It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART ONE
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.
Baelor could not stop fidgeting. So much of royal life was standing there and waiting for others to enter or standing outside and waiting to be announced. He had spent his entire life doing just this, but today his body would not obey his will.
It was beautiful outside. Blue and hard white sunlight shone through the tall windows of the throne room and cast patterns on the red marble floors. He focused on that. He counted the lamp fixtures and then the bones in the dragon skulls. When he turned his head to begin counting the swords of the iron throne, his father caught his eye.
King Daeron raised a brow, a not unkind query on his face. It was indeed his father who had taught him the counting trick. Baelor was caught.
The small council was assembled at the table below the dais, speaking amongst themselves. His mother was talking with Rhaegel nearby, and Maekar and Aerys were having some inane argument. Other than them and some Kingsguard, the hall was empty.
“I thought you said they had arrived?” King Daeron asked. Seven bless his father.
“Most certainly, Your Grace, yes,” Lord Butterwell, the Hand, said quickly. “Just taking it all in, I’m sure.”
Baelor began twisting his signet rings. He felt his mother’s gaze boring into him.
The great doors creaked open, and every single one of them snapped to attention. Baelor clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing and squeezing his fingers.
“The honorable Lord Mason Dondarrion!” The herald announced. “His sons, Manfred, Burton, and Roland. And his daughters, the Ladies Jena and Serafina Dondarrion, of Blackhaven!”
Jena. That was the name he had heard half a thousand times in the last month. Of all the daughters of the marchers they so desperately needed to appease, she had been deemed best above all. Gentle mannered, they said, fair, gifted at needlework. It was agonizingly little to go off of.
He was to marry this lady on the morrow.
Baelor picked her out instantly. The young woman was on her father’s arm, and she was not looking at him. It was this one detail that made the maelstrom in his head stop for just a moment. Jena Dondarrion’s eyes were on the king, and it was not until she curtsied that they finally settled on Baelor. What lady would have such mastery over herself to defer to the king even when being met by her future husband?
Other little details stood out to him before the full picture. Her hair was a dark, coppery red. Her gown was immaculate, purple silk and myrish lace. She had lovely hands; elegant, long fingers. Fine cheekbones and a strong jaw. Her eyes were the color of steel, though, and just as hard. Baelor knew without her needing to say a word that she was not just some pretty court flower.
The king was speaking, and then Lord Dondarrion was responding, and then —
“My son and heir, Prince Baelor Targaryen of Dragonstone,” his father held out a hand in gesture. Baelor instantly broke out of his trance.
“My lord, it is an honor to welcome you and your family to King’s Landing,” he said as he stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. Dondarrion was a large man with a stern carriage. Baelor let himself turn his attention fully to his future wife. “Lady Jena. It is my most sincere pleasure to meet you.”
This would be his wife, his queen, the mother of his children. This stranger he was starving to know.
Jena curtsied again, more shallow this time. Up close, her eyes were bluer. “And mine, Your Grace. I have never seen so many dragon skulls.”
There was a ripple of laughter. Obviously, she had never seen any dragon skulls. It was a charming jest, and she said it with calm surety.
“Well, I hope they do not prove to be a disappointment after such a long journey,” he said.
Jena offered him the slightest of smiles. “I shall have to take a closer look.”
Baelor had expected shyness. She was apprehensive, that was plain, but it was not exactly shyness. There was a restraint to her, though he liked that she did not bat her lashes and beam.
“You may inspect them at your leisure, my lady,” Baelor said.
The introductions resumed. Baelor shook hands and bowed. The Dondarrion brood was a mix of utter stoicism and charming flustering. The youngest, Serafina, turned bright red when he gave her a smile. All the while, his attention was on Lady Jena as she met the rest of the royal family.
Just like that, it was over. The Dondarrions were shepherded away to settle into the castle. Jena sent the quickest look back at him over her shoulder, but her eyes snapped forward the instant she found him watching.
As soon as the doors closed, the small council began congratulating each other on a successful arrangement. For Baelor, it went in through one ear and out the other. Wedding plans, dowries, tax levies.
“Baelor?” His mother’s voice cleaved through it all. Myriah Martell had stepped closer, eyes full of question. He knew how she disapproved of this union with a marcher family.
“I am well,” Baelor assured her. “She is… Yes, I am well.”
With that, he swept from the hall.
~~
She had not expected him to be pretty, not so soft spoken, but Jena knew that first impressions could prove deceiving.
“Oh, he is dashing and tall and everything a prince should be! Just everything!” Serafina was practically jumping for joy in the parlor of the sprawling suite of rooms their family had been given. At 11, Sera had utmost faith in the world.
“He must be, Carrot, he is the heir to the Iron Throne.” Jena’s embroidery hoop shook in her hands. She tried to steady her wrists.
“It is just like the songs, just like it. And we are here, in the real Red Keep!” Serafina threw herself down on the settee so hard she bounced. “You will be the most beautiful bride there ever was. I bet they’ll write a song about you.”
Down the hall, the sounds of Manfred and Burton terrorizing Roland reached their peak. Her brothers came running into the parlor.
“Roland stole a real blade from home,” Burton accused. “Jena, tell him he can’t keep it.”
“It’s mine! Master Bale gave it to me!” Roland’s hands were thrust out, reaching for the damned thing, but Manfred had his palm on the boy’s forehead.
Jena sighed and set her hoop down.
“Why were you going through your brother’s things in the first place?” All three of them started yelling. “Ay! We have just gotten to court. Settle down.”
They did. Good to know she still held some power over them. Jena stood with her hands on her hips and approached.
“Let me see this damned thing.” She held out an expectant palm, and Manfred handed it over with a scoff. “This is a letter opener. Stop abusing Roland, Manfred.”
It was always Manfred starting the quarrels. Burton was just a happy henchman. Jena was the eldest child, but Manfred was her father’s heir, and he could not have cared less about acting the part.
“I’m not abusing him!” He cried. “This is a matter of safety.”
“Safety my arse. Go get out your energy elsewhere if you must. Here you go, Roland.”
Burton gave her a horribly mischievous smile. “I see power has gone to your head, Your Grace.”
“Oh! Is that how it is?” Jena managed to grapple him under her arm and grind her fist into his hair until he was cackling and struggling to get away.
This was the scene their father walked into. The stress faded somewhat from his features, even as Jena leapt back from Burton and clasped her hands in front like a proper lady.
“Daddy, isn’t the prince so handsome?” Serafina went skipping up to him. “And gallant and wise and-“
“You’re too young to marry him,” Burton interrupted.
Yelling resumed, the four of them careening down the hall trying to catch one another. Someone thudded into a wall and Jena shook her head.
“Good to see they are not too frightened of King’s Landing,” she said in excuse.
Her father nodded. His mind seemed elsewhere. “I have just finished meeting with the small council. Everything is in order for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Horrible, awful, nerve-wracking—
“Very good, Father.”
“You conducted yourself well. You need only do tomorrow what you did today.” He stroked a hand down her arm, most likely meant to be reassuring, but she fought a flinch. Jena found anyone’s touch an intrusion these days. She could not stand pity. “Do you… find him suitable?”
“He is the heir to the Iron Throne,” Jena said.
“That is not what I meant.”
She looked briefly behind, but none of her siblings were lurking. She fumbled with her fingers a bit. “I think so, yes. I suppose I will find out.”
“I have heard he is kind.”
Jena nodded and managed a smile, but they both knew the truth. It would not matter if he were a sadist or a lunatic or a halfwit. Baelor Targaryen would still be her husband.
~~
Sleep eluded Baelor at the very best of times. He had been this way since boyhood. He could often be found drilling fighting stances in the yard or searching for secret passages. Most nights, though, brought him to the library.
Over the years, his father had offered to have additional bookshelves dragged to his room so he did not need to skulk about in the small hours. Baelor would not have that. The Red Keep’s library had the solemnity of a sept, a feeling like being cradled in some great womb. He knew this place almost as well as the Master of Books.
Tonight, he had selected a distracting tale on Valyrian medicine. It was dense enough that even Aerys might have found it tedious, but Baelor had a keen interest in this sort of thing. He felt no hint of fatigue as his eyes scanned the pages.
The front door creaked open a slip. Baelor was seated at a back table, his view obstructed by the shelves. The orange glow of a candle lit the darkness beyond. The footsteps were so delicate they were hardly whispers. He watched the light move until it rounded the shelf directly in front of his table. Brynden, perhaps?
Jena Dondarrion had her back to him as she scanned the titles. Her long, thick hair was unbound, and she was dressed in a trailing robe that covered her nightgown. The sight of her was so strange, so immediate, that for a moment Baelor had no clue what to say. Here he was, wracked with angst about their nuptials, and she had just appeared.
“You are interested in astronomy?” he asked, referring to the shelves before her.
Jena jumped, letting out an endearing little squeak as she whipped toward him. Her expression went wide with horror before she schooled it and dropped into a hasty curtsy.
“Your Grace.” Both of her hands clutched at her candle. “My deepest apologies, I did not expect anyone. I did not see you.”
“Mine is the greater offense. I did not mean to startle you.” Baelor wound up his scroll and stood. She seemed rooted to the floor, perfectly still as he approached. “Were you looking for something? I know this place well.”
“We should not be alone,” she said.
“I won’t tell.”
Jena studied him for a moment, and then the library as a whole. When she saw that no one was coming to accuse them of impropriety, she nodded. “I am looking for a dictionary on the language of flowers.”
“I can find it,” he said. She followed after him with her candle. “What do you need it for?”
“A gift for my sister, Your Grace. She is fluent in flowers, so I thought I would pick meaningful ones.”
“Baelor. You must call me Baelor.” He stopped before the botany shelves. As he scanned the titles, he was acutely aware of her attention on his profile. He wondered what she saw in him.
“Of course,” Jena said. “Baelor.”
“Ah. I knew it was here.” He pulled on the spine and handed it over, but even then neither of them moved. The full weight of her gaze was so intent it made him oddly nervous. “I must say… The Red Keep can be dangerous at night for a lone lady.”
“I apologize.”
“No, no, I… I want to know why you came all this way. You could have asked for this to be brought for you in the morning.”
He could see a million things flash across her face, in the way her mouth opened and closed, in the way her eyes darted down and back up.
All she said was, “I could not sleep, Your— Baelor. Baelor.”
“Neither could I.” But he was following his constant routine, and she had gone out into the vast unknown. A hidden spirit of adventure? “Your sister is lucky to have your thoughtfulness.”
“She is young. She will find returning to Blackhaven without me difficult. I have been a mother to her,” Jena said. Something dimmed in her eyes, but she quickly shook it away. “No matter. I am sure we both need our rest to brave tomorrow.”
“She must love you fiercely.”
Jena adjusted her grip on the book and candle as they began toward the door. “She does, though she has her moments.”
“I know that well. My little brother Maekar used to bite me.”
That earned a small, startled laugh from her. The sound was surprisingly pleasing to his ear. At the doorway, they stopped. Baelor offered to escort her back, but he knew she would not accept.
“We should not be seen together, I think.” She looked shy again, like she didn’t quite know how to leave. Her fingers tightened and shifted mindlessly on her book.
“You may be right. At least you know now where to find the books, and me should I ever go missing,” Baelor told her. Another smile from her, and something delicate in her eyes. She had lovely, interesting eyes. “Rest well, Jena.”
“Thank you, Baelor.”
The door closed behind her, and Baelor stood there staring at the spot where she’d stood for a long while.
~~
Jena looked up at the Mother, beautiful and cold and on high.
“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the High Septon said. He had a low, nasal voice that rang out through the packed Sept of Baelor as sure as a bell. The air beneath the dome felt close and heavy, but perhaps she was just warm. Warm and trying not to shake.
The worst part was that her groom looked so very handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with windswept dark hair, and the finest princely garb. The light from the stained glass windows cast him in the colors of the rainbow as he took the Dondarrion cloak from her shoulders and passed it off to her father. Baelor’s hands did not shake as he wrapped his own cloak around her. Was it her imagination that he gave her shoulder the slightest squeeze of assurance?
“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of this man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” As the Septon spoke, Baelor took her hands in his. He was warm, too. He only looked at her, no one else. The Septon tied a ribbon around their connected palms. “Let it be known that Prince Baelor of House Targaryen and Lady Jena of House Dondarrion are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say these words—”
Jena and Baelor spoke as one. For just that moment, she let herself think they were alone, that they were not being watched by both of their families and hundreds of others.
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they said to each other. The next line was also spoken in unison, with their own respective pronouns. “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
Baelor nodded. She became acutely aware of how close he stood. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”
He bent his head and kissed her softly, his lips steady and careful against hers. It lasted only a moment, proper enough for the sept, but when he drew back his thumb brushed once against the side of her hand where their fingers still touched. Jena’s stomach turned over itself.
“We did well,” Baelor murmured. We. Jena was completely taken aback by his gentleness.
As though someone had flung open a door, the roar of approval from the gathered crowd returned all at once. In the front pews, her father had a proud smile on his face, and Serafina was clapping so hard her hands blurred in the air. Rose petals rained from the hands of gathered lords and ladies. As soon as the Septon untied their ribbon, Jena took her new husband’s arm to walk down the aisle.
She was overwhelmed by sights and sounds and smells, but she managed to brave it all with a smile. King Daeron kissed her cheek, and Prince Rhaegel gave her an overly enthusiastic embrace. Outside, it seemed that all of King’s Landing and then some had gathered. Thousands and thousands of people stood below the steps of the sept, screaming wildly as she raised her hand to wave.
Jena only realized she was cutting off Baelor’s circulation when he bent down to whisper, “You may loosen your grip. I do not plan to run away from my wife.”
Mortified, she loosened her fingers at once. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, smiling for the crowd though his voice stayed low for her alone.
“I have never seen so many people. They do not even know me and they are… crying.” The words spilled from her lips before she could correct them. Jena knew she should just be smiling and waving and probably not speaking.
“Someday they will tell their children that they saw the future queen, standing radiant before the Sept of Baelor.”
Jena felt her cheeks heat. Was she blushing? She did not think she had ever blushed in her life.
The bells overhead pealed as they began down the broad marble steps, petals drifting around them in red and pink clouds. Baelor pressed closer to her as they moved through the narrow alley the King’s Guard had made with their bodies for them to reach a royal carriage. The prince helped her up the steps and shut the door behind them. A moment later they were moving.
The sudden respite from heat and noise felt unnatural. She watched Baelor loosen his collar, leaning back and letting out a small sigh. Jena sat very straight and tried to remember her posture. What should she say? What was the proper thing to discuss with a newlywed husband? A prince? This was only the second time they had ever been alone. She always knew what to say, but now words escaped her when she needed them most.
“Neither of us fainted,” Baelor broke the silence. “Which puts us ahead of several royal couples in history.”
“I believe we have winter to thank for that.”
“Spring soon, if the maesters are to be believed. We can go to Summerhall, then. Counter-intuitive, I know, but it’s nicest in the transitory seasons.”
“We passed by Summerhall on the journey here,” Jena said. “It’s very near to Blackhaven, but I have never seen it.”
“No? It has a magnificent library and a lovely pond filled with birds. The willow trees are enormous.”
“You speak of it fondly.”
“I have only fond memories of it,” he said. “King’s Landing and Dragonstone are heavier places, I find.”
“That is unfortunate for a prince.” Perhaps that sounded aggressive. Jena wanted to pinch herself.
“I appreciate this city as a sort of whetstone for the mind and body, but yes, I do enjoy quiet.” Baelor was fiddling with the rings on his hands, studying her thoughtfully. “My mother has oft accused me of overworking myself.”
Jena folded her hands more tightly in her lap. “My father says much the same, though he usually means worrying rather than work.”
“You hide it well,” he said. It was exactly the kind of praise she yearned to hear, that her efforts were not in vain. “What about when you are not worrying?”
“Pardon?”
“What do you like to do?”
Jena faltered again. She knew this was a test. She could ride and dance and speak several languages, but those were duties more than enjoyments. Reading was too manly, but he liked to read.
Then again, the last thing she had expected Baelor Targaryen to be was earnest. He seemed incredibly earnest, and his authority was quiet and confident instead of brash. It was worse that he was earnest. Jena would have known exactly what to say to a lesser man.
“I like to paint,” she forced herself to say. It was a shred, but a true shred. It was not the most royal of activities. Would he like that? That was her entire job in life now: to be what he liked.
“What do you paint?” The question came immediately. The full weight of his attention was a heavy thing, and she liked his eyes. Kind eyes, a bit strange with their mismatched colors.
“Mostly people when they tolerate sitting for me,” she said. “Sometimes landscapes, though I find them tedious unless some abstraction is allowed.”
“A rare talent. Court has a habit of stealing hobbies, but I hope that you continue. Is that what you’re making for your sister? A painting of flowers?”
He remembered that bare detail from last night. “No, I embroider as well. I thought she might like something tactile.”
