Jena

Jena felt miserable as she slowly plodded back to her chambers. Lyman's words echoed in her head, and she felt as though he were following her, glaring at her with accusatory indignation.

His accusations were not unjust; she had never given thought to Tyana's child. She could no longer recall how she'd felt at the time, learning of her crime, her punishment, or the fate of her child. She could not even recall whether she'd believed him to be a bastard; Cassana had certainly said as much, and she'd certainly pushed the idea that Tyana had been the one who'd killed Maester Gerold.

As for Lyman's mother, Jena had scarcely known her at all. Tyana had never tried to befriend her, for why should she? At the time of her marriage to Arlan, Tyana had been secure in her position as the future Lady of Blackhaven, and Jena was the youngest sibling, fated to marry whatever man was chosen by either her father or her older brother when he came into his own title.

Following the deaths of both men, Tyana had quickly established herself as a bitter rival to Titus, championing Arlan's unborn child. It was not until after her arrest for murder, and Cassana's assumption of control over Blackhaven, that Jena had learned of Tyana's affair with Royce Storm.

Had she believed Cassana's claims? Lying in her bed with a weary sigh, Jena could not recall. After her marriage to Baelor, all her interactions with Cassana and Baldric had felt so perfunctory, born out of duty rather than any genuine affection between her and her sister. If she'd ever questioned Cassana on the subject of Tyana and her child, Jena could no longer remember.

Kiera was still awake when Jena returned. She sat prim and poised upon the couch, gazing glassy-eyed at the flickering flames of a dying fire in the hearth. An empty goblet was in one of her hands.

"You were gone a long time," she remarked when she turned her head and beheld Jena. "Vaella wanted to wait for you to come back. Must have been an urgent matter." Her voice was slurring again.

Gods… Jena struggled to bite back the angry words which arose in her throat. Over the years, she and Kiera had both struggled with their intake of wine and other spirits. Despite their attempts, they'd steadily been unable to drown their griefs and grievances.

Fifteen years before, Grand Maester Piato had personally taken Jena aside and expressed his concerns to her. Jena had brusquely rebuffed him, but by then, she could no longer ignore the toll which her drinking was taking on her body. She was growing old, she'd become shrunken and overweight, and her feet had become so inflamed with gout that she could scarcely stand.

Eventually, she had relented and begun a regimen which the Grand Maester prescribed to manage her gout and improve her health. His first instruction had been to give up drinking, which had taken her a great deal of willpower to do.

Kiera had not fared as well with her own struggles, for she and Daeron had continued to drink together when Jena abstained. It was not until Daeron's death that Kiera had undertaken a serious effort to end this terrible habit.

"I was introduced to a nephew of mine," Jena replied in what she hoped was a calm tone. "Well, he was either that or a grandnephew."

Truthfully, she didn't blame Kiera for laughing at that. "Just how big is this family of yours?" she asked after she caught her breath.

"Not as big as it seems," Jena replied sadly as she shuffled to the couch and sat beside Kiera. "Well you know that, too."

"Mayhaps it was too big," Kiera suggested dryly, "so those gods of yours pruned it." She seemed ready to say more, but a hiccough halted her speech.

Anger surged through Jena as she turned her body towards her former good-daughter. "You forget yourself."

Kiera waved a hand dismissively. "We lost the same people, did we not? Why shouldn't I jape about all we have lost? You did not mind before."

"There was a lot which I did not mind before," Jena snapped. "Things have changed."

"Aye, things have changed," Kiera observed sardonically. "And I know what else will change once this business is finished."

Jena frowned. "What does that mean?"

Kiera gave a snort of laughter. "I may be sodden, but I'm not stupid."

Jena waited for her to clarify her point, but she was interrupted by a soft wailing from behind a closed door.

"Gods, not again," Kiera moaned. She leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

"I'll go," Jena offered. "She shouldn't see you like this."

Ignoring Kiera's look of mingled rage and shame, Jena made her way to Vaella's chamber.

