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It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART NINE
Jena Dondarrion arrives in King's Landing determined to be the perfect crown princess. She is prepared for a cold marriage of convenience, a life of service to the realm, but she is not prepared for Baelor Targaryen.
They find each other effortlessly in the dark. Daylight is another matter entirely.
Words: 7.1k
AO3 | PREVIOUS
CW: Sex (brief)
~
Dragonstone had become King’s Landing. Jena could hardly believe that she had ever found the isle stressful before. Even as spring came into full thrall, even as she was filled with joy for her marriage, Jena lamented. She wished she did not find every little interaction with others such a drain, but wishing would not make a difference.
The boon was that Baelor had never been quite so soft with her. He held her close all night long, an arm around her waist and their legs intertwined. They were too exhausted for anything more, but that did not matter to Jena. She was held, and in the mornings he kissed her brow before he left.
Maekar, Dyanna, and the rest of the royal storm they’d brought with them would only remain on Dragonstone for four days, but it was four full days. Meals and meetings and questions went storming past. With so many additional guests from around Blackwater, Jena was certain that even Baelor had never seen the castle so crowded.
“Good morning,” Mya knocked on the door to her solar on the third day. She had agreed to come early, but stopped in the threshold with a vague smile. “Is all well?”
Jena paused shoveling oats into her mouth. She had stopped caring about the staff still setting up for tea. “I can’t stop eating.”
Mya laughed as she swept around the table to join her. She took a seat further down to leave room for the higher-ranking women who would be joining their meal. Jena was not sure who had insisted on Mya’s presence — Queen Myriah or Princess Elaena — but she was grateful for it nonetheless.
“Is that the child?” she asked.
Jena nodded and dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief. “I suppose so. Maester Penn is more lenient than Aleryn on my diet, but all I want is something sweet and even he says I must not indulge.”
“I’m sure that a single pastry will do no harm.”
“I do not know that,” she said miserably. “And anyway, I would not be able to stop at one.”
When Ser Selmy announced her royal visitors, Jena thrust her bowl of oats at a maid and quickly adjusted her stance to suggest she had not rudely begun without them. She stood to curtsy for the queen and Princess Elaena. She offered them refreshments and asked after their rest.
“I never sleep well on Dragonstone, but do not take that personally. ” Elaena said. She must have been nearly forty years of age, but she did not look or act it. Baelor was particularly fond of her. “I think it’s cursed. I bet it was all the blood magic and incest.”
“Elaena prefers Parchments,” Queen Myriah said primly, referring to her husband Lord Penrose’s castle.
The princess snorted. “Are you joking?”
“I am looking forward to visiting Summerhall,” Jena said, trying to match their casual energy. But the words fell flat, with none of the older women’s ease, and were met with vague nods of assent.
Princess Dyanna arrived late, with the ends of her hair still leaking water onto her gown from a bath. The room was instantly brightened by her presence, and conversation stimulated as she discussed — much to Queen Myriah’s approval — cultural differences she had noticed between Dorne and the “the North.” Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, were the words of House Martell, but they seemed to fit Dyanna just as well as they fit Myriah. Jena wished she could say the same about herself.
A knock on the door a few minutes later revealed none other than Lady Daenora Velaryon. Jena’s stomach sank with dread, and she traded an uneasy look with Mya. This ought to be good. Jena was just about ready to shout outright at the woman at her alarming lack of respect.
Daenora curtsied deeply. “Your Graces, pardon my interruption. The Princess of Dragonstone called for me.”
The utter gall of this one. Should Jena make some excuse to call the gathering to an end just to avoid whatever Daenora was planning? No, she could not.
“Yes,” Jena said smoothly. Her mind spun with an excuse, something to turn this to her own advantage. Her eyes landed on Dyanna. “Please join us. My Queen, I invited Lady Velaryon to this breakfast hoping she might get the chance to become better acquainted with the newest member of your household. I am aware that they share common Valyrian ancestry and hoped to stoke the bonds of friendship. I hope you do not mind.”
If they did become friends, Jena was going to throw a fit, but that was beside the point.
“You are always welcome, Daenora,” Queen Myriah said politely, but there was a hint of tart in her words. Jena could not tell who it was for. “Dyanna, Lady Velaryon’s father is—”
“The storied Captain of the Guard, here, yes,” Dyanna smiled. “You must know this fearsome place like the back of your hand.”
“Indeed,” Daenora said. She sat primly and did not meet Jena’s burning, furious gaze. “I find myself removed as of late, though. A dear friend of mine has been consumed by duties. It was kind of the Princess to facilitate me in meeting new ones.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Jena forced herself to stop picking at her cuticles.
“You speak of Larra Massey? Pardon, Celtigar.” Myriah said. “How is she? I do not believe I have seen her during this visit.”
Daenora turned her perfectly pleasant smile to Jena with expectancy. Bitch. “She is well, and busy. The Princess has found Larra invaluable in sharing her duties.”
“Who? That little brunette with the shifty look in her eye?” Princess Elaena asked. “You know, I was at her wedding to Ser Ardrian, and she wore the most insidiously voluptuous gown I have ever seen. Jena, if you are lacking fine help, do not hesitate to send for some.”
It was said as a joke, and it made the table laugh, but Jena’s cheeks were burning. No, Larra did not have a reputation for graciousness or abundant intelligence, and yes she was only supporting Jena because it lifted her status, but she had in fact performed all of her duties excellently.
“I try to appreciate all of the ladies of Dragonstone for the values they do have,” Jena replied. She took a sip of tea. “Lady Velaryon, for instance, is quite adept at checkers. I prefer cyvasse.”
Those sorry words were much too hostile, and instantly undid the illusion of courtesy. It was very uncouth. Jena did not dare look to the faces of the other women to see their reactions.
Daenora just smiled. She was probably happy to have successfully provoked Jena before the queen. And she was not finished. “We all must shine somewhere. Your wonderful paintings, for instance. You really must share them with court. I particularly enjoyed your portrait of Prince Baelor.”
Jena felt her own mask flee her. She set down her cup so hard that it rattled the saucer. It was too many blows at once: revealing her most precious pastime — an unwomanly and unroyal pastime — to their royal companions, something that Daenora should not know of to any extent, and then to add to the injury, suggesting that she had somehow seen Jena’s work. Was it true? Had some servant or guard let her up to the studio? If so, Daenora was successfully proving that she still had more pull here than Jena did.
“You paint? That is delightful,” Princess Elaena said, leaning forward slightly. “Gods, I wish I had time for hobbies.”
“I am surprised that you do, Princess,” Queen Myriah spoke pleasantly. But Jena could not hear it pleasantly. “It is a rare treat when I can sit down with my harp. We were told of course, of your gift for needlework, but not this.”
“I did not realize it was of interest,” Jena said. Her voice sounded distant even to herself.
“It is fabulously interesting, of course,” Dyanna piped up. “I have been told by all three of my brothers that I am the world’s worst artist. Even Maekar laughed at my bird book. If I had any talent, I would paint him, too. Well, perhaps I will anyway, I think he might throw a conniption.”
Everyone laughed.
“I am hardly a master,” Jena said. “Only amateur studies.”
“Do not undersell yourself,” Daenora said. “The portrait I saw was very romantic.”
Romantic. It was the worst slap to the face yet. Mya shifted beside her, and Jena could practically feel the warning radiating off of her friend. Jena felt so violated, as if all of her guts were on display.
She wanted to scream. Instead she picked up her tea saucer and said, “Thank you very much, my lady.”
~~
Baelor landed on his arse in the dirt.
“Alright!” He held his hands up in surrender. “And what, pray tell, has gotten your garters in a twist?”
Maekar offered him a hand up. They were joined on the sparring field by the squire Roland Dondarrion, Ser Altan Dayne, and Dayne’s own squire. Baelor had not meant to lose in front of such a crowd, and on the grounds of his own castle.
“The very opposite,” Maekar said. There was a truly endearing and slightly sickening spring to his step and sparkle to his eye. “Married life agrees with me. Perhaps I am bursting with newfound strength.”
“Seven help King’s Landing, then.”
“Indeed. I could slaughter ten thousand men and still have appetite for more. Do you want to know my secret?” He bent his head in to whisper. “I pretend Dyanna is watching. I cannot lose.”
Baelor gently shoved his face away. It was plain to see, though, that Maekar had never been so happy in his life.
“You two fight like puppies,” Ser Dayne said from his spot standing stoic between the two young squires. Baelor instantly raised a brow at the man. Dayne made a coy face. “Royal puppies.”
“Do not mind my good brother, he enjoys riling people up.”
“I am nowhere so bad as your wife.”
“What did you say about my wife?”
Baelor watched the two of them trip into a brand new spar. Laughing, he went to join the squires in the shade. Roland instantly snapped to attention, and elbowed his young friend in the side so he would do the same.
“My Prince,” the boy greeted.
“Baelor,” he reminded. “So, both you and Jena have been away from home for the same amount of time. How do you find it?”
“I miss my family, Ser, but I hope when Prince Maekar next ventures to Summerhall Palace I might come across them,” Roland said. “I suspect Jena would like that as well.”
“And you, Qorgyle?” Baelor asked the other boy. “Had you ever left Dorne before?”
“I hadn’t had the pleasure,” he said. He was a lean, tall thing, with classic Dornish features. Together the young squires made an odd pair: a Marcher and a Dornishman together, standing easy as old friends.
“That is funny. I have not had the pleasure to visit Dorne. It is one of my dearest dreams to do so.” And doubly that, Baelor wished to visit Dorne with his mother, who had never been allowed to return — due to circumstance and political upheaval — since her departure as a child. He wanted to see Dorne with Jena, and see Dorne with their children. Alas, he had an unfortunate feeling that his dream would not come true any time soon. Above, movement caught his eye. Lord Sunglass and Ed Rosby were waving him up from the ramparts. “If you would pardon me.”
The boys bowed. Maekar looked up from his spar. “Where are you going? Running away?”
“If you mean to run my castle? Yes, brother, I am.” Baelor used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck as he ascended the steps. “Why is it, my good men, that the sight of you together never brings me good news?”
Ed made a sour face. “This is not bad news, per se, My Prince, but it is certainly aggravating.”