“I suspect you are more of an artist than you let on. Do you have a similar interest in music and theatre?”
“To watch, certainly.” Jena dared return the questioning. “And you, my prince? Besides overworking yourself?”
His mouth tugged on one side. “Sparring, reading. Walking when I can escape notice. Corralling the small council.”
“Are they often unpleasant?”
“Less often than I, according to my father,” Baelor said. “But you must not tell them I said so.”
Despite herself, Jena laughed. It would be unwise to do any more than like him, but she was glad that she had even that.
~~
Baelor’s wedding afternoon was a carnival of delights. Massive pies that spouted birds, mummers plays, jousting, singers, endless trays of food, dancing. It seemed never-ending.
It certainly did not help that his mother was only borderline courteous to his new bride, and she had apparently had some atrocious fight with Maekar the prior night. His youngest brother was sullen and brooding, snapping at staff. He had a split lip, which Rhaegel had whispered was the queen’s doing, but Baelor could not fathom that. He had never once quarreled with his mother in earnest. She was opinionated, yes, but never cruel. If she had struck Maekar, he must have done something egregious. It pained him to see such strain, but he dared not get into the mire of details. This was not a day for him to play his classic role of diplomat.
Baelor’s attention remained caught between his family and bride the entire day. Jena was composed at his side, charming and thoughtful to the hundreds of guests who wanted to meet her. He noticed that she barely drank and possessed an effortless gift for steering small talk. When they took the floor to dance, she was a great partner. Nothing she did was ever careless.
Jena was by all means the perfect royal bride. The more time he spent with her, the more he saw why she had been selected above all other marcher ladies. He was at once grateful that she seemed to instinctively understand court and desperate to know what made her tick. People were never so truly immaculate.
By the time Baelor took his mother to dance, he had almost forgotten about his own family’s melodramas. She looked like she was putting on a smile only for his sake.
“Won’t you tell me what’s happened?” he finally asked.
Myriah sighed. “I should not bother you with it today. You have enough on your plate.”
“Mother.”
“Alright. I’m sending your brother to Dorne. Aerys, too,” she said bluntly. “That boy was disgracefully disrespectful to me, to his heritage, and to poor Rhaegel. I won’t get into the details but… Dorne will do him good, I’m sure.”
Baelor processed all of this for a long moment. When he looked to the high table, Maekar was watching them, fire in his eyes.
“You struck him?” was all he asked.
“I wish I had not. It is only this wedding…” his mother trailed off, and then shook her head with a smile. One of her cool hands came up to pat his cheek. “My son is married. You seem happy with your bride.”
“I only wish you were happy with her, too,” Baelor said.
“For you, I suppose I shall try to be.”
It was certainly a start. He returned to Jena, who was exactly as he’d left her. Lord Butterwell was talking her ear off about grain subsidies, and she was listening as if it were perfectly interesting. She seemed very good at pretending.
The sun had long set, and even the youngest children had been carted off to bed. Baelor knew what was expected of them now. He could not say that he did not desire her, in that simple way any beautiful woman might catch his attention. Women had been pursuing him since before his voice dropped. Baelor was no stranger to carnal delights, but he had always continued only to a point. He had vowed young to sire no bastards. Even now, his father’s half-siblings were sauntering around the great hall.
Desire was a simple thing, but this, tonight, was not.
Their drunkest guests knew the hour. Cries of, “To bed!” rose up from the back benches. Jena’s face hardly changed, but her shoulders rose up.
Baelor leaned in to whisper. “Their worst threat is noise. I suggest we get the humiliation through with.”
She was very pale, but she nodded. Baelor sent his father a pointed look down the table.
“I believe we have reached that time of the evening!” The king called, and the entire hall erupted in cheers and lewd jokes and the first verses of filthy songs.
The dais was stormed and swarmed, and before Baelor knew it, he was being half-dragged, half-carried by a group of terrifically drunk women. His cousin Elaena wrestled off his surcoat and young Shiera Seastar claimed his boot before they’d even exited the great hall. Ladies he knew to be proper, strangers he’d never said hello to. Baelor did his best to laugh and go along with it, trying to catch a glimpse of Jena through the sea of bodies propelling them towards Maegor’s Holdfast.
“Gentle with my bride!” he called, and hoots went up.
“You’d better not be too gentle!” one of his mother’s ladies shouted at him.
He hoped his brothers were doing their best to protect Jena from the worst of the assaults. He saw Lord Butterwell — who really should not be participating — tear off her garters, and a knight undo the fastening of her bodice. He could not catch sight of her face immediately, but when he did, all of his laughter died. Jena was utterly rigid, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. She was unyielding, but pleading all the same.
Baelor pushed off the hands reaching for his breeches and stood his ground on the bridge covering the moat into Maegor’s. Someone was trying to tug off her skirts. He shoved backwards against the onslaught, pretending to smile, reached out a hand, and grabbed Jena to his bare chest. The sudden move jarred the crowd. They only continued to shout unsavory comments.
Jena’s head was held high, but her cheeks were flaming and he could feel her trembling. Baelor wrapped an arm firmly around her waist so no one could pull her back into the throng. He knew he had to play this off as something other than anger.
“You have had your sport!” Baelor said, but kept his features schooled into amusement. He knew she would not like it, but he swept Jena off her feet and into his arms. “I will finish this properly, in the manner befitting a future queen!”
Seven bless them, it was enough of an excuse. Their enthusiastic crowd followed them all the way to his chambers, screaming and singing all the while. The doors of his solar burst open under the weight of bodies, and one kindly knight took pity and stopped the fools from storming inside. As soon as the doors were shut and locked, he set Jena down.
She was trying not to shake, but her teeth were chattering faintly. They could still hear their guests yelling outside.
“Come with me,” he said gently. “You need water.”
Jena just nodded, perhaps not trusting herself to speak. Baelor wished he knew how to offer better comfort. They had to consummate this marriage tonight, but he would not bed a terrified woman.
The hearth had been lit in his room, and the noise outside was softer. He guided her to a chair and poured her a glass. Watched her drink all of it in several long gulps. When she put it down and wiped her lips, she finally met his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jena said slowly. For what, he could not fathom. Her entire outer dress had been removed, and her stockings. All that was left was her shift, corset, and petticoats. Baelor had only managed to keep his pants. He sank into the seat beside her. “I am well. We may continue.”
“No.”
Her eyes shot back up to him in horror. “Have I misstepped?”
“Of course, not. Jena, I do not wish this to be unpleasant for either of us. Let us sit a moment and catch our breath.” Baelor placed his hand very lightly over hers, and she did not flinch away. Her breathing had evened, and she seemed now more embarrassed by her reaction to the crowd. “I know there are many things expected of us, but we are alone right now. Do not perform for my sake.”
She looked so genuinely confused by that statement that it took him aback. It was a real expression, too. Entirely bare and unpolished. There might have been some anger to it, and alarm. Baelor had the sudden urge to skip forward in time, to the version of himself who might be able to read every little change in her. He could see her thinking, but could only guess at what she was thinking. And then her eyes tracked down his chest, as if just realizing he was half naked.
“I am only nervous,” Jena finally admitted. Something seemed to settle in her. “... And I did not expect you to be so kind. I would not mind… I am glad you are you.”
Those words were another sweet blow, tainted by self-consciousness.
“I know we do not know each other,” Baelor said with a small smile. “But I am glad you are you, too.”
He waited for her to break the silence, watching as her fingers tightened and then relaxed on her skirts.
“Shall we… begin, then?” Her voice was quiet and deliberately measured.
“Are you sure? We will go slowly.”
Jena nodded as she intertwined her hand in his, as they had been joined at the sept hours ago. She stood and pulled him up with her. “Yes.”
It was an agreement. A surrender of trust he had just barely earned. Baelor knew that she was doing this out of duty, not love. Of course, neither of them could feel any love yet. But he hoped that she wanted him as he wanted her. He did not think he could go through with it tonight if she was stiff and dissociating. No, he would not.
“I will guide you,” he promised. “And you must tell me if you do not like or want something.”
Jena’s breath hitched, but she nodded again. “I understand. I want… I want this, Baelor. I do not wish to delay.”
The words were tentative, earnest, and cut just enough through his restraint. Baelor settled a hand on her back and gently guided her toward the bed, but he did not settle them down yet. He nudged one finger under her chin, met her gaze fully, and bent toward her, watching for even the faintest sign of hesitation. Her eyes were on his lips.
Baelor kissed her.
He began as chaste as he had in the sept, but he guided her hands to rest on his chest, and felt how her fingers brushed across his bare skin. Then he tilted her jaw so she slotted better against him, and licked across her mouth. When she gasped a little, he swept in, and her breath hitched and her sternum pressed closer to his. Jena was a quick study. When he did something, she repeated it. Ingrained it.
Baelor disconnected just enough to search her face again. Her skin was flushed, eyes heavy with surprise and arousal. He could see the tremor in her, the mixture of apprehension and excitement. Eagerness wrapped tightly in caution, but a readiness to meet him halfway. Such fragile intimacy.
“Do not be afraid,” Baelor told her. “Just follow me.”
~~
Jena let her husband, the prince, lay her down on his massive four poster bed. She did not know what to think, but that she could not really think at all. Not with his lips moving against hers like that. This was not what her septa warned her about. Not this warm sensation washing through her, the flutters in her stomach.
He is beautiful. Beautiful and mine. Those were her thoughts. Such dangerous, silly thoughts. But how could she disprove herself enough for caution when he was so close? He was only half undressed, but he looked like a statue. Every line of him held loveliness.
She did not know what she was doing, which she usually hated, but she liked whatever he was doing to her, so she just did it right back. Baelor must know how this was meant to go. He stroked the bare skin of her arm, then down her side, stopping at the slope of her hip. She let herself feel the muscles of his abdomen, how they tensed under her gentle touch. Baelor smiled faintly against her mouth.
He rolled her so they were both on their sides, one leg between hers, and moved to kiss down her neck. He was using the vantage point to begin untying the back of her corset. Jena could not help arching into him, into the feeling of his lips. The more she touched him back, the more pleased he seemed.
“Good,” he said, muffled in her skin, when she squeezed his arms just because she could. The word sent an unexpected bolt of sensation through her, pooling somewhere below her gut.
Jena helped him slide off her corset and petticoat, leaving her only in a thin shift. She had expected to feel horribly shy under his attention, but she didn’t. She could not have described what it was that she felt. Not as he reached out a tentative hand and ran it softly down from her collarbone to breast, brushing gently across a peaked nipple.
“You are beautiful,” he told her.
“So are you.”
The words came without thought, but his features widened in surprise. Then he pulled her back down against him into a more passionate kiss. Jena had never been touched in such a way, had never imagined this was a way that people were allowed to touch, had never imagined the feeling to be so sweet. She felt almost drunk on it.
Baelor was pleased with her, too. It was difficult to school her ragged breathing when he was breathing just the same. Looking at her with that same flushed, faint astonishment.
“Still alright?” he asked against her. She nodded. “I need you to use your words.”
Another swoop in her gut. “Yes.”
Jena reached out to cup his face in one hand because she wanted to, and he gave her another kiss.
“You have been told what the marital act entails?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been told it should feel good for you, too?” Baelor’s hand had traced lower on her thigh, rubbing soft circles. She was finding it very difficult to concentrate.
“No, they said it would hurt. But that it might get better.” Her voice sounded strange and breathy in her ears. “If I was lucky.”
He pressed a kiss to the meat of her palm, still cupping his cheek. “I will make sure it does not hurt. I’m going to touch you here.”
All Jena could say was, “Yes.”
He stayed close, examining her reaction while his fingers slid through the wetness between her thighs. It was strange and foreign but not unwelcome. It was exactly where the ache was.
His eyes went wide and he paused, smiling in bewilderment. “Were you waxed?”
Jena immediately felt heat rush to her face.
“The— the castle maids. They bathed me earlier. They said—”
“Seven save them,” he murmured, and pressed another kiss to her jaw. “Was all of the court preparing you as though for ritual sacrifice?”
“They seemed to think you would care,” she said. She brushed a hand across her face as if to brush away the pinkness, but he gently moved it back to his shoulder.
“Do not hide from me now. I most certainly do not care. Come however you prefer.” Baelor kissed her again, tongue meeting hers, and began to resume his ministrations. When Jena gasped into his mouth, startled from the sensations, he smiled. “There now. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she sighed out. It was very good, like warm little bolts of lightning.
“You like that word.” He began to dip a finger inside her, holding her gently still when she squirmed. “Relax, I’ve got you.”
Somehow, she did relax, like all she needed was his direction. She had never been able to master herself so well before. She matched Baelor’s deep, even breathing until she let out the most odd, embarrassing noise as he slid in a second finger, still touching that spot at the apex of her thighs. Jena buried her face in his shoulder, mortified.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
He muffled her words with a kiss. “Don’t apologize. I like the sounds you make.”
Just those words drew another moan from her. Baelor’s pupils were blown wide. He seemed to get pleasure just from watching her reactions. His touches below kept the same slow, steady pace. Jena liked something about that lack of urgency. Like he could lie here all night and just watch her fall further apart. What in seven hells was happening to her?
“I feel—” she cut herself off, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut. There was a strange, overwhelming sensation building. She panted roughly.
“I know, I can feel you,” Baelor said, breath hot against her. “It’s alright, just follow it. Just like that.”
The feelings crested all at once, all consuming. He mouthed kisses into her neck and muttered praises, and she gripped his back for purchase. Baelor kept touching her through it, until she was shaking and nearly pushing him away because the feeling had grown too sharp.
Jena remained clinging to him, breathing hard, unable to look at him. Baelor brushed fingers through her hair and pushed her head back against the pillow.
“Gods,” she breathed. “I am lucky after all.”
He brushed his nose against hers, hands still trailing hot and gentle down her sides. “Your education was lacking.”
“I know there’s more,” Jena said. And she found herself desperately wanting more.
Baelor let out a breath that was half laugh, but there was some strain to it. Maybe he felt that same feeling building in himself. Maybe he was not as confident as he seemed. His eyes were dark with want. Want for her.
“Yes,” he said.
~~
Baelor was nearly spellbound with desire.
“But slowly,” he told her.
Slowly, he almost wanted to scoff at himself. He was so hard it was painful, as if all of the blood usually in his head had rushed down. But he would be as patient as a septon.
There was something about watching her discovery that he found incredibly erotic. That he had such power, and held such careful trust in his hands. Jena was so responsive. After a day of rigid duty, he had never imagined his bride would meet him with so much openness.
“Can I take this off?” Baelor asked, pushing at the shift that had bunched up at her waist.
“Please.”
The word sent a jolt straight to his groin, even better than ‘yes’. And her voice as she said it, lower and grittier than it had ever been during the day. He pulled the garment over her head and tossed it to the side.
Baelor allowed himself a moment to take her in. He wanted to explore every dip and curve. He wanted to chase the blush that spread down to her shoulders and breasts with his tongue. He wanted to squeeze the flesh at her hips and lick the skin between her thighs. He wanted to pull her hair.
He did absolutely none of these things. She was watching him watch her, dazed but with a hint of wariness creeping back into her gaze.
“You’re perfect,” he said, and kissed her, and she moaned into his mouth. Gods, he wasn’t even touching her. Was it really his words that elicited such a reaction? “Still with me?”
He already knew the answer from the way she clung to him. But still, she said, “Yes.”
He did tell her to use her words. Oh, seven hells, he could not finish in his pants. He tried to imagine something unpleasant to calm down, but he didn’t have it in himself.
Baelor kissed her slowly as he undid the laces of his breeches. He took his sweet time until her breath was hitching again, and her fingers were curling into his biceps. By the time he kicked his final garments to the floor, her eyes were glazed again.
It was his turn to be taken in, naked as the day he was born. Her mouth dropped open a bit. Of all the things Jena could have said, he did not expect, “You look like a painting.”
Baelor blinked, caught off guard. It touched something deep and unexpected, some secret fear that she would find him too Dornish, as the rest of court often seemed to. But no, she said he was beautiful, and like a painting. Those were not the standard fare of compliments to give a man. They meant something more.
He leaned forward, letting her words sink in as he kissed her again and pressed her back until she was lying down. He settled atop her gently, resting between her thighs.
Baelor reached between them to touch her again as he had before. Jena jolted a bit, still oversensitive. He took it slow, watching as her expression turned into something open and broken, staring up at him. A sudden, traitorous thought, a bit of an experiment, came to his lips before he could stop it. He whispered against her, “Good girl.”
Her eyes went wide and her entire body shivered, and he began to press into her. It was agony to keep his hips from canting forward. His entire body tensed as he rocked further inside of the unbearably sweet heat between her legs. Baelor kept touching her to ease the burn and glanced kisses across her cheeks.
He froze for a heartbeat, just to feel her, to memorize the small shivers and tremors racing through her. Every gasp at the flick of his fingers. Baelor drew back and pressed in, letting the blaze of desire between them pull him forward without overtaking his reason.
