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The moors surrounding Blackhaven are the edge of Jena’s known world.  She lives there with her father and brother, by the grace of her uncle and his wife and their ungovernable boys.

She is seven when her father calls her to his bedside.  “Mind Edric and your Uncle Rolland, they will take care of you,” he says with tears in his eyes.

An aunt Jena barely remembers descends on them after her father’s death with her own son in tow.

“How like my dear little sister you are,” Alys Baratheon says, cupping Jena’s chin.  Jena wishes for nothing more to go with her, for any memory of the mother who died the day she was born.

“I will not have my sister’s children’s futures squandered here!  They belong at Storm’s End!” Aunt Alys shouts in the solar at Uncle Rolland.

Edric leads Jena away before she can hear Uncle Rolland’s reply.

“Storm End’s shit.  I’m not supposed to say, as I’m to inherit, but it’s still true,” Jena’s cousin says.  Lyonel makes very freely with Uncle Rolland’s seat at the great table, bold for someone only her brother’s age.

“There’s no holdings for me, so I’m to be a maester,” Edric says cheerfully as he can muster.  Jena thinks it’s for the best.  Like their father, Edric has no stomach for the sword, and their cousins are quite intolerable to him.

“King Daeron’s looking for a Marcher’s daughter to marry off to his Dornish son,” Lyonel says, staring pointedly at Jena.

Edric flashes a look of warning at Lyonel.  Lyonel laughs, unconcerned.

House Dondarrion and House Baratheon do not care a whit for Jena’s well-being, only who will offer her up to the crown.

Jena sneaks into Edric’s room in the middle of the night.

“It’s a great honor, Jena,” Edric mumbles, still half-asleep.  “Are you afraid?”

Jena’s watched storms roll over the horizon all her short life.  Storms ruin crops, but they also bring needed rain.  She’s learning to tell the difference.

“I am,” she confesses.  “But I won’t be if the prince is kind.”

Aunt Ellyn has Jena poked and prodded by her seamstress for the finest gown Jena’s ever worn.  It would be easier to meet her future betrothed if Edric were still here.

“Doesn’t look a bit like a Targaryen,” her cousin Manfred says snidely under his breath.

Jena thinks Prince Baelor looks everything a prince ought, dark-haired like the lords of Storm’s End and a man’s ease on a horse, despite being only a little older than Edric.

“It is a great honor to finally meet you, Lady Jena,” Prince Baelor says.  He is reserved, but his smile reaches his eyes.  This close she realizes his eyes are different colors.  No one saw fit to mention it.

Jena curtsies deeply as she’s been taught but cannot help the timidity in her voice.  “The honor is all mine, Prince Baelor.”

Prince Baelor takes up Jena’s hand in his.  For a terrifying moment, Jena thinks he will kiss it, here, in front of everyone, but does not complete the gesture.

The prince is ushered away by her uncle and all their retainers, but not before offering Jena an apologetic look.

Jena is left by herself in the yard, both Targaryen and Dondarrion servants alike paying her little mind, as if she’s quite immaterial in this.  It is an odd feeling, betrothed to a stranger, though Jena finds she dreads it less than when she woke this morning.

“My brother liked you,” a white-haired boy loitering under the arch says, startling Jena from her thoughts.

He looks like a Targaryen, the kind she’s been told she ought to fear and despise, except when there’s alliances to be had.  It is difficult to be afraid of a boy who might be her own age, and a spotty one besides.

“Have you been ill, my lord?”

“The maesters say I’ll live,” the prince grimaces.  “But then few thoughts are spared for a fourth son.”

“Rather like a daughter of a second son,” Jena laughs before realizing her error.

The prince kicks at the dirt.  “Don’t think that’ll last long for you.”

Jena pulls at her sleeve before daring to meet the prince’s eye.  “Are you certain about your brother – Prince Baelor, I mean.”

“Baelor dragged me out of my sickbed as I know his mind better than most.  I’m sure.”

Jena shivers at his certainty.

“Prince Maekar!” a guard calls impatiently.

Before the prince takes his leave, he turns back to Jena.  “Write to Baelor.  Most of his letters are frightfully dull.”

Jena remembers to curtsy at the last moment.  “Yes, my lord.”

Jena still wishes Edric here, soft-hearted as he is.  But perhaps it will not be such a bad thing to have another brother.

----------

Jena’s letter is short and hardly filled with things a prince would find amusing, but she receives a response only days later.

Prince Baelor’s letters are never overlong and often speak of matters of court and the realm Jena has little notion of, but does her best to reply.

It is only over supper a year on Jena realizes what’s changed.

Her uncle grumbles over coin sent to Storm’s End to bolster the Baratheon fleet.  “King Daeron wants us Stormlanders to fight his battles in the Iron Islands, no doubt.”

“But that isn’t true,” Jena says before she realizes she spoke aloud.  The entire table turns to face her.

“Do not talk of things you don’t understand,” Uncle Rolland reprimands her.

“But I do,” Jena says, voice unwavering, even as she stares at her plate.  “Prince Baelor writes King Daeron intends to expand trade to the east.”

“I forbid this continued correspondence,” Uncle Rolland barks.

In the flash of the moment, Jena realizes she has the upper hand.  “You would interfere with the affairs of the crown prince and his betrothed?”

Aunt Ellyn quickly intervenes, “Rolland be reasonable.  Jena, hold your tongue.”

Jena is silent the rest of the meal, but she knows.  She’s won.

The politics in Prince Baelor’s letters are still a chore at times, but Jena begins to make sense of it.  They write of other things: her taste for the thrill of the hunt and hawking; poets he would devote more time to, if he had it.  Letters are only so much.

The royal progress coincides with a tourney at Storm’s End and it seems all of Blackhaven’s household is packed up to attend.

Jena stares at her reflection in the mirror.  No longer a young girl, but hardly a woman at sixteen.

Aunt Alys whisks Jena away into her private chambers and out of Aunt Ellyn’s hands.

“He’ll name you Queen of Love and Beauty, and we need you to look worthy of a great house.  That shade of purple does not suit your coloring at all, at least your hair is not the more garish Dondarrion red.”  She produces a different purple ribbon, “This will serve better when you bestow your favor.  Thank the Gods I spoke to the queen last I was in court.  Rolland Dondarrion would have had this marriage done as soon as your courses began.  Queen Myriah and I agreed your eighteenth nameday is far more suitable.  You bleed regular, yes?”

Jena is lightheaded.  “Yes.”

Free of her aunt’s clutches, Lyonel drags Jena down an empty passageway, handing her a cup of wine.  “Drink up, you’ll need it.”

Jena takes a small sip before handing it back.  She feels dizzy enough already, and she does not yet know where Lyonel leads her.

Prince Baelor is at the other end of the corridor.  Lyonel offers Jena a knowing smirk, lifts the cup to her, and disappears around the corner.

The prince has grown taller and broader in the intervening years, and it looks as though his nose has been broken at least once.  But he has the same understanding eyes Jena remembers.

“Your Grace,” she curtsies.

“My lady,” he murmurs, taking her free hand and kissing the back of it, no child’s playacting as when they first met.

If he notices her shiver, he says nothing.  “If you are amenable to it, I was rather hoping to dispense with formalities when it is only the two of us.”

He is still soft-spoken; with all the assurance he does not need to raise his voice to be heard.

“I would like it very much, Baelor.”

He smiles.  It is not dazzlingly bright, but it is true.

“Although they call you ‘Breakspear’ now, do they not?” she dares a light tease, as she might in one of her letters.

To Jena’s utter surprise, Baelor blushes.  “So I may be weighed against other Baelor Targaryens, no doubt.”

You do not need to be singled out to me, she does not say.  “But it was still you who bested Daemon Blackfyre at the joust.”

“I did.”  He says it plain.  It is not a boast.

“I should have liked to have seen it.”

The air between them is taut, like embroidery thread pulled through the hoop.

“My brother can only buy us so much time and your cousin was not a willing conspirator.  I know you are likely not accustomed to these public declarations –”

Not wishing to seem ill-informed, “As the highest-ranking rider, you mean to name me Queen of Love and Beauty, my aunt spoke of it.”

“I mean to name you by choice of the victor, not because I am a prince, Jena.”

Jena’s mouth goes dry.  It changes nothing and everything.

“I would take the liberty of asking for your favor now, without all eyes upon us.”