“I do not know about that,” Sunglass said. One side of his curled blond mustache was drooping, but there was no way Baelor could point it out discreetly. “Nymeros the Blue — the rather spirited Tyroshi — has remained quite insistent that he will not leave harbor. Of course, we cannot physically remove him, and he is causing no real pain, but he has been hounding us to arrange a meeting with the king.”
“And to promote this wish, he has donated a rather ludicrous trousseau of glassware and ivory baubles to Princess Dyanna, as a wedding gift,” Ed continued.
“He offered no such gift to my bride,” Baelor said. He faltered inwardly the moment his comment breached the air. It was not the cleverest or most thought-through of responses, nor entirely on point. He shook his head. “To what end? If he wishes for a bride, House Dayne has no more daughters.”
“I do not pretend to understand the Tyroshi, Your Grace,” Sunglass said. “But he may be trying to illustrate his generosity, alongside showing approval for a match with an ‘outsider’.”
“May I be frank?” Ed asked.
Baelor nodded. “You are always frank, Rosby.”
“Daemon is wed to a Tyroshi,” he bent in to whisper. “As much as it pains me to say, it would not hurt to wed a noble lady of your choosing to this man.”
“Mm. What do you say, Harrold?”
“It does no good to capitulate to rude insistence such as this. If the man had successfully forged an attachment with a lady, that would be another matter,” the Castellan said. “But he is behaving as if even that requires approval.”
“Perhaps he does not want to be seen as overeager. He may require a proper introduction. I will think on it,” Baelor said. His mind had attached itself to Edric’s wise words regarding Daemon. Lady Rohanne was from one of the wealthiest families of the free city. If there were ever an escalation of conflict… “In the meantime, you may relent and say that I will grant another meeting with Nymeros. That should appease him.”
“Your Grace,” both men bowed and went on their way.
Baelor watched them go, then looked down at Maekar’s spar for a good few moments. Then down the slope of Dragonmont to the harbor, and Blackwater Bay beyond. He felt drawn in so many directions — hardly a novelty in his life, but more pronounced by the fact that the pull toward his wife felt suddenly so consuming. How could he give equal mental capacity to the fisherman, some Tyroshi merchant, his brother’s affairs, his uncle’s plots, and his wife’s happiness when the lattermost of those issues so obviously stood on a pedestal?
He did not have the time to bathe, but went to change into more suitable attire to visit his father. The king was holed up in the stone drum with Ronnel Penrose and Baelor’s own Maester Penn and Septon Albin. When Baelor entered, the others were quickly dismissed.
“Kepa,” Baelor spoke when they were alone. His father looked tight about the shoulders, with rolls and rolls of parchment spread out before him. “I hope it is not my castle that tires you so.”
“We have just finalized the economic agreements for Maekar’s wife. For all she has cost us, the girl should be made of solid gold.”
“For Maekar, she certainly is.”
“That is true enough.” Daeron stood and walked to the far window that offered astounding views of the bay, and Baelor joined at his side. “I will be honest, I have no special love for Dragonstone. I find it to be hostile.”
“It is the last shred of Old Valyria.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I find history hostile. And what it causes. My father was no more suited to the Iron Throne than that goat I see in the distance, there. I am certain he fucked his women just as savagely.”
Baelor frowned. He could count on one hand the number of times the king had cursed in his presence. “Are you well, Kepa?”
“My apologies.” His father’s eyes darted across the landscape as he spoke, clearly lost in vast and terrible thoughts. “You are not deserving of my ire. Just before your brother’s letters arrived, Aegor Rivers came to me privately. I do not know what possessed me to take his meeting. He asked officially for Shiera Seastar’s hand. I had no choice but to deny him, of course, but Stokeworth reported Aegor fleeing in his rage to Daemon’s manse… He has not returned to his quarters since. I wonder if I have just lost a piece in the game of scales.”
Baelor allowed this to settle before he responded. He had half the mind to call for Jena’s lady Mya and ask for her insights into her half-siblings, but he somehow felt she would neither know anything or appreciate it.
“Aegor is a blunt instrument,” he said. “He will respond with no artistry.”
“Yes.” His father smiled a small and humorous smile. “But, you see, I have just allowed my youngest to marry a Dornishwoman, in the Valyrian fashion no less, while denying a “pure” Targaryen his heart’s wish. I have as good as spat in his face. And many feel kinship with Aegor, so I have spat in their faces, too.”
Baelor very rarely had the true and eager urge to lament. For a moment, he allowed himself to inwardly rage at King Aegon the Unworthy and the mess left in his wake.
“I really do hate your father,” he said.
“The feeling was mutual. When you were seven months old he snatched you from your mother in view of all the hall and held his jeweled dagger to your throat. He wanted to see if you were brave, he said, or Dornish.”
He felt queasy. “And was I brave?”
“No,” Daeron frowned. “You were a baby.”
~~
Jena was in a fabulously foul mood by the time she was due to meet her new good sister at the West Gate. She felt she had interviewed every possible guard with varying degrees of subtlety, yet was still no closer to discovering how Daenora had breached her study. Of course, it occurred to her that Daenora’s father was the Captain of the Guard, but he seemed a respectable and stalwart man.
She trusted no one but Mya to discuss the matter with.
“Something must be done. I half expect her to trample over you at dinner,” her lady said. She was even more flummoxed than Jena was. “What does she think she’s doing? Her behavior is completely unacceptable.”
“I agree. But I fear someone who has no fear of consequence. I must first learn why.”
All in all, when she made it to the West Gate with Ser Selmy in tow, she secretly wanted nothing more than to hunt down Daenora herself and shake her for answers. Instead, she was bound by her carefully managed calendar.
“Princess,” Dyanna greeted all too cheerily. She was haloed by sunlight streaming behind through the tall pines of Aegon’s Garden. She wore a gown of deepest cobalt, with a silvery shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “I am pleased for the tour. I have been aching for nature after spending so long at the Water Gardens.”
“That is the new palace Prince Maron constructed for Princess Daenerys, correct?”
“Precisely. It is quite an impressive wedding gift.”
They began to walk side by side, with Jena’s knight falling several paces behind to allow for privacy. The gardens at Dragonstone sat nestled in the upper foothills of Dragonmont, and were surrounded by high stone walls on every vast side. It was unusual to see more than maybe a handful of other souls walking through.
“Do you look forward to departing for the citadel on the morrow?” Jena asked.
Perhaps she should seek out a marriage agreement for Daenora, if what she wanted so badly was a husband. As the daughter of a second Velaryon son, she could expect a fine match.
“I am not sure that is the right phrase. My life has been transitory for many weeks now, and there is some odd comfort in that. But the rest of my life is about to begin. I hope I will like it.”
A Lannister, perhaps? Or a cold and stoic Stark to force some honor into her. Better yet, an Arryn, so that she would be trapped on a mountaintop for the rest of time —
“Like it?” Jena turned fully to her companion, and then bit her tongue. So wrapped up in herself, her thoughts had not hit their filter. They continued to spool out. “Well, I should hope so. There has been very much fuss for you to like it.”
Dyanna halted her steps, frowned and raised her chin. Jena nervously waved a hand at Ser Selmy, signalling for him to give them an even wider berth.
“Have I insulted you in some way, Princess?” Her good sister asked. She had such fire in her eyes. She was not aggressive, no, but determined and stately. Queenlike. Jena felt small. “You have my apologies for disturbing your peace here, but I will not suffer underhanded jabs. If there is an issue between us, I will address it plainly. We are going to know each other for a long time yet.”
Jena’s first thought was, inexplicably, what if I had just said that to Daenora to begin with? And then she had the awful epiphany that in this dynamic she was Daenora, feeling usurped by another woman who had only come here by circumstance. Jena was certainly being judgmental, and perhaps not so cruel, but she had not been kind.
“No,” she said slowly, and without her usual courtly chirp. “You have done nothing to me, my lady. I hope you will not find it too poor of an excuse to say that I find myself surrounded by false friends these days, and it is easy to sink to their level.”
Startled by her own sincerity, Jena turned and continued to walk stiffly. She felt Dyanna studying the side of her face as she followed more slowly.
“Do you enjoy being a Targaryen?” The question came so soft, so unexpected, a sudden turn from the color of their most recent exchange. It was not proper, but Jena felt suddenly defeated. If Dyanna turned around and spouted foul lies about her character, she would no longer be surprised, but what else could she do? The day had outpaced her.
“I do not know,” Jena told her. Around them, the pine leaves rustled, and some low lying wads of cloud swept about. The flowers were still in lovely bloom. “I enjoy my husband.”
“But if you did not?”
“No,” she said. She thought of the child growing inside of her, every second growing. “No, I do not think I would enjoy it, then.”
What a foul admittance for a future queen. Dyanna only bumped their shoulders together.
“Unfortunately, I do not believe that the qualities needed for great statecraft and nobility are necessarily conducive with the qualities needed to be a pleasant individual,” she said. “I am glad to find that you do not like courtly mess. It means you are human like me.”
Jena was utterly taken aback. “But you have a talent for it.”
“I do not! Please review the evidence of the past month. Have you ever seen someone cause such a diplomatic disaster?”
“You are married to the man of your choosing.”
“And if I had anything else to say about it, I would have enjoyed a long and happy courtship with him free of scandal, but here we are.” Dyanna gave her a knowing smile. “I think we should be friends. Two intelligent women such as ourselves? No liars would stand a chance.”
Jena allowed her arm to be wound through, and when a smile rose to her lips she did not hide it.
~~
The Tyroshi was a flamboyant man in every room but this one. As soon as he entered Baelor’s solar, he was serious as a Septon. On Baelor’s right, even Ed Rosby was frowning at the sudden shift in demeanor. The afternoon sun cast the furniture in gold.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet again,” he said as he sat. Baelor had not spoken privately with Nyemeros the Blue since before his wedding. True to his name, he was the color of the sky head to toe. He was at least fifteen years older, and had sailed the world ten times over. “There is quite the waiting period in this castle. It is a good thing I am a patient man.”
Baelor tilted his head. “My good lord, I have many matters to attend to.”
“As does your father, which is why you are hearing me now.”
Baelor knew a pleasant smile remained frozen on his face, but he was anything but pleasant. Men did not speak to him this way. He had expected to be met with overly dressed up charm, so this was downright strange.