The girl sat upright in her bed, sobbing aloud as she cowered from the shadows of her dark room.

"Hello, my dear," Jena called out softly as she entered the chamber. "What's the matter?"

"I want Papa," Vaella stammered breathlessly. "I saw him, but then he went away!"

"I'm so sorry," Jena lamented as she sat upon the bed. "It was just a dream, child. Dreams will play cruel tricks on you."

She stroked Vaella's head, careful to run her fingers through that light brown hair without scratching her scalp. As it always did, this action caused Vaella to become calmer. Her breathing slowed as she continued to sit up in bed, clutching a pillow to her chest.

"He was so sad," Vaella mumbled.

In the dream, or in life? Jena did not have the heart to ask such a question of the girl. She continued to stroke Vaella's head, hoping that she would put this matter to rest.

In that, she was disappointed. Vaella spoke again in a clearer voice. "Why did he have to go?"

"I have been asking myself that question for a long time," Jena whispered. "A very long time."

"Mama doesn't like to talk about him," Vaella murmured, almost to herself.

"She misses him too much," Jena explained. "She always loved him, long before they married. The worst day of her life was when he was lost, and it is very difficult to be without him."

"Do you miss him too?"

"Of course," Jena answered sincerely.

"Can you tell me more about him?"

Gods. Jena knew far more about Daeron than most ever had, but she didn't know how much of it could be told to his daughter, especially at this age. Slowly, she began to speak again as she used her other hand to stroke Vaella's head.

"Your father was a unique man. He was a man of several talents, but men in Westeros chose not to recognise them. His father least of all."

It was yet another part of her grudge against Maekar. He had always thought his eldest son weak and had tried to make him a man in his own image. The strain of it, coupled with the tragedies that plagued his life, had utterly broken him.

"Talents?" Vaella inquired curiously.

"He was a charming man," Jena explained. "He was humble, too. He did not think he was above other men just because he was a prince. And of course, there were those dreams of his…"

"Dreams?" Vaella raised her head and glanced over her shoulder. "What dreams?"

"Well," Jena faltered. "Did Septa Delfi ever teach you about dragon dreams?"

Vaella shook her head.

"Sometimes, a Targaryen can dream of the future, these dreams can be frightful, and they do not always foretell a pleasant future. Your father had those dreams, and he despised them."

"Why?"

"Because…" Jena paused to restrain the grief which was building again inside of her. "Because he dreamed of his kinsmen dying. He tried to warn us, he tried to save them, but they died anyway." Forgive me, Daeron… I should have understood what you were saying… I might have stopped Baelor from attending… he might still be alive now…

Vaella, meanwhile, slowly lay down again. "I see Papa in my dreams. Are those dragon dreams too?"

Not unless he will return from the dead. "I'm afraid not, child," Jena answered sadly. "Those are just… sad dreams." She'd had to restrain herself from calling them nightmares.

As she continued to stroke Vaella's hair, Jena began humming a tune which had always put her to sleep. It was the same tune which she'd sung to Valarr and Matarys when they were infants, and it never failed to put tears in her eyes.

Eventually, Vaella's breathing slowed, and she became motionless in slumber. Maid, Jena thought as she slowly got up with the help of her cane, send pleasant dreams to this poor child.

Kiera had already gone to bed when Jena re-emerged from Vaella's room. She already lamented her harsh remark to Kiera, but she was unwilling to go and apologise. Tomorrow is another day.

Instead, Jena asked Ser Niall to summon her maids, then went to her chambers to await their arrival.

Morwenna and Seren were two lowborn girls who had found work in the Red Keep. They served Jena primarily, but they had also assisted Kiera and Vaella on occasion. After the usual curtsies and exchanged pleasantries, they assisted Jena in changing out of her clothes and into her night garments.

