Clarice
~o~
Clarice held the horses in the stableyard. She had not waited long when the prince stepped out of the moving cage with irritating grace. Most first-time visitors to the ancient tower complained of the many stairs and the golden cage that brought those of gentle birth from one floor to the next. There was another one, made of iron and wood, on the other side of the tower, where the servants' quarters were, the kitchen and the granaries. The winches that pulled the cages up or let them down flanked the great fire of the Hightower. Once, a thousand years past, the steel rope that had held the lord's cage up had torn and King Hoster Hightower had fallen hundreds of feet. Legend had it that his queen, whose name no tale remembered, had been the one to sever the rope, angry about KingHoster's many dalliances with kitchen wenches and whores of the city. She had buried what was left of her husband and had continued to rule over the tower and the city for fifty years, or so the singers said.
To Clarice, this had always been an inspirational tale. Sadly, however, Prince Daemon had made it all the way to the ground in one piece.
As he approached her, she saw that he swayed ever so slightly. A small triumph.
The prince was used to great heights but only on dragonback, with the open sky above. It was something else to travel in a golden cage down a long narrow tunnel, never knowing when that hellride would end – and how. Some previous lord had had the walls painted with vivid scenes from songs and tales to keep passengers occupied. Some of the stories read from the lord's chambers to the stables, others from the stables to the lord's chambers, or the hall below. There were those who appreciated the distraction while others complained that these moving paintings were the main reason for the lingering sickness that followed a trip up or down the tower. Lady Perianne tried not to use the cage at all if it could be helped. For that reason, she had not left the tower in years, her only time in the sun was spent on the balcony and in the small stone gardens on the roofs of the lower levels of the stepped tower.
Clarice had often thought that her aunt looked ten years younger than she was…but dead.
"Are you feeling quite alright, my prince?" she feigned concern. "Some men get seasick on their long way up or down."
"That would explain the smell." He flashed her a grin. "Your home reveals more than you know, Lady Clarice. I paid your uncle a visit and I must say…one look out of his latticed windows and I understand your haughtiness at once."
"My uncle has surely been flattered by your visit." Lord Hightower was occupied with making arrangements for Lord Blackmont's entry into the city – his safety had to be guaranteed, or their wedding would turn into a diplomatic nightmare. There were those in the Reach that would like to see a Dornishman dead for his blood and the crimes of his kinsmen and now, the Dornish would push right into the heart of the kingdom. Oldtown's walls were high, its defences always ready, but there was nothing to fend off enemies within the city. Certainly, the visit from a proud and quarrelsome prince had not been welcome.
"I am certain of it. And yet, I made haste so as not to make you wait for too long."
"You are the very soul of courtesy."
"You are waiting too much as it is. Do you think Lord Blackmont is scared of you?"
"Why, are you?"
He seemed to find that hilarious.
"Wine and a good fuck are not like to kill me."
Careful. He knows nothing . He was only playing with her, trying to taunt her into revealing the truth.
"More's the pity. There are winesinks and whorehouses enough in the city."
"And I shall give them all the attention they are due tonight." The rogue prince didn't even feign decency. "But for now, my attention is all yours. Where will you take me?"
Clarice wasn't entirely sure whether she was imagining the salacious tone of his voice.
Enough. There was no reason for her to act like her maiden cousin. She knew what happened in the bedchamber and it was not as exciting as it was made out to be. Prince Daemon was perhaps easily enticed, she was not. Her virtue was above reproach. She had not had a single unchaste thought in her life. No man, not the Warrior himself, could tempt her into carnal thoughts.
"I shall show you the Citadel, although I doubt you'll understand much, the sept, provided they let you in, the street of wine as well, if you wish, though you must find your way back on your own. I trust you'll find the whorehouses yourself."
He had been to the brothel more often than to the sept.
"A comprehensive tour, though I think I might enjoy it more if your dear cousin gave it."
"My father has spoken and his word is my law, my prince, so you will have to make do with me. Lady Berenice will attend tonight's feast, should you wish to lavish your attentions upon her before departing to bestow your favour upon the whores of the city."
He looked as if her reply had pleased him.
