✧ ❛ 𝓉he 𝒸opper 𝓆ueen.

@ladydondarrion

A princess for so short a time as it stood, Dyanna was endlessly grateful for her good-sister, Jena, for assisting her in acclimatising to the expectations and rigours of life at court. There was much that Dyanna still had to learn, and much she still had to be acutely cautious of in her day-to-day dealings, but her afternoon meals with Jena were moments in which she could truly relax. They were an unlikely friendship, given their houses and ancestries, but Dyanna was glad for a friend on whom she could depend so truly.

"You seem a little less green today," Dyanna commented, with the slightest of smirks. In her early stages of pregnancy, Jena had been suffering with almost debilitating illness - and not only in the mornings. But as time passed, it seemed the nausea did too. It cheered Dyanna to see her companion beginning to eat once more.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. Dull pangs had bloomed across the precious curve that had begun to swell beneath Jena's gowns, each a barbed tendril coiling with increasing tightness around her spine. It was a pressure wholly unlike any born of courtly strain, a tension sharper the mild cramping the maester had described as a common torment of first babes. At first she had blamed the emptiness beside her, the cold expanse of bedding where Baelor’s warmth ought to have lain if duties had not swept him away from the Red Keep. She told herself it was only her gentled heart mourning the absence of her lord husband, that the ache was no more than longing made flesh. Yet as night progressed, as the moon travelled its arc across the firmament, the pain had continued to sharpen into something that bore a more sinister shape. In the hour before dawn, Jena had turned to desperate prayer that the gods might stay their hand and spare the sweet life that grew within her. She ought to have summoned the maesters then. Yet dread and denial and the looming guilt that this might somehow be her own failing had frozen her in place. More so, the remarkable blessing that came with the morrow — the pangs had eased to naught but a dull throb . . . well, until this very moment.

Jena had refused to forgo the rituals she shared with Dyanna. Her good-sister’s presence never failed to provide an invaluable reprieve from the weights borne in the Red Keep. She, too, never failed to possess the most discerning eye in the room. As another ripple of pain seized Jena, hitching her breath softly as she held her cup to her lips, she felt her careful mask of composure begin to fracture. The artifice of calm crumbled beneath Dyanna’s gaze and the truth seeped through the fissures. Still, Jena clung stubbornly to what morsels of composure she could yet reach.

❛ I—I am well, ❜ she managed, the words a brittle lie, ❛ Please do not fret. And do not tell the maids or the maesters. ❜ The final request hung between them, revealing her more than any direct confession could. Jena drew a deep breath. Her hands, claimed by delicate tremors, slowly lowered her cup to the table. Another ache twisted deep. Her brow twitched, threatening to furrow. ❛ The babe may have restored my appetite, yet instead he has begun to sow aches in my very bones. I—gods— ❜ She cleared her throat as the pang did not recede, but persisted a cruel breath longer, ❛—I shall seek the maester later. ❜

In her heart, she knew. In her heart, she already mourned. She only wished to cling to one final breath where she might still pretend she had not failed to protect her own child.

𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒, 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒? Whenever the question came from councillors, Baelor knew the answer expected of him. A prince must speak of unity as though it were already won; he must praise the wisdom of the match, the loyalty of both houses, the promise of children in whom two long-opposed peoples might behold their own faces and find cause to lower their swords. He lowered his gaze to the orange in his hands; the fruit had begun to come apart beneath his fingers. Its peel lay in a golden coil, bright as beaten metal. Pale strands of pith clung stubbornly to the flesh, delicate little threads binding one crescent to the next. He worried one loose with his thumb, though he scarcely saw it.  Baelor thought of the Red Mountains. He had crossed their passes beneath banners and without them. He knew their hard, austere beauty, the stone rising red and cruel beneath a sky too vast for mercy. He knew the narrow roads where a dozen archers might humble a host; he knew villages built from rock the color of old blood, their smallfolk accustomed to bolting doors whenever riders appeared along the ridges. The marcher lords remembered every Dornish raid; the Dornish remembered every marcher incursion. Neither side remembered its own cruelty with half so keen an eye. Below, the feast erupted into another roar, and the sound rolled up through stone and timber as it had before, rattling faintly through the cups upon the table. Some lord had made a jest, doubtless; some singer had reached the vulgar portion of a bridal song. Men who had never stood watch beneath a marcher moon drank to the ending of a conflict they understood only through heraldry and wine. Baelor’s mouth tightened. Peace was ever easiest in the mouths of those who would not be asked to bleed for it. His fingers stilled upon the fruit.  For one cruel heartbeat, Baelor wished himself more willing to lie. A kinder falsehood stood ready upon his tongue. He might have taken her hand then, might have looked upon her and assured her that their marriage would heal the marches. He might have promised that Dornish spears and stormlander swords would rust together in their scabbards, that sons born of dragon and lightning would bind the old wounds shut, that songs would one day name Jena Dondarrion the bright bride who ended generations of bloodshed. But he would not give her honeyed falsehood on the first night of their marriage. Men had made enough decisions for her in the name of kindness already. ❛ No marriage holds so much power by itself, ❜ He kept his gaze upon the orange for another breath. ❛ Vows may open a door, ❜ he continued, though his voice remained low. ❛ They cannot force men through it. ❜ 

