Pairing: Kiera of Tyrosh x Valarr Targaryen
^ This chapter is Jena Dondarrion’s POV
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: arranged marriage. Talks of producing heirs.
This story will deal with 18+ themes.
Summary: Lady Jena must face the day ahead. She had not slept well since the news of her son's betrothal; even worse, now the Tyroshi girl had arrived. Preparing to meet her and help her arrange her household, Jena reflects on her own experience coming to the Red Keep to marry a prince.
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Jena woke with a crick in her neck, nerves tight at the base of her skull. Her chamber was quiet but for the soft pull of fingers through her hair. Talia Caron, her favourite lady-in-waiting, attended her. They were alone. Jena was grateful for it; she could not bear the empty courtesies of her other ladies this morning.
Seated at her vanity, Jena watched Talia’s reflection. Her chestnut hair was neatly drawn back, her green eyes intent on taming Jena’s unruly red locks. How she envied her friend’s freshness; her own blue eyes were shadowed, her cheeks pale where they should have been rosy. She grimaced as Talia pulled her hair into a tight braid.
“You’re quiet this morning, Jen,” Talia broke the silence.
It was not proper for a lady-in-waiting to speak so familiarly to the wife of the crown prince, but Jena and Talia had been girls together in the Stormlands. Their fathers, both Marcher Lords, had fought side by side against Dornish raids. Jena remembered the years spent between Blackhaven and Nightsong, never imagining their paths would lead to the Red Keep. Their fathers had little love for the Dornish queen or the favour King Daeron showed her kin. Yet it was King Daeron’s will that brought both women here. He had sought to appease the fighting men of the Stormlands with an offer of unity: a betrothal between his eldest son, Prince Baelor, and Jena. Talia had come with her, to attend her, watching her grow from a spirited girl to a resolute woman.
“I couldn’t sleep again.” Jena sighed, “I shan’t rest a full night until this farce is over, I suspect.”
With another lady, Jena would have measured her words. She could not risk a hint of disloyalty. But Talia knew her too well; she had seen Jena’s restlessness since the news of Valarr’s betrothal. These mornings were Jena’s own, a small sanctuary where no topic of conversation was forbidden, though habit kept her cautious. At court, they called her proud, said she coddled her sons. They were not wrong. She spoke her mind, as Stormlanders did, and guarded her children fiercely. Still, she knew her place. In company, she never contradicted the royal family.
“Will you dine with the Tyroshi again tonight? Perhaps you can excuse yourself early.” Talia mused.
“No, it shall be myself and Baelor, for that I am glad.”
“And the boys?”
“I have seen little of them since we dined with our guests. Matarys has been neglecting his studies, so his father has barred him from the training yard. I suspect he is avoiding me, afraid I’ll scold him.” Jena’s voice softened, a small laugh escaping as she spoke of her youngest son.
“And Valarr?” Talia asked tentatively as she placed the last few pins in Jena’s hair.
“I have not had time to see him myself. The queen has me running errands in preparation for the betrothal feast. But Baelor says he attends the Tower of the Hand each day. I worry for him when he takes himself away from us. He did it as a child when he was upset.”
“He’s a good boy. I am sure there is no need to fret. He only wants to do you proud.” Talia finally tied the end of Jena’s braid.
That was what worried Jena. Valarr was only five and ten, but he took the responsibility placed on him seriously. He would not share his concerns for fear of disappointing his family. She’d seen how troubled he was the day Kiera arrived. Many would say he ought to be married already, but Baelor had let her keep her sons as boys for as long as she could. In the warm months, she took them to Summerhall to run wild with their cousins, or to Blackhaven, far from the court’s gaze. But Baelor’s leniency had its limits. He would not yield when she asked the crown to reconsider an alliance with Tyrosh, she begged for a bride from the Stormlands, or the Reach, or even a cousin if it would please the king.