He plowed ahead. “How can I be of service to you? It is my understanding that you wish to wed a well-born Westerosi woman. You did not need my approval to make introductions, but I would be happy to —”
“Daemon Blackfyre,” Nyemeros the Blue interrupted. His gaze was intense and unwavering.
Baelor sat back in his seat. “Pardon me?”
“Your uncle, Daemon Blackfyre, is wed to Lady Rohanne Dirrin, or Rohanne of Tyrosh as you’d call her. They have many children. Your royal grandfather arranged the match. The Dirrin family are the richest and most powerful spice traders of the free cities. They have gold and connections and armies with great big ships.”
“These are facts.” He did not like this one bit. He twisted his rings around his fingers.
“Mhm.” Nymeros crossed one long leg over the other. “Another fact: your bastard uncle has spent the past moons establishing a network of underhand steel trade with the help of some lesser Lannisters, making many friends in high places along the way. He claims to have no greater ambitions than friendship.”
“This I know,” Baelor said slowly. Ed shifted in his chair. “How do you know?”
The man smiled, and one of his gold teeth flashed. “You Westerosi never learn your proper history. I am Nyemeros Essah, son of the greatest cotton trader in the free cities. My family has gold and connections and armies with great big ships. Us and the Dirrins cannot seem to stop killing each other because of this. There have been many storied battles. It is my business to know what my enemies do.”
“I ask again, my lord,” Baelor repeated with as much patience as he could muster. “How can I be of service to you?”
“Ah, but it is the other way around. It is true, I came here to seek a bride, and I would still happily take a woman if the right one appeared, but I believe we can help each other another way. It is still a betrothal that I seek, but not for myself.”
“Help me how? I want for nothing. I will not do you the disservice of reminding you that I am the heir to the throne.”
The Tyroshi leaned forward and frowned. “But are you?”
Baelor grit his teeth. This man wove tricky webs, and painful ones, too.
“You forget yourself.”
“I mean no offense at all, Your Highness, truly. See, I know you — not well, of course, I have not had the pleasure — but I have seen you these months. Who truly cares if your father was Aegon or Aemon’s son? King Daeron is king, so naturally you are next. And you are as Dornish as this water goblet.” Nyemeros spoke so very blithely for such treasonous words. Ed was turning nearly purple with rage and effort to stay quiet. “In Tyrosh, though, it is known that Daemon Blackfyre is the true heir to your Iron Throne. Known as the sun will rise and set. You can imagine that the Dirrin family has not dissuaded this truth.”
“Watch your tongue or lose it!” Ed erupted.
“Rosby.” Baelor leveled his companion with a cool look before returning the full weight of his gaze to the Tyroshi. “You speak dangerously, sir.”
“Take it as a sign of my devotion. A man who respected you less would not tell you unsavory truths,” Nyemeros said.
“The Tyroshi are not my people,” Baelor said. “They may believe what they like.”
“You cut some of your most significant trade deals with Tyrosh. I should know. It may not matter now, but what happens if your uncle makes a claim to the throne? Not only may your economic ties flee you, but suddenly Daemon will have a naval fleet at your door. The Westerlands on one side and Tyroshi armies on the other. You, crushed like a bug.”
Baelor sighed thinly and sat forward to brace his arms on the desk. “That will not happen.”
“Are you sure?” The question was asked so calmly. No, it would not happen soon, and maybe not ever, but… No, Baelor was not sure.
“I assume you would like to offer an alliance between my family and yours in return for your unwavering support,” he ventured slowly.
“You are a smart man. I have many nieces and my newest child, a girl, Kiera,” he said. “I would have offered one to a brother of yours, but after Prince Maekar’s latest escapades I do not think your father will swing for that. My Prince, it would please me greatly if you would consider a match between a girl of mine and a son of yours. And as I have explained, I think it would please you, too.”
Baelor tilted his head. “I have no sons.”
“Your wife is with child. If it is not a son, I am sure you will have more in time. Then you might take the prettiest of my litter to foster until both are of age.”
Baelor was quiet for several moments. Outside the windows, the sept’s bells tolled to signal the change of the hour, and he could hear the gulls screaming over the harbor. His child was scarcely more than the size of a lemon and already men were attempting to bargain them away. He could not deny that Nyemeros the Blue spoke truth, but would that truth hold? The best alliance of today might be meaningless tomorrow.
“You move very quickly, sir,” Baelor said at last. “And presume much. Children are tragically fragile things, and so are politics.”
“I agree. So preparation is our best strategy, no?”
“And what would this arrangement purchase the royal family besides your goodwill?” Ed asked. He had calmed slightly, but he was still tightly wound. Baelor was grateful to have someone so fiercely loyal.
“Ships,” Nyemeros said. “Information. Trade routes. Harbor access across the Narrow Sea. A family in Tyrosh that will call you and your son kin instead of enemy.”
“Why would the crown trust a foreign merchant house over the great lords of Westeros?”
“Well, I am certain you can have both the loyalty of your lords and mine. And I expect you to trust that my family hates the Dirrins more than we could ever hate you.”
Silence settled again as Baelor’s gaze drifted unconsciously toward the sea. Somewhere in King’s Landing, his uncle was surrounded by his Tyroshi bride and their loyal Ser Quentyn Ball and a whole mess of minor lords currying for favor. He felt foolish, suddenly, for never considering the particular prominence of Daemon’s match with Lady Rohanne.
But who was he to sign away the autonomy of a child he had never met? Perhaps that was a silly thought. Royals had few greater bargaining chips than marriage.
Well, he certainly would make no decisions today beyond the resolution to consider the matter further, and told Nyemeros as much. The man gave him a gracious bow and smile.
As he stood to leave, though, Baelor asked, “What does your daughter think of this?”
Nyemeros shrugged. “I have yet to meet her, Your Grace, but considering she is just shy of seven months, I imagine she thinks mostly of her mother’s milk.”
~~
“That is curious,” Jena muttered.
“What was that?” Queen Myriah asked. The woman’s attention was fixed on the glowing candle in her hand as she lit one of the smaller ones. The sept was empty save for the Septon and a few sisters. After this, they were due for a rest before supper, and Jena was desperate to lie down. It was important, though, for a queen and her successor to be seen attending the sept together.
“The Mother.” She gestured up at the tall, serene effigy. “I wondered if it was a new carving. She looks like you, Your Grace.”
Her good mother gazed at it warily. “No, these are all old. I am sure Aegon the Conqueror would be beside himself to hear that you think the Mother resembles a Dornishwoman. Or, Seven save us, Aegon the Unworthy.”
Jena looked around the small sept but saw that no one was paying them any obvious attention, and the only souls here were members of the faith.
“Might I ask you a more personal question?”
Myriah looked back at her curiously as she moved to light a candle for the Maiden. “Yes.”
“You came here at age eleven, alone. I cannot imagine…” Jena swallowed and clasped her hands behind her back. “How have you survived it?”
“They have turned their noses up at you, too, then?” She raised a brow, and nodded when Jena did not respond. “I heard inklings of that. The difference is that you may handle those who cause you grief. Certain biases assured that no move I made in my youth would ever make a difference. Not everyone will love you, Jena, but if they do not love you they should fear you.”
The queen had certainly succeeded in that. Jena had great respect for her, but she was also completely terrified of her. They halted together at the altar of the Warrior, lit their candles and muttered prayers.
She had many other questions, but she dared not voice them yet. Queen Myriah was not the kind of woman to bear her insecurities to. If she wanted the queen’s affection, she knew she would have to be patient.
She thought on Myriah’s words of advice all the while back to her chambers. Love and fear were not so very different, were they? When Jena looked at Baelor, she was like a deer caught staring into the eyes of a hunter, unsure of whether to bolt or not. Knowing she could not outrun him, but different because she did not want to outrun him.
Jena entered the room and stopped in her tracks.
There was her beautiful husband, sitting in the stone bath that they shared. The screen that usually blocked it from view had been folded aside, and a change of clothing draped over the wood. The basin itself was built into the wall of the castle, allowing for Dragonstone’s natural heat to leak out. The air smelled of rosemary and oil.
Baelor had a strong arm on each side of the bath, and his head tilted slightly to the side in relaxation. The candlelight made him glow. His eyes cracked open at the sound of her entrance.
“Oh, my,” she muttered.
Baelor must not have heard. His face stretched into a content smile and he held out a hand toward her. “I did not expect you back so soon. Is all well?”
“Mhm.”
Jena approached in a bit of a trance. How was this her husband, the man who said he loved her? He was simply gorgeous. She accepted his hand, which was warm and unpruned — he must not have been in long. For a moment, she considered stripping and joining him, and then she saw that his hair was not yet wet.
“Jen?” Baelor frowned and brushed her knuckles with his thumb. The water made his muscles gleam with every little shift.
“Hm?”
“You are very quiet.”
Jena laughed and smiled truly. She shook her head. “I am only admiring the view.”
“You are speechless because of me?” A smirk grew on his lips.
“I want to—” Jena bit her lip. It surely was not such an absurd request, but it still made her cheeks heat.“Sorry.”
“What?”
“May I wash your hair?”
His brows rose. A heartbeat later, he nodded. “I hope you do not feel obligated to—”
“I want to,” Jena said again. She let his hand go and came to stand behind his shoulders. Oh, did she want to. For some reason, she was sure she had never wanted anything more. She knelt down onto the raised stone step and reached for the nearby pitcher. She dipped it into the bath water.
Jena reached around to cup the underneath of his chin and gently tilted his head back so she could let the water run over his dark hair. He hummed softly as she smoothed stray locks back from his face. He had thick hair, gently curling at the short ends. She found herself wondering if their child might have the same.
“Too hot?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
Jena reached for the small dish of soap paste left beside the basin and rubbed some in her palms before it softened, then threaded it through his hair. His eyes fluttered shut. She massaged small circles into his scalp and temples.
“How was your day?” Baelor asked. His voice was thick with calm.
“Shh. Just relax.” Her day had most certainly not been relaxing, but the sight of him so unwound made her chest finally ease. She wanted to stay right here in this pleasant bubble with him.