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐃𝐎𝐌. The thought nestled itself in some visceral depth as he spoke to her with unvarnished honesty. There was no measure of softening the truth to spare her. He was entirely sincere. Perhaps most meaningful of all was the simple fact that he spoke to her without the least condescension for her curiosity, but as an equal. With each of his words, Jena found herself agreeing with him. She was far from a naive thing; she knew a marriage alone would not solve a conflict that had burned between their kin for generations. She did not fool herself into believing she was an offering priceless enough to sow peace into every Dornish and marcher heart that still clung to old judgement. Though she was devoted and determined to try. With him. Her mind, body and soul belonged to this effort now, to the prosperity of the realm, to be worthy of her new title and the greater one that awaited. He was certainly worthy. He would be capable of greatness, he and his rule would bring the realm closer to true peace than it had ever known. Her conviction was born of how he spoke of it; with no morsel of haughty arrogance or the assumption that power was a given. He spoke of peace with deep understanding, void of greed, with a near reverence she had scarce ever heard any noble utter. The softest of smiles touched Jena's lips as a thought struck her with vivid clarity, with a certainty so fiercely wholehearted it went beyond the simple deference of a subject to her prince. He would make a great king. The realm would be so very fortunate to have him.

❛ I confess I had wanted to believe otherwise. It is a romantic notion the maids are fond of spreading through the halls of Blackhaven . . . that a marriage such as ours might heal all grievances simply by its existence. But your grace is right, of course. Peace that is not nurtured will not thrive. It is our duty to tend to it. Together. ❜ she answered, her voice measured, still, yet warmer than it had been only moments before, ❛ Still . . . I should like to believe we are an ember of hope. And hope, I think, is no small thing. ❜ Her fingers brushed gently across the ivory and gold of her skirts as she spoke, the most formal edge of her deference daring to soften ever a fraction. Her eyes searched his expression, bathed in gold neath the firelight. She glimpsed the fleeting flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The sight of it, of such unguardedness, even though terribly short-lived, made the next soft breath she drew taste sweeter than any Dornish wine. Jena, too, held hopes for their marriage. Hopes that the girl she had left behind might yet prove worth the sacrifice. Hopes that the life awaiting her might be kind; this last a selfish hope, one she had been raised to believe was rare, for it was a woman’s duty to endure whatsoever fate the gods saw fit to weave into the tapestry of her marriage. Yet as she met her husband’s—Baelor’s eyes anew, as the fire continued to cocoon them in a realm solely their own, as he attempted a jest that not only painted a smile across her lips but made a novel kind of warmth bloom in her chest, Jena felt that she might have been blessed with the rarest fate of all.

❛ I must admit, my imagination had fashioned all manner of expectations, ❜ she continued, the smile that curved her lips braver now, steadier, ❛ however this night continues to unravel each as entirely false. ❜ Her candour startled her; the ethereal bloom of golden light around them softening the decorum that had been carved into her bones. By some incomprehensible, wondrous miracle, Jena felt herself more at ease here, in their complete alone where no eyes might bear witness to their honesty, than she had felt since the announcement of their betrothal. Even though she in truth knew near naught of him. Even though she knew him only as blood of dragon and blazing sun forged into one, a coalescence many would have feared. Jena did not. It was the very reason why she felt another layer of tension slip away — and with it came a sliver of bravery she had not expected to find so soon.

With posture still poised gracefully, she leaned forward to receive the second crescent of orange he offered her. Only this time, Jena allowed her fingertips to linger against his palm for the merest, suspended breath. She allowed her thumb the brazen indulgence of feathering ever so delicately across the warm skin of his hand. It was yet another whisper of a caress, but it was there, weighted with meaning. The most fragile beginnings of tenderness, quiet gratitude, and perhaps even the softest apology for what slanders he might have endured from the mouths of her ilk. Her cheeks burned, and there was a fire elsewhere she had never sensed before. The touch had placed the very sun in her chest. That sun blazed hotter still when she withdrew. She bit into the wedge without pause this time, delighting in the second eruption of incandescent flavour across her tongue. It was somehow lovelier than the first. An unguarded, savouring hum fled her before she could smother it.