Jena’s head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, mouth open. “Oh.”
“You like that, huh?” Baelor said, mouthing open kisses across her lips. “Does that feel good?”
“Yes.” She nodded desperately, panting. She was making the most gorgeous sounds. “Yes, you feel good.”
A moan tore from his own chest. “Fuck.”
Baelor slowed just enough to watch her, the rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
“Look at me,” he told her, voice rough with need. Her lashes lifted, eyes shining, and he saw how completely she had abandoned herself to the feelings, to him. It made his restraint almost unbearable. He pressed in again, letting her adjust to the rhythm, teasing the edge of her pleasure without sending her over yet, whispering her name with each stroke. “Do you feel it coming again?”
Baelor settled a hand on her lower abdomen with just enough pressure.
She whimpered. “Mhm.”
“Words.” He must have lost his mind, but he couldn't care. He could feel the tantalizing beginning of his release, just past his reach. Jena shook her head. “I know you can do it.”
“Yes, yes, yes, I feel it, yes,” she babbled into his mouth. “Please, Baelor. Please.”
His own speech was nearly incoherent, forehead pressed roughly to hers. “Yeah. Just like that, come on, just like—”
He came with a muffled cry at the first rippling clench of her around him. His entire mind went blank, his body taut as he gasped into her skin, her moans still breathy and sweet in his ear. He had never finished so hard in his life. When they both stilled, his heart was pounding.
Baelor allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, to catch his runaway mind. He was actually stunned, like someone had struck him and knocked away his air. He knew himself to be an indulgent lover, but this? This was something new. Jena had surprised him in ways he could never have imagined.
He remained pressed against her as the aftershocks ebbed. Her hands were still in his hair, tentative now, trembling slightly.
“I’ve got you,” he told her, finding his voice. He raised just enough to meet her gaze. Shyness and alarm swam in her eyes. They were still strangers in so many ways. Jena seemed actually speechless now, but he could not blame her.
Slowly, Baelor peeled himself off of her. She hissed sharply as he pulled out. The sight of the mess he had left between her legs was almost enough to make him hard again, but he shook away the thought. He should get her a towel, or have someone draw a bath, but for the moment his legs were too weak to stand.
He rolled onto his own pillow, still panting slightly. She did not move toward him, but her eyes kept flickering over and then away. Her brow was furrowed.
“Are you well?” he asked, and dared to reach a hand out for her. Gods, he prayed she was.
Jena nodded faintly, then blushed anew as she caught herself. Still following his directions. Holy Father above have mercy. When she spoke, her voice was very matter-of-fact. “I don’t know what just happened. Is that how it’s supposed to happen?”
Baelor couldn’t help his smile. “I think that was a good deal better than standard fare, but… yes. You enjoyed it?”
“Did I—” she cut herself off with a little laugh, then clamped down on a smile. It made her whole face soften. “Yes, Your Grace— Baelor.”
It was so charming he pressed another chaste kiss to her lips. She seemed a bit embarrassed, a bit self-conscious as she pulled the covers up over them both. But not, he thought, embarrassed by her enjoyment of his direction. He wasn’t sure she was even fully aware of what she’d done.
“Won’t you lie with me?” Baelor asked, extending an arm.
on one of smajors vods bf!scott says "her attitude reminds me of mum sometimes" or smth and a chatter later on says "accidentally calls graecie mom" and now. i can't. I cant stop thinking of that happening and I need more people to notice them. this is getting long theres more under the cut if youre interested
the names under the cut: lily duo, lightspear duo, nature duo(eeehh..)[edit] elf duo, pinkpetal duo, eavesdrop duo
would lily duo work? mainly cause scott was the one that gave graecie the lily of the valley in the starting stream (which lead to waterlily thryre so peak)
or like.
nature duo?? mmm nooooe prolly not
elf duo wouldn't work because theres four(? Eloise, scott, shan, and graecie i think) elves in the blue kingdom [edit] shan and eloise arent elves!!! IM A FOOL. Shan is a different species but pretends to be an elf and eloise is a swan avian (i counted her as an elf since she has the ears, but i was wrong! avians do not count as anything other than avian! that is on me I apologize)
urrhhh maybeee.... lightspear duo? uhcause of graecies spear and dcotts light magic
idk im lwky bad at making duo names i made one good one (cat tail duo) and gave up 🙁 if you have any ideas PLEASE share...
edit: people in the replies have shared these names; Pinkpetal duo (on account of im assuming bf!graecie loving pink and scott working with petals) and eavesdrop duo (on account of them both eavesdropping on mae owain and 4C(?I think he was there too i cant remember tho) when mae was crowned!!^.^)
It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART TWO
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: 5k
AO3 | PREVIOUS | NEXT
CW: sex, soft dom!Baelor, praise kink, overthinking (they are both a bit stupid)
~
What the fuck?
That was Jena’s thought when she woke long before dawn with Baelor Targaryen’s arm around her. She even mouthed the question aloud in the darkness. His breath was deep with sleep, tickling the back of her neck on every exhale. The feeling of him pressed close seemed a luxury.
Jena felt as if the entire world had been ripped out from under her feet. Of course, in many ways it had. She had been uprooted from Blackhaven, deposited in King’s Landing, and married to a future king. All of that was somehow not as shocking as what had taken place in this bed a few hours ago.
She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and let her fingers trace the line of his arm. He hummed a bit, mindlessly nuzzling into her but not coming to awareness.
What did she feel? It was difficult to pin down. Giddy, stupefied, disbelieving, apprehensive, possessive. Feelings she had never expected to feel after her wedding night. The sensations he had wrought from her with his body and words still lingered in soreness. An ache on both levels.
Also, a shame that made her cheeks burn. Jena knew she had done well tonight, but she could not help but feel completely exposed. She had never lost her composure so thoroughly. And yet, the memory of surrendering to him sent a thrill through her. When he was touching her, praising her, all of the mess inside her brain had just… stopped.
The second time Jena woke, Baelor was gone. She was normally such a light sleeper. How had he managed to slip out? His absence smarted, but Jena tamped it down. Her husband was a prince. This was precisely why she must not lose her sense for him completely. Even if he ever liked her truly, he would belong first to the realm. She had seen the dangers of love mixed with duty very well in her parents’ marriage.
Two maids came in to bathe her and dress her for the day in an elaborate, heavy blue gown. Princess, they called her.
Jena was taken to her own separate rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast. There was an airiness to the space that Baelor’s had lacked. Things from home had been arranged for her. Knowing that their permanent residence would be Dragonstone, it still felt superficial.
Jena hosted her family for breakfast in her own new solar. They all greeted her with enthusiasm and congratulations, but she felt strange. They all knew what she had done last night. Could they see it on her? Was that judgment in their eyes?
“But Dorne is so far away! I want to go to Dorne,” Serafina said.
Most of their conversation had revolved around Roland’s appointment as Maekar Targaryen’s squire and the subsequent news that the prince would be spending the next six months across the continent.
“Perhaps you will go to Dorne, Carrot,” Jena told her. “But not next week.”
Their father was making a face. She knew that the last thing he wanted was to send his youngest boy into the halls of their greatest ancient enemy, but it was peacetime. And it was not as if he could object.
“Can I come with you to Dragonstone, then?”
“After I’ve settled in, I’d be delighted for your company. Though we will not move their instantly.”
“What’s the prince like?” Manfred interrupted. He was drowning his hotcakes in syrup.
“He is…” Gods, what was he? How had he unraveled her so quickly? “Kind.”
“I am glad to hear it,” their father said. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll remain so.”
It was a hollow threat, but it made Jena smile. She worried for her father returning to Blackhaven without her. Since her mother died birthing Serafina, she had taken on nearly all of the duties of the Lady of the house. Without her, he might be forced to remarry, and Jena thought that very well might break him.
After breakfast she was given a tour of the gardens, then the library. A seamstress came to take her measurements for court gowns, she was given a list of guilds and charities she might donate her monthly stipend to and presented with a number of extravagant wedding gifts that hadn’t made yesterday’s pile. When Jena asked when she might see the rest of King’s Landing, the steward laughed as though she had made a charming jest. She did not ask again.
Queen Myriah, her good mother, called on her for a late afternoon tea. Jena’s pulse was racing when she was announced at the door to the queen’s solar. The room was warmer than she expected, rich with the smell of incense. Queen Myriah sat near a window in rust colored silk, a cup poised between elegant fingers. She did not rise.
“Princess Jena,” the queen said.
“Your Grace, thank you for having me.” Jena sank into a curtsy. Myriah had seemed apprehensive with her at the wedding, and she knew this was not simply a courtesy call. Like every single other thing in Jena’s life now, it was a test.
“You are on your way to surviving your first day in your new title,” she said at last. “Sit.”
Jena did as she was told. A maid poured tea, and Myriah watched the motion rather than Jena herself, which somehow made the scrutiny worse. On every account save her Dornish birth, the queen was beloved. It would be good to take after her.
“My son tells me you are clever,” the queen said.
Jena carefully mixed in milk and sugar. “He is very kind to say so.”
“One of his strongest suits. You will see I have a son who is too soft and two who are hard and cold. My eldest teeters right on the edge.”
“I have not had the privilege of speaking much with the other princes, Your Grace,” she said. The queen’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re proper as a daisy patch, aren’t you? You’ll need some mettle to survive this life, dear.”
Jena bristled inwardly with offense, but was careful it could not show. She set down her spoon and took a slow sip of tea. She took the moment to cycle through possibilities. Perhaps the queen was trying to provoke her, trying to see how she reacted to unease.
“I haven’t a preference for daisies,” she said. “But they have their time and place, do they not? No one was ever offended by a daisy.”
That earned the faintest shift of the queen’s mouth. “You will eventually offend someone no matter how softly you speak… I have lived in this city under three kings, now. One of them would have seen my head on a spike if he had his way. My sons' heads, too.”
This was an old political wound, then. Jena should have expected this disapproval; the lords of the marches and the Dornish kings had been fighting since time immemorial.
“Then it is good that King Aegon IV is gone, Your Grace, and your husband reigns.” A fine answer, diplomatic but not sycophantic. Temperate.
“On that, we agree. Do you know why you were picked to marry my son, Jena?”
Queen Myriah was so direct. A long time ago, maybe she’d been as unsure as Jena was now, but it was difficult to imagine. She must be a bit more direct back.
“The Crown needs the approval of the Stormlands and marcher lords,” she said. “And I am Lord Dondarrion’s eldest. Not too old, but old enough that no one need coddle me. I can read, count sums, and I know how to sit still.”
Myriah laughed a little. “So your head isn’t in the clouds. That’s good. My match with Daeron was also a political move between rival forces. But in your case, it is Baelor who is the weaker party.”
“Your Grace?” Baelor was the crown prince. She was just his wife.
“So much is allowed to fester unspoken here. My feelings for this match aside, I will not let you be thrust in blind. There are old whispers, ugly ones, that my husband is not his father’s trueborn heir, and that his bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre should sit the Iron Throne. You are an appeasement, so you must be a good one. Baelor needs your protection.”
It was nearly absurd, both in content and abruptness. “Because he is your son?”
“He does not look like a Targaryen,” Myriah said simply, a hint of true despair in her eyes. “I cannot truly dispute the political saliency of your marriage. You must do more than provide heirs. I am one of the few queens that has ever sat with her husband on the small council. You too must engage. Identify enemies of Baelor who might be loyal to you, and win them over. Use your power. Do you understand me?”
Jena had been trained in riding, in letter-writing, and in the lute. Her whole life, she had watched her father treat with his bannermen, though. She thought herself a rather gifted negotiator, but she did not want to be seen as cunning at court. It would be a fine edge to walk.
She had expected the queen to greet her with cold courtesy or, at worst, give her a dressing down. Not this.
“I understand, Your Grace,” Jena said. “I will observe, and I will learn. I appreciate your candid guidance.”
Myriah’s gaze softened. “Observe, yes, but do not be timid. The smallfolk, the lords, even your husband — do not let them see your fear.”
Jena nodded again, though her stomach twisted. She had not prepared for this, and she thought she had prepared for everything. How quickly this family was dragging her into deep water. The weight of her role pressed down on her, but she would rise to the challenge. She had always risen to every challenge.
“Good,” Myriah said at last, and took another sip. “Do not disappoint me, Princess. And do not disappoint Baelor… That is far more important.”
“I will not.”
~~
It amazed Baelor that the council had spent so many weeks panicking about his nuptials, and now that they were over, it was as if they never happened. Onto the next issue. It was a good thing, really, but he had been so aggravated over their insistence on indulgent spending that he was taken aback by their lack of reflection.
The week was passing very quickly. With so many important lords still in the city, he was stuck in meetings nearly every hour. Baelor had been his father’s cupbearer since King Aegon IV died, but he had grown to become as good as a second Hand. He currently possessed no title on the small council, though he was privately hoping the king might grant him Master of Laws in the future.
Baelor was so overwhelmed with work he hardly saw his new bride. They dined together every night with both of their families, but he had not been able to catch her alone. Jena certainly seemed well. At dinner, she asked about his day and told him of hers, and spoke pleasantly with Rhaegel, who seemed a bit enamored with her.
Baelor found he could not fully enjoy these events, though. Not with Maekar sulking and snapping, and his mother either watching her youngest son or Baelor’s bride like a hawk.
It was a full four days after his wedding, and the sun had long set, when his father finally snapped him out of his trance.
“Your eyes might turn to jelly if you stay reading any longer,” the king told him. Baelor was in his father’s private workroom, poring over papers.
“You are one to speak, kepa.”
“Yes, but I am allowed to be a hypocrite with my son. Do as I say, not as I do.” Daeron leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh. “Is there a reason you’re avoiding your new wife?”
The question hit him square in the chest.
Was he avoiding Jena? He had not thought so, but perhaps he was. Their first night together had jarred him more deeply than he could say. He was afraid to overwhelm her with more. He was afraid that he did not know what to expect of himself when he was with her. He was… afraid?
“I am sure she is exhausted,” Baelor said smoothly. “She is adjusting to a new life. And I know she enjoys her peace.”
His father made a low sound in his throat that suggested he was unconvinced. “She married into this family, Baelor. She will have to learn to go without some peace.”
“I will not be the one to take that from her.” His voice was sharp where he had not meant it to be. Baelor sighed.
“You might bring her solace,” Daeron said gently. “You seem to like one another fine, but you must know one another, too. Knowledge is the backbone of any strong marriage. The realm needs your marriage to be strong.”
That stung sharp through his clouded senses. He pushed his parchments away and rubbed at his sore temples. “I did not mean to neglect her.” Or the realm.
“I am not accusing you of anything. There is no shame in feeling unsettled by this change, Baelor. But if you mean to be a good husband, do not let her mistake your caution for indifference. You will do yourself no favors by hiding.”
He thought of Jena at supper. Always composed, always polite, asking after his day with no trace of grievance. Baelor had not thought much more deeply than her easy smile until now.
“Thank you, kepa. I will go to her.” Baelor stood and pressed a small kiss to the crown of his father’s head.
“Good. I should like to hold my first grandchild soon.”
Baelor shot Daeron a scandalized smile and slipped out into the darkness of the hall. He had not been to Jena’s rooms yet, but he knew the way well. Walking through Maegor’s Holdfast, he spotted the giggling figures of Brynden Rivers and Shiera Seastar before they dashed quickly around a corner. Those two could not be up to anything good.
He stayed the course. He hoped he would not be unwelcome after his absence. But when he reached the door and raised a hand to knock, he heard voices inside. There was light spilling out from underneath.
“Crack! Screamed the thunder, again and again!” It was Jena’s voice, as he had never heard it. Baelor tilted his head so he could peer through the tiny crack in the ajar door. He caught sight of her standing, arms spread wide. All four of her siblings were gathered around, some holding props. “All of the keep and all of their guests were pulled into the wrath of the sea, but Elenei protected Durran from the gods’ rage.”
Jena had loosened since supper. Her hair was half down, spilling over her shoulders as she paced before her family like a player before a court audience. Little Serafina clutched a blanket around her shoulders like a maiden's cloak. Even Manfred, seventeen years of age, was smiling.
“Durran raised a new castle in defiance,” Jena declared. She swept one hand toward the hearth. “And the gods sent winds so fierce they tore it down before dawn!”
Roland shrieked obligingly and toppled sideways onto a settee. Baelor meant to enter, to show himself, but he did not. He watched his wife laugh as he had never seen her laugh, a smile that took up her whole face and showed her teeth and crinkled her eyes. He watched the way she teased her brothers and kicked them back when they kicked her. “Burton, I can and will slap you. Listen to the story. Then the seventh castle—”
A traitorous laugh escaped Baelor’s lips. Jena stopped. Manfred turned first and spotted him peeking through the doorway.