"Shall we then? Or do you wish a tour of the yard?" she asked, a little too short-tempered. Clarice noticed with some discomfort that she was looking forward to it all. It had been years, perhaps a decade, since she had last been in Oldtown without her father or aunt. There was a certain freedom in prowling around the bustling city, ride along the long, narrow streets, chasing the Hightower's shadow and examining the many spices and vegetables and cloths on the dock market near the mouth of the Mander where ships from the other side of the known world dropped anchor to replenish their stocks and sell their goods. But her childhood days were long gone and there was no bringing them back now. A lady could not be seen marching down the long rows of stalls between rats and cats.
"Why is it that you are the one to guide me? Your uncle would have been a more fitting choice. And more entertaining."
"I suppose I am too well known for my patience. It seems my father considers me the one person who can spend hours with you without any, ah, tensions."
"How wrong he is."
He did not say more. He didn't have to. She knew that he did not mean their quarrels. There had been a very different kind of tension between them once, but that was long past and nothing remained of it but a slight and constant irritation and deep regret. It had been her most desperate moment but she was a woman grown now, and a widow, and the prospect of marriage did not frighten her as much as it had then.
"For the sake of the relations between King's Landing and Oldtown, let us hope my father is right."
She mounted too quickly, eager to leave, and caught a foot in the stirrup in a rather humiliating move. Clarice had not ridden in many moons but the prince did not have to know how inexperienced she was.
He came to her aid unbidden, though he looked up at her, perhaps for allowance, before closing his fingers around her riding boot. He disentangled it with deft fingers, his other hand resting rather indecently on her clothed calf.
"Oh, I have only the best relations in mind, my lady."
He raised his eyes to her once more and in the silver autumn sunlight, the purple of his eyes looked like some forbidden wine, dark and deep and sure to drown and poison you.
He had not lifted his chin to look at her, it was a casual glance, suggestive but quick, as if to make sure she had not missed the double meaning, but now he did not lower his gaze back to his hands' work.
"I told you, my prince, there is a part of the city you must discover on your own."
His fingers rested on her booted foot, though the stirrup was right where it belonged. "I won't be on my own for long." The most indecent man in the world was less arrogant than Daemon Targaryen's smirk. Although, perhaps, he was the most indecent man, for somehow, his fingers seemed to brush against her leg through the fabric of her riding skirt.
In response, she drove her heels sharply into her poor mare's sides.
She should not allow him to lower the standards of polite conversation so. Daemon Targaryen made no move to try and catch up with her, instead, he made her wait for him as he rode towards her, slowly, lazily, a very smug grin on his face.
"Did you leave your manners in the Hightower, my lady?"
"Apologies, my prince. I have not ridden in quite some time."
"You have been widowed for a few moons now, haven't you?" That grin seemed immovable.
Clarice chose not to reply and they rode into Oldtown in silence but for the occasional barb.
At the River Gate, they were met with the Hightower sigil, white and green on grey, on a silk banner bigger than a bedsheet.
The prince took in the sight with amusement.
"Green?" He threw a casual glance at the bright orange flames atop the Hightower. "Has the light blinded them so much?"
Had no maester ever forced him to study the noble families' sigils?
"WIldfire. When the Hightowers call their banners to war, the flames atop the tower burn green. Pray that you will never see them."
Her warning only served to further amuse him. "I don't hold much with praying."
The starry sept towered before them with its large, starry dome.
"A pity. And though the first sept has converted many a man, I am quite hopeless when it comes to you."
"You may have some hope, Lady Clarice."
She felt her cheeks redden and the prince smirked though he didn't press her further. It was unlike him to take a victory with grace.
They rode past the starry sept slowly. Despite his words, the prince surveyed the architecture with mild interest.
"Do you wish to go inside?"
"Seven altars and a handful of boring priests and droning women. One sept is much like the other."
"To the godless, perhaps. This one is the first sept, and a testimony to our dedication to the Faith. It was built by a Hightower a thousand years ago," Clarice supplied. "To appease the Andals."
"A bribe. How fitting."
"A generous gift that encouraged trade and consolidated the Hightowers' power in Oldtown."
As they urged their horses past the sept, her family's power became more and more evident from the standards that hung from towers and houses, from the sigil that was painted on the signs of taverns and shops and sickhouses.
That was beyond a doubt why her father had given her this assignment. It was a warning, spelled out in silk banners and peeling paint.
"The people of Oldtown seem to appreciate the queer architecture of your tower more than I thought."
Clarice gazed back to where the Hightower cut through the sky like a god's lance.