❛ I fear it is much too late to salvage whatever favour lemons once held with me, ❜ she began her own half-jest after she had swallowed the first bright bite, her voice lilting with amusement, ❛ this delightful fruit has supplanted them. ❜ What remained of the wedge she held between her thumb and forefinger, her head canting slightly to the side, settling into an inquisitive incline as she observed him. Gods, he had made a curious creature of her. She might have felt greater shame in it, had she not suspected he found some semblance of enjoyment in this . . . this tentative learning of each other. They were married now after all, bound for eternity, and she did not wish for a lifetime of cold distance, of never truly knowing him. Jena wanted to know him. She wanted to learn the shape of his every thought, the colours of his every like and mislike. And though he had no reason to trust her yet, she wanted to cradle the thoughts none else had known in the careful palms of her hands and vow she would safeguard them.

A profoundly intimate question found the apex of her tongue then. Bold. Demanding vulnerability. One whose answer would unveil his soul and brush against the most hidden desires of the heart. She should hold her tongue, truly. The risk of offence fluttered beneath her ribs. The risk of inadvertently stirring some deep ache in him thundered alongside. Yet Jena believed one’s dreams bespoke a great many things about character . . . and so, once again, before reason could fully rein in the wilder current of her heart, her mouth parted.

❛ Have you— ❜ The words caught upon the sharp edge of her hesitation. Her gaze fell for a breath to the half-eaten orange still held between her fingers. The pad of her thumb brushing across the thin rind that clung to the curve, as though she sought courage from so small a thing. Her brows twitched ever so slightly into a conflicted furrow. It smoothed as swiftly as it had come. She chose to be brave — to dare. ❛ Have you ever imagined what manner of life might have been yours were you not the crown prince? ❜ There was trepidation, still, in her voice. She could imagine the stern glower of her septa. ❛ Forgive me, your grace. I do not mean to be untoward. I know many deem it frivolous or idle to dream of fates one cannot attain . . . but I disagree. ❜ Jena paused, the silence filled by the soft crackle of the hearth. Then, as though offering something of herself in careful exchange, she proceeded, ❛ I should have liked to be an artist. Perhaps I would have kept a shop in some small village, or travelled with a carriage of supplies from house to house painting the likenesses of those who would sit for me. Every day I would have picked flowers to craft mine own pigments, and gathered horse hair for my brushes. ❜ Jena said with a smile that bordered on wistful, before savouring what remained of the orange between her fingers. Her expression softened further, eyes searching his.

❛ So what of you? If you were not prince, but . . . you. ❜

@ladydondarrion

It was daunting, being in the capital for so short a time before expecting to wed a prince. The marriage had been arranged with little input from either prospective spouse, and while her intended had visited Starfall with his mother for a two weeks a few months prior, the entire ordeal seemed wholly overwhelming now that she found herself in the Red Keep. The Dayne household had come with her, but would be leaving in a short enough time, and she would stay with a few familiar maids and a new husband to contend with.

She was sat at the window of her chambers, fine, pale curtains flittering in the slight evening breeze, when a guest descended upon her. When her deep violet eyes took in the sight of the princess Jena, Dyanna rose to her feet immediately. She had worried about this moment. Jena Dondarrion was from a marcher house, and a vastly more important lady at court than she, and Dyanna feared for how she would be taken by her almost good-sister.

𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐌 that accompanied crossing the threshold of the Red Keep as the bride to a prince. It was terribly intimidating, no matter how prepared one believed oneself to be. More intimidating still, was the expectation to remain composed and gracious while being torn from everything known and set down among strangers. It was a peculiar loneliness, even when one was never truly alone — surrounded by attendants, by watchful eyes, by the ceaseless hum of a court that scrutinised every breath. She had felt it once herself; a daughter of the marches bound to the realm’s heir as naught but an appeasement, an attempt to soften the old bitterness between her people and the crown. Though she had been fortunate to find with Baelor something extraordinary, she recalled still the uncertainty that had lived beneath her ribs at the very dawn of that marriage. How frightening the vastness of expectations had felt, and how deeply she had yearned for the haven of a true friend amidst the sycophants of court. It was that remembered ache, together with genuine delight in the prospect of a friend, that had drawn Jena to Lady Dyanna’s chambers. She had come to extend a kind hand, to offer the soft reassurance and warmth she herself had once needed. It was, too, of profound import to the her that no shadow of doubt remain in her good-sister’s heart — that Dyanna never once think Jena harboured any of the cruel judgements still darkening the hearts of certain marchers.