“Your Grace,” Jena said a bit breathlessly. Her face remained bright, but her joy was rapidly being spooled inward. He did not want that.
“Forgive me, please do not stop on my account. I did not mean to interrupt the tale of Storm’s End,” Baelor said as he stepped in fully. The Dondarrions stood to bow and curtsy, but he shook his head. “Be at ease.”
“I did not expect you.”
“No, I imagine not.” Baelor found an empty chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. All five of them stared at him. “Well, won’t you finish the story?”
“You cannot disobey your husband, Jena,” Manfred said, smirking. Jena looked like she wanted to throw a pillow at him.
She did continue the tale, though with a touch less wild theatricality. She told them of the children of the forest and Bran the Builder, and Durran and Elenei’s thousand years of peaceful rule. Her siblings must have heard the tale countless times, but they were rapt with attention.
“You could rule for a thousand years and defy the gods with your love!” Serafina sighed happily. She jumped to her feet and began practically dancing around her older sister. “It’s so romantic. I could just die, it’s so romantic. Oh, Your Grace, when I was a baby, Jena would be Elenei and Manfred would be Durran and they would build this castle out of sticks—”
“Alright, Carrot,” Jena caught her shoulders and settled her in place. “The prince does not want to hear of that, I’m sure.”
“I do,” Baelor said.
Her eyes lingered on him, but she pushed ahead. “It is very much past your bedtimes—”
Shouts of, “I don’t have a bedtime anymore—”, and “you promised to tell about Garth Greenhand!”
“Off with you,” Jena said in a tone that brokered no argument. Baelor watched her shoo them out the door, stopping to ruffle Roland’s hair and kiss Serafina on the cheek. When she finally put the latch in place, she remained with her back to him for a long moment. She turned but did not look at him, instead going to pick up the pillows scattered about.
“You need not straighten up on my account,” Baelor said.
“It will need to happen eventually.” She stacked two cushions atop one another, then set them side by side with needless precision.
“They seemed happy.”
“They will not be for long,” Jena said. “My family departs in two days. Then, Roland with your brother to Dorne. Apparently, Prince Maekar has refused a ship and is charting a course over the Red Mountains.”
Which was a far more dangerous journey, she did not have to say. Baelor watched her not look at him.
“I am sorry I did not visit you here sooner,” he said softly.
She finally turned to him, but he could not read her. “You are the crown prince. I assumed your time belonged elsewhere.”
Baelor couldn’t think of a meaningful response to that. Instead, he allowed himself to study the room. He knew that many of her things had been sent to Dragonstone separately, even though she had never even seen the place. Still, there were purple flowers on the table and her dress strewn over a chair.
“Are you enjoying King’s Landing?” he asked. Jena nodded, gentling a bit as she kicked the rug back into place.
“I told you I am.”
“At dinner. Now we are alone.”
Again, something sparked in her eyes. Challenge and alertness all in one. She swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Baelor,” he reminded, and he thought a faint pinkness rose in her cheeks. They were completely alone, and he had spent the past days trying not to be consumed by what happened the last time they were completely alone. He stood and approached her slowly, watching her careful scrutiny. “You are a gifted storyteller.”
“They have heard the tale since they were small,” Jena said. “They know where to gasp and yell. It makes my job very easy.”
“Was there a reason you gathered them tonight?”
She shrugged a bit. “There might not ever be another chance with us all.”
He could not say she was not right. Still, Baelor saw the pain she was trying to mask. He felt suddenly guilty for interrupting. See, Father? I have shattered her peace. He wanted to see her smile as she had before, unguarded and joyful.
“I am glad you took it. The chance,” he said. “I am glad that you cherish your family.”
“As you cherish yours.”
Baelor reached for her hand, lightly stroking her palm before taking her fingers. Her stare was heavy.
“You are all drawn taut.” He kissed the side of her hand, her fingers.
“I am well.”
“Don’t lie.” Baelor stroked her hair off her neck and ran a thumb along her quick pulse. “Not to me.”
Jena’s breath snagged. “I am merely adjusting.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Baelor almost brushed his nose against hers, but held back, letting the air heat between them. Her fingers tightened on his. Her words said one thing — calm, cool, collected — and her body said another. He could already feel his pants tightening. “Adjusting to me?”
Her throat moved beneath his thumb, and she wet her lips. When she looked at him like this, with this bare want, he thought he could finally see her. “To all of it… and you.”
“That’s good.” He meant the words casually, but her eyes dropped to his mouth. Praise, he thought, that’s what she likes. Or at least the memory of the praise he’d given her in bed. Either way, she responded to it, and Baelor would be all too happy to deliver. “You’re doing well here. Can I show you how well you’re doing?”
~~
Jena’s breath hitched. She tried to speak, tried to say something adequate, but her words dissolved on her tongue. She was so attracted to him, to his height and warmth and eyes and hands and waist and shoulders, that it was almost painful. She felt needy.
“Hm?” he prompted, ghosting his lips against hers again.
“Yes,” she said. She had to do her marital duty, didn’t she? This could not be a sin. “Show me.”
Baelor smiled as he gave her a proper kiss. His hands found her waist. Instead of pushing her toward the bed, he guided her backwards to her settee. Jena sat heavily, but Baelor did not follow her down. He braced one arm on the headrest as he kissed her deeply, tongue languid and hot against her own.
Seven above, she had spent all week trying to forget this and longing to remember it. And now that it was happening again, she could not think of anything but him. Not him in the abstract, but him immediately. Him touching her.
And then the prince dropped to his knees. Jena peered at him in bewilderment, one hand resting on his shoulder. Baelor tossed up her skirts and pulled down her smallclothes.
“What are you—”
“Just relax, Jena,” he said, and swung one of her knees to rest over his shoulder. He pressed a finger up to her lips, silencing her, before lowering his head. “Let me show you.”
He kissed the inside of her thigh and she flinched, and then his tongue was on her. Jena gasped and flung a hand out to grip his hair. His touch was a slow, deliberate pressure that made her knees weak. She could not even be embarrassed at what he was doing, at how she was already dripping for him.
“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, head tilting back before she could censor herself. Baelor’s hands went to her hips, steadying her, grounding her even as he stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue moved on her, wet and steady and hot.
What had he said? That this was him showing her how well she was doing? Jena moaned again, pulling at his hair, and the groan he gave her in response made her entire body buzz. He nipped and sucked and used his tongue to do filthy things. She felt like she was melting.
Jena had not been alone with her husband since their wedding night. She had instead spent her evenings imagining some slight she had done to drive him away, and now here he was. She buckled so quickly under his attention. The heir to the throne was on his knees for her. Baelor pushed her skirts to the side so she could see him work. Seven have mercy.
“Do you like this?” He murmured the question, voice low and rough as he continued to trace her with his mouth. His hands slid up her thighs, kneading lightly at her skin. Jena stroked a hand through his hair.
“Oh, yes,” she told him. Baelor continued to lick her, holding her eyes with unforgiving attention. Jena felt herself slipping. Part of her reveled in the loss of control, in being able to do nothing but hold onto him. “Yes, Baelor.”
“So responsive,” he said. “All for me.”
Jena bit her lip. “All for you.”
Something flashed across his face, shock and bare lust. He tasted her with a new fervor, making her gasp and arch and cant her hips up. Any thoughts vanished into the warmth of sensation, the heady, consuming pressure of him and his undivided attention. He did not pause his ministrations to talk, but he reached up a hand to squeeze her own, and she knew what he wanted. She tipped over the edge, thighs clenching around his head as she rode out her high. A high and breathy sound tore from her throat.
Baelor pressed a kiss to her knee, then rose up just enough to catch her mouth as she bent forward to meet him. Jena could taste herself on his tongue. She did not want to pull away, to speak. She hated how quickly her mind returned once sensation loosened its hold. She did not want to remember herself.
But Baelor did. He pulled back to examine her, and she felt far more exposed than she had been moments ago. Jena almost adjusted her legs for modesty.
“The… The septas did not mention that, either,” she mumbled. Baelor laughed a little. He looked dazed.
“They would be very odd septas if they did.” He shook his head and crawled up to join her on the seat. It was long and deep enough for both of them. Jena enjoyed the feeling of being pushed down by his weight.
“Here?” She asked.
“Do you want to move to the bed?”
Jena shook her head. She liked being here, having to crowd together to not fall off, being caged in by his arms.
She liked even more how he kissed her, how she could feel his hardness pressing into her thigh. How he lowered her bodice to suck on her breasts and smiled when she gasped.
“Is it always like this?” Jena asked, gripping his face in her hands to get him to look at her again.
“Spit.”
His hand was hovering by her mouth, rings catching the light. Jena did without question. Baelor looked entranced, half-possessed. He used what she’d given him to coat his cock and pushed into her.
The stretch was delicious, there was no other word for it. Her leg on the couch’s back was up nearly to her shoulder. It made the angle deeper. Her nails dug into him.
“No,” Baelor answered. He thrust into her close, keeping their skin flush together. “No, it’s not. You have no idea how good you feel.”
Jena wanted, and she did not have the strength to deny herself. She whispered, “Tell me.”
He shuddered against her. His mouth brushed hers, then her jaw, breath uneven.
“Warm and soft and—” Baelor cut himself off, brow tilting into hers as his eyes squeezed shut. “Perfect.”
Jena loved that word. It made her clench around him, and oh, he did like that. She felt stunned again. By her own pliancy, her own confidence, and by how affected he was by her. Her prince, her husband.
Jena pulled at his hair as he moved in her, trying to stifle her moans into his mouth. He fixed a bruising hand around her hip.
“I can’t hear you,” he said. Who was she to deny him? Not as he sped his movements, making her throw her head back in abandon. “Just like that. So pretty.”
“Oh, seven,” Jena groaned out. It was more to herself than anything. Nothing should be allowed to feel this good. She raked her hands down his back, stroking the nape of his neck as she panted against the side of his face. Felt the tremors of his muscles.
“You like it when I’m making you feel good?”
“Yes.”
Baelor was unrelenting in his pace, one arm curled around her head as he pressed kisses to her neck. Jena began shifting her hips to meet him, driving him even further.
“Fuck,” he grunted, attention dipped down between them. “I can see myself. So deep inside you, ñuha jorrāeliarzy.”
Jena wasn’t sure what it was that did it. The High Valyrian she didn’t understand, but lit a fire under her skin, or that he was right — she could see him as he drove into her, bulging in her abdomen. But her eyes rolled back in her head as she came — ”Oh, good girl — ah—” and she felt Baelor spilling inside of her, warmth sliding down the insides of her thighs.
Their movements slowed, but they did not part. They both trembled with the aftershocks, staring at each other. He licked her lips, and she chased her head up to meet him. Baelor pressed his forehead to hers, one hand spread at the back of her neck.
Jena could still feel the pounding of her own pulse. That strange looseness in her limbs that made her feel unlike herself. It was dangerous, perhaps, how easily he could do this to her.
Baelor drew back first. There was a flush high in his cheeks, and his hair was disordered where she had pulled. That she had done that gave her an absurd little thrill. He looked tired and pleased in equal measure.
“You look surprised,” he said softly.
Jena swallowed. “Should I not be?”
“I think I am a little surprised, too.”
She laughed briefly, breathlessly. “At what?”
“You. Of course, you.” Baelor smiled and rolled off her. “Do you want a bath?”
It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART SEVEN
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: 4.1k
AO3 | PREVIOUS | NEXT
CW: Filthy smut involving a certain table
~
The whole castle was joyous with the official news of Spring. All across the realm, balls and feasts would be held to celebrate the event. Dragonstone was no different.
Volcanic flowers had been hung in grand garlands all around the palace. The air was fragrant and sweet. Lesser lords and ladies poured in from all around Blackwater Bay to join the festivities, bringing gifts of food to share for feasts.
Jena, who had been given more fine colorful cloth than she could make use of from the Essosi ships in harbor, enjoyed the change in season. She was allowed to casually dress in the light hues of spring and summer for the first time in years.
There were daffodils coming up. Purple lupines carpeted the barren plains of the northern half of the isle. Buds were breaking in the small cranberry bog in Aegon’s Garden, where she liked to stroll. The tips of the evergreens caught the sunlight in such a lovely way that she wanted to paint a landscape. But she would not bring her art into view of others. That was one thing she must keep for herself.
In the endless parade of people, Jena hardly had time to think of herself at all. Her only needs were occasionally eating and sleeping. Everything else in her mind was secondary. She said this to Baelor. She was trying to go out of her way to give him her thoughts, but that was difficult when she had no time to form them.
Everyone on Dragonstone seemed to be in such high spirits that she had just begun to let her guard down when reality came to slap her in the face. Three days after her unfortunate breakdown over Lady Swann, Jena walked into her own solar and found it full of women.
She cut off whatever she had been saying to Ser Selmy and quickly catalogued the scene. All of the Dragonstone regulars, plus many guests, including Lady Swann, were having tea. Even her own ladies were present. The chatter cut off, and she could not read their expressions.
Had she missed an engagement? No, Ser Selmy would have known. She had just finished a meeting with her painting master. Jena quickly clasped her dirty hands behind her back and plastered a smile on.
“Your Grace!” Daenora stood from her seat with an easy smile. She was wearing the most gorgeous pewter silk gown and enough jewels for the citadel. Her platinum curls hung down her back. “We were just saying how kind of you it was to gather us all. The castle has felt so lively of late.”
A soft murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
“I—” Jena blinked quickly. “Of course. I am glad you could all come.”
She forced herself to claim the only open seat between Daenora and Lady Celtigar. She also forced herself not to meet Mya River’s questioning gaze, because then her face would reveal all.
“Have you been well, Princess?” Larra Celtigar asked. She took a delicate sip of tea. “I wondered if you meant to join us sooner, since your summons came at noon.”
Noon? That was an hour ago at least. Jena reached for a cloth to wipe the paint from her fingers, and she was sure the other women tracked it. So not only was she atrociously late to a function she had no clue was happening, but she had spent that time painting. It reflected very poorly on her priorities.
“You are kind to ask. No, not unwell, only occupied,” Jena said.
“Just so,” Daenora said quickly, as if relieved. “We would never presume otherwise. Only you have taken on so much at once. It is only natural that things slip.”
Ah. Jena accepted a teacup and saucer from a servant and crossed one leg over the other. It was very clear to her what had happened here.
“Things have not slipped, my lady. It is only that Dragonstone has so much to offer.”
“Of course not,” Daenora spoke softly now, but not softly enough that others could not eavesdrop. “You mustn’t think we mind waiting. It has been such a pleasure to sit together. We took the liberty of beginning without you, so you would not feel pressured to rush.”
Her gaze flickered briefly, pointedly, down at Jena’s hands. There was still paint under her nails.
There were very few times in her life that she had felt the urge for violence. Now, Jena was having a vision of upending her teacup onto Daenora’s pretty head.
“That is so very thoughtful of you, Lady Velaryon,” Jena said coolly. “As is this lovely gathering. It was your idea, no?”
Daenora nodded demurely, but there was something else in her eyes. Jena was certain she had arranged this charade to make a fool of her. But why? Just petty social cruelty? Most women would not dare make an enemy of a future queen, and Daenora did not seem stupid.
Jena managed to wrangle the event under control by directing the conversation elsewhere. She let the usual small talk wash over her while her mind spun. When at last she was able to dismiss them all, Jena held Lady Caron back.
“Shireen, a moment?” Jena asked and led her eldest lady-in-waiting into the bedroom for privacy as the servants cleaned up. She shut the door tight behind them. “I did not call for that gathering.”
Shireen made a small tsk. “I began to suspect as much… I apologize that I did not question the invitation.”
“Why should you have? Who would be so brazen as to falsify such a thing?” Jena put her hands on her hips and stared out of the window overlooking the purple fields. Lady Caron was Queen Myriah’s implant to her circle, it was true, but the woman had never given Jena a reason to distrust her. “If Lady Velaryon is attempting to provoke me or undermine me, to what end? It cannot be just for the sake of it.”
Shireen hesitated. “She is the daughter of a man who has served here for years. She may feel she has a certain degree of protection.”
“And?” Jena pressed. She could sense there was something else. “Speak freely and give me your counsel.”
“I believe that when they were small children, she and your husband shared affection. Play nonsense, you understand. But Lady Velaryon may be resentful of your match,” she said.
A stone sank in Jena’s gut. She could not appear insecure, but she took a very deep breath, ribs straining against her corset.
“She could not have truly expected to wed the heir to the throne,” Jena said.
“Velaryons have wed heirs before. And she has the Valyrian features that some may have advised King Daeron to prioritize when seeking a match for his eldest,” Lady Caron spoke matter-of-factly.
Jena sighed through her teeth and flexed her jaw. The match was considered quite seriously, then, for Shireen to offer it up so plainly. She could see the calculations: how to appease the realm of their anti-Dornish angst? The beautiful Valyrian or the stern marcher bride? Jena had won out, but she wondered how close it had been. She had never thought to ask Baelor.
