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Kiera shouldn’t have been surprised. The Targaryens had always been callous so this is perfectly expected, but she still rages, she’s still miserable. She’s still so disappointed.
Valarr meant something to her. He meant something to all of them too. But they still put him on the pyre and decided to act as if he was never there at all once the body was gone, as if the scent didn’t cling to them and his memory haunt them. They all just picked up the pieces and divided the property.
And apparently, she’s among it.
She’s to remarry already, as if Westeros doesn’t believe in grief, or rather, they don’t believe in her grief. Worse than that, she’s to remarry Daeron. Daeron, the drunken, whoring, distant, miserable bastard of a prince who would drag her down into his despair, whether he wanted to or not. They aren’t even letting her decide who her damned husband will be, as if she’d end up choosing differently with the options at hand, and simply pushing her up to the altar like she’s the wedding dress and not the woman inside.
She hates everyone. She hates Aerys for making this happen. She hates Daeron for being the one she must tie herself to. She hates herself for being too weak to fight back. She even starts to hate her aunt, Rohanne, for being wed to Daemon Blackfyre and dooming her to this, as if she had a choice either. She hates, hates, hates.
She even hates Valarr for dying, for leaving her childless, for being everything one day and nothing the next.
She wishes she placed herself on the pyre too, that she didn’t fight to stay when she gave birth to her Stranger-taken sons, that she went to him in Valarr’s final days as the maesters said he feverishly asked and caught the Spring Sickness herself. She’s too defiant and proud to really do anything but she wants to so, so bad.
She can’t even look into the fireplace in the days following the wedding. The ashes look just like him.