Dyanna’s welcome was warm, though still carefully woven with the expected courtly decorum. Jena hoped that soon both of them might ease into something freer. They were oddly similar, after all; both young women wed into the royal blood and expected to carry its heavy duties with grace. She hoped they might find in one another a true comfort, a trusted sisterhood that would make the strains of court a little less sharp. She stepped further into the chamber, closer to where Dyanna had risen so swiftly. A soft, genuine smile touched Jena’s lips as she took in the other woman’s careful deference.

❛ Lady Dayne, please rise. There is no need for such formality between my soon good-sister and I. ❜ Jena began kindly, her hands folded before her abdomen, her eyes meeting Dyanna's, ❛ I wished only to come and see that you are comfortable, and that you have all you desire. Tomorrow will be a most exciting day . . . exciting, and, as I recall from mine own wedding, rather overwhelming. ❜ She said with a soft breath of amusement, a warm smile painted across her lips; her candour was an offered morsel of vulnerability, spoken with the hopes to ease even a fraction of tension. ❛ And please—you must call me Jena. ❜

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.

starter from aegon targaryen for @ladydondarrion

Egg had not left the meeting between his uncle and Ser Duncan in the wave of triumph that he had hoped for. He had hoped that wiser head's than Aerion's or his father's would prevail, but alas, no. He had simply been scolded. Scolded for hating a brother who was a monster. How could no one else but his siblings see it? Time and time again, they raised their complaints to their father. They had raised complaints to their mother too - though he doubted his had been all that serious, given how small he would have been. Egg could even recall upon one occasion how he had complained of his brother's antics to the king, but he had been duly shushed by his father and sent on his way. That had all been frustrating enough, but now Ser Duncan's hands, feet, maybe even his life hung in the balance over it all.

At a loss of what to do next, Egg supposed the wisest course of action would be to seek out the second most powerful person in Ashford's halls - the princess of dragonstone, his most beloved aunt.

He found his way to her chambers, hoping she had not already readied for bed, and knocked impatiently. Upon being permitted entry, he looked at her with big, sad eyes, and pulled his mouth in an odd shape, which had the look of someone trying not to cry, or shout, or both.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄. Jena had pitied the young Lady Gwin, who certainly could not have anticipated the celebrations of her thirteenth nameday be thwarted in favour of wounded noble pride. Of all things, a trial of the seven — gods be good. In the wake of the profound relief of learning her nephews had been recovered, Jena had sought Baelor in the study Lord Ashford had offered him. She had found her husband far more weary than any single day’s burdens ought to have left him. She had scolded him gently, but with the full force of a wife who knew his heart, for the harshness with which he had spoken to Egg. While she herself was dismayed by his mischievous antics, she could not deny that she understood. She had reminded Baelor he knew well how capricious Aerion’s humours could be, knowing well that Ser Duncan had done only what any true knight must. The duty of protecting the innocent, she had argued, ought to have weighed heavier than a prince’s bruised vanity. They had spoken long, and when she left him she carried with her the small victory of her husband acknowledging his ire had perhaps been disproportionately focused on Egg alone. Yet the matter was far from settled. Baelor’s hands were bound; to forbid the trial outright might be seen as mercy by the smallfolk, or as weakness by those who watched the Iron Throne for any sign of it. And there was Maekar’s pride to reckon with as well. Gods, such a terribly convoluted situation this was.

She had only just begun the nightly ritual of unbinding the braids from her hair when the knock came; impatient raps against the doors to the chambers granted to her. Jena rose at once, the puzzled crease between her brows vanishing the moment she opened the door and found her youngest nephew. Sweet, defiant little thing who had sought adventure in the wide and dangerous wilds — alongside a hedge knight. That Ser Duncan had proven honourable and without cruelty was a mercy Jena would not soon forget. Her heart clenched with a fierce, aching tenderness, and with sorrow for the injustice she knew the boy carried. She listened without interruption. The words poured from him in an urgent rush that allowed scarce time for a wisp of breath; it was evident he had been granted precious little chance that day to speak his truth and feel heard.