Jena reached again for the pitcher and rinsed the soap out carefully, one hand shielding his eyes while the water cascaded down his shoulders. The candlelight caught on the lines of his back, and she simply had to touch him there. She skated her hands across before kneading at his rock-hard muscles. Baelor groaned.
“You are terribly tense,” she told him. “Are you always this tense?”
“I’ve stopped noticing,” he said. He hissed when she found an angry knot of tension. “But I suppose this business with Maekar has not helped. It has been a long day. Oh, you are good at that.”
“Serafina is always complaining of aches,” Jena explained. “She has a small curvature of the spine. I tried to learn to help.”
She traced Baelor’s spine, and he shivered. She felt strangely that she was feeling the accumulation of all of his burdens. They drifted into silence as she continued to do her best to ease his pain.
“You would have made a fine nurse in another life,” Baelor said softly.
“I’ve always thought that good physicians would make fine rulers, and vice versa.”
He craned his neck to meet her eyes. “You think that Grand Maester Aleryn would be a good king?”
“Well, I did not say that he was a ‘good’ physician, did I?” she laughed. “I meant someone passionate and genuine in their quest to help others. Someone like you.”
Jena bent forward to kiss his jaw, not caring that water from his head stained her front. This new angle revealed the extent of the effect she was having on her husband.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, and tried to adjust his legs. “You are being kind. We do not have to —“
“Do not apologize,” she said, and was surprised to find that she sounded like him, in that assured tone he often took on. “Did I not tell you to relax?”
Baelor looked up at her, heavy-lidded, and watched silently as she rolled up her sleeves. Jena leaned forward so that her chest pressed into the back of his shoulders, and craned around to kiss him as she sank one hand into the warm water.
She stroked his hardening cock tentatively at first, and then more confidently as his eyes fluttered shut and he sighed. He mouthed kisses into her cheek. “That’s good.”
Every catch of breath in his throat made her head feel lofty. What would it take for him to fall apart as he so often made her? Jena would not lie and say it did not make her feel powerful to undo the heir to the realm, and the man that she loved.
Baelor groaned and muttered something as he let his head fall back against her shoulder.
“What was that?” She asked breathily.
“I want to be inside of you.”
Jena smiled. “Patience.”
“I have none of that.”
“Liar.”
“None when it comes to you.”
So Jena did not protest when he stood in a cascade of water, naked and shining in the candlelight. As soon as she stood to meet his height, he turned her around and started on her laces.
“Seven above,” she said, mouth dry.
Her shift never even got over her head. Baelor carried her to the bed and took her slowly, her legs and arms wrapped tight around him. He shuddered her name as he found release.
When they were finished they lay quietly awhile, playing with each others fingers mindlessly. As her many troubles came back to her awareness — most notably Daenora — Jena could not be bothered to raise them for advice. She wanted to remain in this lovely bubble for as long as possible. She imagined he felt the same.
“I like your hands,” he said.
“Because of what they do?” Jena asked slyly.
“Yes, but… I just like them.” He kissed her knuckles and her heart melted. “It was one of the first things I noticed about you.”
“For me it was your eyes.” Jena gently skated her thumb across his brow.
“I believe we are miserably late for supper,” Baelor said, kissing her neck. “But the servants did not dare disturb us. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
Baelor put on a robe and asked the nearest guard to bring them up something from the kitchens. When it arrived he balanced the tray on the foot of their bed and joined her amongst the covers to dine. It felt very indulgent.
“They gave you apple tarts?” Jena gasped before she had even touched her mutton. “I have not had dessert for weeks.”
“For the babe?” Baelor asked. “Well, I do not believe that sugar is evil. Here.”
He cut a slice with his fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jena had never tasted anything so sweet.
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Hi, I really love your akostk series and I'm eagerly waiting for your writing return (I hope you're able to handle what you needed to deal with safely and easily, catching up with ut and resting well)
I saw your post about jena's painting and I wondered about Dyanna's interests.
We know that she is good at hawking, but what else ? I wonder what were her hobbies growing up and if she's still able to do them in breakspear and then in king's landing.
I wondered if she cared for birds (like aemon will at the wall), was studious or interested in ladylike hobbies.
And finally, I wonder how much she knows about ancient history : she loves dragons, knows her family practiced magic back in essos (fighting against valyria...) and she hopes to visit old valyria. What do you think would be her favorite stories from that time ?
You are so sweet! I have a few more weeks of chaos but thankfully the bulk of my work is done and I’m sure my creativity will return to me soon.
As for Dyanna, I think that in addition to hawking/birdwatching she is an excellent horseman, enjoys walking everywhere, and loves a good book. She is someone who will always find entertainment wherever she is. She has zero interest in ladylike hobbies, especially needlework, but she does like to dance. I think she mostly just enjoys people.
Dyanna is interested in magic, dragons, and cool women. Any old myth where all three of these things combine is her favorite. She and Jena have a love of history/mythology in common, though Jena’s is more Westerosi focused.
While I am on hiatus for It Will Come Back as I finish up school, I thought I’d tell you guys more about how I picture Jena’s paintings. This was surprisingly tricky because Westeros is a medieval society but I picture their art as more developed than Western ~ 14th century (and earlier) stuff. I think that they’d be fully into portraiture. None of these are exact parallels to how to picture Jena’s work in my story, but I think they provide a helpful visual style aid. She is not a master painter like these artists, but quite skilled due to a lifetime of training. This is definitely an eclectic blend of eras.
1: Hans Holbein the Younger by Hans Makart, mid 1800s
2: Study of Two Female Saints in Prayer, Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, 1600s
3: Head of Emma Sandys by Anthony Frederick Augustus Sandys, 1850s
My heart ache for Jena why does everyone hate her 😭
I know, poor thing. To be fair I don’t think everyone hates her. She is 100% an anxious overthinker who is constantly observing herself, so she is biased in her POV. That being said, I think she seems a bit untouchable to everyone around her. She conducts herself so well that sometimes it’s like talking to a wall. She can come off as cold.
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Hi, honestly your fic has me obsessed and was published at a good time, right after the end of akotsk
That got me wondering : are you mostly a fan of akotsk or of other asoiaf era ? You seem to know a lot about the lore of the universe, as if you had read all the books and compared them to the tv show, or was one of the writer on the wiki
If yes, what made you want to write (or write and publish?) fics about characters from akotsk, but not from got and hotd ? To be honest I'm thankful for that choice because I feel like we have already a lot of fics for the two other fandoms, and really not that much from what happens between the series, so to have such a good writer try to change that was a blessing.
Again, love your fics !!
Thank you so much!! I am so flattered that you think I am knowledgeable — I am just obsessive over details and have relied SO much on the Wiki. My favorite thing to do as a fic writer (other than inhabit different characters) is to fill in worldbuilding gaps that haven't been explored.
With that being the case, I guess I felt more confident writing for AKOTSK because it is the newest (I hadn't read the novella before it aired). It feels far more daunting to dive into the original canon, and part of the reason I'm drawn to characters like Maekar and Baelor is that we get so few glimpses of them, but all of those glimpses are so intriguing. I wanted to pull back the curtain and mess around. I also specifically wanted to try writing romances.
I hope this is helpful. Thank you so much for your kind words!
Just a quick update if anyone wonders what’s taking so long with It Will Come Back - I am having the most extremely busy few weeks! I’m not exactly on a hiatus, but expect much slower updates until I get over my life bump this month :)
I couldn’t get any of the two sketches right on a proper illustration but I like them still, so here they go. Early Dyanna Dayne and Maekar Targaryen encounters, before the maekarlings and the toll of death (they both wanted each other’s cookies so bad they couldn’t wait after the wedding)
It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART EIGHT
Jena Dondarrion arrives in King's Landing determined to be the perfect crown princess. She is prepared for a cold marriage of convenience, a life of service to the realm, but she is not prepared for Baelor Targaryen.
They find each other effortlessly in the dark. Daylight is another matter entirely.
Words: 8.2k
AO3 | PREVIOUS | NEXT
AN: This chapter overlaps exactly with chapters 12/13/14 of All This and Heaven Too!
CW: Disgustingly romantic gestures and Maekar/Dyanna chaos
~
Maekar’s letter came to his desk early in the morning, still icy cold from its trip across the skies. The words were spelled out in bluntly shaped Valyrian.
Dear Baelor,
I have met a lady. Aerys tells me that I must share this with you, so if he has not already, here it is—
I intend to marry Lady Dyanna Dayne of Starfall. I do not know how to make this happen, only that it must. She is noble-born, well-mannered, witty, and comes from a wealthy house, so I do not see an issue with pursuing her. Though even if there were an issue, I would persist. Do not think me rash. I want to spend my life with her.
Help me with this, brother, and I will never ask for anything again. I will want for nothing. I will be content, for I shall have Dyanna.
Please.
Maekar
Baelor reread the letter at least ten times, but each pass made less sense instead of more. His surly baby brother was in love? It poured out in the writing itself; the name Dyanna was by far the neatest word on the page. And there, by the last repetition of it, a smudged fingerprint, as if Maekar had stroked his thumb over.
Maekar was not tender or passionate, but he was certainly rash. How many times had he gotten into idiotic fights with palace staff, family, and friends alike? It was the reason he was in Dorne in the first place. Even in the sparring ring, he always fell for Baelor’s leads because he just yearned to land a hit. He never stopped to think.
But if there was one thing Baelor knew about his youngest brother, it was that he did not beg. He could scarcely count the number of times Maekar had said ‘please’ in his presence. This letter was full of gross absolutes and lofty declarations, and under it all a desperation that could only come from love.
“Hm?” Jena looked up from her own correspondence. She had joined him in his private office that morning while they broke fast. It was a lovely treat to work in quiet company, and a lovelier treat to look up to such a view. “You have been staring at that for many minutes… dare I ask?”
“It’s in Valyrian,” he said, but still passed it over. She knew enough to make sense of it slowly. Baelor watched her pale eyes track across the words, a faint furrow of concentration between her brows. A couple of times, she asked for help with translation.
“Dyanna Dayne…” she said finally. “I know that name. Why do I know that name?”
“Good or bad?”
“I don’t recall… She is Dornish, though.”
Baelor tilted his head. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that she was a Dondarrion. She had grown up hearing of the evil Dornishmen coming to take her from her bed. “What do you mean by that?”