"They were born with it looming over them, and they will die in its shadow too, as did their forebears. The white tower is said to have been built by Brandon the Builder himself ten thousand years ago but the Black Fortress at the base is even older. It has stood upon Battle Island for centuries when our records began. It is older than twelve thousand years and no man knows by whom it was built. The people of Old town respect such ancient architecture for its history."
She did only rarely venture into the bowels of the tower, that ancient fortress of molten stone, where odd breezes went through airtight corridors, where the flames of torches flickered and went out, where a twisted weirwood with a sad face grew towards the dim light that entered the strange, high centre chamber through arrow slits, where, in catacombs below the city, the dead rested: the older corpses of the Age of Heroes burned to ashes and locked in bronze caskets, those of the more recent Hightowers in stone sarcophagi. The Black Fortress was an ancient and primal place and only used sparingly these days as granaries and storage. For a thousand years, no one had prayed to the old gods of the rivers and hills in the Hightower, but still, no lord was fierce enough to cut that old, sad tree down, to order a mason to cut windows into the strange black walls and connect the many, tiny chambers in which a man could get lost in. The Black Fortress had to remain as the remnant of a different time, as a distant reminder of their roots.
" Battle Island?" the prince seemed mildly interested for the first time.
"No one knows which battle. Even in the oldest record it is named thus."
"Who won?"
"The Hightowers, of course." She flashed him a grin as they rode beneath a merchant's wide silk banner, meant no doubt to please her father.
"Oh yes, they are famed for their valour in battle." Prince Daemon's voice was laced with irony. And it was not entirely wrong. There had been few famed Hightower knights and no great fighters like the prince's forebears. Or he himself. At present, the Hightowers' only tolerable knight was Clarice's younger brother, Gwayne, and he was promising at best. Her elder brother, Gerion and Gilbert, were technically serving Lord Mathis Tyrell and Lord Randyll Rowan, respectively, but in truth, she knew their lives consisted of little more than honing a little used sword and losing in tourneys.
The Hightowers had always been too clever for open battle, especially when peace was so cheap and war so bad for trade.
"Some wars are won with valour, some with wits."
"And some with gold, or you'd be lost." Fair enough.
"And some with dragons, or you'd be, my prince."
He grinned. "A dragon against a golden shield."
"Golden shields rarely stand alone."
"An army of ants cannot win against a cat."
Ants? Was she vermin to him? He, who liked to mingle with the lowest of the low. It was good she rode six feet away from him, no doubt he had lice in his mane of hair.
"That is true enough," she conceded ostensibly, "As little as fleas can fight dragons, my prince."
His eyes went to the sky above where, occasionally, a long red shadow darkened the sun.
"Take care to remember that, my lady." There was a sharpness in his voice but when he looked at her, one corner of his lips had quirked up in a half-smile.
~o~
They followed the High Street to the very heart of the city until they reached the ancient black stone sphinxes that flanked the entry to the one building Clarice had always considered better than her home.
"This is the Citadel." She stopped her horse. "Most people are interested in such an ancient place of learning but I have known you for most of my life and will not discomfort you by suggesting we go inside."
"That felt strangely like an insult, Lady Clarice. I like to surprise you. Show me this famed place of learning."
That was not as easy as he seemed to think. The whole of Oldtown bowed to the Hightowers, yes, but to the lords and knights, not to the women.
That day, however, the prince was in luck, for Clarice recognised the kindly looking young man in grey robes that stood patiently by the door, his nose in an ancient tome.
"Maester Leyton."
He was a Hightower himself, her second cousin, and had often helped her when she had been a young girl too interested in books and histories for her father's taste.
He almost dropped the book at the sound of her voice.
"Clarice." Honest joy spread over his face before his eyes darted to Daemon. "And you bring a guest."
Leyton was a genial man who had little in common with most people in her family. He, for one, had always seemed to genuinely like her.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen," she introduced her companion.
This took her cousin by surprise. He bowed much too deeply until the sleeves of his grey robes swept the stone floor.
"My prince. I had no idea –"
"And I would like for it to remain that way." The prince pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide his treacherous hair. "Call me 'guest' and I'll be pleased."
"Guest, to be sure, my prince – my lord, I mean."
It surprised her that Daemon did not want to make a fuss. He liked being fawned over, did he not? He thrived at the centre of attention, was begging for it all the time.
With his hair hidden, he looked strangely common. He might as well have passed for a soldier or a smith in his leather jerkin – laced up this time – his woollen breeches and simple grey cloak. Unfortunately, his simple garb did nothing to diminish his good looks and his purple eyes would give him away to every eagle-eyed observer.