❛ Oh, sweetling—come here. ❜ Jena cooed with every fragment of warmth she harboured. Her gentle hand found the space between his shoulders and she drew him inside, shutting the door against the rest of the unfair realm. ❛ I know, darling. I am so terribly sorry. I understand how fond you are of this knight of yours. ❜ She guided him towards the modest chaise placed before the hearth, settling herself and beckoning for him to nestle near should he wish to, ❛ I spoke with your uncle. I fear he finds himself in an impossible position. He recognises it was kindness and honour that guided Ser Duncan's hand. However, it is difficult to deny the unfortunate truth that the recipient of his knightly duty was royal blood. ❜ Jena spoke softly, both voice and countenance woven with remorse, ❛ You have been named this man’s squire, have you not? That means he places great faith in you, sweet one. On the morrow you will place his sword in his hand and his shield upon his arm, and Ser Duncan will later look to the crowd to find you. You must give him every measure of courage that you possess. ❜

The Princess Out of School, 1901

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄. Seven save him, he saw it, and something within him shifted beneath the blow. He had prepared himself for tears. For them he had shaped a hundred speeches during the long moons of their betrothal; each one conceived in solitude and discarded before dawn. He had imagined her weeping beneath the bridal veil whilst singers praised the match. He had imagined her tears upon the pillows, silent and hot and swallowed lest they offend him. He had imagined that she might look upon him as condemned men looked upon the headsman: with terror disciplined into stillness, knowing there was neither flight nor appeal left to them. Against such grief, he had fashioned himself into gentleness. Against her fear, he had gathered patience like a shield. But he had not prepared himself for her smile. There was no shield against that, and it entered him through some unseen breach, passing cleanly between rib and armour, and struck a softer, more foolish place that court and war had failed to kill. Baelor looked down at the fruit in his hands and felt, absurdly, as though the gods had placed there some golden key. All that day, men had heaped treasures before them until the tables groaned beneath the splendor of it. Silver wrought in the shape of dragons. Myrish lace fine enough to be drawn through a ring. Cups of jade, carved ivory, jeweled boxes from Lys, silks from Qarth, and a cradle of red-gold presented by Lord Butterwell with a leer so broad Baelor had briefly considered breaking the man’s nose before the assembled court. None of those things, it seemed, had moved her, nor had called forth the girl beneath the crown. Yet an orange had done it. ❛ Sweeter, ❜ he told her, ❛ though it bears a little sharpness beneath. Most things worth tasting do. ❜  His thumb slipped beneath the pale white pith, following the natural seam of the fruit; the flesh parted easily beneath his touch, glistening in the firelight, and a thin sheen of juice brightened his fingers; the scent rose stronger, clean and vivid amid the cloying abundance of bridal flowers.  Baelor separated one crescent from the rest, and then he crossed toward her slowly; her back was straight enough to shame a spear, and her knees were pressed demurely together beneath her skirts, her ankles tucked, her hands folded one atop the other with such studied perfection that Baelor could almost see the septa who had beaten the posture into her. His chest tightened, though he did not wish to pity her. Jena Dondarrion was not some trembling bird fallen from its nest. She was daughter to storm and stone, bred beneath black walls where lightning cracked the heavens and the marches had drunk blood since before the Conqueror came. There was pride in her. Fire, too. He had glimpsed it only briefly, banked beneath duty, yet he knew a living ember when he saw one.

He extended his hand, palm open, the orange segment lying upon it like a little crescent moon, though he chose not to raise it toward her lips. 

❛ You need imagine it no longer. ❜  Her eyes lowered to his palm, and he watched thought move through her face, quick and subtle beneath the training that sought to still it. Curiosity came first, then caution, then what might have been amusement at the gravity with which he presented so humble a morsel. Baelor held himself still. He knew enough of frightened animals not to reach when they drew near. When at last her fingers came toward him, the touch was scarcely a touch at all; the pads of her fingers brushed the center of his palm as she took the orange, light as the settling of ash after fire. Gods, what a great fool he was. He had crossed swords with men who meant to kill him and felt less disordered by it than by the brush of one woman’s fingers. The warmth of her touch lingered in the hollow of it, slight as breath upon glass and twice as perilous. He closed his hand by slow degrees, as though he might keep that little ghost of contact hidden there. Jena held the segment delicately, studying its glistening flesh as though it were some queer jewel brought from the farthest reaches of Yi Ti. Her solemnity nearly made him smile, but he feared too much amusement might shame her, and shame had already been poured upon the day in cups enough to drown them both.  Only then did he remember her invitation.

