jena

"Here lies King Maekar Targaryen, the First of his Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

Coming from Lord Bloodraven's mouth, it seemed like mockery. Jena regarded him with a baleful gaze which he did not return. It seemed to Jena that he did so not out of fear or shame, but out of arrogance. 'You are not even significant enough to be my enemy,' it seemed to tell her. It only inflamed her loathing for him.

The king was garbed in armour, clasping the sword Blackfyre, which had been recovered during the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. Jena recalled how pleased Aerion had been to reclaim the blade. He'd supposedly used it to behead Haegon after he'd yielded it.

There was no dragon to burn King Maekar's corpse, so it had fallen to the pyromancers. Wisdom Darny of Dragonstone slowly poured out a jar of wildfire around the king's body.

It was fiendishly cold, or so it seemed to Jena. She tightened the fur cloak around herself as she leaned on her cane. She wished that they'd laid him to rest indoors, but it was safer to burn wildfire on a raised platform of stone, where the damp and the cold would put it out much faster.

Maekar lay on a stone ledge in Aegon's Garden. Winter had long ago robbed the garden of its colourful flowers. Only the pine trees seemed to be alive, filling the air with that sweet scent. It was the only place on Dragonstone which didn't reek of sulphur.

Nearby the platform stood Pelleas Darry, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Known as the Demon of Darry, he had gone into the breach at King Maekar's side. He had protected the king from harm until he had collapsed, wounded near to death. The king had been slain soon after he'd fallen, for the king had ever insisted on leading his men from the front.

Jena did not doubt the tale; Maekar had always been determined to prove his worth. He'd always hated living under Baelor's shadow, after all.

She wished that she could have spat upon his corpse. She had never forgiven Maekar for what he did. Guilt had certainly plagued him; he'd always treated her with honour, but he'd never had the stomach to meet her eyes for long. Throughout his reign as king, Maekar had spoken to her less than fifty times.

All the survivors of House Targaryen had assembled to bid Maekar farewell. Jena was the eldest of them, but only by two months.

Princess Alys Targaryen, formerly of House Arryn, stood beside her last living child. Daenora Targaryen was herself a newly made widow. She alone had Jena's pity; the rumours she'd heard of her marriage to Aerion had made her blood turn cold. Now she was forced to publicly mourn that monster. Still, it must have been a fine sight, watching him die screaming on account of his own stupidity.

One never would have thought Daenora was anything but miserable as she stood with her mother. A wetnurse held onto Prince Maegor, offering her breast to keep him mollified.

Bloodraven droned on about Maekar, detailing his reign, his best traits, and his legacy. One might never have thought that there'd ever been bad blood between the two men. Indeed, Maekar had personally requested that Bloodraven continue as his Hand and Master of Whispers. That had been another reason why Jena had hated him.

"And now," he finally concluded, "we shall have the prayers." He gave a nod to the maester who stood closest to the Lord Commander.

Tears ran down Maester Aemon's face as he took Bloodraven's place by his father's body. Jena felt a pang of sadness; she'd never had any quarrel with this well-spoken and humble man.

"Father," Maester Aemon began, only to falter. After a moment, he recovered himself and continued. "Father, judge King Maekar justly. Mother, embrace him as you would welcome your child home. Warrior, hail King Maekar as a true disciple of all you held sacred. Smith, mend King Maekar's spirit, so that he may begin his sweet surcease of sorrow and pain. Maid, hail the king as he deserves, with sweet words. Crone, lift your light so the king may behold it and be glad. Stranger, guide King Maekar swiftly to your blessed realm, to the paradise which rightly awaits him."

"Seven save the king," answered the attendants. Jena only mouthed the words, for she still resented the idea of Maekar dwelling alongside the brother whom he had slain, and whom she had loved for more than half her life. The king who never was.

She wept to think of him again. She wept to feel his absence, and the absence of their sons. Baelor should have become king; Valarr and Matarys should have lived to become fathers, helping her in her dotage. Instead, she stood alone and bereft.

Nay, that was not true; her former good-daughter still stood beside her. Still, Princess Kiera Targaryen had little time to spare for Jena when she was trying to keep her daughter calm. Vaella did not seem to comprehend words, but she could sense the melancholy of the moment, and she was growing distressed.