“You’re accustomed to such things, Baelor.  I will have to learn it too.”

“And still, I would ask you now.”

Jena hears the weight of his words.  He has so little for himself alone.  She is about to know the burden.  They must steal what they can.

Jena tugs the ribbon free of her braid.  The gesture will be a nuisance when she has to contend with veils and nets as a married woman.  She is sure her aunts will notice the flyways hairs and the absent ribbon.

Baelor offers up his hand for Jena to tie it around his wrist.  His skin is warm and she can feel his pulse under her purple ribbon.

It makes her bold.  “May I ask for the favor of a kiss, Baelor?”

Baelor stares at Jena for the longest heartbeat, as if he is trying to see everything in her.

Jena silently curses herself for asking and then –

“Please, Jena.”

She must stand on her toes and he must bend down slightly to reach her.  It is entirely chaste, but still warm and soft and Jena feels it in her whole body.

As she lowers her heels to the ground, “Now go win.”

Amused and solemn all at once, “As my lady commands.”

They are at opposite ends of the passage when Jena turns and calls out, “Do you dance, Prince Baelor?”

She can see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “I am beginning to see its virtues.”

The tourney is a triumph for Baelor and when Jena can finally speak to him again in the crush of the hall, they must half shout to be heard.

“I fear I’ve ruined your ribbon, my lady.”

It is the only thing he has not changed from the joust, still secure around his wrist, stained with sweat and mud.

“And will you ask for one at the next tourney, Your Grace?”

“Only if you will, Lady Jena.”

“Then I shall get a new one.”

Jena does not see Baelor the day House Targaryen packs its banners for the next lord’s castle, but a man calls out across the yard for her.

She turns to see Prince Maekar rushing to catch her.  “My brother begs forgiveness for not delivering this himself, but business for King Daeron calls him away.”

Jena swallows her disappointment.  She knows this is how it must be, but caught up in the festivities, it was easy to forget for a time.

Prince Maekar passes Jena something small wrapped in linen.  She does not open it, only lightly holds it between her fingers.

“Prince Baelor does not require forgiveness.  I thank him for the gift.”

Prince Maekar exhales, relieved of his obligation.  Despite being several years his brother’s junior, he is nearly the same size.  It is easy to imagine him claiming many victories soon.

“You rode very well, my lord.”

Prince Maekar scowls, “Not as well as Baelor.”

“When you have a lady of your own to ride for, no doubt it will come very easy.”

Something in Prince Maekar’s demeanor shifts, as if Jena has struck very near something he cannot say.

“I imagine we’ll being seeing more of you before the wedding,” he says awkwardly, hardly prince-like.

“I hope so.  My eighteenth nameday is still two years distant.”

To Jena’s surprise, Prince Maekar smirks.  “Yes, another reason for them to forget about me.  I’m only a fortnight older than you.”

Baelor must have realized it and spoke of it to his brother.

“That will make it easier for Baelor – Prince Baelor to remember, I wager.”

“Baelor is not one to forget those sorts of things.”

It draws a smile to Jena’s lips.  “I’m beginning to learn that.”

In the privacy of her chambers, Jena unwraps Baelor’s gift.  It is the most beautiful piece of lace Jena has ever seen, much less owned.  Targaryen black and red meets with Dondarrion purple and white in flowers and vines, dragon scale and cracked lightning bolts.

No doubt it was a great expense and the highest skilled handiwork, commissioned long before the tourney.  It is far too fine a piece to bestow as a favor for the jousting field.

Baratheons and Dondarrions gather in the evening, left to their own devices at the large hearth.

“Do not squander this, Rolland.  It’s a miracle the betrothal’s held this long, but it can still be broken, even at this late stage.  The expense of sending Jena to King’s Landing will be worth it,” Lord Baratheon advises.

Coin would have been no object to me, Jena thinks he means to say but does not.

“You did us all proud, Jena,” Aunt Alys declares, staying argument between her husband and sister's good-brother.  “It is most unfortunate you lost your ribbon and could not offer it to Prince Baelor before he rode.”

“But I did.”

All heads turn to Jena.

“In private.”

Both her aunts’ mouths open, ready to scold her for the indecency, but Jena quickly lies.  “It was properly done.  Lyonel served as chaperone.”

Lyonel gives Jena a despairing look.  Do not drag me into this.

“When?  I’m sure I saw you flirting with someone from House Selmy for ages,” one of Lyonel’s sisters accuses him.

Lyonel looks ready to kick her, and the room descends into shouting.

There is a letter from Edric when Jena returns home to Blackhaven.

You sound very taken with the prince, sister.  He is an utter fool if he is not smitten himself.

----------

Blackhaven has never seen such a flurry of activity in the weeks before Jena’s final departure for King’s Landing.  It is the only home she’s ever known and it is not her home anymore.

The king sends a Grand Maester to examine her.  Aunt Alys comes with her own to observe the proceedings.  Jena bites the inside of her cheek and tries to not flinch away from the man’s cold hands and instruments.  She thinks of Baelor and her mind goes to when they last kissed.

“Your lady mother died in childbirth,” the maester says bluntly.

“It was the fever that took her after,” Aunt Alys corrects him.  “But she bore two healthy children with very little trouble before.  All my own children have survived sound in body,” she says to prove their fecundity.  Then with a snort, “I cannot account for their foolishness.”

The way one hand spread over Jena’s hip, Baelor’s fingertips running along the top of her breasts.

“Any baseborn children?”

Aunt Ellyn lets out a scandalized gasp.  “Seven help us, no!”

Jena deepened the kiss, dove her tongue in his mouth.

“I see no reason to believe the Lady Jena will not bear many heirs,” the maester declares.

Both of Jena’s aunts exhale in relief and satisfaction.

Jena hastily wipes the tears of humiliation from the corners of her eyes.  If anyone sees it, they say nothing.

I am sorry you were made to endure it, Baelor writes.  Jena had not made note of it in her last letter, but of course he would know the crown required it.  I will not allow such a thing again.

Jena sees very little of Baelor once she arrives at the Red Keep, but Queen Myriah calls her for a private audience.

It is clear her son not only inherited her dark hair, but her shrewd look.  If the queen hates Jena for a Marcher, there is nothing to be done for it.  King Daeron wants the allegiance more than old enmities.

“My son says you have a head for politics and are quite the capable horsewoman.”

“Prince Baelor is very kind to say so.  I hope I prove to exceed your expectations, Your Grace.”

“My son does not waste his time on idle flattery, Lady Jena.  He has seen it for himself and I trust his judgement.  It has been a long road to this moment for you, but you are only at the beginning of a longer and more treacherous one.  Peace and the realm are fragile things.”

Jena takes the air afterwords in a small garden tucked away deep within the keep.

“Mother is quite overbearing,” a voice under the tree says.

Jena does her best to hide her surprise that she is not alone.  Prince Maekar tucks away his knife and whetstone.

He exhales, “But that means you are in the family.”

“It is an honor then,” Jena smiles wryly.

“Baelor is the only one us unbowed by her.  Sometimes I wonder if it’s because she’s easier on him, but she is gentle with no one.  Baelor was forged for it.”

“I will learn to have a strong back like the rest of you.”

He does not take it for a compliment.  A long pause hangs in the air.

“Did you have a pleasant nameday, Prince Maekar?”

The prince looks taken aback.  “It passed the same as most, except my brother came to my rooms in the middle of the night with a bottle of Dornish red I detest and insisted on several rounds of cards.”

Jena squares her shoulders, “Then you shall come to Dragonstone next year to visit Baelor and myself.  I will insist on merrier celebrations for both our namedays.”

Prince Maekar opens his mouth in protest, then “As you will, Lady Jena.”

“We are almost brother and sister.  Please, no ceremony.”

“Sisters are foreign to me; I’ll endeavor to do better.”

The night before the wedding, Edric is announced in Jena’s rooms.

She bursts into tears.  Hugging her brother close, “I’d no idea you were coming!”

Edric sniffles against Jena’s robe, “I saw little chance of it until a Targaryen carriage arrived at the Citadel.  Your prince had apparently insisted, and it caused quite a stir amongst the other maesters.”

By rights Edric should be giving Jena away, but just knowing he is here gladdens her immeasurably.