“Our wedding was an appeasement to those who felt Dorne had gained too much influence in court,” Jena said evenly. If she saw his shoulders relax at the direction of her words, she did not react. “A Dornish betrothal so soon might inadvertently suggest that appeasement was an afterthought.”
His wife was wise and well-spoken, as good a counselor as he had ever had and better than most. Baelor nodded in agreement, but said, “My brother has never asked me for anything political. Not once. I do not wish to deny him before I have tried to honor his plea.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I suspect Maekar wishes for me to speak with the king. I can do that, at the very least.”
Baelor pictured his brother’s face the last time he’d seen it, sullen and screwed up in quiet rage. What if he really did love this lady even after just two months in Dorne, and what if it would break him not to have her, and what if he would always blame Baelor for that?
He didn’t have much time to dwell on it. Baelor got a second letter the very next day.
Baelor —
I write again because matters have progressed more quickly than anticipated.
I have asked for Lady Dyanna’s hand, and she has accepted. There was, briefly, some confusion regarding a prior arrangement. She had been promised to another man, though it is not a match she desires, nor one that suits her. I have spoken with her at length, and I am certain of her mind. She loves me.
I do not believe the situation to be as complicated as it first appeared. I expect the prior arrangement will be set aside with the right approach. I will be speaking with her brother, Lord Elgar, in the morning to formalize matters. He may object initially, but I see no reason he should persist in doing so. I am the stronger match by every measure that matters.
You need not be concerned, I am handling it. I have also written to our parents. It would be best if this were resolved quickly, before unnecessary attention is drawn to it.
I trust you will support me in this, as I said before.
Maekar
It was so absolutely and stunningly ludicrous that Baelor considered whether he was being duped. He sat with his chin steepled in his hands as he watched Edric Rosby read it. The man went pale, then handed it over to Jena. At least this time, it was written in the common tongue. Baelor had called for the two of them as soon as he’d finished initially spiraling over the letter.
“Has your brother lost his senses, Your Grace?” Ed asked. “This is a potentially catastrophic diplomatic incident.”
Baelor nodded stiffly. “Yes.”
“He thinks he is allowed to propose to whatever lady he wishes? He is a prince of the realm. She is already engaged!”
“Yes.”
“At least he has written to the king. I would have impressed upon you to involve your father at this point. Perhaps reason can still be imposed.”
“I remember,” Jena said suddenly, looking up from the paper. Her eyes were uncharacteristically wide with surprise. “I remember why I know Dyanna Dayne. It was great gossip. She was promised to Lord Allister Hightower, but she threw some kind of fit and was sent to Sunspear to regain her wits.”
Baelor shut his eyes and breathed. “Hightower? That is—”
He clenched his jaw so hard he felt his teeth creak.
“He is not known for his flexibility,” Edric continued. “The man once made a scene at being served the wrong kind of cobbler. That was at Princess Daenerys’ wedding. I do not want to imagine his level of insult if he is not given his bride.”
Baelor pushed back from his desk so harshly that his chair scraped against the stone. He began to pace, one hand pressed to his mouth.
“It might have taken seven days for this to reach us. Who knows what has happened in the meantime.” He laughed without humor. “It somehow does not surprise me that Maekar was drawn to such a wild woman. What on earth did she do to the man to delay her marriage?”
“I heard…” Jena bit her lip. She was always so poised and attentive that he had trouble immediately sorting out her expression. Then he realized she was trying not to laugh. She coughed delicately into her fist. “I heard that she put sheep dung in his bed.”
Edric groaned. Baelor could see it so clearly, though. Maekar, who had never once bent to expectation, had found a woman who refused to do so even under threat of marriage to a great lord. He had found a woman who would rather be exiled than comply. Of course he loved her.
“I cannot do anything from here,” Baelor said after a moment, resolutely. He felt helpless and small. “I have already written to the king. I must wait to see what the wind blows our way.”
That night, he and Jena were interrupted in bed by a knock on the door. Maester Penn came bearing a letter from Aerys. Baelor almost did not want to read it. With a great big sigh, he cracked the wax seal.
Baelor
You will not believe the nonsense I am about to impart to you. I trust that you have received at least one letter from Maekar by now. If you have not, then I regret to inform you that circumstances here in Dorne are dire.
Maekar has attached himself to Lady Dyanna Dayne with a degree of commitment that might be admirable if it were not so utterly foolish. I advised him to write to you before taking further action, which I hope that he did. Even so, he has continued to take further action.
The situation is complicated by the fact that the lady was already promised elsewhere. Maekar does not consider this an obstacle, and the lady appears to agree with him. Her family, at present, is less decided.
I have attempted to impress upon him the necessity of patience and delicacy, but he no longer seems to register my voice when I speak. In fact, no one seems to exist except for Lady Dayne. I caught him picking flowers for her, and at the spring ball, he behaved very inappropriately. Good Gods, you should have seen it.
It is my expectation that Maekar will seek to resolve this matter directly with her Lord brother, who is visiting. I cannot predict the outcome, only that he will pursue it with the same enthusiasm he has applied to everything else.
If possible, send guidance. If not, I plead for intervention.
Regards,
Aerys
Baelor was sitting pressed up against Jena’s shoulder, her leaning slightly on him to read.
“Baelor?” She gently took the paper from his rigid hands and placed it on her side table. “Do you want to… talk about it?”
“No,” he said. “No, I just need to sleep.”
He drew her in to lie on his chest after he’d blown out the candle. Baelor felt locked up and ready to spring into action against danger at any moment. It was not only that Maekar had caused such a scandal, but that any scandal might damage the tenuous peace his father had so carefully built. The realm was such a fragile thing. If Baelor could just reach out and hold it all at once, maybe he could keep it from falling apart.
He would not have rested at all if not for the steady warm weight of Jena atop him. He did not think she was simply putting on a face; she really was calm under outside pressure. She was a tether in the storm.
It all came to a head the next afternoon. Baelor was sparring with his men in the training yard, sweating against the sun, when Maester Penn appeared bearing yet another letter from Dorne. Baelor wiped his face and limped his aching muscles into a shadowed alcove. What could possibly have happened now?
Baelor —
I write to inform you that matters have been resolved.
I spoke with Lady Dyanna’s brother, and he has given his approval for our marriage. He did raise certain considerations of a financial nature, but they were not unreasonable, and I saw no cause to delay on that account. I expect it can all be settled properly once we arrive at court.
There was, however, a brief disturbance afterward. The man to whom she had previously been promised, Lord Allister Hightower, took issue with the change and spoke in a manner I could not ignore. He cast doubt upon both her honor and mine.
I challenged him, and the matter is now concluded. You will be glad to know that I am uninjured. Our uncle did not see it so favorably. It was agreed that a wedding away from Dorne should take place.
Dyanna is with me. We are about to depart by sea and make for Dragonstone. It is my intention that we marry upon arrival. You may wish to make whatever arrangements are required.
I have also written to our parents about this matter.
Maekar
The sounds of the yard carried on around Baelor. Steel struck steel, men shouted, and bodies hit the packed earth. All of this seemed as distant as if he stood at the bottom of a well. His fingers crumpled the parchment.
I challenged him, and the matter is now concluded.
Baelor turned sharply and struck the stone wall with the flat of his hand. The sound cracked through the alcove and made a nearby squire startle.
“Your Grace?”
“Away,” Baelor ordered sharply. He pressed his palm flat against the wall, breathing hard, and shut his eyes.
Maekar had dueled a high lord of the realm and had absconded with a bride to force a marriage agreement through. Baelor dragged a hand down his face and made himself reread the dreadful missive. They were already on the water. They would be halfway here already.
Baelor straightened abruptly and strode from the alcove. The men gave him a wide berth as he stalked back up towards the castle to get to work.
~~
Jena tilted her head, examining another angle of her naked flesh. The mirror offered no new revelation. Gingerly, she ran her palm down the slight swell of her stomach. It was not yet visible when she was dressed, and would not be for a very long while, but it was enough for her to see.
This was irrefutable proof that she was pregnant. The other things had been little enough to ignore; her sudden aversion to all forms of cheese, the speed with which she fell asleep every night, the tenderness of her breasts.
Jena met her own eyes in the mirror and found that they revealed her fear for all to see.
“Princess?” one of the maids called. She tore her gaze away. “Your bath is warm.”
Jena let herself be scrubbed and drenched in all manner of oils. A small team of women helped her fit underclothes over her head and tied up her corset and purple gown. Her hair was pinned back at the nape of her neck, and her throat circled with jewels.
The king and queen would arrive today, and shortly after — if the raven from Tarth was accurate — Maekar and his self-proclaimed bride. At the very least, Prince Maekar’s return meant that she would see Roland. Poor Roland. What chaos had he been subjected to?
The entire situation was incredibly puzzling to Jena. In noble families, things were done a certain way. In royal families, all of those rigid protocols were doubled. Yet, from the letters she’d read, both Prince Maekar and his Lady Dyanna shared a shocking disregard for duty.
Baelor had only ever spoken of his youngest brother with fondness, or at most exasperation. The past four days — during which time Jena had hardly seen her husband — even the mention of Maekar’s name had been followed by a heavy scowl. He stumbled into bed late and woke early to continue forming contingency plans for every possible outcome of this disaster.
“She cannot find fault in you,” Mya Rivers told her when they broke their fast together. “You have done very well here in such a short amount of time.”
They spoke, of course, of Queen Myriah. Away from King’s Landing, Jena had been able to avoid the all-important judgment of Baelor’s mother. Now, Myriah would see if Jena had been a valuable asset to her son or not. Jena knew what Myriah would be asking: she has had enough time to adjust, so was she the correct choice after all?
Baelor did not need more on his shoulders. Jena must be perfect.
“It is ill timing,” Jena said. Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, down to her stomach. “Daenora has just about had enough. I am concerned she may lash out at an inopportune moment.”
Jena had spent the past week or so patiently and painstakingly driving a wedge between Lady Velaryon and her closest companion, Lady Celtigar. She’d made a point to publicly praise Larra’s decisions, call her for advice, and give her more social duties. Larra smiled at Jena genuinely now. Daenora hated it. More than once, Jena had caught the hushed ends of their arguments when she rounded a corner.