Of those, however, there were none, she found, as they hurried down the long, silent corridors.
"The acolytes are in the crypts below," Leyton supplied, "and the council has convened. You have an hour, maybe less."
He stopped at last in front of a pair of double doors that seemed faintly familiar.
"You can leave us here, Leyton. I will find the way back."
He nodded with a faint smile. "It's good to see you again before you leave for Dorne, Clarice."
"It is good to see you again, too. All the best."
Her cousin nodded before taking his leave with one last curious look at Prince Daemon.
When he had disappeared in the shadows of the stone walls, the prince pulled open the doors with little respect for the gravitas of their surroundings – the carved sphinxes and owls and eagles, the sunbeams that were painted on doors and walls and sconces. It was an ancient place but better maintained than any castle in the realm.
Most breathtaking of all was the ancient library they entered now. In the huge, round hall right under the painted dome, shelves in neat, narrow rows reached from one end to the other, with tables and writing nooks squeezed between the rows here and there. No ordinary candles were allowed here, not since a fire a thousand years ago had ruined many of the parchments that had been kept here at the time. Sunlight flooded the hall even on a grey day through a ring of Myrish glass at the bottom of the domed ceiling. Above, motifs from tales and history patterned the ceiling: The building of the Wall, the First Hero, the first king of the Tower, an ancient heart tree, the coming of the Andals. As a girl, she had liked to lie down on her back between two remote shelves, hidden by piles of books and parchments, and stare at the paintings above.
But now she was a woman grown and not alone.
The prince looked around with faint interest. He studied the signs on the shelves, not the beauty above them, then he walked past sculptures and paintings, past centuries old carvings and runes unknown to anyone alive. Clarice hurried after him with some annoyance. What was he looking for? A register of all the whores of Oldtown? A list of wines sold in the area?
She recognised the strange writing at once. Of course. She had shown him her heritage, now it was his turn.
The Citadel had a vast collection of Valyrian tomes, greater than that of any other centre of learning. All the knowledge that had been saved from the Doom was here, stored away safely.
The prince's fingers moved down leathery spines and hovered over letters drawn in wildfire green ink.
It took her a while to realise he was not just flipping through pages at random.
"You know Valyrian." It was obvious, of course, he had toured the Free Cities after all, as all princes did. He was the blood of Old Valyria, of course he knew their tongue.
"iksan se ānogar hen uēpa Valyria." His voice dropped when he spoke in that ancient language, slid over rough, throaty consonants and low vowels. This was no bastard version of the true tongue. He spoke pure Valyrian, as a dragonlord of old would have. And he suited it, too. His voice, she noticed, was well matched with the guttural sounds. The very melody of that tongue was melancholy, dark and wistful and it laid bare a side of the prince she had never seen before. He was impulsive and rash, brazen and provocative, but she had never seen him like this, dark and pensive. It is only his voice, she tried to tell herself, but it was not. To him, these books had to hold all the bitterness of a lost treasure and a lost family.
"You are the blood of Old Valyrian," she translated slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to break the magic of his voice with the profanity of the common tongue, "Yes, I am aware."
"Ao shifang Valyrīha?" He seemed surprised.
Had he never considered that she had grown up next to the Citadel, the very centre of learning in the Seven Kingdoms? All that had barred her from entering had been her sex, and coin and shawls and her cousin had soon taken care of that problem.
"Nyke mazverdatan bē isse se oktion hen gūrēñagion." She tried not to stumble over the low sounds – it had been years since she had last spoken the ancient tongue and even then, there had been no one to tell her how. Did he find her a butcher of his cherished heritage?
For a moment, he only stared at her, strangely intensely, before a smile dawned on his face. "You grew up in the city of learning. It is not customary for a woman to partake in this learning, I thought, but then I suppose your cousin proved helpful."
She returned his smile and found it was genuine. "Kessa." Yes.
He shut the book he was holding and put it back on the shelf rather carelessly.
"What else did you study here?"
Study. Acolytes were allowed to study. She had only been allowed to sneak, like a mouse among cats.
"I was never here long enough to study. I snuck in when the acolytes were training, like we are now. One more boy in shawls did not attract any attention. Some books I borrowed in my uncle's name. I like the histories. Wars fought and won on battlefields and in council chambers."
Schemes and plots and treachery. "And of course the stories of young maidens in towers."