She had once stood in Lady Kiera’s place, wed to a man who looked more Martell than Targaryen. She had learned to set aside her distrust of Dornishmen to keep her father and brother from war. Her firstborn son bore his father’s olive skin and dark hair, and she loved him fiercely. Friendship and love in her own marriage had come steadily, with the queen’s sharp eyes always upon her, her family far away, the pressure to produce heirs and only Talia for comfort. She and Baelor had found their way through shared pastimes and respect for the Faith. Valarr would not find that with Lady Kiera. The Tyroshi were too different: hungry for gold, garish in their dress, worshipping a god with three heads.
“What would our fathers say if they could see us now?” Talia let go of the braid she had woven to place a reassuring hand on Jena’s shoulder.
“I am sure my father will make his feelings known before the wedding.” Jena could only huff.
“I am glad my lord father is not here to make a scene. Pearse will attend, now he has returned from the Red Mountains. He has written that he looks forward to seeing you.” Talia’s hand had not left Jena’s shoulder, and gave a light squeeze.
“It will be nice to see your brother again. Much has changed.” Jena’s hand came to meet her friend’s.
“Are you meeting with her today? Lady Kiera?” Talia finally let go, stepping away to fetch Jena’s gown—a brilliant purple, the colour of her house.
“I suppose I must. Her ladies are chosen, and the queen expects her for a dress fitting soon.” Jena stood, reaching for the gown Talia held out. She dressed herself where she could, relying on her ladies only for her fastenings.
“She must feel so out of sorts, the poor thing. You remember what it was like, coming here for the first time.”
“She knows her duties.” Jena turned away towards the vanity, focusing on which jewellery she wished to wear.
She did not wish to offend her friend, but she was tired of the subject. Her own marriage, the promises for peace, she understood. But this bride, so different from her son, from her own people, she could not reconcile with.
“What is she like?”
“It is hard to know. She is so unlike us. They all are.”
---
A shooting pain ran down Jena’s spine, radiating into her shoulders with every step towards Lady Kiera’s rooms. Her eyes did not leave the papers she held containing the list of the girls she was to present. Jena did not need to look up; she knew this route well. Kiera’s new chamber was close to Valarr’s. Many years she had tread this path, to fetch her son, to read to him when he was small, to bid him goodnight. She wondered as she passed his door whether he was inside taking lunch himself. Perhaps she should call in. She had seen so little of him in the past few days. He had not attended her chamber for supper, burying his head in ledgers or running himself ragged in the bailey.
She faltered, delaying the task ahead. The kitchen staff would already be bringing up warm breads and cakes for her meeting. Jena was not pleased at the prospect. She doubted Kiera knew the weight of the houses pledged to serve her, or could speak beyond simple phrases. Jena had dreaded her coming, and now resented being made to mind her. Her husband had asked her to provide maids from her own household. Jena agreed, thinking the quiet serving girls might be useful, tending beds and blending into the walls. But her attempt at gathering whispers was short-lived. The maids reported Kiera spoke little of the Common Tongue, kept them at a distance, and let her cousin, Lady Elia, order them about while she sulked.
Jena pitied the girls she had chosen to serve Kiera. Another burden: selecting and consigning them to a spoiled foreign bride. No house refused her summons; even those who shared her grievance would not pass up the chance to send their daughters to attend a future queen or arrange a match at court. She chose girls from the Stormlands—House Swann and a Baratheon. From the court, a Lannister girl, whose family needed no wealthy lord, but who might hope to wed her to a prince one day. From the Vale, an Arryn, to please her favourite good-sister. She neglected Dorne. If Kiera was to succeed, she would need girls who understood the realm properly.
As she paced, ever closer to Kiera’s solar door, ready to ask the guards to announce her, she was halted by a familiar voice. The sound of shouts and laughter accompanied patters of light footsteps. She could not see the person, but she knew that voice anywhere.
“For the feast, can we have orange tarts? Please, please?”
Matarys.