When Maester Aemon had finished the prayers, he was joined by his younger brother, whereupon they were each given a torch by knights of the Kingsguard.

Aegon Targaryen was three and thirty years of age; he was a husband and father of five children, but at this moment, he looked as lost and forlorn as Aemon. They and their sisters were still grieving their elder brothers, they had laid their mother to rest as children, and now Maekar's surviving boys lit their father's funeral pyre.

Emerald and jade flames flared upwards into the air, concealing Maekar's body from view.

Vaella wailed in fear at the suddenness of the fire. Jena stirred herself to assist Kiera, trying to stroke Vaella's head as she'd always done before when the girl was in great distress.

Vaella was not the only one who wept. Maekar's daughters, Daella and Rhae, sobbed aloud as they clung to their husbands and children. Maester Aemon stood apart, praying again with his back to the others.

Aegon returned to his wife's side and tried to act manfully. Though he was dry-eyed, his grief was betrayed through his clenched jaw and the way he held onto Betha's hand. Their children stood about them, as did the tall white-clad knight who had handed Aegon the torch. Jena was loath to even look upon that Kingsguard knight. She could forgive him as easily as she could forgive Maekar for the role he played in Baelor's death.

They are rivals now, Jena thought bitterly as she looked at Maekar's surviving children. They will squabble as we did when Father died. Except that everyone in the Seven Kingdoms will have a say in this quarrel.

The nobles would all pick sides, of course. Lord Bloodraven had already sent word that a council would be summoned. It remained to be seen just how many would risk travelling the land during such a fierce winter, but however many came, Jena did not plan to stay out of the squabble. Ever since the deaths of her husband and sons, the royal family had sidelined her to the shadows. A princess she remained, to be sure, and she continued to be treated as such, but the unspoken truth was never forgotten. She had outlived her purpose, so far as the realm was concerned.

For her part, Jena was determined to prove otherwise, and with the death of yet another undeserving king, she saw an opportunity to strike back at those who had robbed her of her happiness.

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The Great Hall was a grim place, not least because of their purpose for being there. The area around the hearthfire was still stained black where Aerion had carried out his last foolish act.

The main table was occupied by the various adult members of House Targaryen. Their children sat nearby at their own table, though nobody caused a fuss which warranted chastisement. The air itself seemed to be stifled with the Stranger's presence, and it seemed difficult enough to breathe, let alone speak.

Jena loathed that she had to sit at the same table as Lord Bloodraven, much less his half-sister. Shiera Seastar somehow looked alluring even when she wore black. She looked as though she had only aged a few months in thirty years. Any man might have thought she was Bloodraven's daughter rather than his sister.

Truthfully, even if they weren't here, Jena would still have felt wretched beneath this roof. Dragonstone had been a cursed place to Jena, but even more so to Daeron the Drunken.

Gods. Jena couldn't help but wince whenever she thought of that cruel moniker. It might have been apt, but she had always held herself responsible for him earning it in the first place.

True, Daeron had been a wastrel before, but he'd been young, and he might have grown out of such behaviours with time. Something had broken in him when Kiera had suffered that first stillbirth. He had never recovered from that devastating loss, especially since that child had been his.

Everything in Jena's life had gone wrong after that terrible day. Valarr and Kiera had tried again and again, but their children had either been miscarried or stillborn. The royal court began to whisper about Valarr and Kiera, gradually becoming more hostile. Old prejudices had reared their ugly heads when men muttered how Valarr's Targaryen stock had been soured by his Dornish ancestry, blended with a marcher woman whose ancestors had hated the Dornish. They had also suspected Kiera, stating that she was no true believer of the Seven, that she was a kinswoman to the Blackfyres, who had arranged her marriage to Valarr as a spiteful act. Like all the worst bits of gossip, the stories had become crueller and more absurd with each retelling, reinvigorating itself each time so that they never fully faded away.

Still, Jena could bear all that, for at least nobody had guessed the horrible truth; that Valarr and Kiera's marriage was loveless, that Kiera regularly cuckolded her husband with his own cousin… that Valarr had not only known, but had watched them do it. At least nobody had spoken of that.

It had not been a secret from everybody, though. By some measure which Jena had never been able to confirm, the truth had been learned by Shiera Seastar, who dangled that knowledge over Jena's head to drive her mad.

