Chapter Text
Dragonstone is chill, misty and storm-lashed, a trial for any man or woman. For Jena, born amid the lightning-struck towers of Blackhaven and the downpours of the Marches, it was a familiar inconvenience, but extremely frustrating. Particularly when one had been cooped up in one's castle for nigh on five moons.
She is so sick of dragonscale and brimstone she could spit.
Baelor, her sweet, patient, gods-blessed martyr of a husband, has been telling her for days on end "it is only a spring rainsquall" and asking her however she survived the Stormlands with such a furious misliking of storms. While Jena paces and longs for the gardens of Summerhall, the green of the Kingswood, even the stark towers of Blackhaven, Baelor goes about his business as Hand to his father. He writes letter after letter, driving poor Maester Rhodry positively mad; he studies the bookkeeping of the Conciliator and the logs of Viserys I's steward; he spends an entire day in Visenya's cloister with a tome that smells of asp venom. He redrafts dozens of laws, falling asleep with his sleeve in his inkwell. She cannot seem to pry him away for any reason, with even her feminine wiles falling victim to her husband's devotion to duty.
Nor does she have her ladies to distract her - Sarai and Roslin are still in King's Landing, Jessamyn south in Stonehelm with her useless lump of a husband, sweet Amerei in childbed in Ashemark, and Dyanna lending her sunshine to Summerhall. Here on Dragonstone, she has Melessa Templeton, who is more of a maid than a companion, though Jena trusts her more than most. Elinora Massey, wife to Ser Corwyn the castellan, is certainly available, but Jena finds the lady meek and over-pious. Elinora will certainly sit with Jena in sewing circles or in Sea Dragon Tower writing correspondence, but she haunts the sept more often than not.
And so this evening, Jena is presiding over the dregs of supper in the great hall, Baelor having finished his meal and begged off to return to whatever he's been doing with Corwyn's inventory. There are a few courtiers still on the island - never popular during the rainy season - so she makes conversation with Lord Sunglass about the new septon and Lady Bar Emmon about the latest shipment of Arbor wines and relates some of Valarr's tales of squiring for Ser Roland Crakehall.
(Her firstborn, a squire already. He'd been a page to his father since he was barely out of swaddling clothes, her eager boy, but it had been his aim to be named squire at the same age as Baelor had been, eight.)
Lady Staunton leans across the platter of stewed capon to inquire about her younger son, oh, what is his name? Jena hides a scowl in her wineglass and clears her throat.
"Matarys is doubtless fast asleep. He was traipsing all over the beach with Maester Harwin earlier, looking for sand dollars and shells, before this bloody downpour began."
"Ah, yes..." Lady Staunton simpers. "Such a fascinating name. Wherever did you find it?"
Surprised, Jena sets her glass upon the table and smiles. "My husband and I are such lovers of history, and we have always been fond of pre-Exile records. Aurion Matarys's treatises on the foundings of the cities of Velos and Ghozai on the Isle of One Hundred Battles, they're exhilarating. Some of the only surviving-"
She could go on, but Lady Staunton's mouth has gone pinched as a lemon, and Jena knows that look well: oh gods, forget I asked.
Just as well, there is a chime from the watchtower, and the herald at the door calls out "Ser Lyonel, of the House Baratheon, heir to Storm's End, and Cedrik of the House Buckler, requesting permission to enter Dragonstone."
Jena would very much like to know what in the seven hells Lyonel is doing all the way in Dragonstone - let alone dragging Cedrik Buckler with him - so she gets to her feet and motions for the guards to open the great red doors of the hall. It's still pissing rain outside, it seems, and so it is two bedraggled men who tramp into her hall, water pouring off them. She sends Vaelyx, one of the servants, for towels, and Melessa to prepare two rooms in the second floor of the Wyndwyrm tower.
"My Lady of Dragonstone, I beg your magnanimous forgiveness for this trespass! Ced and I were on our way to Gulltown for a tourney, got blown clean off course. Men've been set free to patronize the delightful little potshops and bedsits of your smallfolk, but - oh, thank you for the dry cloths, my dear flower. Dreadful weather, honestly, it's much more pleasant in here. Might we sup at your table and sleep in your hall, sweet Lady?"
He never changes, Jena thinks. Not that she'd want him to - that rake's earring glinting among black curls, sea-blue eyes giving truth to his nickname. He's still in mourning garb for Rosanna, but even the drabness of his doublet and breeches can't hide his handsomeness. She can hear the chambermaids swooning already.
"Be welcome, Ser Lyonel, Cedrik. Sit where it please you, if you're hungry. If you'd rather take your rest, I will have Vaelyx show you to your rooms."
Cedrik, perhaps eyeing Vaelyx's tightly-laced dress and her pretty silver curls, decides he'd rather have the room, leaving Lyonel to steal Lord Staunton's chalice of Dornish red and seat himself in Baelor's abandoned chair to her left.
"Songbird," Lyonel drawls, eyes crinkling. "You're looking lonely. Where's that dour, sour Dornishman of yours?"
There are several scandalized gasps, with Lord Sunglass having a near choking fit. Typical Lyonel; he so loves imposing his indecent behavior on everyone. Has to have everyone looking at him, paying court to him. Loves to poke and prod - when she was seven it was eels in her pocket, when she was ten-and-three it was trying to peek into her bathing chambers, and now it's incessant flirting. Largely harmless, but there is, of course, what once was between them.
"You sit in the man's chair, Lyonel. Do show your prince some courtesy or he might throw you in the dungeons this time."