At this early hour, he should have been in his lessons, but she could hear him bounding up the steps into Meagors Holdfast. She was wroth to hear him flouting his duties when his father had lectured him on the importance of his studies. As his copper curls came into view, she could see he was dragging someone behind him with little care for his pace, forcing them to keep up. As Jena rushed forward to scold him, she saw that he pulled his grandmother, the queen.
“Your Grace.” Jena bowed her head in reverence to her good-mother before turning to her son, “So now you have roped your grandmother into your schemes to defy your responsibilities -”
“It was I, Lady Jena, who sought him out.” Queen Myriah interrupted.
Jena did not like that, but she could not argue with the queen.
“Well, you must not pull your grandmother, her Grace, around in such a manner, Matarys.”
“I have four boys of my own; I am hardly a novice to horseplay.” The queen spoke once more, cutting her down.
Jena looked at Queen Myriah, clutching her papers, turning from her youngest son’s smirk. She would scold him at dinner. The queen was no longer young; her black hair streaked with grey, but she remained commanding. Her large brown eyes always left Jena feeling scrutinised. She spoke in her thick Dornish accent, pleasantries that felt like barbs. She had always favoured Jena’s good-sisters more openly. Dyana was her favourite—a Dornish beauty, kind and good-humoured, though Jena saw her rarely. At Summerhall, Dyana was often in confinement, giving Prince Maekar a brood of heirs. The other good-sisters seemed to rank before her: poor Aelinor Penrose, so often alone, and quick-witted Alys, busy with her twins and babe. Jena wondered whether being from the Marches had made the queen dislike her. Jena was not her first choice of bride for Baelor. Yet Baelor resembled his mother, the shape of her nose, her dimpled smile. She looked resplendent in orange, draped in the Dornish style. Jena saw Valarr in the way the queen watched and waited for the right moment to speak.
“We are going to the seamstress, Mama,” Matarys explained, still clutching his grandmother’s jewelled hand. “My tunic is ready for the wedding!”
His face shone with excitement, and though he had irked her, she could not stay cross. It was always so with her youngest. When she had Valarr, she knew he would never truly be hers. He favoured his father in looks and temperament, raised to be king. Matarys was all her. He was such a loving child; he clung to her skirts, seeking her out for games in the garden. His hair was flame red; his willful spirit and mischief reminded her of her brother Manfred.
“Preparations for the feast are well underway, I hear. I shall speak to Baelor about the tourney games. I do think, however, we should discuss the flowers for the ceremony; perhaps the same ones should be used for the bethroal dinner.” The queen returned her attention to Jena.
“Yes, your Grace.” Jena anticipated more tasks being flung on her. “We still have a few weeks to make any amendments. I am to meet with the Lady Kiera now; I shall ask her opinion.”
That seemed to please the queen. Little Matarys was absentmindedly pulling on her hand, his attention elsewhere, eager to get away from the women chattering about things that did not interest him.
“And Valarr?” The queen asked.
“What of him?”
“He has been withdrawn. Perhaps he should take the Lady Kiera for a turn in the garden. It will do well for them to be seen together.”
The mention of his brother piqued Matarys’ interest. He loved to meddle or find a jest to bother Valarr with.
“Will they dance at the feast, Grandmother?” Matarys smiled, a sly grin. “That would cheer him up, to know you are planning a dance, I’m sure, and the Tryoshi love to dance, I have read about it.”
“You are a considerate boy.” The queen released her hand from his, and ruffled his hair.
“Valarr still has his duties, to support the Hand of the King. His father wishes him to remain so until the betrothal is finalised. Best to avoid any rumour of impropriety, as is customary, your Grace.” Jena felt her tone turn cooler.
“You will likely remember, as do I, all the hoops one must jump through before your match is made true before the court. But I worry, if they appear distant, it will not bode well.” The queen took Matarys’s hand once again, but her eyes never left Jena’s, a silent command to bring Valarr out from hiding.