Was Daenora a petty fool or a scorned lover? Something else? Had her affections with Baelor been returned? Did that affection continue even now? What would such a woman be willing to do to reclaim what was rightfully hers? Was all of her feeling with Baelor a lie? Had she been duped? Was he the man she expected to marry in the first place? But she had opened up to him, and she—
“You may leave me. Thank you. I may speak on this more with you at another time.”
“Certainly, Princess.” Shireen curtsied and left the room.
As soon as the latch clicked, Jena crossed to the sofa, picked up a throw pillow, and screamed into it. Panting slightly, she set it back down in its proper place and fluffed up the edges.
And then she looked at the room, her and Baelor’s room. Their bed. Feeling suddenly giddy with a lack of restraint, Jena decided she would not let herself brave this storm alone.
~~
Baelor fought the urge to scowl, but it was a close thing. He stared at the wine goblet in front of him without taking a sip.
The painted table of Dragonstone spread out before him. His whole council had assembled in the stone drum to hear Lord Swann’s account: Ser Velaryon, Edric Rosby, Maester Penn, Lord Sunglass, Septon Albin, and his scribe and cupbearer, Virgil.
“My cousin is a Waynwood,” Swann continued. “So I hear these things.”
‘These things.’
According to Lord Swann, there was a conspiracy afoot. There was a recent influx of soldiers for hire in the Westerlands and Reach who boasted finely made capital steel. Lord Swann did not know how these men had managed to afford such masterful weapons, but he believed that a lesser Lannister cousin was somehow waging a plot to unseat his elder liege lord. He also believed that this Lannister cousin, Archbald, was in some way in league with Daemon Blackfyre in this endeavor.
Baelor knew better. When the Lord had finished voicing his complaint, he dismissed everyone but Edric and Lord Sunglass.
“He has it twisted,” Baelor told them solemnly. His attention was fixed on the painted King’s Landing below him. “There are threads I cannot see the end of, but Daemon’s men are the ones undercutting the cost of metal in King’s Landing. And I am certain he is the one benefiting from it.”
His mood was made all the worse by the recent news from the Red Keep that a lesser knight’s squire had his tongue cut out by his master after publicly insinuating that if Baelor’s babe was born with fair hair, it would prove Jena’s “affair with Daemon.” He had hoped that rumor might die out with their departure from King’s Landing.
“It may be a gift of sorts to houses of the Westerlands and Vale. These soldiers for hire have master-quality swords. But those houses would have to know Daemon was the one giving that gift,” Edric said. A gift would be a fine wine or a marriage contract with a daughter, not steel. Steel sent quite another message — and to go about it so underhandedly…
“So Blackfyre is endearing himself to lesser lords,” Harrold Sunglass piped up. “That does not make him a traitor. For any accusation against him, you must have—”
“Irrefutable proof,” Baelor finished. He wiped a hand down his face. He was filled with frustration. Perhaps he must go spar someone. “But I like none of this. Rosby, I need a team of investigators. Go about it however you see fit, but I want to know what Archbald Lannister’s connection is to Daemon, and what lesser houses are benefitting from his game.”
“Yes. That is wise,” Ed said. “But—”
There was a knock at the door. A voice called from outside, “The Princess of Dragonstone!”
Baelor sat up in his seat. “Enter.”
All he needed was one look at Jena to see that something was not right. She did not look upset, per se, but certainly wound up. There was a sharpness to her gaze as she cataloged the other men in the room who stood to bow to her. Baelor could not say he did not like it.
“May I have a word, my prince?” she asked him.
“Your timing is excellent. We were just finished,” Baelor said, and gave Edric a pointed look to get the job he had demanded done. He waited until all had left and the guards had closed the doors once more to stand. “You’re burning hot.”
“What? No, the temperature is quite cool.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Baelor shook his head with a faint smile, stopping before her. He picked up her hand and inspected the paint still there. “How is my royal portrait coming along?”
Jena drew her hand back. Her expression was stoic. “Lady Velaryon is trying to undermine my authority. It has come to my attention that there may be a reason for this. I would like you to tell me the truth.”
“Hm?” Baelor was utterly taken aback. “How do you mean — what did she do?”
“That does not matter,” Jena said. Her voice was remarkably steady and calm. Then, with a small jut of her chin: “Is it true that a match was considered between you two?”
Ah. Baelor allowed himself a slow inhale and tilted his head to the side. “Yes, it is.”
“Then you shared affections?”
“Yes,” he told her carefully. He watched something darken in her eyes. “For a short time. But I did not wish to marry her.”
She frowned. “Why not? She is beautiful and appropriate. People follow her lead.”
“That is true. But I admired her more than I should have. When I chased after her, I was about a foot shorter and lacking judgment.” Baelor took Jena’s hand again. “Did she make you think otherwise?”
Jena faltered and looked away. “For a moment I thought… You might still share affections.”
A sudden and gripping hurt shot through him.
“Truly?” he asked. “You think that of me? Have I been… remiss?”
“No,” she said firmly. The look in her eyes was full of a defiance that made his blood heat. “That is why I am here, asking you about it.”
Oh. She had come to him when it mattered. She was not hiding.
“Jena,” Baelor said with equal firmness. He took another step toward her and cupped her face in his hands. “I share affections with no one but you.”
“Me too,” she said. Her eyes dropped to his lips. “I just hate the thought. I don’t like… I don’t want anyone else to have you.”
Baelor had a sudden and wicked idea. There was such weight looming over him, such tension. He could literally see his insurmountable duty mapped out before him. It felt as if everyone wanted to find them lacking in some way; his Dornish heritage, her every smile and curtsy. He hated that. He didn’t want that. He was so sick of it.
“Good,” he said, and kissed her. Jena clung to his shoulders. Her energy was frantic, pulling him closer and closer. It was impossible not to match her fervor as he licked into her mouth. He reached behind her to roughly shove off a few tomes and scrolls from the tabletop.
“What?”
“They don’t have me.”
Jena gasped as he lifted her onto the table. She was sitting on the Wall, he realized absurdly. Baelor crowded between her legs and groaned into their kiss when she tugged his hair. He pulled at the bodice of her dress until it lowered and palmed her lovely soft breasts.
“Baelor— mm,” Jena said into his mouth, panting. He licked a hot stripe up her neck. “Here?”
“Yeah,” he told her, suddenly too turned on to think. “This realm will be yours someday. Better get used to it.”
Jena dragged him into another urgent kiss. Baelor pushed up her skirts and squeezed her upper thigh before moving aside her small clothes. She was so wet already. He wondered if it was the same for her as it was for him — if just the memory of his skin was enough to make her flushed. He curled his fingers inside of her, but she was already grinding down, rutting against his hand. Baelor rolled his hips against her leg.
“Fucking Father help me,” Baelor sighed against her. Jena clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her moans. “You’re so good for me. Keeping quiet. But is it awful that I want them to hear?”
Let everyone in the whole damn castle know that he desired his wife. That she had staked her claim on him. That their child was his, not fucking Daemon’s.
Jena’s eyes flared with want. Her hands dropped instantly, reaching shakily for his belt and laces. He made no move to help her. Especially not as she tugged at his cock. Instead, he watched her brows crease, and her mouth fall open as he withdrew his fingers from her and brought them to his mouth to suck clean. Her hips bucked.
“Please,” she said, eyes wide and glassy and lips swollen. “Please. Please, just—”
Baelor pushed inside of her, and she keened, arcing up into him. They fell backwards roughly, so she was lying all the way down the northern half of the continent. Jena wrapped her legs around his waist and held on tight. Baelor panted roughly as he thrust his hips, every movement sending a jolt down his spine.
He let himself enjoy the sight. Her head thrown back, gown all askew, flushed and pretty on top of Aegon’s war table. Fuck Daenora Velaryon, he wanted to say. He was drunk and addicted to something far finer.
Baelor kissed her sloppily and caught the breathy, half-muffled moans she let out. The guards could certainly hear them. This was so wrong. So wrong. He would never be able to look at this damned table the same way again.
“Wait, wait,” Jena panted and shifted, forcing them both upright again. “I want—”
Jena pushed lightly on his chest until he withdrew from her. He watched mutely, entranced, as she stood and turned around. She bent over the table on her elbows, ruching up her dress and bearing herself to him. Baelor moaned aloud and descended on her again.
The sound of skin slapping skin filled the war room. She looked back at him, face contorted with ecstasy. Baelor finally had to fix one of his own hands to her mouth to muffle the obscene noises she was making. He bent over her back, flush against her. Jena clutched helplessly at the grooves of Bear Island.
Baelor was beyond words. He felt her come around him, and her jaw go slack against his hand. He carried her through it until he could feel his own release building. He leaned down to kiss her as the feelings broke him apart.
She sighed his name against his cheek when he slumped his head down onto her shoulder, shaking slightly.
He wouldn’t let her stand. He fetched a water pitcher and a towel and cleaned her off, pressing an apologetic kiss to her knee when she hissed at the sensitivity. When they were both somewhat cleaned up, Baelor leaned back. He sat right down on the floor and then lay flat to stare at the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” Jena laughed.
“Absolutely nothing. Won’t you join?” He used to do this as a child; lie on the floor of this room while his father and mother discussed the fate of the realm. He’d count the cracks in the stonework.
Jena did, arms folded over her middle as she smiled at him. She looked all mussed and relaxed. “This is not very princely.”
“Oh, the last thing I am being now is princely. I suspect Aegon the Conqueror is cursing me from somewhere.”
“I am certain you are not the first Targaryen to think of using this table for purposes besides warmongering.”
“I’d like not to dwell on that.” Baelor wrinkled his nose. Jena laughed again.
“Why ever not? It is a different sort of conquest.” She said it so demurely, as she always said the most outrageous things. Baelor huffed in amusement.
Her hand brushed against his on the sliver of floor between them, and Baelor felt an absurd flutter in his stomach when he intertwined their fingers. He did not believe he had ever felt so light in this room before.
“Thank you for coming to me. And for getting me out of a dreadful meeting.”
“Why was it dreadful?” she asked.
“Oh…” Baelor shook his head, then looked at her more closely. Her eyes were bright with focus. He could not very well ask her to share her burdens without sharing his, could he? So Baelor told her of the issue with Daemon Blackfyre and unfair sales of Rock metal and underhanded gifts. “I have spent my entire life being compared to him, and being warned that if he makes a grab for power, I must be ready. But I cannot quite understand what he is doing here.”
Jena looked away, face steeped in thought. “It is good to explore every option… but is it possible that this is exactly what it looks like on the surface?”
“And what does it look like to you?”
“Well, it’s the same as Daenora. She is threatened by my presence, so she seeks to undermine me. It might not be so much that Daemon wants this action to weaken you as he would do anything to weaken you in small ways that add up over time. I suspect he is planting seeds.”
“I had not thought of it that way,” Baelor said. “I assumed he must have some immediately nefarious goal. Not that general mischief is any better. So how would you handle such a case?”
“The same way I plan to handle Lady Velaryon.” Jena sat up, fixing her hair, and then offered him a hand. “Redirection.”
~~
“Thank you so much for joining me. I know you keep a busy schedule,” Jena told Lady Larra Celtigar the next day. They’d met just beyond the outer bailey of the castle, with only Ser Selmy to accompany them down to the tiny fishing village below. The sky was blue and blustery overhead. “Have you been enjoying spring?”
Larra was only a few years older than Jena, and wed to Ser Ardrian Celtigar, who often negotiated with merchants in Baelor’s stead. She was also Daenora Velaryon’s petty right hand woman.
“Very much, Your Grace,” she said cordially. There were over four hundred steps down between them and the village, where they would meet with shop owners. They would be stuck together for most of the afternoon. This was, of course, just how Jena wanted it.
“I am sure you are wondering why I thought of you specifically for this,” Jena said as they began their descent. The wind tugged lightly at her lilac skirts. “Your husband works so closely with the merchants, does he not?”
Larra had a wide-eyed expression, not exactly confused, but taken aback by the entire situation. “He does, yes.”
“Then you must hear things before others do,” Jena continued. “Information becomes so sanitized by the time it reaches my husband. I am sure that you hear the true preferences, grievances, and loyalties of the men who come to port with far more color.”
“Ardrian does discuss his work with me at times,” Larra hesitated. “But that is men’s business. I would not presume to interpret my husband’s words.”
“I do not want you to interpret, I want your opinion. For example, Nymeros the Blue has been at harbor for going on six moons. He insists that he will leave soon, but does not, despite cutting many deals with the lords of the bay. What do you think he wants?”
“A bride,” Larra told her instantly. She was a handsome woman, not softly pretty, and held her nose a bit too high. But Jena saw the intelligence in her eyes. “He wants the Prince to broker him a marriage deal, but in the meantime, he will not stop his whoring… Or, that is what Ardrian says.”
That was very interesting. Well, perhaps Nymeros the Blue would get a bride after all, but Jena was getting quite ahead of herself.
“Well put,” Jena continued on. “I realized yesterday, my lady, that I have not relied on the women of Dragonstone as I should. You are more than a social circle. You should be my closest advisors.”
“I am at your service.”
“Yes, I can see that. Particularly with how efficiently you helped to organize my tea yesterday.” Larra’s shoulders tightened, and her eyes went slightly wide. “Oh, do not think I fault you for that misunderstanding! I miscommunicated with Lady Velaryon… She is very confident in her position here.”
“She has grown up here,” Larra said weakly. “She is used to being followed.”
That was an attempt to shed guilt if she’d ever heard one. Larra was willing to disconnect herself from Daenora at the first hint of trouble. Jena gave the girl a long look.
“Is that ever tiring?” she asked softly.
“For her?” Larra asked. Jena did not answer, and waited for the pressure to boil. “Daenora is decisive. It is a valuable quality.”
“Certainly,” she agreed. “But I imagine it leaves little room for other voices. That is what I would like to do here: make sure the right voices are heard. Yours, for instance.”
It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART FIVE
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: 5.6k
AO3 | PREVIOUS | NEXT
AN: Sex (involving a mirror)
~
Lightspear.
The ship had always been a mighty thing, but Baelor liked it better now. Breakspear had been gifted to him by King Daeron three years prior, when Baelor formally accepted his role as Prince of Dragonstone. He’d always found the name needlessly self important. The new lettering was well painted, and had the ‘p’ turning into a bolt of lightning at its tail.
When they departed the city, it was the only thing that had made Jena smile in hours and hours.
On the two day journey to Dragonstone, he sometimes caught her craning her head over the ship’s rail to look at the new name. When he went to join her, she always pretended to be studying a school of fish. Her hair would turn bright red instead of dark under the sun’s attention, with a halo of gold. And when she squinted up at that light, her eyes turned almost silver.
It was the longest amount of time they had ever spent together.
Baelor was still caught up half of both days with his attendants, but he shared every meal with his wife. He noticed how her brow furrowed while reading and how the heels of her palms were blackened from charcoal she hadn’t rubbed off. He never saw her drawing, but she must have been.
And for the first time ever, he stayed in bed with her in the mornings. Jena was a still sleeper. She remained on her side, facing away from him, one hand couched under her pillow. Both of those mornings, when Baelor inevitably woke to stare at the shifting wooden ceiling of their cabin, he realized that his wife was having nightmares. It must have been at precisely the same hour both days, just as she was coming out of sleep. She’d jerk awake with a gasp, then lie there catching her breath. For some reason, he dared not bring it up.
Baelor prayed her poor dreams were not of him, and this strange life she’d joined him in. The thought formed a stone in his throat that he struggled to swallow.
When Dragonstone finally became visible, Jena was looking at the water.
“I used to think the gargoyles might come to life,” he said as he joined her at the rail.
Jena jumped and pressed a hand over her heart. “Oh, you startled me.”
“What thoughts were you lost in?” He rested his forearms on the rail beside her. The sea was dark, the sky overcast. The wind carried the smell of brine and ash.
“It is silly. Maester Aleryn said I’m not to have sweets or salt.” She tilted her chin to the ocean, eyes full of lament. “I would very much like to drink the water.”
“You speak like a shipwrecked sailor. One must never give in to the temptation of the sea,” Baelor said. “But I might be able to find you something better to eat?”
“That is kind, but I will wait until supper.” He watched her muster a thin smile and suck in a breath as she beheld the approaching volcanic isle. “It is imposing.”
“No more so than us.”
“I am not imposing,” Jena frowned, then saw his smile. “You are trying to rile me up. Or distract me. I need neither, be assured. I am looking forward to stable ground.”
Baelor brushed his fingers against hers. There were people all around them; sailors, knights, ladies, his own advisors, but he did not pay them heed. He drew his wife’s fingers up to the light and inspected the stains on them.
“Where did you get this artist’s spirit from? I do not know many noble ladies with such talents.”
“You do not know if I have any talent. You have not seen my work.”