"He will not. He'd have to bestir himself from whatever endless drivel he's reading. Lord Whatsit of Where-the-Fuck, short 40 dragons on taxes to the crown. Lord Spendthrift of Whoreston, short 80 dragons on taxes to the crown. Lord-"
Jena pushes his elbows off the table as the serving man sets down a plate of roast lamb, accompanied by crispy purple-and-yellow potatoes and the honeyed, yet spicy long beans that the Dornish favor. It's also the only way to get either of her boys to eat vegetables, coating them in that spice, so Jena has had the kitchens use the recipe nearly once a sennight.
Nodding to the plate, Jena picks up her refilled wineglass and ignores the whispering still going on. "Eat something before you swoon, ser. I've seen the swill you call food aboard the Golden Hind."
Lyonel is soon spooning potatoes into his mouth between bites of lamb, and while he scowls at the long beans, he does spear one to try. His scowl grows deeper, as he clearly enjoys the flavor, and goes back to deliberately sawing off pieces of lamb instead. Honestly, he's as moody as little Matarys when faced with porridge. Identical pouts and frowns.
"Did you truly get blown off course from Gulltown, or is there another reason we have the pleasure of your company?"
"Mayhaps I wanted to bring you some entertainment. Didn't you use to have singers here?" He bangs the table, startling Ladies Bar Emmon and Fell, and bellows "A song to break the gloom! A song to shout down the storm!"
Perrin of Pinkmaiden, one of their usual singers, comes rushing up to the high table, followed by a much more sedate Ysenia, her Pentoshi lyre at her hip. Even old Bearfooted Bron ambles over, his game of cards forgotten. They begin with "A Cask of Ale", during which Jena requests a serving of the evening's sweets - a tart of cinnamon biscuit and sweet cream - and go right into "When Willum's Wife Was Wet".
Her tart arrives and Jena bites into it, savors the delicious cream and spice. It was the gods' own shame she couldn't stomach cinnamon when she'd been with child, but she's able to indulge now. The cooks have somehow acquired her mother's recipe for cinnamon bread, as well as the tarts, though her husband remains staunchly determined to deny procuring it. Perhaps she enjoys dessert a little bit more than is fashionable, but all of the women of the Stormlands tend toward curves, and Baelor is quite clear in his appreciation of her figure.
As if he's caught her thinking about Baelor, Lyonel turns from the singers and leans in. This close, she can see the darkened skin around his eyes, the pallor to his skin. His grin is sly and enticing as ever, though. "Oh, to be a sweet to sit upon those lips."
"And then be devoured?"
Lyonel laughs in delight. "Songbird, you have but to ask. I will devour you any time."
"I'm too rich for you, ser," Jena says, brushing away the powdered sugar that has dusted the bodice of her dress. The purple brocade seems to catch everything - food, fur from the palace cats, hair from her bay mare, stains from Matarys's paintings, errant drops of ink. "T'would upset your stomach."
"Is that why your husband always scowls like he's just smelt a privy? Compensating for too much of your sweetness?"
She raises an eyebrow, gently pushing away his goblet before a servant can refill it a third time. "Whyever do you mock him so constantly, ser?"
Lyonel groans as if wounded and stabs another piece of long bean. "He's a pain in my arse, my lady. He stole you away, him and his bloody Dornish spearmen left us holding our bollocks for ages on the Redgrass, and he refuses to give leave for my father to take half of Lord Fell's holdings near the Kingswood to maintain our lumber supply for those fucking ships he wants."
It's the final part of Lyonel's whining that catches her attention. "Why is Storm's End taking over ship construction for the royal fleet? The lands near Mistwood and Rain House have always had the royal charter."
"According to your royal good-father, we need more ships. Franklyn Mertens is a doddering old fool who thinks my grandsire still rules the Stormlands and hasn't completed a full ship in years. Bloody Ben Wylde cares more for spending his Kingsguard son's good will and pension with endless feasting. Believe me, I'm not moaning about a good time, but he's reneging on a contract with both the royal family and my father. Fell's a limp dick in every sense, but the one wood he does know is lumber. He was willing to negotiate, except now your husband's given him a smack on the hand and he's running scared."
The sounds of the room quiet as a familiar tune begins - Perrin strumming the opening notes of every Stormlander's favorite tune, and Lyonel smiles like the cat that's caught the canary. It's the smile he gave her in the gardens at Blackhaven, and again under the candelabras of the Red Keep the night of her wedding.
His attention has always flattered her, always made her feel warm at the thought. She is no shy maid any longer, and she knows they would be quite good together, if they chose...
But she would never, ever do anything to harm her husband, her gallant prince. They have something that took an age to build, stone by stone, with scratching and clawing, with clear-eyed care and honesty. She wed Baelor honestly and gladly. She will be Queen one day, gods forbid a long while from now, and a queen cannot afford a secret such as this.
Not without some very careful planning.
Jena diverts Lyonel from his appraisal of her by summoning one of the servants and giving instructions to show Ser Lyonel his quarters for the night, as she will soon be retiring. If she mentions how one needs a candle to traverse the paths from the Great Hall to the Stone Drum, or the exact floor and wing she and her husband reside upon, that is simply idle chatter between a lady and servant.
As is the item Melessa leaves atop the pillow in Lyonel's room, Jena's writing a little shaky upon the parchment.
'The guards will change just before the hour of ghosts. You may have your peach, though black steel accompanies it.'