With that, Matarys bounded away, his grandmother in tow. Jena heard his laughter echo along the stone corridor, eager for the wedding that Jena dreaded. For a boy of two and ten, it was a chance to marvel at the Tyroshi sea-lords he had read about. As his footsteps faded, Jena turned to her task: to sit with Kiera, to try and know her, to welcome her and staff her household.
Queen Myriah had done the same for her. She had strong opinions about Jena keeping Talia close, and spent their first lunch scrutinising her dresses, calling for the seamstress to loosen the high necklines. Thier first conversation was the queen asking if Jena remembered whether her mother had trouble conceiving, followed by an instruction that a maester would inspect her. The expectation for healthy babes was quickly set within days of her arrival. Memories of those first days returned: the sprawling corridors, the lofty rooms, and how alone she felt in her makeshift chambers, waiting for her father to settle her dowry before she was presented to the court.
If the queen had noticed that Jena kept Valarr busy, then the court must be gossiping. It was not to cause friction. She knew marriage alliances were fickle. She herself had been betrothed as a child to another lord’s son, only for a prince to be offered instead. Kiera’s arrival did not mean the match was certain. There would be bargaining and haggling over the bride price. The Archon wanted a fortune, or so Baelor said. Anything could happen in those stuffy chambers; Kiera might be sent home. Jena would not risk her son’s reputation by letting him spend time alone with the girl. If the match failed, such rumours could hinder another offer.
She circled back and, in a few paces, stood before Kiera’s door. She could hear the rattle of trays and the footsteps of serving girls ascending the stairs behind her. The pinching pain at the base of her neck returned. She exhaled and signalled the guard to announce her. As he opened the door, Jena lifted her head and straightened her back as she entered.
---
The chamber was unfamiliar. It had stood empty for years. The solar was larger than Jena had pictured, its plush settee and armchairs gathered before an oak table and wide hearth. The air hung stale with the windows closed, but she supposed Tyrosh was warmer than King’s Landing and the girls wished to keep out the chill.
Lady Elia rose as Jena entered, pulling her cousin up from the settee with a firm hand. Sunlight streamed through the windows, white and bright, catching in the cousins’ dyed hair. Jena disliked the custom; it drew the eye too deliberately.
“Lady Jena, welcome.” It was Elia who spoke first, her words broken and her accent strong. She dug at her cousin’s ribs with her elbow, and finally Kiera met Jena’s gaze.
“Good morning, Lady Jena,” Kiera parroted.
“Well met. Do sit down.” Jena gestured for them to take their seats on the settee once more, then took the armchair. “I have arranged some lunch so that we may discuss your household.”
Kiera’s eyes widened as serving girls brought in platters and steaming tea. It was the first time Jena saw her smile, full and unguarded. The letters from Ser Manwoody had not lied—she was comely, though her cousin’s poise outshone her. Lady Elia sat with easy grace, while Kiera’s shoulders slumped. Only when the cakes arrived did she straighten, brown eyes bright with anticipation. Jena was struck by how young she looked, her frame slight beside her cousin’s womanly figure. Jena paused. Had she looked so much like a young girl when she came here to wed Baelor? Had she been such a child when the queen spoke to her of producing babes of her own? Jena feared ever having to broach the subject, but she knew that conversation would soon come.
Jena almost felt sorry for her until she saw Kiera wave away the serving girls offering cheese and bread, signalling for cakes instead. It was a sharp reminder of what her father had taught her about those from Essos: greedy, sacking villages to fill their bellies and purses.
“I thought it best for us to have some sustenance.” Jena tried to ignore the pile of sweets on Kiera’s plate and instead thrust the papers she was holding out to her. “We have much work to do.”
Kiera took the papers tentatively; Jena doubted she could read them. Her face was blank, her cousin’s smile tight and rehearsed. Jena filled the silence, listing the names and attributes of the girls she had chosen.
“The first is Lady Cecily Baratheon; she is older than you. She had been married, but her husband was taken ill. She will keep the younger ladies in line.” Jena charged through the list, “Then we have Lady Eva Swann; she hails from the Stormlands too.”