She sat beside Princess Kieara on the table's far end, the one which stood closest to the children's table. Vaella sat as close to her mother as was permitted, but even that was too far for her. She often looked at Kiera and whimpered, even as Kiera urged her daughter to eat.

"Mayhaps we should take her for a walk after we finish eating," Jena whispered to Kiera. "The fresh air will do her good."

"That sounds like a good idea," Kiera muttered.

After they ate their fill, and after Kiera ensured that Vaella did likewise, they departed the hall and made their way to the walls. The sun had broken through the clouds and felt good upon their skin.

A knight of the Kingsguard went with them. Ser Niall Crane was the newest member of the Kingsguard. Maekar had appointed him after the death of Ser Roland Crakehall.

Once they reached the ramparts, Jena ordered Ser Niall to keep his distance from them. Vaella was entranced by the view before her. The sea shimmered as patches of golden sunlight broke up the dour grey clouds. Kiera and Jena stood beside her, taking in the sight. Seabirds wheeled about them, riding the wind with outstretched wings as they cried out in their harsh voices.

They could also see the smoke rising up from Maekar's pyre. The smoke itself seemed to have a green tint.

"How long will that burn for?" Kiera asked absent-mindedly.

"At least an hour," Jena answered. "Mayhaps for the rest of the day, more like."

"Will it not damage the sword?"

"I think not. Dragonfire itself couldn't damage Valyrian steel," Jena replied. "When the fire finally burns out, they'll just take Blackfyre out and use it again, good as new."

"What of the king's ashes, then?"

"They'll be interred with his family's, unless the wind scatters them first." Maekar might have preferred that, Jena reflected. He was never comfortable around his kin.

Kiera played with a strand of her hair which had come loose. "Truth be told, I have no grief for him. He never liked me, and he made that plain enough. He hated Daeron too, and had no patience for Vaella. I think he was relieved when Daeron died."

"When I first met Maekar," Jena mused, "he was a surly boy of eleven who picked his nose when his mother and father weren't looking."

Kiera turned to her, welcoming a distraction. "Really? That young?"

"I was young too," Jena explained. "I was only sixteen, and I was terrified out of my wits."

"Was that when Baelor brought you to meet his family?"

"Aye," Jena affirmed. "I'll never forget that day. Daeron tried to test me before approving my marriage to Baelor. He asked me if I would renounce and reject my friendship to Rohanne."

Kiera shook her head. "It really was a different time."

At forty-five years of age, Kiera was still beautiful, though she would have denied it. She still dyed her hair the most vivid of colours, but her face had grown very lined and careworn. Life had given her far more reasons to fret than she ever could have predicted.

Kiera and Valarr had been betrothed when they were children, at the suggestion of her aunt, Rohanne of Tyrosh. It had been a suggestion made in friendship, before the Blackfyre Rebellion, and the wedding had promised bountiful trade with Tyrosh. Still, it had made Valarr and Kiera miserable, until Kiera ran into the arms of Prince Daeron.

It had been a shocking revelation to the realm when she and Daeron had gotten married. They'd each declared that Valarr had begged Daeron to look after his wife. It was a likely story, and rumours had begun to spread for a time. Jena herself had doubted that her son would say such a thing, but she had been only too happy to affirm it when she was asked. It had been the least she could do, after all.

Kiera stroked her daughter's hair as she continued to stare out at the view. After a while, she turned back to Jena. "It was so quiet in that bloody hall."

Jena nodded. "Aye. I noticed it too."

"They were not this quiet when Aerys was laid to rest," Kiera observed. "Not when Rhaegel died, nor Daeron, Valarr, Matarys, Myriah... Why are they so quiet now?"

"Because we do not know who will follow Maekar," Jena answered.

Kiera shot her a look of confusion. "When Baelor died, it was Valarr who was heir," she observed. "Now it will be Maegor, no?"

Jena thought about Maegor's mother. She recalled how Daenora and Alys had been sitting in the Great Hall, whispering together between mouthfuls of food. "I don't think it is quite that certain."

"Why not?"

"Maekar did not name Aerion his heir. And Maegor is a squalling babe." She looked at Kiera with a sudden interest. "It might go back to the brothers."

"Aegon? Aemon?"