Every stitch in Jena’s bridal gown has been chosen deliberately.  Jena’s contribution was to stand completely still for the seamstress taking her measurements.  It takes many hands to dress Jena.  It will far fewer to get her out of it.

“Let me go to the privy one last time,” Jena begs.

Aunt Ellyn huffs, “Be quick about it.”

Alone for the first time all day, Jena hikes her skirts up to untie the garters, and pulls her own out of their hiding place, fashioned from Baelor’s gift of lace, finished to their purpose with her own hand.

It is her secret.  She shivers imagining the look on Baelor’s face when he discovers it.

Aunt Ellyn is satisfied nothing was spoiled in the process and presents her to Uncle Rolland.

Even when they are meant to be quiet, a crowd of hundreds cannot be truly silent as Jena enters the great hall.  The roaring in Jena’s ears softens when she can see one person at the end of it.

Baelor.

----------

Away from court, it is easier to bear the scrutiny of several years of marriage and no heir to show for it.

There have been no miscarriages, no stirrings, nothing at all.  The sting of failing her chief duty is all the worse for how desperately Jena wants Baelor’s children for themselves.

Her husband’s mind is always pulled in a thousand directions, but on their arrival at Dragonstone after the wedding, he detailed the improvements to be made to the nursery since his time as an occupant.  It struck Jena in the moment: it stands empty.

The night before their departure for the Red Keep, Jena lays awake, slowly running her fingers along Baelor’s side to soothe him.  His heartbeat is steady under her head, but his breathing has none of the deep evenness of sleep.  Just because he does not require much does not mean he must forgo it entirely.

“You are worrying very loudly,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.  He does not stay her hand.

“There will be talk.”

“There always is, but they are not privy to what passes in our bedchambers.”

“And if there’s talk of setting me aside for a wife who will give you a son?” she says with more sharpness than she intends.

Baelor’s eyes snap open.

“No one can offer a stronger Marcher alliance to warrant dissolving our marriage.  It is moot,” he says in a tone to brook no argument, but Jena has been in her misery overlong.

“And if your father orders it?”

“I will remind him I have brothers,” he says, almost glib.  “I believe a crown prince is allowed one or two selfish things in his life, and I’ll not give you up, children or no.”

Jena smiles at him, but her heart is still heavy.

Winter in King’s Landing is less relentless than Dragonstone.  Jena takes an early ride as Baelor spends the morning in council with his father.

When she returns to the stable, Maekar is there, not tending to his horse.  His jaw is so clenched, Jena wonders he hasn’t chipped a tooth.

“Nothing a ride in the fresh air cannot cure.”

“I’d just as soon hear word of how Baelor’s audience with our father went.”

Jena raises an eyebrow.  Maekar’s attention to the state of the realm is indifferent at best.

“I asked Baelor to petition on my behalf,” Maekar answers Jena’s unasked question.  “I seek our father’s permission to wed the Lady Dyanna.”

It is less of a surprise than Jena expected.  Maekar’s sported Lady Dyanna's favor at no less than three tourneys.

“He’ll have more difficulty seeking your mother’s approval, I warrant.  If I recall, Queen Myriah and Lady Dayne are not great friends.”

Maekar crosses his arms.  “He must succeed.”

Jena lets out a huff of laughter.  “He will, do not doubt him.”

“He must,” Maekar repeats more forcefully.  “Dyanna is already with child.”

Jena’s humor evaporates like morning dew.  She and Baelor were so careful before they wedded, lest the months be counted from the ceremony to a child’s birth, but oh, how she did not want to be cautious then.

Ungraciously, Jena wonders if they had the dignity of a bed or just fucked in some dark corner.

The hurt must be plain on her face, for Maekar’s gaze drops to the ground.  She is quick to arrange her countenance into a smile.

She takes hold of Maekar’s fist and squeezes.  “Maekar, that is wonderful.  It is a blessing.”

He is kind to not call her a liar to her face.

Jena sits at the edge of her bed, eyes closed, too exhausted to summon tears.  Footfalls.  Baelor’s.

He wraps strong arms around her and places a kiss to the crown of her head.

Muffled against his chest, “I wish to go home.”

“We will.”

After the hasty wedding, no doubt.

Jena has grown to appreciate the scalding baths her husband prefers drawn, as they are often accompanied by Baelor himself.  After the cold shock of a swim in the sea, the heat of the water reawakens Jena limbs.

Baelor thumbs trace idle circles on her thighs as he breaks their silence.  “The problem may well lay with me, Jena.”

She stares hard at him at his confession, the firelight reflecting in the copper tub rendering the room golden.

In a family rife with children, legitimate and baseborn, it sounds absurd and she has not known his body to fail to respond to her touch.

“I’m not blaming you, Baelor.”

“I know, my love.  It is just a simple fact we have not yet considered.  Write to your brother, ask for a trustworthy and discreet maester I may speak with.”

The maester Edric sends still stutters, for fear of saying a prince’s seed is weaker than an ordinary man’s.

“It is not treason if it is the truth,” Baelor jests lightly, little comfort it is to the man.

“But I do not think it an impossibility, Your Grace, my lady.  There will be another Prince of Dragonstone with fortitude and patience.”

That is all we’ve had, Jena bites back.  Baelor silently takes her hand in his.

And it is all there is.

Dyanna is effusive with reports of little Daeron’s progress, but Jena only half reads her good-sister’s most recent letter as Baelor’s head gently rests on her faintly rounded stomach, as if he can already hear their child’s thoughts.

Valarr is born in a winter squall, the midwives are barely prepared for the prince’s entrance.

“You very well could have managed entirely without us, my lady,” the old woman laughs kindly as she puts Valarr on Jena’s breast.  He is his father in miniature.

Jena aches all over, but no pain is so great as to diminish her happiness.

“The newest prince of the realm,” she says as she hands him to Baelor, not bothering to wipe away her tears.

“He is ours, above all else,” Baelor reminds her.

Jena grabs at the front of Baelor’s tunic to pull him closer and kiss him, Valarr safely between them.

----------

King Daeron names Baelor Hand and Daemon Blackfyre decides it is one slight too many and rallies banners to him.

“It is not an office he aspired to, to start a war over this is madness,” Jena says as she paces the length of Baelor’s solar.

‘Madness’ hangs heavy in the air, all around this wretched family.  It was a poor choice of words, but Baelor does not disagree with her either.  She blames her restlessness because Baelor will go and she will remain.

“A simple pretense is all war ever is,” he says as he signs one final document.  “Daemon only needed wounded vanity to challenge my father’s rule, and we know this is a more palatable cause for the lords than Daemon’s objections to my aunt’s marriage.”  He sighs heavily.  “I would like to sleep a little, while it is still possible.”

They both lie awake, listening to the bustle of the keep readying itself for war.  Dawn comes all too soon.

Jena straightens the collar of Baelor’s cloak one final time and he seizes the moment for a deep, last kiss that cannot be seen in public.

The septas push their sons forward.  Matarys requires no further urging because he is young enough to not know his father may not return, thinking it only a temporary separation.  Valarr hesitates, because he knows it may be for good.

Whatever words Baelor has for the boys, Jena leaves them to their privacy.

On the other side of the yard, there is the usual squabbling from Daeron and Aerion and even little Aemon fusses in Dyanna’s arms.

“Quiet, all of you!” Maekar snaps.  Pinching his nose to regain some composure, “Your mother has troubles enough without your inability to mind her.”

After a swift kiss for Dyanna, Maekar crosses the yard to Jena.

“Will you look in on her?  My sons are –” Maekar waves a helpless hand.  “She ought not wear herself out.”

“You do not need to ask,” Jena gently reminds him when she sees the thin lines of strain around his mouth.  “Maekar?”

“Another child just when the realm decides to fall to fucking pieces,” he mutters more to himself than Jena.  Dyanna was wan, even before war was declared.

For once, Jena is relieved to not be in delicate condition.  If Baelor rode for war and died for a bastard’s ambitions and never knew his child, Jena could not bear it.

“Promise me you’ll bring my husband back,” Jena says.

The pained weariness sets deeper on Maekar’s brow.  Do not ask what I cannot promise for certain.

Then, the smallest acknowledgement.

Baelor takes Jena’s ungloved hand in his gloved one, pressing his lips to her skin, all state and decorum, but his fingers are slow to let go of hers.

With retreating hoofbeats, Jena thinks the world ought to feel very still and empty, but life goes on.