“She cannot be so obviously cruel with the queen here,” Mya said.
“I am worried that is precisely why she might choose to be cruel.”
Daenora was never openly hostile, but Jena was increasingly convinced that was because they were never alone together. They both clearly knew what the other was doing. Jena’s question was still why? It still did not ring true for her that this behavior was simply out of jealousy. Unfortunately, she had little time to dwell on it.
Jena met Baelor in the grand entrance hall before noon. He was surrounded by his entire team of advisors, talking busily. He looked so handsome in his court dress, but for a moment Jena paused thoughtfully—
That expression on his face, the one he wore now. He never wore it with her.
Baelor’s eyes lifted and found hers. For a split second, vacancy, and then his entire expression softened in recognition. What strange intimacy. It hit her square in the chest, sinking into some soft place that even their physical passions never touched.
Jena did not know why it hit her then, of all possible times, that she loved him.
“My parents are coming up now,” Baelor told her. He rattled off something or other about logistics that Jena did not hear. She watched his profile and the look in his eyes, all full of focus.
The grand doors opened, and they stepped out into the foggy day.
~~
“We are lucky that idiot boy did not start a war,” his mother said darkly from behind her dressing screen. She’d wanted to change instantly out of her travel clothes. The royal guest suite had been prepared for his parents, and they were taking the opportunity to privately convene.
The king paced by the hearth, then drew a letter out of his pocket and extended it toward where Baelor sat in an armchair. “From Maron.”
Baelor unfolded the several sheets of parchment.
Dearest good brother and sister,
I write regarding the conduct of Prince Maekar during his stay in Dorne, which I trust has already reached you. I will not dance around it — your son has engaged himself to Lady Dyanna Dayne and is on his way to Dragonstone now.
Maekar successfully secured the favor of Lady Dayne and, with the consent of her brother, set aside her prior betrothal. I must admit that I gave him leave to seek this consent. I had hoped, with House Dayne’s approval, that Maekar would write to you regarding a possible betrothal.
Lady Dayne is a lady-in-waiting for my wife, and Daenerys does not wish to see her friend locked into a miserable marriage. Dyanna is a bright young woman, if willful, and under any other circumstances, I would be delighted to recommend her as a match for your son. I do not believe this to be a passing infatuation. The attachment between them is genuine, however poorly it has been conducted.
Unfortunately, Maekar took it upon himself to defend Lady Dayne’s honor after a verbal altercation with Lord Allister Hightower. I came across the secret confrontation myself and put an end to it. Neither party bears any lasting injury, though the duel has nonetheless caused considerable offense and placed House Dayne in a precarious position.
Lord Elgar Dayne now insists upon the immediate officiation of the match, both to secure his sister’s honor and to prevent further dispute. I find his reasoning difficult to contest. I have permitted the prince’s departure from Dorne, hoping that this incident will be resolved swiftly and with due regard for all parties involved.
I have urged Lord Hightower to remain with me at the Water Gardens for the time being. I hope that I can begin to restore the severity of the insult. You will be pleased to know that Prince Aerys has helped me greatly with this endeavor.
It is my recommendation that the marriage proceed promptly and that the crown take the necessary steps to ensure that what has occurred here does not give rise to broader unrest.
With respect, and my love,
Maron
“He certainly writes more clearly than Maekar,” Baelor sighed. “I shudder to think of whatever version of events my brother sent you, kepa.”
His father gave him a dark, exasperated look. “I never imagined any of my sons could be so violently rash.”
“She may have forced him into it,” Myriah said as she swept out from her screen, dressed in darker colors. She had sent all of the maids away, so she turned her back to her husband for him to lace up her dress. Baelor was used to this ease between his parents, but still, it made his heart lighter. “Not that I can blame her. Allister Hightower is a gluttonous wretch in his middle years. But she should have picked another escape route besides my son. Maekar is too young to know what he wants.”
“He is seventeen,” Baelor said.
“You remember being seventeen. Were you grown at seventeen?”
“No,” he admitted. “But you two were wed at sixteen.”
“That is beside the point,” Daeron said. He finished Myriah’s laces and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. He sank with a groan into the chair beside Baelor. His mouth tightened as his eyes tracked the flames. “I am caught in a corner. I do not see a way I can block this marriage. Old Town is already insulted, I cannot also deal injury to Starfall.”
At the end of the day, it was the only calculation that mattered. Baelor was brought back to what Jena said about planting seeds of favor or instability. Well, the crown could not allow this incident to sow bad crops.
A thought struck him, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“What is it?” his mother asked.
“I suppose Maekar liked Dorne after all.”
The three of them laughed until they cried.
~~
Dyanna Dayne was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Jena had ever laid eyes on, and all of a sudden, she decided she must hate her. The fog seemed to part around her, and her violet eyes seemed to glow. Jena watched Dyanna take it all in.
“Maekar!” Baelor said immediately as the couple and their entourage approached from the docks. They had come down all the way from the palace to greet them. “You are a sight for sore eyes after so much commotion.”
Jena fought not to beam at her youngest brother, Roland, who was covered in sun freckles and grinning at her. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around.
“You received my letters, then?” Prince Maekar asked. What an astonishingly obtuse question. To his credit, the prince did seem slightly pale with nerves. Jena found it impressive that her husband didn’t throw a punch.
Baelor turned to the woman on his brother’s arm and gave a bow. “You must be Lady Dayne. It is my honor to welcome you to Dragonstone.”
“The honor is mine, Your Grace,” Lady Dayne said, and curtsied. She was a year older than Jena and several inches shorter. But worst of all that she had noticed so far, Dyanna had no hint of haughtiness about her; her smile was sweet and genuine.
“And you, Ser Altan Dayne,” Baelor continued, shaking another man’s hand. He was handsome but proud. “Have we met before? I never forget a face.”
“Indeed, Your Grace, at Lord Martell and Lady Daenerys’ wedding tournament. I was a squire for Ser Trello Qorgyle and watched as you bested Daemon Blackfyre,” he said. “Now Ser Qorgyle’s nephew is my own squire.”
“I am pleased to hear that. And can this be Roland? I did not recognize you.”
“You’ve grown three inches at least,” Jena said, and held her arms out. Roland ran into her. He smelled of salt and sun, and she pressed a kiss to his red hair. A tension deep within her eased just slightly. When they parted, she found Dyanna studying her. “I am pleased your passage was smooth.”
“We were fortunate, Your Grace. The water was kinder than expected,” Lady Dayne said. She was polite, too? The nerve. After all of the grief this couple had caused her husband, they did not seem the least bit dispossessed.
“That is rarely true here.”
“Shall we go up?” Prince Maekar asked. He was giving Jena a hard look. “It is chilly.”
“You may not find it warmer above. Dragonstone is cold in spring,” Baelor told him. “Our father and mother have been waiting since noon. We can sup together. Come — the climb is unpleasant, but better done before the air turns to soup once more.”
Jena wished to cling to Roland and ask him a thousand questions, but she could not. She forced herself to offer Dyanna an arm. Baelor would want space to speak with his brother.
“Do you prefer Dragonstone or King’s Landing, Your Grace?” Lady Dayne asked. She smelled of something sweet that Jena could not place, and her dark hair rustled in the wind.
“Dragonstone,” Jena said.
“Truly? Perhaps I am biased, but I do not think I could enjoy a place where I could not move freely. I imagine one cannot ride comfortably down the mountain on a whim.” Dyanna’s eyes tracked the gargoyles on the highest peaks of the castle.
“Then you have an unfortunate metric. One cannot move freely in King’s Landing, either,” she said. Something in the other woman’s face faltered, and Jena relented. She would not be needlessly cold. “Dragonstone is smaller. That is what I enjoy. My husband has brought people here to build a court. Here, I know every person I should.”
And what they were doing, where they went, what they thought, what they wanted, how to manage them.
Dyanna raised a brow, a smile playing on her lips. “Do you enjoy cyvasse?”
“Yes.” Jena was brilliant at cyvasse.
“Then we should play sometime. I get the impression you are ruthless.” Dyanna squeezed where their arms were interlinked, as if they were already familiar. She was much too casual.
“Only if you’ll play by the rules,” Jena said with perfect pleasantness.
Dyanna’s mouth tightened, and she looked down. Her face was so bare, so unguarded. Jena could practically read her thoughts as they spilled out.
“You have my apologies, my lady,” she said. Jena frowned. “I do not wish to cause your family any more grief. I know that things have not gone as planned.”
It was startling candor, almost inappropriate. Jena did not quite know what to do with it. She turned her attention back forward.
“If you’d like, I can give you an overview of some individuals you may meet during your stay,” she continued. She rattled off names, and Dyanna seemed to listen attentively.
When they finally reached the inner yard, and Maekar returned to take his lady’s arm, Jena all but rushed to Baelor as they strode inside. On the way, she accidentally caught the eye of Daenora Velaryon, glaring from the shadows with a flock of other ladies.
“Well?” Baelor asked instantly, leaning his head into hers. They were surrounded by people. She could practically feel the tension rippling off of him.
“She has her wits about her, at least,” Jena told him. “Beyond that, I do not yet know.”
“Escort them to their rooms while I deal with Maekar. Learn anything you can.”
“And you?” Jena asked. She allowed their hands to brush together, hidden by her skirts.
Baelor shook his head. There was fondness beneath the exasperation. “My brother is certainly in love.”
So was Jena, but now was not the time for that.
They parted ways then, Jena taking her group of guests and Baelor shepherding Maekar to meet with the king and queen. What she would not give to listen in on that meeting. Alone with Ser Altan Dayne, his squire, and Lady Dayne, Jena finally allowed herself to reach for Roland.
“Is this really your castle?” The boy was nearly jumping up and down. Prince Maekar had not been a good influence on his manners, it seemed. “I’d like to give all of the gargoyles names.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t already?”
“I have so much to tell you of Dorne. The Water Gardens are spectacular, and all food tastes bland in comparison. Prince Maekar is teaching me how to fight with a mace, and—” Roland rattled on and on, and Jena watched the ease with which he spoke. He has always been a self-conscious child, though he was no longer truly a child. Three months away from her careful watch, and he was something else entirely.