She had meant it lightly, a jape, nothing more, but the prince looked at her strangely thoughtfully. It was not an expression he wore often.
Clarice turned to survey the books before her but there was no escaping the intensity of her gaze.
"I suppose that was a tale you could relate to." The prince walked towards her end of the shelf and there was no escape. To her left, there was a hard stone wall covered with an ancient map, to her front and back, twin shelves, high and heavy and looming as a prison gate.
"In the past, perhaps. But in the stories, maidens are rescued by gallant knights."
"You are no longer a maiden."
He was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath in the cold room as he spoke.
Desperately, she squeezed herself against the wall in an effort to escape his proximity but it was no good. Her heart was pounding violently in her chest. Why was it that all of a sudden, he had that sort of effect on her? She was the frozen maiden, no fire could thaw her heart. But perhaps now that she was a woman, there was something else, more primal and beastly and no doubt awoken by the prince's unseemly idea of polite conversation. He, perhaps, was not the master of his baser instincts, but she had never given in to anything but thorough thought. Why was it then, that when her mind decided to shove him aside as courteously as possible and then compose herself in the sunlight, her tongue made a very different decision?
"And still, I have never been rescued by a gallant knight." She looked up to him then, and although she did not want to allow herself a look into those haunting violet eyes, she did nearly drown in them.
He was close enough to embrace. Why don't I? He wouldn't push her away. If she showed herself inclined, he would bed her right here, in the Citadel, only to prove to her and him that he could. And that is why I won't. That and decorum, decency and common sense, of course.
"You are not the sort of woman who needs rescue, I should think." He said that with faint appreciation but he still made no move. He did not bend down to kiss her, his arms hung limply at his sides as he leant against the shelf in front of her, eyes focused only on her face. Is he waiting for me to do something? She wouldn't, of course. He could hardly expect she would forget herself, her good rearing, her pride and dignity, only because he looked illicitly handsome in a plain woollen grey cloak and a simple black leather jerkin, leaning against the shelf, never fearing it would fall under his weight. It needed more to tempt her.
Leaning, Prince Daemon left her a gap large enough to escape through, though she had to squeeze like a fox into a rabbit's burrow.
On the other side of him, she feigned nonchalance, running a finger down the spine of a random book, very interested in the rotten leather binding.
"Have you had your fill of books and wisdom then, Prince Daemon?"
He surveyed the tomes before him, the collections of coal drawings of Old Valyria, dragons in a grey sky. If he had noticed the turmoil inside her, he gave no sign of it. Instead, after a moment, he turned to her with his customary half smile
"Is it time for the winesinks and whorehouses already? You seem to have worked up quite an appetite."
This is his true nature.
Even his voice sounded harsher as he spoke the common tongue.
"My aunt expects us at the feast tonight, and it would be uncourtly to choose winesinks and whorehouses over the warm hospitality of the Hightower."
She noticed the faint disapproval in her voice but it was too late.
Of course, the prince, being who he was, did not like being lectured.
"Warm hospitality?" he asked, pointedly. "The warmest thing about the Hightower are the flames at its top."
"Has our tour of the city's sights not pleased you?" she offered. It was her duty to appease the prince, after all, and her father would chide her if he came back ill-tempered. "Is there anything else you would like to see?"
Her question had been innocent enough, or so she thought, but the dim light of the library turned every look from the prince into a silent seduction.
Clarice needed some air.
"Perhaps you can…make up your mind as we go back outside. I always find the dust rather unpleasant."
She fled from the hall, as she had once savoured every moment in here: desperately. It was the prospect of her Dornish marriage, unsettling, unwelcome and unpredictable, that made her weak again. Not weak enough to give up her self-esteem, of course, but too weak for her own taste.
Outside on the street, with the occasional waggon driving past, Clarice felt like herself again.
"So, what else can I show you...The traitors' wall, perhaps?" she turned to him with a poisoned smile, desperate to forget how she had felt just moments ago.
"Rotten heads all look the same once the crows have feasted." He unfastened the reins of his horse. "No, a different suggestion."
When Clarice mounted quickly, he climbed into his own saddle as well.
"I'll race you back to the tower." He grinned at her.
Clarice smiled back.
"Oh, please do. More people have lost their lives in senseless horse races here than to the White Dread and the Shivers together. The roads of Oldtown were not made for swift horses, my prince. They snake and bend like your red wyrm, but the dragon is not quite as dangerous."