“No fault of my own. I must be gracious and assume you are spectacular.”
Jena smiled a real smile. It quickly faded. “...My mother.”
His wife’s mother was long passed, he remembered. It had been on the piece of parchment he’d received about Jena when the engagement was finalized: Rosmund Tully Dondarrion, died birthing the Lord’s youngest daughter. That would have been nearly twelve years ago now. He remembered Jena saying, just when they met, that she had been a mother to Serafina.
Since she was seven?
Baelor wanted to ask her about it, but he dared not conjure the dead with Dragonstone so imminent. His wife had enough to trouble her mind. They were getting close enough to see the windows in the sparse row of houses at the docks, and a few massive trading galleys.
“You do not have to show me,” Baelor said after a moment. He gave her fingers a squeeze.
Jena looked back to him. “My work?”
“Yes. It is alright if it is just yours. I do not mean to pry.”
“I did not think you were prying.” Her eyes searched his, though he could not say what for. “I will show you, Baelor, when I have something worth showing.”
He inclined his head. “I can wait.”
~~
The air smelled of smoke and salt.
The castle itself rose up around them, jagged and immense, as if it had been dragged out of the sea. Dragonstone was unwelcoming in architecture and unforgiving in landscape. It was clearly intended to serve as a military fortress and little else.
The only solace to this harshness was that Baelor had managed to fill it with people. Jena met so many so quickly that their names slipped through her grasp like water. Lords, knights, stewards, sailors, all bowed to her and offered their names. She did not falter once.
Not even when she saw that Baelor had hung her sigil beside his at every turn. The Dondarrion crest was borne on the standards that came to greet them, on the shields of men her father had sent, and even within the great hall.
The dragon did not eat me, after all, she thought. She had expected to be folded into him. Swallowed by something larger, older, more powerful. Instead, he claimed her beside him. Jena did not know what to do with that.
Only Baelor could have given such an order. Along with what he had done to his ship, it left her with a strange, unsteady feeling, as though she had been placed somewhere she did not belong.
Her husband kept saying, in every way imaginable, that he wanted her. And the wanting felt vast. It was like standing at the base of Dragonmont when their ship pulled into the harbor: even when she craned her neck, she could not see its ending. What does one do under the attention of the blazing sun?
Their rooms here were shared, but it was a sprawling suite. They each had their own solar and dressing chamber. Jena was grateful to be reunited with her belongings from home that had been sent straight here instead of diverting to King’s Landing. Her dresses, jewels, and books greeted her like old friends. She wanted to bury herself in them and hide, but instead she was bathed, and dressed, and made presentable for a feast.
“You are well?” Baelor asked her as they departed. He looked hopelessly dashing, as he always did. Jena almost resented him for it.
“Of co—” she cut herself off. She had noticed that his mouth tightened every single time she said those words. “Yes. Eager to greet the denizens of your castle.”
“You have already made a wonderful impression,” he said. They were little words, really, but still Jena’s stomach fluttered. Any compliment from him made the world seem to come into sharper focus.
The doors leading into the great hall of the castle were sculpted to look like the massive open maw of a dragon. Jena stepped through its teeth. The hall was enormous, but lacked the cavernous quality of the Red Keep. Instead, it seemed to press inward, forcing the sound to rebound on itself. It made the sudden blanket of quiet triggered by Baelor’s entrance all the more pronounced. Chatter resumed slowly, hushed.
“Prince Baelor.” A man stepped forward from his spot, talking with a few who had also not taken their seats yet. He was older, dressed in simple arms, with a ferocious beard. His cloak was fastened by a seahorse clip. “You honor us with your return.”
“Ser Velaryon,” Baelor greeted easily. Master of the Guard, Jena remembered. “You give me far too much credit. Thank you for your part in keeping the isle afloat in my absence.”
“And the princess.” Ser Velaryon inclined his head. “Dragonstone is made richer for your presence.”
Jena curtsied. “You are kind to say so, my lord.”
They continued on to the high table, where Jena once again greeted the castellan, Lord Sunglass, Maester Penn, and the seneschal Edric Rosby. Throughout the meal, Jena found herself searching the small crowd for familiar faces: Ser Selmy, her four ladies. Every now and then, people would rise from their tables to come offer their congratulations to Baelor and herself.
Every eye that lingered on her had its purpose. Was she imagining things when she thought she caught snatches of the name ‘Daemon’? Jena had been doing her best not to dwell on those foul rumors. It only made her slide into a panic. She had come to terms with the fact that the whole world seemed to already know of her pregnancy, but she would not be accused of impropriety and disloyalty.
Jena had also been doing her very best not to think about the child inside of her beyond necessity. When she did, she quickly spiraled. If she succumbed to that and was swept away in the undertow, she would not be able to claw her way back to any semblance of propriety.
“Your Grace.” A beautiful, sharp-eyed woman greeted her. Lady Celtigar, she introduced herself as. “It is good to have you. We had begun to think the sea might claim you before we had the pleasure.”
An odd thing to say. Jena decided that this would not be a fast friend.
“Then I am pleased to disappoint,” she said.
“Indeed,” Lady Celtigar gave a tittering laugh. “We shall all hope for many such disappointments.”
From her seat on high, Jena saw clearly that she would have to know each of these people. It could not have been more than seventy assembled, but every one of them was a lodestone. Their wishes, their grudges, their skills, their failures.
“I have seen that expression before,” Baelor leaned in to nearly whisper. He had been engrossed in a conversation with Edric Rosby for many minutes. The man could not have been much older than her husband, but seemed incredibly dour.
“What expression is that?” Jena asked. He had been doing more of this lately, pointing out things that she thought were better concealed. It unsettled and thrilled her at once.
“Thinking.”
“Well, I am not sitting here staring into space with no thoughts at all,” she said a bit too sharply. To her great surprise, he laughed. “... It reminds me of home, here.”
“Truly?” Baelor’s brows scrunched in confusion. She loved his smile and his oddly sharp teeth. “I could not imagine anywhere being like Dragonstone.”
“It is the people who are familiar. I managed many social disputes at Blackhaven. It is all politics, on a smaller scale.”
Her husband hummed softly, considering. “I think you may find that it is only smaller by number.”
“If you place a fish in a larger bowl, it will grow to outsize it?”
“Precisely. But perhaps we may save calling our guests fish for later.”
“I am—”
“Do not apologize. I have called them worse to their faces over the years.” Baelor took a sip of wine and smiled to himself. “Maekar once— seven, it was terrible. If you ever feel you have committed a social misstep, remember that my brother once challenged the septon to a fist fight.”
Jena watched him tell the story. His eyes lit up, and he gestured with his hands and downright giggled.
Yes, she thought, unsure of what to do with the feeling in her chest, The blazing, blazing sun.
Later, when they were finally alone in their new shared rooms, Jena reveled in the quiet. She let her eyes fall closed even as he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning his head down onto her shoulder. The gesture was so sweet, it took her out of her peace and into something else.
“You had all this to yourself before?” Jena asked, gesturing to the room.
“It was lonely,” Baelor said. He was a warm weight at her back. “But crowded, too. Aegon the Conqueror slept here. And all of the others.”
“You do not mind sharing with me?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him.
“Not at all. Why do you ask?”
“It is only… we did not share at King’s Landing.”
“I did not know you wanted to.” Baelor turned her so that they were face to face. “Ask, and it is yours, Jena.”
She felt her face twist. “... Why? The ship, the banners, this. I—”
She did not know how to finish that sentence. She fought the urge to pull away from him, but could not meet his eyes.
Baelor gave her a thoughtful look, not quite a frown, but for the first time she thought she might have glimpsed a flicker of hurt. “Is it too much?”
“No.” Jena said, putting her hands on his chest and squeezing the material. They’d been dressed in thin nightclothes. Of course, it was too much, but not in any way she wanted to stop. She wanted to kick herself — why couldn’t she articulate her feelings? “I like it all.”
“Then why…?” Something dawned on him. They had had a similar conversation when Jena had been told of her pregnancy, but none of her feelings had resolved. They still bubbled under her skin, relentless. “You do not know why I want you. Is that it?”
Because you surprise me, he’d said before. But what did that mean? Jena felt inexplicable shame wash through her, and heat to her face. Still, she did not pull away.
“I cannot remember the last time—” her voice came out all wrong, and she cleared her throat. The weight of his attention was almost too heavy to bear. His thumb stroked across her upper arm. “No one has ever… put me first.”
Jena hated the words as soon as they left her mouth. They were shallow and wrong, unbefitting of admitting to her husband. They implicated her in something, certainly, though suddenly she did not know what. Instead of heightening her increasing panic, her shoulders drooped as the statement sank into her bones.
It was true: no one ever had put her first, not once. She did not know how to handle this change. She did not know how to handle Baelor. She was unequipped, disarmed. She wanted to run screaming from him, but she liked him too much. They were bound for life, too. Could it be such a crime to fall into the safety he offered? Thoughts of her parents filtered toward her, and she quickly shoved them away.
“Then they were fools,” Baelor interrupted her rapid spiral of consciousness. He said it so simply, in that soft tone of his. Jena could not help but believe him. “I wish you might see yourself as I see you.”
“How is that?” She slid a hand up his neck, playing with the hairs at his nape.
“Every moment that I am with you, I want to unravel you. Your mind, your thoughts. I want to know it all.” Baelor dipped down and kissed her jaw, one hand fanning wide on her waist. “I like the princess, but the woman does something else to me entirely.”
Such sweet music. Jena tilted her head as he kissed down to her collarbone, and then back up to catch her lips.
“I could not fathom having such power,” she said.
“You do. Give me what you want, I won’t break.”
Another kiss, hotter than the first.
“I could scarcely sleep in that cabin with you so near,” she whispered breathlessly against him as she undid the lacings of his light tunic. “And walls so thin. But another night, and I might have begged you to take me.”
“Begged?” Baelor’s eyes were dark. Jena also could not believe the boldness of her words. “Good gods.”
“I know. See what you have created? I am undone.”
Her husband made a low noise in his throat, picked her up, and carried her to their bed. It was incredible, how quickly they drove each other to urgency.
She did not break their filthy kiss until she was forced as he flung his tunic over his head. She ran her hands down his chest, greedy.
“Why do they even dress us at all?” Jena asked.
He gave a rogue smile. “Because you are for my eyes alone.”
Her shift disappeared, and as he fell between her open thighs, she shoved down his breeches, and he kicked them off. She panted into his mouth as he kissed her. His touch was fire.
Baelor began to pull away, presumably to do those tricks with his tongue, but she dragged him back up by his chin.
“I need you. Please,” Jena said. She reached down to guide him inside of her, and cried out when he bottomed out in one thrust. She found herself arcing up into him, curling around him as if it was possible for them to be any closer.
“Oh, you’re perfect,” Baelor moaned, then raised his head to meet her eyes. “Or not. I would want you either way.”
She still did not believe him, not really, but it still sent sparks running up and down her skin. He caught her gasp in his mouth as he rocked into her, the sound of skin echoing through their bedchamber. Their walls were thick, but in that moment, Jena would not have cared if the entire castle heard the crown prince moaning because of her, telling her sweet nothings.
After minutes wrapped in that blissful haze, something made Baelor’s breath catch and his hips stutter.
“Seven hells,” he swore. Jena tried to force him to keep moving as he stilled, letting out a pathetic little whimper. He gently, gently, tilted her face so that she could follow his line of sight. “Look at you, darling.”
To the side of the bed was a standing mirror. From the angle it was tilted at, she could perfectly see their reflections. Her skin flushed pink all the way down to her chest. Her red hair spilled over the side of the bed. Baelor was beautiful as always, like a piece of art, but caught together, so intertwined, so bare — Jena flinched her attention away.
Baelor shifted his hips again, more slowly. She tried to meet him in a kiss or hide in his shoulders.
“No,” Baelor said. And drew out of her entirely.
“No, what are you— Please —” Her husband shifted her onto her side, facing the mirror. He ran a reverent hand down the slope of her waist and hips as he settled in beside her and entered her from behind. Jena muffled a sharp moan into the pillow she was clutching.
“Not me… Look. Look at you,” he panted against her cheek as he set a new pace. “Look at what you do to me. Look at how lovely you are. Tell me what you see.”
Jena looked. She met her own glassy, helpless eyes as he pressed open kisses to her face. One of his arms tight around her waist, keeping her close, and the other coming to rest under her head. The place where they connected. His hand moved to splay across her still-flat lower abdomen, a possessive, loving gesture.
“I don’t—” she was having trouble getting words out. She felt the first tremors of release bolting through her.
“Aren’t you beautiful?” Baelor asked. His fingers traveled lower, exactly where she needed them.
Jena forced herself to meet her own gaze again. She did not know the girl staring back at her, but she had to admit she did not dislike what she saw.
“Yes,” she choked out.
“Don’t you see how much I want you?”
She had to throw a hand back to clutch at the side of his face, his neck, anything. Her legs were shaking. “Yes.”
“Let go, I’ll catch you. Come on.” His voice was broken, a hot puff of air against her skin.
“Baelor—!”
Her entire body spasmed, and when she came down from it he was right there with her.
Often, they were both too stunned to move after sex, but he eased out of her and curled her tight into his chest even while they both panted with the aftershocks.
Jena wiped the spit off her lips and rose, still shaking, to press a kiss to his cheek. He clutched at her instantly, giving her the gentlest of kisses. His hands were trembling.
“How do you do that to me?” she asked as she peppered more kisses across his face, catching his tired smile, before collapsing back in a heap beside him. “It should not be allowed.”
“I could ask the same. Gods.” Baelor laughed.
“What?”
“Welcome to Dragonstone.”
Jena laughed, too. She felt strung out, exhausted, and too sated to feel embarrassment. Well, that was a lie; of course she felt some embarrassment, but it was the nearly exciting kind. The part of her that wanted to curl over and hide from him had fallen momentarily silent.
“Do not get jealous,” she said slowly. His eyes snapped to hers. “But I do enjoy the lord of the castle.”
“I’m sorry to say he is taken.” Baelor turned onto his side and began busying himself with the horrific tangles in her hair.
“Is he? That is a great tragedy. I hoped to make a habit of him.”
He hummed softly and kissed her again until she had to pull away and hide her yawn. Her entire body felt heavy, as if she might just melt into the mattress.
They fell asleep tangled together, his head resting over her heart.
~~
“That is absurd.” Baelor pressed down too hard, and the tip of his quill broke off. His hands were stained, and his parchment ruined. He cursed and stood.
“I did not mention it to Harrold,” Edric continued. The seneschal sat still and tense as always. Baelor could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Ed smile, but the man was a dear friend. “You know he knew old Fireball back in the day. Quite well.”
Baelor wiped off his fingers with a washcloth, sighing all the while. “The king will be furious.”
“He has done nothing to warrant arrest.”
Yet.
Ser Quentyn Ball was one of the most legendary knights in the realm. He had personally overseen Baelor and his brother’s own instruction. He had also overseen Daemon Blackfyre’s. Snubbed for a spot on the King’s Guard by King Daeron, Fireball had thrown off his cloak and left the city. Last Baelor heard, the man was siring bastards on whores in the Reach.
According to Edric, he had returned to King’s Landing. He’d seen a ship with House Ball’s sigil pull past Dragonstone on its way toward Blackwater Rush. Days later, Ed’s sister sent him a raven about spotting Fireball at spice markets with Rohanne of Tyrosh.
“Stokeworth said nothing of this to me,” Baelor said. It was midday, and overcast outside. Even his study felt filled with fog. “Nor my father.”
Edric frowned. “I have no doubt in my mind that the Master of Whispers knows of this already…”
“You’d have me distrust my own castellan and Lord Stokeworth?” Baelor asked. He returned to his seat behind the desk. “I do not need more enemies.”
“I do not trust anyone on principle. I am pointing out patterns.” Ed leaned forward. “First this issue with Rock metal and armorers, now Quentyn Ball. Something is afoot.”
“Or, it is nothing.”
“You do not believe that.”
“...No, I do not.” Baelor fiddled with his rings and shook his head. “But one wrong accusation, and any progress turning the public to my side will be void. Daemon has always enjoyed poking bears. He will not force me to anger.”
Edric seemed to accept that for the moment, though he did not look all too pleased. He was the type of man for whom the world might end at any moment, over any thing. He flipped through the book in his lap.
“Last order of business, Your Grace,” he said. “I have received missives from several minor marcher lords, most already residing in the citadel — they wish to visit.”
Baelor stopped fidgeting. “That is peculiar.”
“Peculiar because it has never happened before, yes, but not so odd. You’ve wed a marcher lady.”
“I once caught a young marcher lord spitting on the ground after I’d passed by… This is likely my uncle’s doing as well.”
Ed pulled a face. “As much as I encourage your caution when it comes to Daemon Blackfyre, I do not think this is his doing. Of course, you’re aware your wife has been openly courting the marchers since your wedding.”