Valarr leads the boys on, his posture a childish imitation of Baelor, making Jena’s chest ache all the worse.  Aerion is quick to follow, clearly wishing to outpace his cousin, toying how much defiance he can show rank.   Despite being the eldest, Daeron lags behind the other two.

Dyanna sets Aemon down and Jena’s sweet Matarys takes his littlest cousin’s chubby hand so the boy will not stumble on the cobblestone.

Jena loops her arm through Dyanna’s.

“We are praying,” Dyanna says low, so only Jena may hear.  “For a girl.”

----------

The steward flashes an apologetic look to Jena.  It’s rare for the whole family to break their fast together living at the Red Keep, but the realm’s business waits for no one.

Baelor silently reads through the correspondence handed to him as Valarr and Matarys plan the day’s exercises.  Jena’s own mind is occupied with the management of Dragonstone and when they might return, even if only for a short while.

Baelor lingers on one letter with a grave expression.

“What is it, love?” she asks, though he does not hear her.

“Father?” Matarys presses, breaking Baelor’s reverie.

He looks to Matarys, then Valarr, and finally Jena.  “Dyanna died in childbed, several days past.”

Jena feels as though the air has been knocked from her lungs.  When she last saw her good-sister, Dyanna was a picture of health, the Mother incarnate.

“I told Maekar, perhaps just one more after this little one,” she said as she rubbed her stomach.

“Seven is an auspicious number,” Jena said, amused.

Her lacking did not sting as it once did.  She has given the realm two exemplary princes and the love with which Baelor looks at their sons is more than enough for Jena.

Dyanna shook her head, “I love my children but would that I had a figure like yours again.”

They’d both laughed, not as maids, but as women who know how to make their husbands see their way.  And now she is gone.

“Oh, those poor children,” Jena sighs.  “What of the babe?”

“Maekar reports she is taking to the wet nurse.”

“Are we going to Summerhall, father?” Valarr asks.

“Your cousins will be glad of company, I imagine.”

In the privacy of their bed, Baelor enfolds Jena, his face pressed to her neck.  Do not go from me.

The weather at Summerhall is insensible to the absence of its mistress, all warmth and sweet-smelling flowers.

Daeron loiters outside the kitchens.  Taller and lankier than when she last saw her nephew, Jena has the distinct impression of a well-appointed scarecrow.

“They never listen,” he hiccups.

Baelor runs a hand over his brow.  “Who is not listening?” he asks as he ushers Daeron away and Jena takes Valaar and Matarys towards the family chambers.

Aemon, Daella, and Aegon are sullen company for their newly arrived cousins; Jena leaves them to seek out the wet nurse.

“The princess is in good health, my lady, aside missing her mother, poor thing,” she says as she passes the babe to Jena.

It is a cruelty she is the first and only child to favor Dyanna with wisps of dark hair.

“What is her name?”

“Lady Dyanna was to name her.  If my lord knew his late wife’s wish, he hasn’t spoken it.”

Poor, motherless thing.  Jena knows that fate too well.

Suppers at Summerhall are usually nothing but children’s chatter, but the room is blanketed in a sulking silence.  Maekar makes his first appearance since their arrival, taking his seat without a word.

The table jerks, clattering plates and cups.

“Hey!” Valarr shouts.  “Why’d you kick him?” he accuses Aerion from across the table.  Next to Valarr, Aegon’s eyes brim with tears.

“I didn’t kick him,” Aerion shoots back.  “I kicked the chair.”

“Quiet, gods damn you!” Maekar barks, pushing back from the table and storming out of the room.

“That’s enough from the both of you,” Jena says evenly.  Valarr looks at her as though she betrayed some great justice but has the sense to hold his tongue.

Jena looks down the table to Baelor, jaw set and eyes fixed on the door Maekar slammed.  He looks to her.  I will deal with them.

Aerion has barely risen from his seat when Baelor follows after him.  “A word, nephew.”

The boy clearly wants to say something and for once, thinks better of it.

Jena oversees the septas tucking the younger children in after tantrums from all three of them, before making her way to her own bed.

It is a surprise to find Baelor already abed.

“Maekar did not wish to speak, and I chose to not press him.”

She settles next to him.  “Perhaps it was a mistake to come so soon.”

“Perhaps.”

He blows out the candles.

Jena is restless through the night.  Gently, so as to not rouse Baelor, Jena wraps herself in a robe to face the cold, dark halls.

“Aunt Jena?” a small voice says in the crack of a door.

Aegon is still slight.  Jena was at Dyanna’s side when he came into the world, weeks early.

“He’ll be strong,” she’d reassured Dyanna.

“Back to bed, sweetling,” she says to Aegon.  “You mustn’t worry your father.”

Aegon, unconcerned with his father’s opinions, “What if I can’t remember her?”

Jena wishes she could truthfully tell Aegon Maekar would not allow it.

“I will help you remember.  And in turn, you will help your sister, as my brother helped me.”

Aegon makes a show of settling back into his bed, as Valarr and Matarys sometimes did at that age, when Jena had time to spare for their evenings.

The babe’s nurse is not at the cradle when Jena pushes the door open and for a moment, she wonders if she will need to dismiss the woman, but the babe is not alone.  Maekar stares into the cradle like it is a dark abyss, still in the silvery moonlight.

“Maekar,” she says softly.  He does not startle, only looks at her like a man roused from a trance.  “Have you held her yet?”

He swallows, his voice hollow.  “Dyanna handed her to me and then the fever came suddenly.  The gods granted a mercy that she did not suffer long.”

Gently, so as to not rouse her, Jena lifts the babe out of the cradle to place her in her father’s arms and kneels beside him.  “What did Dyanna wish to name her?”

The silence is long, but for the sounds of a child in contented sleep.

“She favored Rhae.”

Maekar’s shoulders shake from the force of unshed tears.  Jena takes his hand.  He does not flinch, only holds to her with a near frightening grip.

In a choked voice, “He cannot see me like this.”

Jena would remind Maekar there is very little he could do to make Baelor think less of him, but grief does not see sense.  “I am grateful you trust me with this.”

She sits with father and daughter for how long she does not know.  A shiver runs down her spine at the chill of night air.

“There’s no point to us both not sleeping,” Maekar rasps.

Jena takes her leave.

Light spills out of the chamber, candles relit, and of all things, Baelor sits in their bed with a book of poetry.  Jena has no notion where he found it.  Climbing back into bed, he is blessedly warm at Jena’s side.

“And how is everything in Summerhall?” he asks, winding a tendril of her hair loosely around his finger.

Resting her head against his chest, “Surviving.”

Baelor still reads when Jena drifts off.  When she wakes to sunshine, she is alone, a pillow carefully placed under her head.

----------

Come with all haste, mother.  It’s father, Valarr writes.  Bring grandfather’s maesters.

“Valarr writes nothing more of what transpired?”

Queen Myriah stands in the center of Jena’s chambers, unconcerned with Jena’s ladies hastily packing around her.

There is a knot of an ache between Jena’s brows.  “You may read the letter yourself.  If Valarr will not say, If Baelor cannot write himself –” Jena swallows the rising panic in her voice.  “I will write to Maekar.”

Queen Myriah’s mouth presses into a thin line.  Her good-mother’s youngest may never measure up, but Jena can rely on Maekar for the unvarnished truth.

Matarys rides at Jena’s side.  If it is as exhausting for him as it is for her, he does not let it show.

He is nearly a man now.

At every keep and inn, Jena sends a letter to Maekar.  He does not reply.

Other words find them.  ‘Prince Aerion killed a girl.’  ‘A hedge knight kidnapped Prince Aegon.’  ‘That same hedge knight killed Prince Aerion.’

All the whispers turn Jena’s stomach, but none are so chilling as ‘Prince Maekar killed Prince Baelor in cold blood.’

“I will not believe that,” Matarys says with the force of youth.  Jena does not see how it could be possible, but there is often a grain of truth in rumor.

If Valarr and Maekar will tell her nothing, Jena must press someone else for what transpired.

Lady Kiera, I do not wish you to betray your husband’s confidence, but my son is protecting no one by not telling me what has transpired with my lord husband.

Kiera’s letter arrives when they are two days from Ashford.