Will you sit with me, your grace? He had not answered it then, but in truth, he was weary. The day lay upon his shoulders still, heavy as the mantle clasped at his throat. He had stood before gods and court, bowed to a hundred blessings, endured a hundred jests, and carried the expectation of two kingdoms upon his back whilst men congratulated him upon his good fortune. Jena had been the only soul to look upon him and consider that he, too, might wish to rest. So he conceded, inclining his head in belated acceptance and turned toward the second chair. He drew it nearer to the hearth, though not so near to hers that his knees might brush her skirts or his presence become another wall about her. The clasp at his shoulder yielded beneath his fingers. He removed the heavy mantle and laid it across the chair’s carved back, where the crimson velvet spilled like blood over dark wood, the golden dragon folding in upon itself amid the cloth. The sword belt followed. The relief was immediate and humbling. His boots ached; his shoulders throbbed beneath the memory of velvet and gold. A dull pain had gathered behind his eyes from incense, music, and the endless press of watching faces. He leaned back only slightly, unwilling to sprawl before her, though he allowed the chair to take some portion of his weight. From there, seated rather than looming over her, the great bed no longer seemed to command the whole of it. It remained behind them, swathed in silk and expectation, but the hearth had become its own smaller realm; one of firelight, oranges, and the narrow space of choice they might yet preserve. ❛ The rind is bitter, ❜ he warned her, though there was no rind upon the crescent she held. ❛ The flesh is not. ❜

A useless assurance. He gave it all the same.

The fruit vanished between her lips, and Baelor looked away at once, startled by the intimacy of so innocent an act. His gaze sought the hearth instead, but then he heard the slightest breath from her and glanced back despite himself. Surprise had softened her face; the rigid composure did not wholly leave her, but something passed through it: delight, swift and bright, before she caught it and made herself solemn once more. The sight pierced him with an ache too tender to be called triumph.

❛ Well? ❜ he asked, and the question escaped with more eagerness than befitted a crown prince. He softened it with a faint inclination of his head. ❛ Was your imagining kinder than the truth? ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇, 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄. It surpassed the brief brush of lips as the septon had named them lord husband and lady wife — a symbolic seal of ceremony at most. It surpassed even the warm press of his palm at the low of her spine and the formal clasp of their hands as he led her through the wedding dance — yet another performance. This touch was different. There were no eyes to consume it, no spectacle to be made. It was brief, barely a touch at all, but it belonged solely to them. Jena found that entirely searing. Though the warmth of it faded as swiftly as it had ignited, undoubtedly chased away by her curiosity for the fruit she now held in hand. The wedge of orange had been a humble offering, yet it felt as though the most precious gift of the day. They had been lavished in treasures; shimmering fabrics, jewels, and that accursed cradle presented with a ribald remark upon her fertility that had twisted her stomach and locked her spine rigid. Jena had fought the reflex of rebuke, for she refused to be the reason ill whispers were brought upon the crown. Thusly, she had received each offering with the unwavering composure expected of her; with grace befitting a princess of the realm, with kind smiles and deep wells of gratitude. However, no gift touched her as his did. It was not the fruit itself, but the ease with which he had answered a want she had barely voiced, the way he had risen to quench her curiosity without requesting anything in return. It was ridiculous, truly, how the gesture found a place within her few had ever reached. It was ever more ridiculous how Baelor had managed to navigate there with startling frequency in the span of but an hour.

❛ This is generous. Thank you, your grace. ❜ She said with instinctive veneration, before raising the golden crescent higher. Jena's eyes sharpened; she studied it with an intensity that might have seemed absurd to any who did not know the fervour she devoted to most things that piqued her curiosity. Her father had once scolded her mother for indulging Jena’s painter’s spirit, saying it had given her a gaze too discerning for comfort, one that unsettled whomsoever it lingered upon. Her mother had only laughed and ushered her daughter to a canvas. She examined the orange now as she might examine a subject for her brush; the gentle curve of it, the thin rind casing an intricate array of succulent pearls filled with nectar. The scent. Gods, the scent tantalised until she felt the undignified threat of her mouth watering. Jena's eyes left it only when she heard Baelor move, the soft sounds of mantle and sword being set aside. The very corners of her mouth curved skywards for but a breath. It pleased her that he had complied to her request. It pleased her to know she was not alone in feeling weary from the day’s lengthy line of rituals. It pleased her that he was willing to unburden himself in her presence. It inspired her fortified walls to ease a fraction.

Jena brought the golden wedge to her lips and bit into it. The rind yielded with a quiet, crisp sound, and then the most vibrant burst of flavour skittered across her tongue. Her eyes widened. It was an incandescent, perfectly balanced rush of rich sweetness and bright tartness. It was fragrant. It was lovely. She decided in that moment she had perhaps never tasted anything so delightful.