Baelor knew some of his surprise leaked through. Edric probably knew that he was taken aback. The man employed spies in King’s Landing for him. Still, he lied, “Naturally.”
He had the strangest feeling that something small had snuck its way into the space between his ribs. His first thought, completely irrational and ingrained, was that Jena was cavorting with those who might depose him. That was an old, foul hurt. His wife had never shown the slightest sign of prejudice against him or Dorne.
No, she had been helping him.
“Will that be suitable?”
“Yes,” Baelor said slowly. “We can receive them, but stagger the visits. I will not have them congregating.”
“Understood. I’m off to meet with the Tyroshi again. Father, protect my sanity.” Edric gathered his things and left the room.
It was not that Jena had lied to him. She could do as she pleased. Knowing that she had been meeting with the men of her region to presumably gain their favor for the crown, and for him, did not unsettle him as it should have. Instead, something sparked within him. He had not imagined this side of her — perhaps that was silly, she was to be queen someday. He thought she had still been learning how to exist in this world, which she was, but she was also playing the game.
“Quentyn Ball,” Baelor muttered and shook his head. He wished for Aerys, then. Aerys had a mind for long term strategy that he sometimes found himself lacking. But Aerys and Maekar were in Dorne, in the sunshine. It might as well have been a world away.
For the first time, he wondered what advice Jena might give if she had the chance. Baelor knew she had a mind for it.
Would she pretend otherwise? Or would she give him her mind?
~~
Jena found the ladies tiresome before the event even began.
She had arranged for a small gathering to meet in an informal setting after a few days of seeing them in passing. She had hoped the more intimate setting of one of the lesser halls might make introductions easier. It had not.
There were her ladies: the stony Shireen Caron, stoic Enith Royce, chatty Marissa Piper, and steadfast Mya Rivers. She found each of them tolerable in their own way, and Mya moreso, but Dragonstone’s company made them seem exceptional in comparison. There was Ellyn Waxley and Daenora Velaryon, Larra Celtigar and Pippa Bar Emmon. A host of ladies of every age, both naturally noble and wed to knights, whom Jena was expected to guide and lead. Perhaps fourteen in total.
The trouble was that they already had a leader in the young and gorgeous Lady Velaryon, the unmarried daughter of the Captain of the Guard. This was her territory, and she wanted Jena to know it.
Lady Velaryon had taken the spot nearest to the tall window and spoke familiarly with everyone. The light turned her pale Valyrian hair to gossamer. When Jena entered, it was Daenora who rose first. It seemed not out of deference, but as if to greet a guest.
“Princess,” she said in a lofty tone, and kissed both of Jena’s cheeks. “Please, sit. Be welcome.”
“You are very kind, Lady Velaryon,” Jena said. Some of the other women were speaking amongst themselves, but she knew that all were watching her.
The lady laughed. “Oh, we all use first names here. Call me Daenora.”
If Jena did not offer her own first name, she might seem high in the instep, but better that than to be demoted so casually so early. She smiled instead.
“How fortunate,” Jena said lightly. She took the seat that had clearly been left to her beside Mya, which was not the one Daenora had indicated. “Then you must call me Jena — when we are alone. It would be a shame for me to be the only one bound by formality.”
“How do you find the isle, my lady?” Pippa Bar Emmon asked from across the room. She and her brother were Baelor’s noble fosters.
“It is certainly quieter than King’s Landing, but no less magnificent.” There were polite titters of laughter. Servants buzzed about, refilling cups of wine and passing out pastries. Jena’s attention lingered on Lady Caron, who no doubt reported her every move to the queen. “I can see the faintest glimmer of the tower of Sharp’s Point from my window in the night. Do you miss home?”
“It is so similar here to home,” Pippa said. “I cannot miss it much. In the old days, a dragon flight from here to there would take but minutes. Good Queen Alysanne was known to take one of her ladies back and forth on Silverwing.”
Jena did her best to give each of them her undivided attention in turn. She filed away the bits and pieces of information they gave her — recent events in their lives, preferences, dislikes. She relished every naturally flowing beat of conversation, and inwardly cringed when she found herself repeating rote pleasantries.
“You must find Dragonstone very different from the marches,” Daenora said. Her smile was bright and easy, but her words were not. “We are not nearly as… lively as the Stormlands. Though I suppose you are well accustomed to more rugged places.”
Jabs or tests or both? There was certainly something off. Jena would not lower herself to whatever it was.
“I have found Dragonstone quite lively, truth be told,” she said to the room. “There is always something happening, even in the quietest moments. I think I shall continue to like it very much.”
“And His Grace?” Daenora asked with an innocent blink. “Does he find Dragonstone improved by your presence as well?”
That was certainly off color. A few ladies exchanged glances, some unreadable and some laced with mischief.
Jena just smiled. “My husband has been generous in sharing Dragonstone with me. I think we are both still discovering what we may make it. As we all are. I am sure the place would not be the same without any one of you. Lady Celtigar, won’t you tell me the story behind that fabulous brooch?”
By the time it was over, her cheeks hurt from straining pleasantries. She bade Mya take a turn around the upper battlements with her, and did not speak until they had stepped outdoors. From that high perch, Jena could see all of Blackwater Bay spread out, and the Narrow Sea beyond. Fearsome stone dragons snarled up and down at them. The sky was a rare, true blue.
“Jena?” Mya asked when she still had not spoken. She, too, looked like she belonged here, with her Targaryen features. “I believe that went well.”
“Well is not enough.” Jena’s hand drifted mindlessly to her belly. It was still so early that she could almost forget she was with child. “I have broken a hierarchy with my presence, and people do not relinquish power easily, no matter how small.”
“It has been four days,” Mya said, then smiled. “You must take my word for it: you are going to be wonderful.”
“What do you know of Lady Velaryon?” Jena asked too quickly. A gust of wind blew by, surprisingly warm, and she sighed. “You are right, I know. I should relax.”
She burst out laughing, a sharp and slightly manic sound. She watched a gull swoop through the air above.
“What is it?” Mya asked. This girl had seen much of Jena. If she wanted to, she could ruin her reputation to others. But Jena was desperate for a friend.
“I have never relaxed once ever. I do not know why I expect to start now.”
Her lady smiled. “You are well matched to the prince, then. Could you help each other… unwind?”
“Mya! That is scandalous.” Jena giggled and pressed her fingers to her lips. Then: “We do, enough. It is an effective cure, but not an everlasting one… There is still much work to do.”
Mya’s smile was kind and knowing. Neither of them spoke or moved as they watched Ser Velaryon lead a group of guards through drills on a quad below. Jena straightened when she saw Baelor appear beside Lord Sunglass to inspect the movements. Her husband’s attention caught on a crooked Dondarrion banner, knocked askew by the wind.
It Will Come Back | Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion | PART THREE
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: 5.7k
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~
Jena did not cry the day her family left. She did not cry the next day, or the next. She did not cry when the other court ladies looked her up and down, or when the maesters subjected her body to another cruel test. She nodded and raised her chin and took it.
She held tea with every member of the small council. She visited the various workers' guilds around King’s Landing with a knightly escort. She wrote 500 personal thank you notes for her wedding guests until her fingers were stained all over with ink and her palm cramped.
In the morning, she went to the sept, and made sure she was seen going to the sept. She answered her correspondence and worked with the steward of Maegor’s Holdfast to assemble her own household. She had to select ladies-in-waiting and her own personal staff. Every three days, she would hold a petition hour. She spent hours and hours memorizing names, sigils, old grudges, and who must never be seated next to whom. She was never alone.
And every other night her husband, Prince Baelor, came and fucked her senseless. He was always gone in the morning.
By the time a fortnight had passed, Jena felt like she couldn’t breathe. As soon as she finished lunching with Lady Massey, she made a rather hasty and inelegant excuse for exit. She knew she was walking too fast. Lady Gillis Caron’s heels cracked across the tile sharply after her own, and Ser Tobin Selmy hurried behind. Those two were her most constant companions as senior lady-in-waiting and sworn shield.
But Jena could not breathe.
“Princess, you have an appointment at the weaver’s hall,” Lady Caron said. She was middle-aged, widowed, and appointed by the Queen. Jena had never seen her genuinely smile, but she was dreadfully useful in explaining interpersonal dynamics between courtiers. “Princess?”
“A moment,” Jena bit out. She pressed one hand to her sternum as she walked, trying to urge her lungs to work. “I just need a moment’s air. I am well, thank you.”
She shoved out of a pair of tall double doors and exited into the vast royal gardens. Couples were strolling, noblemen pretending not to do business. They all noticed her, but she did not stop walking. She held her head high and slowed her steps as much as she could.
The sun was lovely and high above. Spring was coming ever closer. She needed to go to the weaver’s hall. Jena inhaled too sharply and choked on it.
“Jena!”
Her first name, not her title. For a split second, she thought she’d turn and see one of her little brothers. Instead, she saw Prince Rhaegel striding towards her across the stone path, circling a fountain to reach her with a hand raised in greeting.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied as soon as he got close.
“Oh, please, no. You’re my sister. Call me Rhaegel.” The third son of King Daeron, Prince Rhaegel was a topic of great conversation throughout the realm. He was supposedly mad, struck by illness, though Jena had seen no evidence of either in her short time here. He was handsome in a nearly feminine way and almost overly kind. “Won’t you walk with me?”
Jena resisted the urge to look to Lady Caron for permission. No, she was a princess; she did not need permission.
“I would like that very much, good-brother,” she told him. She accepted the arm he offered, and breathed a bit easier as Lady Caron and Ser Selmy eased their following. When she was with royal company, they had to give her at least some space.
“We don’t need to talk,” Rhaegel said softly. His eyes remained scanning the gardens, nodding at others. “Am I wrong to think you needed a rescue?”
“Yes.” Jena bristled, then caught herself. “I apologize.”
“No matter. I’m not trying to insinuate anything, I just know what it’s like. All the eyes. Anyways…” He shrugged almost sheepishly.
“What brings you to the gardens?” He had offered her silence, but she could not very well take him up on it.
“They’re my favorite place besides Summerhall. I like to watch the insects and the animals. The gardeners used to let me help them when I was little. Ah, see there.” He pointed to a bench and then lifted up his chin. “This scar. I got it running face first into the stone. Gushing blood everywhere. My mother put an end to my green thumb then and there.”
He did not filter himself at all. Perhaps that was his “madness”, a lack of the political pulse that made someone successful in the Red Keep. He gesticulated with his hands and spoke with pure sincerity.
“I do miss the gardens at Blackhaven,” she found herself telling him. “There is a stone gazebo out by the lake, where all the cattails grow. There are bullfrogs and dragonflies and great pits of mud.”
“Perhaps next time we all visit Summerhall, we can visit Blackhaven, too. Most likely not until Maekar and Aerys return from Dorne. Baelor has a bet with Father. He doesn’t think Maekar will last the full six months.”
It startled her how oddly intimate it felt to hear others say her husband’s name casually.
“Why’s that?”
Rhaegel laughed lightly. “I forget you do not know my brothers well. Maekar has a propensity for drama. I told him he should be a mummer for all the fuss he can raise. But Baelor can be just as bad, as I’m sure you know.”
Jena didn’t know. Jena didn’t know at all. She saw her husband at meals or court functions, where he smiled at her and pulled out her chair and made polite conversation. She saw her husband in bed, where he would take her apart without realizing he had to put her back together again. She thought of her husband constantly, but thinking brought her no closer to knowing. Did he like her dresses? Did he like her, or just her body? Was he merely following duty when he kissed her and called her sweet names? Why did she care when she had so carefully prepared herself to marry a man who was indifferent to her? Why didn’t he seek her out? She did not know.
“Yes,” Jena said anyway. “But you must tell me one such story.”
Rhaegel’s violet eyes twinkled in delight at the chance to embarrass his elder brother. “Our grandmother, Naerys, gifted Baelor a Dornish dragon puppet, all made of wood. You could pull the strings and make it move, and it was painted to look like Balerion the Black Dread. And she died soon after. Maekar was too little to understand; he was just jealous, but he stomped the puppet to pieces when Baelor wouldn’t share it. I don’t know why I remember so clearly, but Baelor went all pale and stood and left the room.
“He didn’t talk to our baby brother for a week. A week is a long time for a child. Even Mother couldn’t dissuade him. Maekar cried and cried and screamed at him for attention, but Baelor wouldn’t break. I couldn’t stand it. Aerys was in his books, so he was no use as a playmate. I needed my brothers to reconcile. So I bound together some cloth I stole from Mother’s closet, pretended it was a snake, and put it in Maekar’s little boot.
“The moment Maekar yelled, Baelor broke his silence. He stomped on that bit of cloth until he was sure it was dead, even though by that time they’d realized it was all a joke. We all fell atop each other laughing as if nothing had happened.”
It was so charming that Jena could not help but smile. She pictured Baelor, small and determined, and wondered if their child might be the same. “You are all very close, then?”
“Hm.” Rhaegel gave her a thoughtful look. “Yes and no. We have our moments. Jena, I should go, I’m taking tea with my aunt, Elaena. But I very much enjoyed our stroll. Do not hesitate to call on me if you need a friend.”
“Thank you, Your— Good brother. Rhaegel.”
He grinned and bowed to her with theatrical gravity. As he peeled away down the path, he was already raising a hand in greeting to some distant lady. He was so entirely different from his other brothers, as they were different from each other. It made her wonder how Baelor had turned out precisely the way he had: duty-bound, gentle, and stoic.
“Princess,” Lady Caron said as she appeared at Jena’s shoulder. “The weaver’s hall?”
“Yes, of course.” Jena gathered herself, smoothing her skirts and hair. “Lead on.”
~~
Baelor smiled again at the letter in his hands.
In looping script, it read:
Dear Gracious Prince Baelor,
I thank you very much for marrying my sister. She was the loveliest bride and you the loveliest groom. I hope your days have been joyous. I miss Jena very much, and I hope you will not find it an imposition if I tell you some things she enjoys. I am worried she will be as lonely as I am without her. 1. Watercolors and pastels 2. Chocolate with raspberries in it 3. Cats 4. Braiding hair (I am sorry that your hair is too short to braid) 4. Theater 5. Violin music 6. Any kind of jam 7. Books that I find boring. I hope this is helpful and I am sorry if it is not. Jena is my very favorite sibling.
Your Loyal Subject and good-sister,
Serafina Dondarrion of Blackhaven
P.S. Jena hates spiders
The child had written two number fours and left a splotch of purple something in the right hand corner. His thumb lingered over the words ‘my very favorite sibling’. He thought of Maekar, who would be halfway to Dorne by now. Their last interaction had been tense with unspoken grievances.
“Books that I find boring,” he muttered aloud. No one had ever written to him quite like this, and he received many letters.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” his scribe asked.
“What do you think an eleven-year-old noble girl might find interesting to read, Virgil? I must find the opposite,” Baelor said.
The young man’s brow creased as he thought. If he found the question perplexing, he didn’t raise any argument. “Mythology, fairytales. That sort of thing.”
That was precisely the issue. He might have brought his wife a book of folklore, as he had seen her performing it so enthusiastically, but Serafina wouldn’t find that boring at all. Jena liked to read about something else. “Are the royal players still on tour?”
“I’ll find out for you straight away, Your Grace.”
“Good. Do.”
Virgil gathered his notes quickly and slipped out. Baelor took the opportunity to gently fold his good-sister’s letter and place it in the inner pocket of his doublet. By all accounts, his new wife was settling into her new role wonderfully. She did not seem to need or want his guidance in her work. But it was strange to be suddenly attached to a person and only see them at meals or in bed. Bed, where he would become so lost with want it made the rest of his days woes all fade away.
But Baelor knew, to an extent, that Jena was performing for his sake. He would not overwhelm her, would not force more than she wanted. The Red Keep was a viper’s nest without an overbearing husband.
A sharp rap at the door broke his thoughts.
“Enter.”
Ser Addam pushed into the threshold, helm tucked beneath an arm. He was a messenger in the gold cloaks responsible for bringing prompt updates to the castle. The sight of him was usually a bad sign. “Your Grace. A matter from the armorers' guild. A dispute over dues with Casterly Rock. Normally, I would not bother you with it.”
He handed Baelor a piece of parchment. It was a ledger. “But?”
“By my understanding, some armorers have been accepting metal from the Rock below royal dues. Or foregoing them entirely, under the table. It’s caused no small amount of resentment within the guild. Those paying the full dues are being undercut, and those not are able to sell their work at a reduced rate. They’re taking twice the commission of honest shops.”
“I had heard there have been fights on the Street of Steel as of late,” Baelor said. He scanned the names and figures on the paper in his hands. It was a brash slight against the crown to behave so above the law. “Have you brought this to Lord Penrose?”
“...No, Your Grace. Not yet.” Ser Addam hesitated. “The armorers who have been buying from these unsavory Rock merchants… they have been busy. By my observation, the commissions are from various buyers, but all men in Daemon Blackfyre’s circle.”