Kiera said nothing, only set the papers aside and reached for a cream cake.
“Then I have selected Lady Genevieve Lannister; her brother Gerold is at court and a companion of my sons. She knows her way around the Keep and will instruct you on etiquette.” Jena explained pointedly.
Kiera peered over the large cream cake she was holding, icing and cream dripping onto her arm as her cousin looked on in horror and handed her a napkin. Jena pretended not to see. Her cheeks burned, embarrassment and frustration mingling. The trapped nerve in her back pulsed. If this was how she behaved, Valarr would struggle to appear taken with her before the court, as the queen had commanded.
“Finally we have, Lady Rosa Arryn. She is cousin to Prince Rhaegal’s wife, Lady Alys Arryn.”
“I must have them all?” Kiera finally spoke, confusion in her tone, her face marred with flakes of pastry and cream. “I have two maids who look after me usually. Send for them instead.”
Jena was taken aback. Lady Kiera knew more of the Common Tongue than she let on, but spoke brashly, without tact. Jena valued honesty, but not rudeness.
“Yes, you must have them all,” Jena sighed. “This position is a privilege for these young ladies. It is our custom and tradition. An honour to serve a future queen. You must comport yourself as such.”
Kiera opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Elia leant forward to hush her cousin, hurriedly chattering in their mother tongue. Kiera’s eyes went wide, then she cast her gaze down, set her plate aside, and scooted to the edge of the settee to be near Jena.
“I must be sorry.” Kiera spoke, “I do not wish to be rude. I am still learning the words.”
With Kiera so near, Jena could study her properly. The garish pink hair, unbrushed and loose, grated. Her ladies would see to that soon enough. The dress was too thin for the court, sheer and ill-suited for the climate or propriety. Gold jewellery flashed against deep brown skin. She looked tired, a familiar kind of tired, the sort that comes from being on edge. When Kiera first arrived, Jena had been too flustered to take her all in. She was more focused on comforting her son. At dinner, the dim light and constant interruptions kept her from watching the girl. Now, in her own solar, she saw clearly: brown eyes flecked with green, hollow cheeks, a trembling lip. The dress pooled around narrow shoulders. She looked lost. Cream flecked her upper lip, and the joy at the cakes tugged at something in Jena.
“We shall find you a tutor then! That way you can keep up your progress with the Common Tongue”, Jena found herself saying, “then we can speak of which flowers you would prefer for the sept and have you fitted for your dress.”
“Thank you,” Kiera looked at her hopefully, “I wish to make your family happy.”
Jena’s back twinged as she leaned forward, reaching for Kiera’s hand. She was not sure whether it was her instincts as a mother taking over, or whether being in these chambers reminded her of her own arrival here. Feelings of helplessness she had long buried returned to the surface. Jena’s mother had died when she was young; she had only Talia and the ladies assigned to her to guide her into marriage. Kiera had her cousin, a small mercy, but her mother was far across the sea and might not come for the wedding. Jena had faced her own trials in her native tongue. Kiera had to weigh every word before she could answer.
“I shall leave you to think on the flowers and your ladies.” Jena removed her hand sharply from Kiera’s and made a swift move to stand, wincing as she did so. “They shall arrive for the feast.”
As she took her leave, unease lingered. Jena had thought she knew what to expect of the girl her son would marry. Yet seeing her now, she could not imagine how Kiera would manage the tasks ahead. How would she command a household? Learn the poise and tact demanded of a queen? How would that slight frame bear healthy children? Jena hurried for the door, not daring to look back at the girl with cream on her lip and pink hair slipping from its braids.
She had come at her good-mother’s bidding and done what was required. She expected to find Kiera troublesome, to return and complain to her husband. Instead, as she made her way back to her rooms, Jena knew sleep would not come easily. Worries for her son lingered, but now there was the girl, fragile in the daylight, to think on as well.
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