“Was the castle built from the volcano or atop it?” Ser Altan Dayne asked, running his hands along the walls. He had a swagger to his gait and an easy smile. Together, he and his sister dripped with charisma.
“Supposedly both. Valyrian stonemasters used their magic to form the shapes, according to the stories,” Jena said. “But no written account exists from the building itself. Much may be hearsay.”
“Let it be magic,” Roland nudged her. “Your stories are always better when there’s magic.”
“Fine. It was magic.”
“You also have a love of history, then, Princess?” Lady Dayne piped up delicately.
“Very much so.”
“Me too. I have always dreamed of traveling the Smoking Sea and searching the ruins of Valyria. Who knows what one might find?”
It was so impractical. Why not dream of some place she could reasonably someday go?
“Death, I imagine,” Jena said a bit too sharply. She should not sink to pettiness, but it was difficult to resist. “Ah. Here are your rooms, one after the other. Please let me know if I can be of any service. I am certain I shall see you soon.”
With that, Jena followed Roland into his bedroom and shut the door tightly behind her. As soon as they were alone, she pulled him into a firmer embrace. She rested her cheek against his head and breathed in the smell of home.
By the time she finally pulled away to inspect him head to toe, Roland was pulling away and blushing. “Stop that.”
“Why? I missed you.” She pinched his cheek, and he gently pushed her away. She watched him inspect the room with wide eyes. “What do you think?”
“It is dark. No wonder you are so pale.”
Jena scoffed and collapsed onto the sofa. She patted the spot beside her, but when he sat he tilted sideways so that he could put his filthy boots in her lap. She was too fond of him to much care.
“I have many questions,” she said carefully.
“On what?”
“I am certain you can imagine what.”
Roland shifted his head side to side. “I cannot speak of my prince. He has been good to me… But is there anything else you wish to know?”
He had an excellent heart, her brother. Jena briefly squeezed his ankle.
“What of Lady Dayne?” she asked.
Roland’s cheeks turned visibly pink. “She is very funny and cordial. She always asks how my day is.”
“That is all? There is nothing unflattering you have noticed?”
“Why do you want there to be?”
Jena straightened. Why did she want there to be? She did not precisely know.
~~
“Would that I could take a plunge in the bay,” Baelor said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His father gave him an affectionate smile as they walked through the castle. It was just before dawn. Every blink was a heavy effort.
All of the arrangements had been made with startling speed. They’d had a single exhausting day to get everything in order, and now Maekar and Dyanna would be wed in the Valyrian tradition within the hour. After all that commotion, the marriage itself was quite simple.
King Daeron and Baelor were to escort the bride to the altar. It was tradition for each partner’s parents to swap places for this practice, but Lady Dayne was an orphan. Myriah and Dyanna’s brother would be going to Maekar now. What an oddity — Maekar, getting married.
“How was he last night?” his father asked.
“Maekar? He seems anxious over everything but his lady,” Baelor said. He’d shared drinks with his little brother late into last evening. Maekar was slightly losing his mind over their mother ordering Dyanna to come on as one of her ladies-in-waiting. “He is deliriously in love.”
His father shook his head. “We are lucky Lady Dayne seems so well-composed. She could have been beautiful and nothing else.”
“Father,” Baelor reprimanded gently. It was true that Lady Dayne had managed to endear herself to all of them in little more than a day. It was difficult not to like someone so bright, and Maekar looked at her like he might forget how to breathe.
“What? I like the girl, even if she seems able to cause just as much chaos as my son.”
When they knocked on the door to Dyanna’s suite, she came out with a small storm of attendants. She was dressed in traditional Valyrian wedding garb — they had foregone a lengthy traditional service in favor of ancestral brevity.
“Your Graces,” she curtsied deeply, but the king stopped her. There was a slightly frenetic energy to her, but it was all excitement. Baelor was certain he had never seen such a happy bride.
“Please, on this day forward, I am your good father,” Daeron said and offered his arm. Dyanna beamed.
Baelor’s thoughts went instantly to Jena, who danced around his parents with such careful precision. They had never been so warm with her, nor so outwardly welcoming. It could not be that they did not like her — there was nothing not to like. Perhaps because the marriage was arranged, and this was a “love match”? Perhaps because the bride of a fourth son mattered less than a crown prince?
Either way, it made his chest sink despite the joy of the morning. After so much chaos, he was genuinely delighted for his little brother. But he pictured Dyanna Dayne at court, instantly taken to his mother’s side, and could not help but feel a pang of jealousy on his wife’s behalf.
Did his family not see that Jena was just as dear to him? That, yes, they had been shoved together, but they had still found something real?
He was still thinking of this when they crested the top of Dragonmont. Only their closest relatives were assembled in the dawn light. Maekar’s mouth fell open when he saw his bride.
As the ceremony began, Baelor went to stand at Jena’s side. Her eyes were dutifully fixed at the exchange before them, but flickered over to his when she felt him watching. He thought of her on their wedding day, terrified and trying her best not to show it.
What? She mouthed.
Baelor shook his head and put his arm around her waist. She leaned in to his warmth.
~~
Jena was made to spend most of her new good sister’s wedding day with her.
Dyanna Dayne did everything incorrectly, and nothing went wrong. She was somehow perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
She smiled too broadly, kissed her husband twice at the altar, and traipsed through her duties with a haphazard charm. She made small talk with her maids. She was beautiful, kind, intelligent, and funny. Queen Myriah offered her guidance, and Princess Elaena Targaryen offered her jokes. These royal women who had never asked Jena a personal question were suddenly warm and human for another. It did not matter that Dyanna had done everything wrong to end up here.
Jena was a piece of furniture. She watched this sudden shooting star of a woman who had crash landed into their lives move with such fluidity. Despite her aversion to all of this, however, Jena could not hate Dyanna. She could not even dislike her.
Even the ceremony had not been proper. The bride and groom were made to cut each other and drink their mixed blood. Maekar and Dyanna had not even seemed to notice their royal company — they looked at each other like they were already naked. No one would doubt their love, no one would be made to wonder.
“Do you not miss it?” Jena asked. She had not entirely meant to speak the words aloud. She was sitting in the guest room as Dyanna dressed for the feast, and they were alone but for maids.
Dyanna looked over. Her arms were upraised as her back was laced up. “Dorne?”
“I’m sorry. My head is elsewhere. I meant the cloaking. The blessing of the Seven. I do not think I would have felt married without it.”
“I thought I might. But after this morning, I do not know. It certainly feels complete.” A dreamy look came over her face.
“There is one step left,” Jena reminded, but Dyanna did not even blush.
“I am not afraid of that,” she said with a quiet, almost conspiratorial smile. How was she not afraid? How was that possible? Was she afraid of anything at all? What would it feel like, to be afraid of nothing at all?
“Truly?” Jena asked weakly. “Then you are an unusual woman.”
Dyanna brushed down her skirts in the mirror, turning this way and that with a practiced eye. She looked just as fair in Targaryen colors as she did in her own.
“Not afraid of Maekar,” she said. “Other men ripping off my dress, however…”
Jena was sent reeling back to her own wedding night. Some fear might do Dyanna good, and also some advice if she were savvy enough to take it. Jena did not want to see this girl humiliated. She was certain that Maekar would raise a fuss on her behalf if she only asked.
“They carried me halfway to Maegor’s Holdfast and down to my petticoats before Baelor stopped them,” she said. She bizarrely had to resist the urge to press a hand to her belly. “Half the realm was at my wedding.”
“But Prince Baelor stopped them?” A thoughtful look passed over her.
Jena nodded and stood. “No one can deny a prince. Come, good sister, we have a feast to attend.”
Maekar and Dyanna spent all of their wedding dinner wrapped up in each other, leaning close and flirting filthily. No one reprimanded them. Baelor spoke mostly with his parents or the visiting Master of Coin, and Jena joined in where she could. Every now and then, her husband squeezed her hand where they rested intertwined in her lap.
Jena was hyper-aware of the women of Dragonstone, her own ladies, all of the visiting faces. She watched it all from the high table and looked for weaknesses, looked for cracks. Even in all of this revelry, the game had not stopped.
“It is so strange to see him like this,” Queen Myriah said softly to Baelor. No doubt she was referring to Maekar. “I must respect any woman who can make my son smile like that.”
Jena looked to the younger prince. His body was turned away, but when he looked up, she saw that his face was bright with laughter. She was certain Baelor had never been so free with her in public. Was that what the queen wanted? Was that how Jena had failed?
When Maekar and Dyanna took to the floor to dance, he kissed her right on the lips in front of everyone. Queen Myriah cooed, King Daeron clapped, Baelor laughed, and the crowd erupted in cheers. It made Jena flinch.
Their love was so loud it drowned out the music as they spun like dancers in a music box.
Jena kept her smile fixed in place. She even brought her hands together to join in the applause. But as she watched them sway and giggle, she was sure this was not how it was done. Affection was not made for court, it was built in private glances and restraint. Everyone, though, was smiling, delighted, approving. No one seemed to think it was too much.
Jena clasped her hands back together in her lap.
She had done everything correctly. She had been gracious, attentive, agreeable. She had never caused a single incident, never once overstepped. She had learned to navigate the court all by herself, but she didn’t feel like she had it figured out at all.
Dyanna Dayne arrived in a storm of impropriety and was effortlessly met with open arms.
Her gaze shifted to Baelor. He was watching his brother with easy fondness, his earlier tension worn away by wine and relief. When Maekar spun Dyanna low, Baelor laughed aloud, unrestrained. He looked happy, her kind and patient husband who had never made her feel small.
But he had never danced with her like that. Jena’s chest tightened. Such recklessness was not something to emulate, and certainly not for the crown prince. Baelor would not want that.
… Or would he? What if Jena were to laugh like that, to reach for him without thinking in front of all of these people, to kiss him freely? The images flashed through her mind, but they settled incorrectly. That was not her. Jena lowered her gaze to her still hands.
She wanted nothing more then, but to find some way to love him in a way that was loud enough for him to hear.
~~
Baelor toed off his boots as soon as he crossed the threshold into his bedroom. He was so exhausted he could scarcely see straight. He had been up late with his father and a few of their closest men after delivering Maekar to his bed. This had been the day that never ended.
He yawned and rubbed at his eyes and then paused.