That, of course, only spurred him on. The prince drove his heels into the horse's flanks until the mare broke into a reluctant gallop. It took Clarice only a tug on the reins to catch up with him.
"You gave me an old palfrey."
Clarice couldn't hide a smile.
"I am only a fair rider, my prince, and I feared you'd suggest something like this." She batted her eyelashes at him innocently. "I did not want to lose you."
He did not like being tricked, and Clarice feared for a moment that the prince would show his usual gift for escalation, but to her surprise, he seemed more amused. "You are charming, my lady."
"So they say." She couldn't suppress a smile.
They rode side by side from then on, returning to the Hightower at a leisurely pace.
Once in the stableyard, Daemon slid down the palfrey's side. She had expected him to just leave her, to return to his rooms in the Tower or to find himself a place to drink and gamble, but instead, he turned to her and offered her a hand.
"If I may?"
She resisted the urge to pull on her riding gloves before taking his hand.
His fingers were warm to the touch, even in the autumn cold, smooth and dry. As she unhooked her leg from the knob of the saddle and rearranged her skirts so that she would not bare her legs sliding off her horse, he let go of her hand and reached instead for her waist, lifting her from the saddle. He set her down right in front of him, with not a foot between their bodies.
"I should hate to see you compromise your modesty."
"How very…considerate." She took a step backwards, and then another to be safe. He did not close the distance between them but looked amused by her efforts to escape him. Was this the prince young maidens dreamt of from Winterfell to Sunspear? Daemon Targaryen could be charming, it was always said, with stress on the third word. He had never before tried to be charming to Clarice.
"I thank you for your efforts today, Lady Clarice," he said, in a strangely low voice, "I must say, your city has grown on me."
Every word was a caress when he spoke like this.
"It was my father's command. It is him you should thank."
"I shall tell him how well you entertained me. How engaging I found your company."
He pushed back the hood of his grey cloak and shook out his silver-golden hair. Despite the journey, it was not tangled, as hers might have been, but fell over his shoulders like moonlit silk.
As her gaze dropped, she noticed that the laces of his jerkin had come undone at his throat, and it seemed he wore no shirt underneath today.
All of a sudden, her chest seemed too narrow for a deep breath and her ferociously beating heart showed no inclination to slow. It was the long ride that had taken its toll, nothing more. She was not used to exercise. That was all.
My lord father will be pleased." She tried to evoke the image of Lord Otto like some kind of rampart but there was little use in it. Apparently, Oldtown was boring the prince so much that he had lost his mind. There was no other explanation for him complimenting her. Something had shifted between them during their tour of the city, short as it had been. Apart from her father, Clarice didn't think she had ever spent so much time alone with a man. Had she been a maiden, her father would have never allowed it, and she wished he wouldn't have been so eager to rid himself of the prince.
There was no escaping Daemon Targaryen and his strange fit of charm right now. They would have to ride up to the topmost floors in the narrow golden cage together. Clarice was looking frantically for an excuse to stay behind. Depending on the servants who worked the winches, one ride up to the lords' chambers could take a long time. And despite the tallow candles that burned in the cage, it was dark in there, the sort of dangerous dim light that had led to questionable choices before.
It wasn't so much that Clarice didn't trust herself. She was a grown woman, she was to be married for the third time, she had nothing to fear. It was the prince who was unpredictable. He was evidently trying to charm her, no doubt a new strategy to spite her, and the gods only knew what he would attempt in the dark cage without a soul near them.
When her father's steward bowed as he walked past, she seized the opportunity to escape.
"I must ask Ser Egon whether he had heard more about my betrothed's arrival. I will see you at the feast tonight."
Had Clarice paid better attention, she might have noticed the evident relief on Prince Daemon's face at her words. But she was too eager to get away from him to look closely and Daemon was too determined to get away from her to allow her more than a brief glimpse at his face.
It had been a strange afternoon, one that had offered glimpses into the prince's character that she had not seen before and it didn't please her. She disliked him. What did it matter that he had such an avid interest in the ancient history of Old Valyria when he would just return to the city's whores tonight? What did it matter that he had helped her off her horse and been so strangely kind when he had only done it to manipulate her in some way?
She knew Daemon Targaryen. She had gotten to know him properly that night when he had abandoned a maiden in the middle of a deserted courtyard in favour of some baseborn whores. There was no need for second glances. She knew all she needed to know.