The first person to stand against Aerion’s cruel streak needed defenders, Baelor among them.  He wouldn’t be the man Jena loves otherwise.  And then Maekar cracked his brother’s skull open trying to reach his wretched son.  Whether he intended to kill him or no matters very little.  Baelor is like to die all the same.

The tourney grounds are half torn down when they arrive.  Lords either fled the scene or remained to witness the moment the prince is declared dead.  Jena spies Dondarrion banners.  She does not see Baratheon ones.

Jena pushes past Lord and Lady Ashford, leaving Matarys to apologize.  Ser Donnell leads her to a door, and she so fears what awaits her on the other side, she cannot spare a second glance for the giant man beside it who looks as though he’s been trampled by a cavalry.

The room smells of rot, in spite of the open window.  Valarr is hunched in a chair by the bed, whether asleep or feigning, Jena cannot tell.

Baelor is as pale as death, paler than the sheets, made paler still by his hair, now shock-white under the bandage.  He is not the man who left her barely a fortnight ago with a brief kiss to the temple and a promise to steal away to Dragonstone when the time allowed.

Jena wants to throw herself on top of Baelor as if it would have prevented the blow from finding its target.  She falls to her knees at his bedside, takes up his limp hand, pressing his scraped knuckles to her lips.

“Mother,” Valarr says, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“Get some rest.  I will sit with him now.”

“You cannot order me,” he says, almost petulant.  It is new for him, but then Jena realizes this is the first time her son has been the highest man in a room full of lords.

“I am your mother and you’ll do as your told.”

His jaw is set, but he surrenders his chair to her.

At the door, “It was foolish of him.  Foolish of me to lend the armor.”

It was, Jena does not say.  “If your father had not stood for this injustice, we would still love him, but it would be difficult to respect him.  Our name and rank mean very little without honoring our oaths.  You know that, or you would not have given him your amor.”

Valarr brushes back unshed tears.  Jena turns her attention to her husband.

The maesters come every hour, rolling Baelor onto his side to inspect the wound.  Jena winds fresh bandages.  She has seen ghastly injuries, but this might prove too much.

Baelor groans faintly as they inspect the color of the blood.  There is a small bit of metal plate holding him together, fashioned by some common smith who sold his wares at the tourney.

Lord Ashford had offered the services of his personal armorer, but Baelor faintly mumbled ‘saved Ser Duncan.’

Baelor had talked through the fever.  Jena has yet to hear him speak.

The armor did not properly fit and was difficult to remove.

“It was not easy getting him into it either.  He said he intended to see if his own still served when we returned home,” Valarr says grimly.  Jena can hear the humor in which Baelor would have said it.

“It is fortunate, my lady, that the prince was quick on his feet,” Maester Yormwell says.  “Had the mace struck a little closer, we would not be here now.”

A lesser man could not survive this.  Jena does not find it reassuring.

Matarys reads aloud at the bedside, though the castle’s library is dreadfully provincial.  Valarr sits in silence, weighing what he will say if called upon to make some terrible decision.

Kiera joins when her condition allows it, though precious few know she is with child again.  She already lost her first babe.  She will not risk another.

It is not love between Valarr and Kiera, that is plain enough for Jena to see.  But there is consideration and respect and it must be enough for now.  Not every betrothal can luck into a love match as she did.

Jena would not wish this hellish agony love brings on anyone.  She lives and dies with every hitch in Baelor’s breath.

Anything, she prays to the Stranger.  Just keep him here with me.

She writes to Lyonel.

My son says you and Baelor held Maekar back from Ser Duncan.  Are you so poor a warrior you could not kill him before he inflicted such damage?

It is a cruel letter.  Jena sends it anyway.

She writes to Edric, surely the Citadel must have some secret ancient knowledge.  Edric’s response is kind, but gently reminds her she already has the greatest of his peers doing all they can for Baelor.

Maekar remains at Ashford.  Valarr says if his uncle asked to come to Baelor’s side, Valarr would have refused him, but Maekar did not ask.  He only waits.

“I have nothing to say to him,” Valarr says coolly.

“Was Aegon telling the truth?” Matarys asks.  “That father was praising Uncle Maekar right as they realized what was done?”

It is not right of rank which drives Jena to finally seek Maekar out, but because they are brother and sister, and family demands answers.

“Lady Jena,” Maekar says, all formality as he rises from his seat.

She must extend her arm to reach, but Jena replies with the hard smack of her palm against his cheek.  Maekar does not recoil.

Again and again she hits him, her rings tearing at the half-healed cuts on his face.  There is little relief or satisfaction in it, for he bears it as a guilty and condemned man.  He does not apologize.

“Do not speak to me ever again,” she spits, turning on her heel so he cannot see the hot tears pooling in her eyes.

Her vision is blurred as she slams the door behind her.  She almost does not see Aegon curled up by the window.  She would have thought him sent away with Daeron when the eldest was charged with delivering Aerion to his ship, but then that is how their troubles came about in the first place.

“I didn’t mean for –” Aegon stammers in a thin voice.  “I know I ought to have fetched Uncle Baelor, but Ser Duncan could’ve – and then he wouldn’t do it at the trial.  I went to kill Aerion myself and father stopped me.”  Silent, fat tears roll down her nephew’s face.

Maekar’s plain crime is deadly force against a prince.  The harder, truer one is his abject failure to reign in his sons.

Jena sinks down next to Aegon, who buries himself against the front of her gown, sobs shaking his whole body.

She holds him for as long as required, stroking his bristly head, this boy starved for a mother’s touch.  There is a wet stain on her gown when she returns to Baelor’s sick room, though appearances mean very little now.

Ser Duncan is an ever-present sentinel at the door, though Jena has yet to speak to him.

“You must rest, Ser Ducan.  I will send word, when there is any.”

“Begging your pardon m’lady, but I swore my service to Prince Baelor, I ought to stay right here.”

His size disguises it, as do the slow-healing injuries, but Jena finally sees how young he is, likely of an age with Valarr.

She smiles sadly, “Very well, Ser Duncan.”

Her hand is on the door.  He speaks again.  “I’m terribly sorry, m’lady.  For everything.”

She turns to truly look at him.  He seems to carry the guilt heavier than everyone.

“You are blameless in this, Ser Duncan,” she says, her voice dull with exhaustion.  “Remember that.”

Jena dismisses everyone from Baelor’s chamber in the evening.  Gently as she can so as to not disturb his body, she climbs onto the bed, curling herself around Baelor and places the faintest kiss on his cracked lips.

If he dies, this is where she will be.  It is not a comforting thought, but it lulls her to sleep.

Birdsong heralds the morning, though daylight does not brighten the room yet.

Jena is stiff and can barely move.  There are fingers tangled in her hair.

“Jena.”  Baelor’s voice is jagged from disuse, but it is him.

His eyes look unfocused, as if he cannot quite see her, and there is a tremor in his hand, but there is the faintest smile on his lips.  “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jena says and means it, as all the tears she’s fought for so long break through in a flood.

Baelor cannot hold her as he is currently laid; his hands awkwardly cradle her head.  “I will not die on you, my love.”

Jena only cries harder.

The maesters rush in, alarmed by Jena’s distress to find the prince awake and alert.  They cannot say if the dark spots in his vision or the tremors will cease, but they are confident, with time, he will stand again, sit upon a horse.

The throne, they do not say.

It is a debate what their next course is.  Dragonstone will be quieter, Jena argues.

“The road will be hard enough, mother.  A boat is all the more precarious.  There are more maesters in King’s Landing besides.”

Jena cannot fault Valarr’s judgement, but she hates to think of so many eyes on Baelor’s present condition.

A day from their departure, Baelor is upright in bed.  “I’ll have an audience with my brother before we’ve gone from here.”

Jena exhales hard through her nose.  “A few moments only.  I’ll not have you agitated.”  She kisses his brow and takes her leave.

She is more composed when Ser Duncan is summoned, carefully watching the knight and her husband, feigning complete attention on her book.

“You will go with Prince Maekar to Summerhall to continue Aegon’s training, as well as your own with my brother’s master-at-arms.”

“But I swore my sword to you, Your Grace,” Ser Duncan says indignantly.  Jena feels for the lad, but he will have to curb it to survive the Red Keep.

“Yes, and Aegon requires you far more than I, for the time being.”

Ser Duncan swallows and nods.

“Is it really a kindness, taking him on?” Jena asks when they are alone.  “No doubt he has courage, but he is not molded for the barbs of the court.”