“Jena?” he called. He searched through their suite of rooms, but his wife was nowhere to be found. It was unlike her to be out so late. Baelor laced his boots back on and fetched a candlestick.
The halls were near empty this time of night, even with the wedding, save for spatterings of guards here and there. Baelor shuffled through the darkness, watching the way his small light played across the black stone. If Jena was not in her painting room, he knew he would be running to form a search party.
When he reached the highest tower of the castle, he saw flickering orange spilling out from under the door. Baelor was not exactly concerned, but his attention had certainly been piqued. He knocked gently.
The shuffling inside paused and then resumed rapidly. After a few minor bumps and a curse, Jena’s face appeared.
“Oh. It’s you,” she said. Her stern look faded instantly to warmth. The candlelight kissed orange streaks into her hair. “What time is it?”
“Very, very late. I have been awake with my father. Do not let me bother you. I just… wanted to know all was well. Take your time. I’ll return to bed.”
“Wait.”
“Hm?”
“Stay,” Jena said, and stretched out a paint-stained hand. There was an unusual openness to her face. Baelor felt that if he looked hard enough, he might see straight through her skin. “Stay with me.”
Baelor had the strangest sensation that he was already dreaming as he let her draw him inside. There were only a few candles lit, and most clustered around the easel. It was still enough, along with the light in his own hand, for him to see the artwork that had not been turned around and hidden.
Oh, he thought as he drank it in, She is magnificent.
He’d known she would have skill; she was too much of a perfectionist to devote so much time to something otherwise. But Jena was talented. He could see it within every flowing line and in the intricacies of fabric and expression and light. It was like everything she was constantly keeping bottled inside had exploded across the room. And these were all unfinished, studies and sketches with color.
“You were keeping all this to yourself?” Baelor turned to where she stood by the easel. He noticed for the first time that she was not dressed in her day clothes; her night robe was tied tightly at the waist. She had her hands clasped in front, rocking slightly. “Jena.”
“I’m having trouble finishing things,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I almost reach an end, and then I am overcome by another idea I must pursue. I never say no to my ideas here. This one— this is Mya Rivers, but I haven’t told her about it, and sometimes people are unsettled when I tell them I’ve done a portrait.”
He could tell it was Mya Rivers, with her light hair bound back and a demure tilt to her chin, looking off into some other distance. The colors were pale and unfinished, with a prioritization for the subtleties of shadow.
Baelor was leaning into examine it more closely when his eyes caught on some sketches clustered together on a side table.
“Oh,” Jena said, moving closer. Her voice was light and soft. “Those aren’t very good. They’re just warm ups.”
They were him.
They were all him. And as he looked around, he began to see himself everywhere. Just his hands or just a gesture, just his profile, just his eyes. Etched in loving detail or scrawled with nothing but energy. Taking up entire sheets of parchment and hiding in the blank corners of other canvases. All of it…
Was him.
And all of it, all of it was love.
“Baelor?” Jena’s voice wavered.
He had spent so much time trying to see her. He had somehow never imagined she was also trying so hard to see him.
Baelor’s eyes were burning when he looked to her, and he did not have any words at all. Certainly not the right words. When had he ever been rendered speechless?
He dared not set his candle dish down amongst so many precious things. So when he stepped closer to her, watching the gold shine in her wide eyes all the while, he carefully brushed her hair back from her shoulders. The flame flickered in the space between their chests as he pressed his lips to hers. There was no hunger in it. Her lashes fluttered against his cheek.
“Do you want to see the portrait?” Jena whispered against him. Baelor nodded. He could see the trepidation in her eyes, but she did not falter as she guided him to her easel.
Baelor stared at himself. She had changed the pose somewhat. He was still in a three-quarter turn, but one arm rested casually on the upper battlements of Dragonstone, and the other hung relaxed at his side. The sketched background was sea and sky, fading into a distant horizon.
Baelor thought of all the court portraits he had ever sat for. How many times had his skin been made lighter, his hair made questionably pale, or his eyes rendered a uniform violet shade?
Painted Baelor’s hair was tousled by wind, and his clothing was casual. His coloring remained in all of its imperfections. He may as well not have been a prince. It was his expression, though — slightly downturned, looking up with an almost imperceptible smile, eyes facing the viewer and glinting with something light. Under that, though, a solid and peaceful and almost sorrowful energy. It was difficult to translate, but he understood it nonetheless.
Baelor thought of the mirror in their bedroom, and of that night he’d made Jena watch herself fall apart. Was this how she felt, then? How did she bear it?
He shook his head mutely and swallowed.
“You do not like it?” Jena twisted her fingers together.
“You’ve painted me nude. I did not know I… I see faces in this face that I never knew others could see.”
Jena gave him a fragile smile. “I just painted my husband.”
“Yes,” Baelor choked out a pathetic laugh and wiped at his nose. His throat felt tight. He was arrested, struck breathless. “I like this man, your husband. I like him much better than the prince.”
“Why? He is both of those things and more,” she said. She could have broken him, then, with just the tenderness in her eyes. Her smile fell to something much more serious. “And in all of those things, he is kind and patient. I am lucky to have him… And I am lucky to love him.”
His tears welled over. “...Love?”
Jena nodded. “Yes. Love.”
Baelor very carefully set his candle down on a bit of stone jutting out from the wall that served as a shelf for her unused paints. He did not rush. When he reached for her, he tucked her into an embrace and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. She trembled slightly in his arms. He knew her. He knew what this admission must have cost her.
“Avy jorrāelan,” he whispered. I love you. The words came so naturally to his lips.
His wife was not easy to discover, but she was so very easy to love.
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Do you think Maekar might experience some self-hatred due to the fact that it's his genes that caused Daeron's vision? And second thing - do you think Maekar and Dyanna migh feel a bit jealous (? idk if this is a proper word here) of Valarr being this golden, perfect child while their son struggles with things that they don't even fully understand themselves (do they understand it at all?). I wish everyone of them could live happily ever after ehhhh 😭😭😭
Short answer, absolutely yes to all of the above. The long answer will be coming in the form of a story.
I also cannot WAIT to post the next It Will Come Back chapter (just need to edit it with fresh eyes tomorrow) because I think it’s so fun to see the difference in how Maekar/Dyanna view events and people in their series vs how Baelor/Jena are seeing it. I also made myself cry writing it but for a good reason👍
About your last Maekar and Dyanna fic... I loved it !!! Your writing is such a trente to this fandom
This vision was terrifying, for every position : Dyanna, Maekar or Daeron's (you're not even born and you see that kind of stuff ? Why would you want to be born??) And his parents have no idea what is happening, at least for now. Maybe dyanna's episodes will prepare them for daeron's. That could be why maekar has tolerated his coping mechanisms, because what else is he supposed to do if dyanna could barely bear that for three months ? How can you grow up seeing that ?
You really balanced that horror well with comfort (duh that's the genre of the fic) especially with maekar looking for answer without judgement. Being angry but that anger disappearing just looking at his wife, and them still being two hormone-filled crazy-in-love teenagers, needing physical contact to express their love. They are getting more and more mature with their royal responsabilities, and this challenge. And oow I love how they know each other so well that he knows when she is lying. And like always I love having both of their point of views, the one hiding and the one wondering and protecting.
You also always put little references to the two main stories : maester Aleryn is still a mysoginistic prick. But Jena and Baelor seem to have started their parental life on their own terms which is conforting in this angst filled fic.
It was also very satisfying to have them discuss dyanna's condition and be knowledgful. As fans of the asoiaf and hotd, it would have been too frustrating to have educated Targaryens not even think about their ancestors' visions. But Maekar not thinking about Targaryen's visions make sense as you wrote it : she is not targaryen, they believe the last correct visions were made ages ago (and at this point could be legends), because they are prejudiced against rhaegel and the history of the era of the dance is probably really controversial, based on which side the historian prefered, and haelena not being considered as important as her siblings. And on top of that, very smart to have dyanna meet the most magic-filled targaryen of her generation, Brynden (if we consider only known accomplishments, otherwise it would maybe be shiera). He is not the easiest person to trust, but we do know him as the most successful at destroying the blackfyres, at least he will really contribute to make dyanna's visions come to a good ending.
How worried maekar and dyanna must have been when she started dreaming and sounded mad just months after marrying into the family, and how relieved must they have been after the birth because then she will probably stop seeing them, not realizing the cries of their baby will be often caused by his visions.
I have some questions :
I wonder why daeron kicks when lighting hits. Are his visions stronger during a storm ? Then it must have been awful living at summerhall. Or is he trying to wake up his mom, to save both of them ?
Is Baelor frustrated with Dyanna when he is cursing, or cursing because he was mad at whatever made her so terrified ? Is he wary because he thinks something else is lurking in the castle or because he doesn't understand what Dyanna is going through ? Or on the contrary wary because he is scared of what he knows about his family afflictions ?
Overall a very beautiful fic... Bittersweet because they will overcome Dyanna's visions and she will come back to Maekar but their baby will always be plagued by them. And how awful it must have been to see the blackfyre rebellion unfold, and understand that the visions were not nightmares but predictions and then maybe paying much more attention to what daeron saw.
That just reminds me of @mtomauw 's daeron and maekar fanart, where a tiny crying daeron is consoled by his father, titled ""I know I'm not made in your likeness, I do try but I'm hopeless""
Thank you so much for this lovely comment! Yeah, poor baby Daeron is already facing terrifying visions. As I was writing this, I was laughing thinking about how he's sort of Alia Atreides from Dune. I think that Dyanna's troubles will definitely make both parents more sympathetic, but you'll have to wait for the next installation (which will have a significant time skip) to see.
I'm so glad you enjoyed the pieces with Jena/Baelor, Rhaegel, and Brynden! It's so fun to make this world feel populated.
I have some answers ! :)
At seven months, babies can actually startle from outside noise. I'm not sure how realistic it is that Daeron was kicking every single time there was a strike, but I also think he was pretty distressed. During the dreams, I do think there's a magical element of protection there. A fetus at that stage has some awareness, but can't see themself as an organism independent from their mother.
With Baelor cursing, I intended it as an "oh crap." Not at Dyanna so much as the situation. All of those knights had been roused and she looked a mess, but she indicated that there was no attacker. I think he was worried about her and outside perception.