"Daeron too, perhaps," Jena suggested, hoping that Kiera would put two and two together.

It took only a second; her eyes widened and she reflexively glanced at Vaella. She looked back to Jena, astonishment across her face. "You cannot mean it."

"Why not?" Jena leaned forward. "Maekar named Daeron his heir, did he not? He named no other heir, and Daeron has an heir of his own."

Kiera shook her head. "Vaella is no queen. They will not choose her."

She sounded so defeated, so disappointed, so concerned for her daughter. Jena recalled how Kiera had wept at the sight of her baby girl, alive after so many failed births with Valarr and Daeron alike. Her husband had preferred to stay away, getting drunk in anticipation of yet another failed birth.

Things had looked hopeful for a time; Daeron had vowed to stop drinking, he had thanked the gods for their mercy, and he'd ceased philandering with whores. All that came to a halt when the truth about Vaella was discovered. The girl was simple-minded, and would be so for the rest of her life. Kiera had not been able to give her siblings, either. And so Daeron had returned to his melancholy whilst Kiera had devoted herself to her daughter.

"Why shouldn't she be a queen?" Jena leaned on her cane as she gestured with her other arm. "How many mad Targaryens have sat that bloody throne? Sanity and intelligence are no true factors in deciding kingship. Vaella is a gentle girl, and she will do no harm as queen."

"Her husband might," Kiera pointed out. "What sort of man will treat her as she deserves to be treated?"

"That will be our decision," Jena replied. "Vaella has not yet flowered. You will be our regent in her stead."

Kiera's eyes widened; she had long ago given up the notion that she would ever hold power. Now, Jena saw a glimmer of the princess which she'd once known, who had aspired to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was a momentary flash, however. Crestfallen weariness returned to take hold of Kiera once again. "Do you think Lord Bloodraven will relinquish power so easily?"

"His power depends on whomever sits the throne," Jena reminded Kiera. "And we will see to it that he is removed from the small council!"

"What of Vaella?" Kiera asked. "How will she endure bearing children?"

"She is simple, not stupid," Jena observed. A pang of remorse went through her, but she hardened her heart to persuade Kiera. "She will adapt and endure. As all children must."

"It is not the same," Kiera murmured. "Not for her. She is delicate, and will never be otherwise."

"Do you think she will have an easier life if she is not the queen?"

A frown crossed the younger woman's face. "What does that mean?"

"Vaella lives at the pleasure of the royal family," Jena explained. "That pleasure can always be taken away without warning. Perhaps they will banish her to the Faith, or the silent sisters, and how will you protect her then?"

These were fears which already plagued Kiera, as Jena knew, but she'd only rarely had the nerve to speak of them. Reflexively, she put a hand on Vaella, as if men were coming to snatch her away. "They wouldn't dare!"

Jena wanted to believe that. But she had too much of an idea of what monsters were holding power in the Red Keep. They killed the babes in Kiera's belly. They killed my sons. Who knows how many have died because they were inconvenient to Bloodraven and Shiera?

"We cannot be sure," she answered quietly. "If we want to be sure, if we want to have control over our lives and over Vaella's fate, then this may be the solution."

"And if we fail?"

"Then she will be in no more danger than she is now. What do we have to lose? The worst they can do is reject her. If that happens, then so be it. But why shouldn't Vaella be presented as a candidate for the throne?"

Vaella suddenly chose that moment to speak. "Mama!"

Kiera turned back to her, even as she gave a gleeful cry and pointed to the waters of Blackwater Bay.

Whales were surfacing; they released several spouts of water and air. The spouts were miniscule from so far away, but Vaella was delighted to see them all the same.

Jena couldn't help but smile at Vaella's unbridled joy, but that soon gave way to grim melancholy. It had been so long since she'd felt such an emotion. Would that you had made the world, Vaella, instead of the gods. There would be no evil in it.

"Very well, Mother."

Jena turned back to Kiera. She recalled how she'd urged her gooddaughter to call her that, and the habit had endured long after Valarr's death.

Kiera was still frightened, but her expression was resolute. "If we do wish to make our bid, then how shall we do it?"

Jena had been pondering that very thing ever since Maekar's death was first told to her. "First, we must gather allies and supporters." There were precious few of those left to her, but one was foremost in her mind. And it is long past time that he makes good on that old promise.