Baelor sighs.  “Do you know what I felt when I heard of what transpired in that tent?  Shame.  I have prided myself on decisive action when called for, but what needed to be done was innate to Ser Duncan.”

Jena purses her lips.  Baelor would never raise a hand to Maekar’s children, but Aerion played with fire too often.

“I will not turn away men who have the realm’s justice in their bones.”

The king and queen hover at the Red Keep’s gate, awaiting the return of their son.  Queen Myriah fusses, more fishwife than noblewoman.  Baelor endures it, but Jena can see the crease in his brow.

Baelor takes his cane in public, leans on others in private, Jena bears most of that duty.  Valarr and Matarys relay his messages within the keep.  He must be the first seated at small council meetings and only rises after all other men have left.

“It wasn’t so easy for Maekar to kill him,” the whispers go.  “Perhaps Maekar ought to have started with Aerys and Rhaegal, they would have the dignity to die outright.”

Jena tenses at Baelor’s side when he relays the talk.  He puts his hand over hers.

Lyonel replies to her letter at long last.

Your bloodlust surprises me, cousin.  I would have thought you pleased I did not kill any of your relations, but then I do not contend with the wills of husbands and good-brothers.  Next time, I will be amenable to your wishes.

Maekar owes me a horse besides.

Jena feeds the letter to the fire.

The bells begin tolling in Flea Bottom as sickness spreads through its quarters.

“Valarr is running himself ragged for Prince Baelor,” Kiera confesses privately to Jena.

“I will speak to him,” Jena reassures her.  “I also believe it wise for you to leave before the king orders the city gates sealed to hold back the sickness.”

“King Daeron said it was prudent for the family to be united through this.  My duty is at my husband’s side.”

“Ordinarily I would agree, but Valarr will concur with me.  The child and your wellbeing are tantamount.  I am speaking to you, one mother to another.”

But then Jena cannot comprehend the horror of birthing a dead babe.

Kiera nods, resigned.

It is not a long farewell.  Valarr looks more drawn than his departing wife.

“I’m fine, mother.  Duty doesn’t stop because father’s indisposed half the time.”

Valarr is the first to sicken, though the maesters say it is not as severe as what the people suffer.

“Please, Baelor, for your own sake, let me be the one to sit with him,” Jena pleads.

Baelor runs a hand over his face, more fatigued than angry.  “You have already endured this.  I cannot, in good conscious –” he stops at the look on her face.  “As you wish.”

He locks himself in his solar, in more disarray than Jena’s ever seen it.  Half the letters on the desk are in Maekar’s scrawl.

Valarr’s breathing is shallow, but he can still speak.  “Tell Kiera I’m sorry.”

Jena puts a cloth to his brow.  “You will apologize to her yourself.”

Valarr shows signs of improvement.  As hearty as his father, Jena thinks when a guard bursts in unannounced, in spite of quarantines and courtesies.

“Prince Baelor sends word to make haste, my lady.  It’s Prince Matarys.”

If Baelor risks his own life, it can only be the gravest circumstances.

“Go, mother,” Valarr urges.

“I’ll be back, love.”

She finds Baelor prostrate over Matarys, and for a terrifying moment, Jena fears the worst has already come to pass.

Matarys is drenched in sweat, the auburn hair he inherited from her is near as dark as his brother’s.  He looks small, more the child he is than the man he’s been forced to act in recent weeks.

“Tell me about how you bested Valarr in the practice ring,” Baelor says to Matarys, stroking his hand.  “He told me you did very well.”

Matarys does not hear him.

Jena is numb to everything, after all that has been endured.  Their son is dying and they are powerless to stop it.

She grips Baelor’s arm to the point of pain.  If he feels it, he says nothing.  It is nothing now.

Word reaches them: the king sickens too.

“The gods must see us through this,” Baelor says with no conviction.  He makes no move to see his father.  Selfishly, Jena is grateful.  She cannot bear what is coming alone.

Matarys dies in his room, held by his parents, surrounded by playthings he deemed worthy of bringing from his childhood home and books that would have taught him how to be a wise Hand to his brother one day.

Baelor’s head rests in the crook of Jena’s neck, the great white scar like lightning at the back of his skull taunting her.

“Your Grace,” a maid says timidly.  “Prince Valarr…”

“What of him?” Baelor’s voice cracks.

Jena knows in the instant.  A body may endure a great deal, but a mind cannot take this much.  She will not hear it.  “No.”

The girl does not heed her, “Ser Donnell found him in his room.  The prince passed, Your Grace.”

Baelor rises too quickly, stumbling as he collects his cane.  He cannot run, but he makes for Valarr with all the haste he can muster.

Jena failed her son, her firstborn.  He died alone.

You begged the gods to save Baelor, she curses herself.  You offered anything.

She is not a widow.  She is a mother with no children.

Somewhere in the keep, Queen Myriah screams.

----------

Sunspear in summer is near unbearable in the heat, but after a wet spring, it is only relief to Jena.

For the king’s health, they say.  So the dowager queen may see her Martell kin.  Jena can weather their wary looks.  Better than being trapped in the keep where her sons died.

It was a somber procession out of the city, smallfolk with their well-wishes and sympathies.  Their king and queen are already beloved for they suffer the same loss as their people.

Jena stole away to Valarr and Matarys before their bodies were taken for the pyres, snipping locks of their hair.

Valarr’s dark tresses were braided with Matarys’s auburn and set in a locket, so she may always have them at her breast.  A ring for Baelor, so they may always be in his hands.

She tucks away a final lock of Valarr’s, for Kiera to do with what she will.

Kiera ought not to have made the journey to Dorne so soon after losing the babe, another boy.

“My father writes that he has sent his last bride price, as I am no longer a wife,” she says, not meeting Jena’s gaze as they walk the gardens.  “But he does not say when he will send a ship for me.”

Jena inhales sharply.  She does not know her good-daughter’s father; she was not included in the betrothal negotiations.  She ought not to be shocked a father would treat his daughter so meanly.

“You may stay as long as you will,” Jena reassures her.

“I do not wish to be a reminder to the king or yourself, Your Grace.”

Jena swallows.  Kiera will be a reminder, but Jena does not want to forget.

“If you wish it, I’ve need of ladies, as the queen’s household requires a great deal more management than a prince’s wife.  I would be glad to have you.”

Kiera is taken aback.  “I will consider it, Your Grace.”

Jena pats her arm.  “You’re a good girl, Kiera.  King Baelor and I only want what’s best for you.”

At the far end of the garden, Jena spies Baelor.  Her heart aches as it so often does these days.  He was always suited to be king, but to come to it under such a weight of grief, he cannot disguise how taxing a duty it is.

Another man rounds the corner.  Maekar is unchanged since Ashford.  Why shouldn’t he?  He has not lived with a broken body, a plague, and all his children dead.

Jena did not rage as the wife of the heir apparent, and she most certainly does not as queen, but she would scream if courtesy allowed.

“It has been a long journey, and you are not fully recovered,” she urges Kiera.  “Rest.”

To her relief, only Baelor approaches her, Maekar gone as soon as he appeared.  She meets her husband halfway, looping her arm through his as they slowly walk the garden’s winding paths.

“What is he doing here, Baelor?”

It is an absurd question.  A prince may go where he pleases, much less see his mother’s kin.

“I summoned him.  I am sorry I did not forewarn you, but if Maekar accepts my charge, I require him straight away.”  There is only one title unclaimed on the small council.

“You’d see fit to reward him, after everything?!”

There is an edge of humor in his voice, “Having served as Hand myself, I would not call it reward.  Knowing Maekar, he will call it downright punishment.”

Jena stops their progress short.  She cannot hide the plaintive shake in her voice, “Why him?”

“I need his council near as much as yours, Jena.  But I will find another, if you do not consent.”

She knew the answer before she asked.  Baelor is a man to her before he is a king.  The man was once a boy who asked his brother to judge an unknown girl.  And the man will shoulder more than he ought to spare her pain.

Jena gives him a small nod and presses a kiss to his lips.  She will be civil in public and avoid her good-brother in private.

“Thank you,” Baelor murmurs and resumes their walk.

Jena turns to more agreeable subjects, “You may recall Ser Duncan at long last.”

“Daella and Rhae ought to come from Summerhall, as Aegon and Ser Duncan will already be undertaking the journey.  Rhaegal and Alys’s children would likely be glad of their cousins’ company.”