As she waited for sleep to overtake her racing mind, Jena's mind went back to the poor maester whom she'd met that day. She wondered how things might have played out if she'd done as Lyman suggested. Cassana would certainly have taken offence at Jena seeking out and reclaiming Tyana's child. Whether Lyman's father was Arlan or Royce Storm - for Jena had heard both claims when she'd visited Blackhaven - her adoption of Lyman would be seen as a disgrace at best, and a threat to Cassana and Baldric's title at worst. If he'd been born whilst Titus was Master of Laws, Lyman could easily have become one of Titus' wards. There just hadn't been a chance to take Lyman in, but there was also no way to properly explain it to the man after all he'd been through.

Is this the sign I wanted? Is this the proof of my sins? But why am I being punished? I did not sentence Tyana to death. I did not keep Cassana's secrets.

Nay, she decided, it was not the gods who had forsaken her. It was Bloodraven and Seastar. They had poisoned her sons, they had killed the children in Kiera's belly. They were the ones who had blighted her life and the realm.

Still, she felt haunted by the agony in Lyman's eyes and voice. The memory remained with her until she drifted into restless dreams.

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Morwenna and Seren were by her side the following morning. After they'd helped her bathe and get dressed, Morwenna informed her that her nephew wished to see her.

To her servants' credit, he had at least been permitted to sit on one of the couches whilst waiting for her. Sadog sat stiffly, with his fingers drumming on the top of his ornate cane.

"Aunt Jena," he greeted her when she entered the main room.

"No need for that," she told him as he began to rise. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Father is ill," Sadog explained, in a voice that seemed louder than necessary. "Grand Maester Piato has ordered that he remain in bed until tomorrow at least."

"Whatever is the matter?" Jena demanded. "What's become of him?"

"The Grand Maester says it is not time to panic yet," Sadog assured her. "He offered you these instructions in case his condition worsens." He offered her a piece of parchment.

When Jena took it, it was not the Grand Maester's writing, but her brother's.

Sister,

When you read this, I will have sailed with Leroya. I mean to return within two days. Until then, we must make Bloodraven think that I am ill. The children will explain everything when they have a chance.

Titus

Jena shook her head as she threw the parchment into the fire. "I do not need these instructions," she declared as loudly as Sadog. "I am familiar enough with that procedure. May I go see my brother?"

"If you wish. Unfortunately, his throat is too sore for any type of speech. The Grand Maester cautions that he can only endure one visitor at a time, and he recommends plenty of rest."

"Very well," Jena answered. She turned to Morwenna, who had been a witness to the exchange along with Seren. "Have someone bring my breakfast to my brother's room."

"Of course, Your Grace," Morwenna replied with a curtsy. "May the Seven watch over him."

They never did before. Why should they start now? "Thank you, dear," Jena replied warmly.

It was not long before Jena settled in Titus' empty chambers, pretending to greet him and offer her sympathies. She was amused to see that Sadog had arranged Titus' pillows to look like a sleeping form under the bedsheets. He'd also set a chair beside the bed for visitors. Clever boy. He truly is Titus' son after all.

"I brought something you would like," Jena spoke as she sat down in the chair. She held up a book which she'd commissioned. "It's a new copy of Archmaester Soter's Witness to War."

It had been considered a highly dangerous book when Jena was a child. Archmaester Soter had never been identified beyond that name, which was only a pseudonym. He claimed to have been a knight who served under the personal command of King Daeron I when he had embarked on the Dornish Conquest.

From what Jena could tell, none had refuted the notion that he'd been part of the conquest. Witness to War was far too accurate to be a lie and too detailed to be anything but a genuine eyewitness account. The concern was its tone; Archmaester Soter was deeply - scathingly - critical of the Young Dragon and his conquest. He listed atrocities committed against the Dornish people, arguing that the Dornish atrocities were merely the reprisals of a people defending themselves. Soter had even gone so far as to suggest that the Young Dragon had been slain after men in his retinue drew their swords first, and the Dornish had retaliated rather than acted treacherously.