❛ Oh, heavens, ❜ The gratified sigh fled her before she had the mind or decorum to halt it, ❛ it is wonderful. ❜ she continued — light of lilt and with unguarded awe. She sensed the smallest sliver of tension ease from her shoulders, granting her smile to drift ever closer to the surface. ❛ It is much different from aught I had imagined. I understand now why my father was swift to greed with the few we ever received. ❜ The breath that left her carried a thread of amusement, nearly a laugh; how strange to spend one’s wedding night discovering a fondness for oranges. It was so far from anything she had been prepared for, anything she had been told to expect. He simply continued to surprise her. Fleetingly, Jena wondered what other curiosities her new husband might spark in her. She had thought him already bestowed upon her the greatest surprise; the abolishment of the warning whispers that he was some rough brute. They were evidently false. Gravely so. Jena had sensed the rumours were embellished already at their first meeting. Though she had remained cautious since, knowing that faces and courtesies were things worn for favour and that only time revealed what lay beneath. What little time had existed between them had already begun to reveal him to her. No, she wished to tell the maids of Blackhaven, with defiance and possession and smug satisfaction, it seems my lord husband is no brute at all.

She swallowed the last of the piece he had given her, only to then feel the golden drop of nectar trailing a sticky path down her finger and towards her wrist. Before reason could intervene, unthinking instinct rose in her; she brought her hand to her mouth and caught the droplet upon her tongue. Realisation struck her with relentless force. She froze, tongue still pressed to the pad of her thumb, the heat burning her face sourced not from the crackling hearth. Fuck. She remembered herself. Her spine drew taut once more as her hands folded gracefully in her lap. With cheeks aflame, she lifted her gaze to his. There was no reproach in his eyes, no flicker of displeasure. She might have smiled again, had the sight of him not sent another tremor through her already fragile composure. The chamber was dimly lit, the fire beside them so bright it seemed to carve out a small, intimate realm of its own. Outside the cocoon of gold that enveloped them everything lay in shadow, as though they had stepped into some hidden hollow that contained only the hearth, the bright scent of oranges, and the two of them learning the shape of one another. A realm that was patient with them. A realm that felt as though it belonged to them alone. The thought was perilous. Duties and expectations waited beyond the firelight, and no reverie could keep them at bay forever. The thought tightened her chest.

❛ It is strange to think that something so rare at home now lies in abundance within my reach. ❜ she said, her voice steady and composed, though no longer quite as stiff as when they had first entered these rooms. ❛ Everything is so different here. When I look from these windows I see a vast city that in years’ time will call me queen consort. ❜ The sound she made was a soft and incredulous scoff. The notion of her being named queen was absurd. ❛ Whereas at home, I looked from my window and saw fields and forests that would only ever resound with the echo of my mare’s hoofbeats. ❜ Jena's gaze drifted to the flames licking at the wood, their amber light catching in the blue of her eyes. She stared into the brightness even though it grew uncomfortable, perhaps to spare him from seeing the wistful shadow that moved behind her eyes. She would do her duty. She would be worthy of the title. She had never done anything with half a heart. But that did not mean this new life would come naturally, nor did it mean she did not mourn the girl she had been at Blackhaven. The taste of orange lingered upon her tongue, and Jena savoured it. ❛ Though I do not doubt I will grow used to the city and all it offers. ❜ She continued in assurance. She would not burden him; to begin, it was not . . . proper for a wife, and too she possessed the strangest sense that he might carry her grief closer to his heart than she did to hers.

Her eyes returned to his, and when they met it was as though she had caught a burning ember from the hearth in her own gaze; she could not quite master the urge to search the depths of his. Gods, how unseemly it was for a lady to stare so intently, so unabashedly into the eyes of a crown prince.

But his eyes were truly captivating.

❛ Do you believe our union might accomplish what the realm hopes? ❜ she asked, her voice quieter now, trepidatious perhaps. Her own answer lingered on the tip of her tongue; it has to, so that the life she had left behind would not have been for naught. ❛ To bring peace after a conflict that has lasted so long. Do you think a marriage can hold such power? ❜ The question hung suspended in the hush between them; charged as a bolt of lightning adorning the firmament, and far too honest for the careful mask she had tried so hard to maintain. But the fire was warm at her side, the scent of oranges still lingered in the air, and Baelor had looked upon her without cruelty. And in its wake, Jena found she could not entirely regret, nor fear, the unguarded honesty.