It is a pretty picture, the king and queen surrounded by their nieces and nephews.

It will be a good thing.  Jena must convince herself.

----------

Perhaps it has been so long that Jena does not recall it properly, but she does not remember carrying a child as so arduous.

You are not as young as you once were, she reminds herself sardonically.

A lady is required with Jena at all times, lest her labors come on suddenly.  Jena sweats all over, but it is the late summer heat, not the babe’s arrival.

“A cup of water, if you please, Lady Jeyne,” Jena exhales.

The girl looks nervously down the passage for another servant to fetch it.

Jena swallows her frustration.  Thank the gods Lady Jeyne is unmarried and thus not permitted in birthing room.

“Your Grace –”

“Please, Lady Jeyne.”

She obeys.

Alone at last, Jena slowly paces the corridor to alleviate her aching back.

She does not hear rapid footfalls approaching, only feels hands resolutely guiding her to a bench.

“Sit, gods damn you,” Maekar says in tired desperation.

Jena sits, staring up at him in a daze.  He’s respected her wishes.  They’ve barely exchanged a word since Ashford, and it is the first time they have been alone since then.  She is in her present state because of him.

Jena hadn’t expected Baelor in her chambers, as an early audience with Lord Tully superseded their evening.

Baelor was there at her side in front of the fire and so very far away.  His tremors were worse.

“Try as I might, my love, I cannot divine your thoughts,” she said gently.

He twisted Valarr and Matarys’s ring on his finger.  “Maekar has come to the conclusion his children must not sit on the throne.”

“It is not in his power to unmake the succession and there are your brothers and Aelor besides,” Jena said cooly.

“I reminded him as such, but he was insistent. Heirs of my body to protect the realm.  To protect them.”

Jena let out a small laugh of disbelief.  “Does he believe we have been negligent in our duties all these years?  Does he forget our sons?”

“He knows what great thing he asks.”

A babe, with all speed.

Jena searched her husband’s face.  “You agree.”

He nodded.

And loathe though she was to admit it, Jena did too.

She never stopped hoping.  An idle prayer after a stolen evening or if she was fortunate to keep Baelor in her bed until morning.  Even after Baelor’s body was broken.

“I do not need clear sight to know every part of you,” he’d murmured against her ear, her legs spread wide.

Even after Valarr and Matarys were nothing but ash.

“And if there can be no child?  Will Maekar accept that?”

“He will have to.”

Jena straightened her skirts as if it was simply business they spoke of.  “On the morrow.  You need your rest tonight.”

For the first time since Baelor walked out of Ashford, the gods favored them.  They both wept for joy when Jena told Baelor her news.

She did not know how Maekar took it.  Relief, most likely.

It is not relief on his face now.

“Spare me your pity, Your Grace.”

Jena averts her eyes, because strangely, it is all she has for him.

There is a rush between her legs and Jena doubles over with a groan.

Maekar pulls her up from the bench, guiding her through the hall.  “Ser Duncan, fetch Lady Kiera now.  And pass word to the king.”

Jena barely notices who Maekar passes her off to, only that she is in her chamber; midwives and ladies and a maester stripping her ruined outer gown and guiding her through the pain.

When her daughter is placed in her arms, Jena sobs.

All their hopes and prayers, the great houses do not want a queen in her own right.  Even without dragons, a girl for an heir still rends the realm in half.  Jena hates herself for the despair.

The assembled pretend they do not see her tears.  Jena hastily wipes at her face.  She will not let Baelor see her like this.

Baelor sits down on the side of her bed.  Jena does not know if he can make out the colors of their daughter’s eyes.

“She is a wonder.  You both are.”

“Baelor…” she says, weary.

He tilts her chin up, tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“Jena, it will be well.”  He’s smiling.

After everything, Jena believes him.

“You have done your part for the day.  I will stay up with her.”

They had not discussed girls’ names.  Jena barely wanted to tempt the gods with talk of boys’ names.

Queen Myriah sees her the next afternoon. She watches closely as Jena hands the babe to the wet nurse.  “You did not nurse your boys either.”

“I did not,” Jena says.

Midwives insisted she would fall with child quicker if she gave her babes to other women, though after Matarys, Jena knew it meant very little for her.

“The world is hard enough.  Do not deprive your daughter of yourself.”

The older woman’s face is writ with regrets.  Jena has never felt closer to her good-mother.  Impulsively, Jena grabs Myriah’s hand and squeezes.  Myriah is taken aback, then absently pats Jena’s hand.

Baelor steals a moment before hearing petitions, to find Jena nursing, stroking the babe’s dark hair.

“Princess Myriah is as strong as her brothers.”

No Valyrian name.  No doubt Marchers will see it as betrayal, but the realm is larger than their hurts.  It is greater than any house.

“So she is,” Baelor agrees.

----------

Reviewing the columns of the queen’s alms, Jena is distracted by child’s babble.

Myriah has abandoned her toys and clambered onto her father’s lap, dragging a small finger across the words of his tome she cannot read.  If Baelor finds it a distraction, he makes no indication of it.

Even Valarr was not so self-serious as a babe, but he did not have a king for a father and a companion in Matarys eventually.  His parents were younger and not so careworn, though Jena thinks candlelight slips years off of Baelor.

A knock at the door.

“Come,” Jena bids them enter.

The steward’s face is wracked with tension as he approaches Baelor.  “Your Grace, it’s Prince Maekar.  He has not left his chambers all day.”

“We spoke this morning.”

“The princesses said he was not present at the midday meal nor supper.  Your Grace, there was a raven, word from Lys, it is said.”

Jena grips the ledger to steady herself.  Whatever news of Aerion, it is certain to be terrible.

“Why was I not informed sooner?!” Baelor says sharply.  Myriah’s looks up at her father’s sudden change in demeanor in confusion.

“The Master of Whispers has not confirmed –”

Baelor sets Myriah down as he stands.  “To mother, sweetling.”  He looks to Jena, then steps out of the room with all speed.

Hastening to action, “Are the princesses in the apartments?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And Prince Aegon?”

“He left with Ser Duncan before dawn, I believe.”

Jena collects Myriah and follows in her husband’s wake.

She finds the girls in a hysterical state.

“Is father dead?!” Rhae blurts out before she can stop herself.

No, Jena thinks.  Maekar would not do that.

“How can you ask such a foolish thing?” Daella says like a girl who has had to scold children before her time.

From the other room, Jena can hear Baelor at Maekar’s door, entreating him to open it.

Aegon bursts in, smelling of horse and fresh air, Ser Duncan his giant shadow.

“What did he do?” he asks, face screwed up in anger, so like his father.

“Aegon!” his elder sister chastises him.  “We do not know what has happened.”

They do not have to wait long for a message to be passed to Jena.

To prove to the assembled he was blood of the dragon, Prince Aerion saw fit to swallow wildfire.

It burned terribly long after he was dead.

Jena cannot banish the grisly vision from her mind.  “Your brother Aerion has died.”

Before she can tuck the note away, Aegon snatches it from her.

Daella, Rhae, and Ser Duncan all cry out in a chorus of ‘Egg!’

As Aegon reads it over and over, Jena watches his face for signs of relief, for a twisted happiness.  Aegon schools his expression into something else entirely: nothing at all.

Daella’s voice trembles.  “I will write Daeron and Aemon.”

Jena understands her need to not remain idle.  Rhae cries in the absence of another emotion.  Aegon stares into the fireplace.

Ser Duncan clears his throat, “By your leave my lady, I’ll stand with the king.”

Jena’s voice is rough, “He will be grateful, Ser Duncan.”

They sit in time measured by Rhae’s hiccups, the scratch of the quill, the pop of the fire.

On the other side of the wall, Baelor still pleads to Maekar.

Myriah slackens her grip on Jena’s gown.  The tension in the room is still there, slowly bleeding out.  Jena stares at her daughter’s dozing face.

Maekar has other children, living children, hurt to the bone, but he is consumed by the one past pain.  The one who did not give a damn who he hurt, so long as it did hurt.

Night turns grey when there is a shout, jolting them all alert.  “Maekar!”

Myriah startles awake at her father’s shout and wails, but Jena cannot soothe her now.  She leaves Myriah on the divan and rushes to the adjoining room.