"Do you know," Jena pretended to inform her brother, "that there was a campaign to identify Archmaester Soter? The High Septon never endorsed it, nor did Baelor the Blessed or Viserys. Aegon the Unworthy put a royal bounty on the man known as Soter, but it was far too late by then. We'll likely never know who he was."

She and Titus had first been introduced to the book after Maester Gerold arrived at Blackhaven, just two years after the book was first completed. His copy of Witness to War lay hidden amongst his personal collection, though where it went after his death was a mystery to her.

"Ser Lomas would have beaten you to death if he'd known what this book contained," Jena mused. "Father might have done it himself if he knew we had a copy. How they must have puzzled over where your strange notions came from."

At the time, Jena and Titus had delighted in this shared secret, right under their tyrannical father's nose, and the noses of all the men in his household. It was an act of defiance to read such a text and take it to heart, so it did not shock her when she discovered that King Daeron II had kept a copy in his own library. It was equally unsurprising to her that Daeron's eldest son could recite whole passages by heart.

"Baelor told me how you and he met when he visited Horn Hill," Jena went on. "He said you were the first person he met who would admit that he'd actually read Witness to War, let alone praise it. He said that was why he chose you to accompany him to Dorne."

It felt strange to speak to Titus in this manner when he was still alive. In the early years after Baelor and the boys had died, Jena developed a habit of speaking to them as if they could still hear her. After a while, it had felt too empty for her to continue, and so she had bitterly abandoned the notion.

The king who never was, men used to call him shortly after he'd died. And all because Maekar couldn't see what a monster his favourite son was… all because a hedge knight was sweet on some puppeteer… all because Maekar swung his mace at Baelor's head…

He had always sworn that he didn't recall the blow which had killed his brother. After the deaths of her sons, Jena had wondered whether Bloodraven had ensorceled him. Could he have done that all the way from King's Landing?

These doubts and theories always infuriated her, for there were no answers to be had unless she could somehow force Bloodraven to admit the truth to her. To put these thoughts out of her mind, she opened the book and began to read aloud.

She remained there for the greater part of the day, occasionally speaking aloud to Titus in case the walls were listening.

To further push the lie that she was here to comfort her ailing brother, Jena began reflecting on happy memories of their youth. It was difficult to find wholly cheerful experiences, for so many were tied to the trials and tribulations of their lives in Blackhaven.

"You might not remember this," Jena confided, "but I was so relieved when you returned from Horn Hill. I didn't know why, but I also didn't care. I was just overjoyed to see you again. I still remember when you leapt off your horse. Father had that horrid black look on his face, Mother was already weeping from fright. And meanwhile, I couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying as I threw myself into your arms." Gods… Why haven't I given us the chance to sit down and speak of these things?

She suddenly felt herself become melancholic as she pondered what came next. "And then you left again. Off to Summerhall to serve the Targaryens. That was the only time I ever resented Baelor… for taking you away when I needed you."

The first tear went down her face. It was not the last as she recalled the long years of her brother's absences. The old resentment returned, like a pain in her stomach.

Thus she sat in Titus' chamber, keeping watch over a man who was not there. She was unable to fully shrug off these bitter reminiscences until she was surprised by a knock at the door, followed by a faint voice calling for Titus.

Jena got up and unlocked the door, looking upon Baalun, Miru and Matthias.

"Greetings," Baalun declared cheerfully with an easy grin on his face. "How is Papa?"

He's supposed to be ill, you foolish boy. "Well enough," Jena replied, frowning at the three newcomers. "What took you so long, anyway?"

"Baalun claimed the Iron Throne for himself," Miru explained in a bizarrely casual tone. "Matthias presented his case before the Great Council."

"Gods," Jena exclaimed. She glanced at both Miru's brothers. "What madness made you do that?"

"They can explain," Matthias answered. His voice was very low and hoarse. "I've said more than enough."

She stepped aside as Matthias walked into the room. "Well, he will want to spend some time with Titus. I'm going to the garden. Will you two please accompany me and explain to me what in the seven hells is going on?"