Visits to Black Haven were few and far between but each time they happened, Valarr accepted with eager excitement to see his mothers side of the family and enjoy the traditions of the marcher lords. It was a place that most reminded him of Dragonstone without the signature creatures of his sigil everywhere and he always thought his mother thrived in the Stormlands, maybe from an excitement of being in her family seat. 

With his grandsire away, it left his uncle Manfred to receive and host them which was always unpredictable at best and chaotic at best. Due to the late hour of their arrival, there’s little time to do anything except bathe and dress for dinner but because of the long travel, it’s something that Valarr is happy to attend but hopes his uncle is preoccupied with the food instead of running his mouth. Hopes dash quickly and the food is still hot when there’s a look on his uncle's face that Valarr knows means trouble. “It’s wonderful you are both here,” Manfred begins and Valarr meets the words with a cautious glare, already on edge at whatever is about to follow. “In a day or two I depart for a tourney at Crow’s Nest to celebrate the birth of Ser Grance Morrigen’s son and you are welcome to join. How blessed they would be to have a prince join the celebrations and how fortunate it is for you to be in the Stormlands, too.” Valarr’s eyes narrow, his mouth cautiously chewing on the food but in apprehension as if something is coming after it. “Why would it be fortunate for me?” he asks, confusion all over his face as he looks from his nephew and giving a humoured scoff as he quickly rolls his eyes at the annoying uncle but does so by giving his mother a look intended to mock her brother. “It’s best I not say in front of your lady mother, we all know how these festivities can get out of hand. Do not worry, dear sister, I will look after my nephew should he want to fight in the tourney.”

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒, 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐓𝐄. To have grown as the only daughter among a vastness of brothers had demanded a particular perspicacity, a sharpness of eye and mind lest she become the easy target of juvenile stunts. Thus, scarce little escaped her notice. Particularly not now as a woman grown. Particularly not as a mother. It amused her, though she stifled the urge to laugh, how her brother and son presently failed to remember that Jena had raised Valarr. She was highly attuned to him. Every tensing of muscle beneath fine cloth, every fleeting twitch at the corner of his brow. These were tells she read without effort. The wordless language of the small boy who had once clung to her skirts and was now becoming a man with secrets of his own. And then there was her dear brother’s terrible lack of subtlety. Manfred, for all his many virtues, had never truly mastered the art of concealment — especially not when influenced by wine.

How curious. How endearingly transparent.

Jena had glimpsed it at once. The hint of suggestion beneath Manfred’s tone as he spoke of the tourney at Crow’s Nest, an invitation offered while steam still curled from the supper upon their plates. This very firelit chamber had been the stage for countless family intrigues in their youth. Jena had grown up at this table. She had dined here through summers and winters, through laughter and scoldings, and she had watched her brother spin his intricate, innocent falsehoods to their parents time and again. In girlhood those schemes had often served her well; Manfred had been a loyal accomplice. His quick tongue had oft bought her freedom for stolen rides across sunlit fields or solitary hours with brush and pigments while the septa searched in vain. Jena had witnessed his wiles for years upon years — it required very little from her to know when something was afoot. This time, it seemed, it involved her own son. 

Her brow arched, the barest of movement; betraying inquiry and suspicion as she laid the fork aside and let her hand find the stem of her goblet instead. There had been a swiftness in Valarr’s tone, a defensiveness almost that did not belong to idle conversation. By the time the wine warmed her tongue, Jena was certain something was being kept from her. Amusement stirred in her chest again. These two — as subtle as loud boars in a tranquil garden.

❛ We did not expect a tourney, brother. ❜ She said, her voice soft and deceptively neutral as she allowed her gaze to drift between the two, ❛ I do not believe Valarr brought his armour. Did you, my sweet? ❜ Her gaze lingered upon her son's a moment longer before it sailed to Manfred's. ❛ Oh Please, Manfred, do not censor yourself on my account. Though I am wed to the realm's heir, I am still your sister and still not fragile. Speak freely — tell me of these festivities. What occurs, which lords and ladies attend? It shall help me decide whether it would be advantageous for the crown to appear . . . at the very least, whether I ought to chaperone. ❜ Though her voice remained warm and sweet, it carried an edge now — patiently investigative. Jena's eyes narrowed the slightest fraction as she reached for her fork once more. Her gaze fixed upon her brother with unyielding focus, her smile sharpening into something smug. She would not press with force; she would probe with gentle persistence until one of them cracked and the truth spilled forth.

Manfred would crack first, she dared wager.