“I order you to open this door or I will have Ser Duncan break it down, gods damn you!”

Ser Duncan looks at Jena in a panic.  She shakes her head.

Baelor does not raise his voice but for battle.  Jena has not heard desperation like that since their sons died.

Still, Maekar is silent.

Baelor looks to Jena, the fight draining from him.  His cane is insufficient and he sinks to the floor like a lost child.

Jena must take up his cause.  She approaches the door; presses an ear to it.

“May I come in, Maekar?”

Nothing.

And the click of the lock.

The air is close in the darkened room, with the curtains drawn and the fire smoking untended embers.

Maekar sits dead-eyed at his desk, corpselike himself.

The letter lays in front of him.

“You did what you could,” she says because she must, not because it is true.

“It wasn’t enough,” he says flatly.

“No.  It never is.”  That is true.

Maekar finally meets her eye.

He can hear it all in her voice: the accusation, the confession.

You did not do half of what was needed for that destructive boy, and it killed him.

We are all too tender-hearted when it comes to our children.  We must be, or it will kill us.

“They will not forgive me, Aegon especially.”

“That is for them to decide, but you will not know it locked away in here.”

Jena places a hand on Maekar’s shoulder.  He tenses under her touch, then buries his head in his hands.

“Dyanna would not have let it come to this,” he murmurs.

A fool’s reasoning, but he may be excused the lapse.  Perhaps Dyanna could save her children.  Perhaps she couldn’t.

“I am here.  Baelor is here.  Do not forget that.”

Maekar half-sobs, then rises.  He does not offer Jena thanks, nor does she want it.

The morning light is blinding after the dark.  Maekar aids Baelor in standing.  The look between Baelor and Maekar is the silent understanding of brothers, of men who have outlived sons.

Maekar goes to his children.

Baelor touches a hand to Jena’s cheek.  Thank you.

“I, um,” Ser Duncan stammers.  Jena is shocked to see a sleeping Myriah in his arms.  “The septas have been too frightened to come near, and the princesses and Egg are –”

Jena imagines he almost says ‘useless’.

“She needed a bit of rocking is all.”

“Once again, we are indebted to you, Ser Ducan,” Baelor says with a half-smile as Jena collects Myriah.  “Let Ser Roland stand for the day in your stead.”

“Do not call the council, just for today,” Jena implores Baelor.

For once, Baelor does not protest its importance.

Slivers of daylight cut through the cracks in the curtains, but sleep finds Jena easily.

The last she sees before she is overtaken is Baelor, eyes closed, a hand laid over Myriah.

----------

Right as he’s announced, Maekar storms in with a harried look, taking the chair opposite Jena.

Jena glances to the page and gestures for the wine.  After all these years, Maekar still will barge into rooms.

He takes a large swig of wine.  “I’m here to discuss changes to your household.  A lady needs dismissing.”

Jena raises an eyebrow, “The Hand does not power to do so, unless you and Baelor have found some archaic law, and even then, I will likely challenge you.”

“Lady Kiera cannot remain in service.”

Jena laughs.  “Now you are being absurd.  You cannot send my good-daughter away.”

“I came to petition on her behalf because Daeron entreated me to do so.  She carries his child.”

Jena stares at Maekar.  Surely she did not hear him rightly.

“Kiera.  Daeron.”

Maekar grunts in confirmation.

Jena falls back against her chair.  “She’s said nothing of this to me.”

She thought she and Kiera were close, almost mother and daughter.  But then, they cannot truly speak freely, they are queen and subject.

“To her credit, she wished to come forward, as they’ve been carrying on for some time, but for my son’s cowardice.  But there is no hiding a child.”

Jena cannot imagine Kiera acting so carelessly, falling into a man’s bed and not expect consequences.

But Jena thinks of Kiera’s boys, Valarr’s boys, born so early they never breathed.  Perhaps Kiera saw this as her only chance.

Jena sighs, “If it’s marriage intended, I have no objections to a union, if you do not.”

“Only to the bridegroom.”

Once, Maekar would have said that with malice.  Now, only regret.

“Lady Kiera would be a guiding hand,” he says.  “Daeron’s management of Summerhall has been… adequate, but many things have gone unattended.”

Do they seem happy?  “Do they seem sincere?”  An easier question.

“Sincerely sorry for having been found out,” Maekar says dryly.  He stares into his wineglass.  “I have not seen Daeron so set on something that was not damping out his dreams.”

“That is promising, is it not?”

Jena takes his silence for agreement.

It is soon for it, but this is a private thing for only the two of them.  Jena lifts her glass.  “To a long and fruitful marriage.  To your grandchild.”

Maekar joins her toast.  After he drinks, “Like father, like son, I suppose.”

Jena smirks.  “Who would possibly say that?”

Kiera’s apologizes on her knees, “You and the king have been good to me, Your Grace, given me a place.”

Jena shakes her head as she helps Kiera up; her condition already slows her.  “And now you will have a place of your own, a husband again, a child.  This is what you wanted, yes?”

Kiera’s mouth forms a thin frown and for a moment, Jena fears something dark.

“I am not insensible to Daeron’s faults.  I know all that is said of him, truths and falsehoods.  He is a good man.”  A breath, “And I love him.”

It is as if a great weight is lifted.

“That is all I required,” Jena embraces Kiera as she has not before.  “And you are still family.”

----------

Baelor does not come until the small hours of the morning.

He’s worn far heavier raiment; armor, the crown, and yet a simple roble looks to be the heaviest of all as he near collapses into a chair.

“Does she finally sleep?”

Baelor nods.

“Milk of the poppy?”

He shakes his head.  “No, which is why I am far later than I anticipated.”

Maekar pulls the stopper out of the wine the servant opened hours ago.

He ought to have put milk of the poppy in Baelor’s glass beforehand, knocked his brother out.  It would be a gross overreach to order him to take it.

Maekar drinks first, then Baelor, some proof Baelor’s preferred vintage is not poisoned by malicious hands.

“I promised Jena long ago I would not die on her.  I’ve kept my promise, but it did not occur to me in the moment the cost to myself to fulfill it.”

Baelor looks at Maekar with some sympathy, as if the newly-made widower has somehow offended a man whose wife has been dead over twenty years, to distract from his own loss.

Maekar doubts his ability to remember Dyanna’s face at times.

Their father and mother, their brothers, four sons, and now both their wives are the terrible accounting.

“I can guide Myriah on how to be queen regnant, but Jena’s work is unfinished.”

Maekar did not have to contend solely with Daella and Rhae’s girlhood travails, young as they were when Dyanna died.  There were septas and ladies’ maids.  There was Jena.

Now in the Red Keep, a girl of barely fifteen sleeps with a crown and a Baratheon betrothal hanging over her like a sentence and no mother to instruct her.

“You must extend your promise to Myriah.  You won’t die,” Maekar says bluntly, as if speaking it aloud makes it so.

He’s never been good at filling silences.  That is Baelor’s responsibility.

“I will endeavor to do so, for your sake as well,” Baelor says with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

Maekar dreads serving as Myriah’s regent more than he did Baelor naming him Hand.

Baelor’s smile flickers out like a candle, “You will see Myriah’s rule and I will not.  I accept that, but I should like to know her children, to see who among them favor Jena.”

Maekar does remember Dyanna’s face.  She is plain in their surviving children and in their children’s children.

Vaella still runs up to greet Maekar whenever he manages journeys to Summerhall, as she did when her father was alive.  Daeron lost the instinct young, when he learned what being heir meant.  Vaella knows nothing of the realm, only that a visit from her grandfather is a momentous occasion.

Affection does not come easy to Maekar.  It was effortless to Dyanna.

“And if the children take after their Baratheon kin?” Maekar asks.

“Gods help us,” Baelor chuckles, then Maekar, the spell of sorrow briefly broken.  “But it is what Jena wanted for Myriah and I cannot fault her.”

And her wish is to be followed as rule of law.

“I do not know how to do this without her,” Baelor finally breaks.  Maekar can do nothing but bear witness; it is what Baelor requires.

When Baelor is through, Maekar drains his glass, “You will go to your rooms and find what rest you can.  We’ve a realm to safeguard Jena’s daughter.”

Practical, to the point.

Baelor takes the order well for a man who does not to need abide another man’s command.  He grasps Maekar’s arm firmly to say goodnight.

They are both the last parts of something only they can remember now.