"Of course," Baalun replied. His carefree disposition was fading fast as he took in Jena's mood.

"Come along, then," Jena retorted tartly. "There is a great deal to discuss."

Despite this resolution, they walked in silence to the garden in case they might be overheard. It was far warmer than before; most of the snow had melted, leaving a mess of puddles and mud in its wake.

At first, the three of them kept to the stone pathways, walking past patches of swampy earth which contained the sordid remains of a perfectly-tilled garden. Jena shot a suspicious glance towards the distant godswood before turning elsewhere.

"So," she said as she slowly sat on an isolated stone seat, "what is all this about?"

It was Miru who explained it, in fits and starts with input from her brother. By the time she had trailed off for the last time, Jena was stunned.

"Has he taken leave of his senses?" Jena demanded. "Leroya, I understand, she's too reckless and too young to know better. But what is my brother's excuse?" She wanted to scream, but her voice seemed to be gone. "Does he have any notion of what will happen to him? He'll be executed for treason!"

"Not necessarily," Miru replied softly. It sounded more like a plea than an assurance, especially given the pronounced pallor which had appeared on her face.

"The council has a number of Blackfyre supporters," Baalun added. "The Grand Maester said so."

"Piato?" Jena's back straightened, even as Miru flinched.

"Aye," Baalun went on. "Leroya found out the truth from him after they-" He halted mid-sentence and hurriedly cleared his throat. It was all that he needed to say.

"Seven hells," Jena whispered faintly. Titus always found more and more creative ways to sow seeds of disorder and chaos, but she hadn't expected anything like this. Not even from Leroya.

"Aunt Jena?" Miru was standing over her now, looking deeply alarmed. "Are you unwell?"

"I asked him to help me," she hissed. She glared at Miru and Baalun alike. "I begged him to return after all these years. And what does he do? He embarks on a scheme which will ensure Bloodraven's triumph! He forces me to watch him and his children be executed! Six heads on six spikes, and Aenys will make seven!"

"There is precedent for Aenys' claim," Miru protested. "In the first great council-"

"Stop it," Jena snapped. "I've heard enough!" She got up and leaned on her cane. "I'll have no part of this, do you hear me? I will not have it!"

"Aunt Jena," Baalun muttered, but she did not stay to listen. As fast as she could, Jena bustled past the two of them and retraced her steps in the direction of Maegor's Holdfast.

She should have known better than to trust her brother. Titus had always been a rogue, and a lover of disorder. He had always taken great joy in tearing down anything which displeased him. In Baelor's name, and in the name of their kinship, Jena had turned to him in the hope that he might finally come back and ensure that Baelor was finally avenged. Instead, he was joining a Blackfyre plot to throw the realm into chaos. I should have expected this, she chastised herself as she hobbled along. He used me to conceal his presence in Blackhaven so he could murder our father. He was forgiven by Daeron and then he still spat in the king's face with his wild antics. Then he abandoned me, even after Baelor died, after Valarr and Matarys… Mayhaps Cassana was right about him after all.

That last and angriest thought prompted her to burst into tears. She halted and leaned against the corridor wall, covering her mouth and nose to stifle her sobs. Guilt and anger fought each other, mixing together so that she could not recognise where one ended and the other began. All the while, she could barely stand on her own feet.

Finally, the approach of footsteps prompted her to hastily cuff at her eyes and take control of herself once again.

"Your Grace? Do you require assistance?"

Jena felt something snap within her. "Not from you," she snarled. "Not now, not ever. You did more than enough already!"

She did not have the heart to look him in the face. Not just because of who he was, but also because it would have strained her neck to look so high.

"Leave me, Ser Duncan," she commanded. "Go on your way and leave me alone!"

He gave no reply, except to resume his heavy tread. Jena turned her face away so that she would not have to look at him as he passed her, then wept afresh before the echoes had faded away.