Baelor went utterly still and made sure his face betrayed nothing. The room felt too quiet all of a sudden. Who knew who might be listening. Rock merchants sold metal, men required armor, even bastard princes attracted followers. Separately, these infringements might have gone unnoticed. But together?
“I assume the guild is seeking intervention?”
“Yes, the Master Tobin is wants enforcement of standard dues. A good slap on the wrist for metal merchants and their buyers. Of course, the Lannisters will say they are not responsible for how our merchants enforce crown dues once the goods reach us.”
Baelor rose from his seat and crossed to the window. He could see King’s Landing spreading out beyond the Red Keep. If he craned his head, he could imagine his uncle’s manse on Blackwater Rush. Was Daemon really so audacious as to stockpile weapons under their noses?
“Have you noticed Aegor Rivers at all in your comings and goings, Ser?”
“I’m not the best to say.” Baelor gave the man a sidelong look. “He’s all about the city at every hour, of course. Not unusual. That boy likes starting fights.”
“Thank you. You may bring this to Lord Penrose, but not my father. Yet. I will adjudicate the guild’s petition should they call on me.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Ser Addam bowed and left him.
Baelor caught himself biting his nails the moment the door closed, and quickly dropped his hands in disgust. He wanted to go train, to go hack some straw to bits, but he only did that in the mornings. If he stepped outside of his routine, court would know something was wrong.
Nothing was wrong. Baelor returned to his work.
~~
On a day when Baelor did not come to her bed, long after her staff had finally left her alone, Jena forced herself not to collapse from exhaustion. The amount of hours she had spent reviewing fabric samples for her wardrobe was absurd. But every little choice, from color to material, mattered. Wear purple and send a message of marcher solidarity, wear wool from the Reach and upset the Vale.
Jena had been in King’s Landing only a little more than two weeks, but she had begun to settle into routine. Sept, teas, petitions, visiting prominent figures in the city, seeing her husband at dinner. Still, he arrived every other night, asked her how her day was, and then stripped her down and made her feel as if she existed in some transient state, unsolid and unpressured. And then he left. And then it repeated.
It was a fine routine, she told herself. She was too busy to think about anything but doing. Say this Jena, say that Jena, curtsy, sign this document.
But it was in these late, lonesome hours that she worked. Queen Myriah had given her a task: win support for her husband from those who might be prejudiced against him. Jena intended to meet that challenge.
She made a list of every individual of prominent status with marcher connections. This would be those prejudiced against Dorne’s prominence and privileges. She knew that negative sentiments extended well beyond these men and women, but it would have to be a start.
She would have to call on each of them under the guise of general fealty to home. Only through talking with them would she know how to proceed, and perhaps talking would win them over in and of itself.
There was a knock at the door, and Jena looked up to see not Ser Selmy announcing a late visitor, but Baelor. She folded up her parchment at once and placed it in the drawer of her writing desk.
“Husband,” she said, standing immediately. “I did not expect the pleasure of your company.”
Baelor was as charmingly impossible to read as ever as he walked toward her. “Why not?”
“You come every other day.”
“Do I? Hm. I had not noticed.” He was a foot away from her now. It was horrible, but just the sight of him when they were alone made her blood heat. Especially when she was wearing nothing but a nightdress, and her hair was loose. But Baelor’s gaze snagged on her desk. “You are working late.”
“I have little time to answer personal correspondence during the day,” she lied.
“You and I have that in common.” Baelor’s attention drifted to the bed. “I thought I might find you asleep.”
Jena looked at him, really looked at him. “Then why did you come?”
She somehow did not think he’d wake her just for sex. He sucked in a breath, avoiding her eyes.
“The royal troupe of mummers has returned from their tour to Braavos. They’re putting on The Conqueror’s Two Wives. If you were free tomorrow evening, we could go?”
Jena was so taken aback she momentarily forgot she must respond. She nodded politely. “Of course.”
“You… would like that?”
“Of course. It is good for the crown to show solidarity with the arts. Just yesterday, a woman at the weaver’s hall told me she hadn’t received a royal commission in weeks. There is less coin being spent on fancies all around. I’m sure our showing will help the mummers.”
Baelor shifted a bit. “But you would like it, Jena?”
Jena hated The Conqueror’s Two Wives with a burning passion. It was a popular drivel, the story of Visenya and Rhaenys. But it turned Rhaenys into a simpering maiden clinging onto Aegon’s leg, and took away Visenya’s military prowess by gifting her glories to her brother. Worst of all, it turned the sisters into petty, fighting bitches. She hated it so much she could have written a treatise on how terrible it was, with corrections for historical accuracy.
But she did love the theatre.
“Absolutely. That is exceedingly generous of you, Baelor,” Jena said. And then, fighting the smallest of smiles, “It is nice when court duties and interests overlap.”
Baelor laughed, turned half away, and scratched his nose. By the time he was looking at her again, he seemed to be fighting even more amusement. He reached for the hands awkwardly dangling at her sides, and she tried not to let her confusion lock her up.
“Jena, nothing is requiring me to go to the theater but the idea that we might enjoy it. We ourselves are not in a play. We may do things for amusement from time to time.”
Instantly, she felt herself flush. What an idiot she was. Of course he just wanted to go and was taking her along, as his wife. That was what husbands and wives did. Did other wives lean forward and kiss their husbands when they didn’t know what to say? Well, that’s what Jena was doing right now.
She kissed Baelor, their hands still clasped between them. He made a small, surprised sound. For the slimmest second, he did not respond, and then he did all at once. Jena felt the way his attention narrowed, how everything else fell silent.
One hand found her waist, squeezing lightly as the other came to tilt up her jaw and cup the back of her head. This was so much easier than talking, this she almost understood. His tongue met hers, and she groaned and he pulled her in tighter. Easy, easy, act and respond.
Jena felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, and a calm like a curtain had fallen over the world. When they touched like this, she finally had something solid to cling to.
Baelor pulled back just barely, eyes still locked on her lips. “What was that for?”
“You said I might do something for my own amusement,” her voice came out on a rasp. She did not say: I felt stupid. I wanted you to tell me I’m not stupid without asking for it.
“Then you would add me to the list of things you enjoy?”
Didn’t he see it plain on her face? Couldn’t he tell how much she hated wanting him so badly? How weak her knees were?
“Of course,” Jena said.
It was not the right answer. Baelor’s mouth twitched once more in a smile that was not quite a smile. Something in his eyes had faltered. He gave her waist a final, absent squeeze and let his hands fall away.
“I will have the plans arranged for tomorrow,” he said gently, distantly. Jena felt stuck, displaced. “I hope you didn’t mind the intrusion.”
“It was not an intrusion.”
Baelor smiled that odd smile again and nodded as he made for the door. “Sleep well, Jena.”
“And you, Your—” she stopped herself. “Baelor.”
A paused briefly at that, but did not look back. As soon as the latch clicked shut, Jena leaned back against her writing desk, brow furrowed. She didn’t understand what she had done wrong. Her body was still humming from his touch, but he had pulled away.
Jena replayed the conversation in her mind, looking for missteps. She could not find one. She had been fighting exhaustion, but now her pulse was racing. With a heavy sigh, she circled back around her desk to continue her work. Work, at least, made sense.
~~
‘Of course’.
Baelor replayed the words in his mind all the next day. Even as he spent the afternoon traveling the Street of Steel and speaking with guild armorers about Rock metal, he thought of it. Of his wife and her undecipherable rote responses. It was only when they lay together that he could feel her passion.
He was making a show of examining a fine battle axe in the grueling heat of a smithy when he realized he had no idea if Jena actually favored him. That was to be expected, he supposed — they had not been married long, and any relationship must grow — but for some reason, he could not shake it.
Perhaps because it was something he had always struggled with: young women acting a certain way for him because of his title, his duty, but not Baelor. He rationalized that he had a sensitivity to this. Jena was adjusting, and so was he.
Baelor could not help but look longer than he ought, though, when he saw Jena that night in the outer bailey. She was dressed in a vibrant gown of dark blue, accented with gold and slashed sleeves. It offset her lovely red hair, the fine color of her eyes.
He hardly noticed her needless curtsy or her greeting, as all of his attention fixed on her necklace. A finely wrought Targaryen sigil. It certainly sent a message. She was a clever girl indeed if she had selected it herself.
But was it for his House or himself?
“Princess,” Baelor said, and helped her up into the carriage. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you very much.”
Their sworn shields and two of Jena’s ladies followed along in another. The royal theatre was between the Street of Sisters’ and the Old Gate, and at this hour the streets were teeming with people. He watched his wife push back the curtain covering the small window hole, latticed over with metal. Firelight reflected in her eyes.
Baelor leaned across the space between them and touched the necklace sitting in the hollow of her throat. He felt her breath catch as he ran his thumb over the raised dragon heads. It was cold in front, warm where it touched her skin.
“Did you have this commissioned?” he asked.
“No. No, I thought it might— it belonged to Good Queen Alysanne.”
Baelor gave it one last press and leaned back. “Hm. Why?”
“Those in attendance should see that I am loyal to you,” Jena spoke softly, but there was a faint crease in her brows.
“To me?”
“Yes. Marchers must see that I am devoted to this match, unforced. I am their woman and your wife.” She hesitated. “Of course, I would not presume to speak on politics, but I know why our union was forged. I will serve you well.”
Baelor could not fault her reasoning. His mother would approve, and this was exactly what the realm required. Still, it was not what Baelor had been looking for. And what had he been looking for? Why was he searching for more?
“You would serve me well,” Baelor repeated, as if repeating her own words might awaken something in her. Jena’s shoulders straightened up, as if bracing for something.
“Of course.”
Of course.
Baelor searched her; the careful set of her mouth, the tension in her brows, the hands clasped neatly in her lap. She seemed to be waiting for something from him. Instruction, praise, judgment?
He understood with sudden clarity that Jena was giving him exactly what she thought he wanted at every single moment she spoke with him.
Baelor had no clue how to ask for anything else — and if he did know how to ask, how would he be able to tell even that was genuine?
“It is a fine choice,” he said at last. “Evoking Alysanne was clever. People will think well of you… And of us.”
“Yes,” Jena said softly, settling.
The carriage rocked on over uneven stone and dirt. Outside, the noise of the city was exuberant with laughter, shouting, and sellers hawking wares. Inside, the quiet seemed stiff. He’d watched her charm a crowd, but for him she bit her tongue.
Baelor knew they would be sitting in silence at the theater for the next few hours, and he suddenly could not bear it. “What do you hate most about King’s Landing?”
Jena’s eyes widened, and a little laugh escaped before she crammed it down. At least it was something.
“I don’t hate anything about it.”
“Then you are unusual,” he said. “I hate that noblemen in the Red Keep do not bathe for weeks at a time and drown their odors in Myrish perfume. I hate that they sneer at my mother, I hate that I can see the slums of Flea Bottom from the tallest towers of my castle, but cannot do what I wish to help. I hate that there are secret tunnels under the entire bloody city.”
“Baelor!”
“What? We are in a carriage. No one is spying on us. Tell me what you think.”
Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed, like he was a challenger on the field she was assessing. Why anger? He wanted to ask. Is this a battle to you? If so, who is threatening you?
“I—” she huffed, as if fighting with herself. “...I detest the play we are going to see. It makes a mockery of this kingdom’s two female conquerors. Dragon riders and warmongers in their own right. I think that the Crown should find it an affront. And it was Visenya who constructed many of the city’s tunnels.”
It was not what she hated about King’s Landing, but he was somehow not surprised that she refused to raise a complaint about her position. He even respected it. So, after letting her words wash over him, Baelor burst out laughing. She blinked at him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he managed after a moment, still smiling. “No, that’s wonderful. I’ve heard it’s dreadful, too.”
“Then why are you taking me?” Jena laughed a bit, also smiling. She had such a lovely smile when it was not poised. Baelor leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees.
“Jena. We are married. I want to know you,” he said gently. “...And your sister sent me a letter with advice on things you might like.”
“She did what?” She made a tight, angry little sound and looked away. Baelor grinned again. “I am so sorry, that was deeply inappropriate of her.”
“I don’t care.” He shifted his body onto her bench, so they were crowded together, and took her hand. “And I somehow think you would not have told me yourself.”
“We have not been married long,” she said, but her voice was almost timid, as if every word was a confession.
“No. Hence me trying to remedy my lack of knowing you. Do you want to go back to the castle?”
Jena shook her head. “No… I am actually quite looking forward to making fun of it. In my head, of course. A troupe came through Blackhaven that had Rhaenys naked during the Field of Fire and made repeated allusions to the size of Balerion being equivalent to the size of Aegon’s—... Well.”
“Why is that so wrong? I have to get my gifts from someone.”
Jena laughed again, and his stomach fluttered. There were no loose strands of hair for Baelor to brush back into place, but he traced her temple anyway as if doing so. He watched her face fade into a warm smile.
Ah. There it was. The reason he kept pushing. The reason he found her frustrating, enthralling. Baelor kissed her so his expression would not betray his quiet epiphany.
He was, he realized, quite taken with his wife.
~~
Cymbals and drums crashed as ribbons of fire rained down from the upper curtains. Aegon the Conqueror held his arms out wide as he accepted Balerion’s fire and a noble Valyrian death. Jena scowled. The man had died of a stroke.
She was then subjected to a dragging, overstuffed epilogue of Aegon reuniting with his sister-wives in the heavens. Weepy violins sang out in the background.
“My brother, my king, my heart. Did you think I would not wait for you behind the veil?” Rhaenys was crying prettily, throwing herself at Aegon’s feet. “I have waited years eternal. Tell me now it was I who you loved best.”
Visenya crossed her arms. “He need not say what is obvious.”
Aegon laughed and put an arm around either of them. “I love you as I loved my conquest. Differently, but no less deeply.”
Together, looking upwards, they declared. “For fire, for blood, and for love!”
Jena let out a little moan of horror as the curtains finally closed. She was seated next to Baelor in an elevated box, so she had a wonderful view of the crowd going wild.
“Father save us,” Baelor grumbled.
“You did not like it?” she asked sweetly. They both clapped their hands politely as the players came on stage to take their bows. “Why ever not?”
He gave her a sidelong look, a crooked, almost roguish grin meant just for her, then stood to smile and wave down at their audience. Jena found herself staring, lost in the handsome cut of his profile, his certain poise. She saw a king.
It took an age to get back down to the carriage. They were circled by knights, but Baelor took the time to greet players and public alike as they made their way through the crowd. These were wealthy citizens, yes, but Baelor could have simply walked past them. Giving such special attention to his people was not part of his explicit duty.
He was so very easy to feel loyal to. So very easy to want to love. He could have had any woman, but for some reason, he seemed to want—
“Nephew.”
Baelor’s arm went very rigid under her hand. They were almost to the exit, still surrounded by people. She watched his smile freeze in place.
“Uncle.”
The man approaching them, still separated by their buffer of knights, was tall and slender. His white-gold hair hung down past the shoulder of his red jacket. Jena’s first thought was that he looked very much like the player who had been costumed as Aegon. Her second was Daemon Blackfyre.
He had an easy, almost casual smile, and his wife on his arm. Rohanne of Tyrosh was tiny but stately, with shockingly pink hair.
“And this must be your new bride.” Daemon’s violet eyes landed her at once. She nodded to him politely, but Baelor shifted closer to her.
“Princess Jena of Dragonstone,” Baelor said. “Please meet my uncle, Ser Daemon Blackfyre.”
Daemon seemed to find something about that funny. Still, he offered her a shallow bow. “You are a more remarkable beauty than even the singers say, Princess. My congratulations to you both.”
“And mine to you and your lady wife,” Jena returned smoothly. Rohanne’s stomach was full and round with child. She knew the couple already had several children despite their youth.
Rohanne smiled sweetly. “I wish the same joy upon you.”
“Yes. I hope you also enjoyed the performance as much as I.”
“I am a patron of this theater,” Daemon interceded. “This show is a triumph of passion over truth, I think, but sometimes the people need passion.”
“I did not see you in the crowd,” Baelor said. His hand came up to cover Jena’s, where it rested on his arm.
“My box was beside yours. You would not have seen me,” Daemon said. All of the audience below would have looked up and seen two royal couples above. Who had they truly been cheering for? “And what did you think of the conquest, Baelor?”
The use of his first name was so presumptuous that a sudden, inexplicable bolt of rage rocked through her. This was not how things were done.
But Baelor remained as polite as ever, even as his words showed raised hackles. “It is something special indeed to know I come from such a family. We would not keep you. The hour grows late.”
I am a Targaryen, her husband was saying. I am the heir to the throne.
“Of course.” Daemon’s eyes were on Jena again. “Another time, perhaps. Princess.”
“Ser,” she returned. She did not look back, but he could feel his attention on her the whole way out.
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
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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.
