Clarice
~o~
Her husband-to-be arrived six days later, delayed another day by that ominous storm.
By then, the patience of the Hightowers was wearing thin and Prince Daemon was bored. He had gotten all the attention he was due, all the irritation he liked to elicit and all the barbs Clarice could deliver without attracting her family's attention. After imposing on their hospitality for nearly a fortnight, he was eager for some change and apparently glad to find an object of ire in the Dornishman.
Aron Blackmont was a handsome man of seven and twenty, with eyes and hair black as coal. Half of Clarice's cousins soon expressed their envy, with many declaring their infatuation with the dashing Dornishman upon his arrival.
And to be fair, Lord Blackmont did his best to make a great impression. He rode through the streets of the city on a Dornish sandsteed whose fur gleamed coppery red in the golden autumn light, handing out Dornish coppers and gold coins to beggars and onlookers. He brought balls of Myrish lace for her aunt, lenses for her uncle and a stunning chain of Dornish suns worked in red gold for her father.
His bride he showered with a rainbow of jewels: red gold and black onyx, yellow gold and green emeralds, white gold and brilliant diamonds. He had brought necklaces and bracelets, rings and hair ornaments – a show of luxury she was surprised he could afford.
"I would be honoured if you chose one of my gifts for our wedding day," her betrothed said, loudly enough for their guests to hear.
At their wedding feast, she knew, Daemon Targaryen would present her with a gift from her king that she would also have to wear for her wedding, so Clarice only inclined her agreement. There would be a fitting piece in the collection.
"You have been too kind, my lord. I have a gift for you as well, but after your generosity, it seems like a beggar's token."
The horse was led in, garbed in the Blackmont colours of black and yellow. It was a fine steed, bred at Highgarden and sent here by her eldest brother, and her soon to be husband eyed it with expert appreciation.
"I thank you, my sweet lady."
Lord Blackmont kissed her hand. He liked to hold her hand as well, all through his welcome dinner, and then later, during the dance. He was an excellent dancer, attentive, quick, and dominant. It was easy to let him lead her over the dancefloor, and easy to lose herself in the steps with him. And that was fortunate enough for he did not let her go, not to dance with her father, nor her uncle, nor Prince Daemon.
"This first night, my betrothed is all mine," he said, and was met with respectful, if somewhat curious bows from everyone but the prince.
"So tomorrow, I might borrow her, should I be that way inclined?" he asked, dead serious.
"If you think a wife can be borrowed and leased, Prince Daemon, you have a strange idea of marriage."
"I have heard that before." The prince's eyes flickered to her briefly.
"Then perhaps there is some truth in it."
Lord Blackmont meant to walk past him with Clarice still on his arm but the prince would not let him. He was taller than Blackmont, though her husband to be was broader. They were of an age, Clarice thought, as she saw them side by side. Next to Daemon Targaryen, even handsome Aron Blackmont looked unremarkable. The dragons' curse.
Perhaps this would be her last wedding. Then she would never again have to compare a husband to him. Lord Blackmont seemed passable enough and in time and in accordance with her father's plans, he would afford her a station no lord in the other six kingdoms could.
"Do you think so, Lord Blackmont? That there's a kernel of truth in every often repeated tale?"
There was a threat in the prince's voice. He was not used to being denied what he wanted, and he always wanted what was being denied to him.
Clarice's betrothed was the sort of man that challenged the rogue prince without much effort, and she feared the prince brought out the Dornish heat in Lord Blackmont.
"Well, the smallfolk say every bard's song was once a true story," she said, though she might as well have stayed silent for neither man paid her any heed.
"Yes. I suppose I do think so." There was something sly about her lord's tone then, like a predator lying in wait for its prey to make that one fatal mistake.
"I heard strange tales about the Dornish and their customs." The prince answered the lord's icy glare with a lazy smile.
She tried to give him a warning look but when his eyes did flicker to her, his smile only broadened. Fool. Her husband and the prince were still standing almost chest to chest and the air was stirring with tension. Around them, the dancing went on, though Clarice knew her father had spied the two prideful roosters already. Was he on his way? Or did he consider this her problem? It was, of course. These two men were not fighting over her, neither of them cared especially for Clarice. But that type of man would always find each other in a crowd and they would fight, not over a thing but over power. Daemon had claimed her attention for too long without any competition while Lord Blackmont rightly considered himself the only worthy recipient of said attention. They weren't fighting about her, they were fighting about their right to have her, to claim her, to bother her as they saw fit.
Clarice mustered a smile. "My lord, my prince, I beg you –"
Daemon's eyes did flicker to her then, though Lord Blackmont stared down at the prince unmoved.
"Lady Clarice will be able to clarify those for you, once we have settled at Blackmont, Prince Daemon."
The mention of her name seemed to sober the prince up. His dark violet eyes appeared as black as Lord Blackmont's in the dim light when he looked at her, more deeply this time. In her husband's shadow, she gave the slightest shake of head. Do not ruin this.
"Are you sure?"
Her husband surely did not like the condescension in the prince's voice but there was nothing else to take offence in. And with one last look at her, the prince turned and left. No matter how often her eyes searched the lord's hall, Daemon Targaryen did not resurface that night.
It was for the better. She would have to learn what kind of man her husband was. Possessive, she already knew, and used to being lord and master, not one among equals. He gave commands easily and did not feel the need to watch them being carried out. That told her that at Blackmont, there was no one fool enough not to do his bidding. A powerful man, clever and charismatic enough to win the affection of her family with only a few choice words and gestures. It seemed he was a match for her at last. Then why did she feel so uncomfortable every time he took her hand, then why did her instincts tell her to flee every time he leant over to whisper a jape or a compliment into her ear?
Her reaction to Lord Blackmont was not logical but it was impossible to suppress. She was glad when her aunt finally withdrew and she could escape to her own maiden bedchamber.
~o~
Too early the next morning, Clarice was woken by a strange chill. On the day before, when her husband to be had ridden through the city towards his betrothed, the sun had smiled upon them, turning yellowing leaves into golden ornaments and waking memories of summer.
But when her hastily called maid opened the shutters that morning, no sunlight shone onto her silk sheets, no gold and red hues twinkled in the forests around Oldtown. Outside her tower window, the world was bleak and grey.
A thick fog wafted around the Hightower and seemed to have swallowed much of the city as well. The weather changed swiftly on the coast, Clarice knew, especially in autumn, but this was exceptional. Sunshine would oftentimes yield to fog, and fog at times to rain, at times to sunshine again.
Today, however, sunshine seemed out of the question. The fog seemed inpenetrable. As she peered through one of the narrow windows, she could not even make out the Citadel's green roof, nor the yard below. On days like these, their keep seemed a questionable choice of home. The tower could burn to the ground and the people of the city would only notice the heat once it was too late.
It seemed Lord Blackmont had brought Oldtown the storm that had kept him so long.
Her betrothed would spend the day in the city, she was told as she broke her fast in her bedchamber to evade confrontation – with Daemon as much as with Blackmont. He would be back before the welcoming feast for their many wedding guests, his steward told her as he looked at her in her bedrobe rather insolently. He was a dashing youth, no doubt new to this honour. It seemed Dornish men knew no decency. In that respect, perhaps, her husband and the prince would see eye to eye.
"You may leave me, Ser…"
"Kayn. Kayn Qorren."
No my lady , no bow. He even left the door ajar to her dismay.
Well, that at least forced her to get out of bed. It wouldn't do to hide in here – there were wedding preparations to be overseen, packing to be arranged and her maid would have to try and secure that ridiculous tiara her husband had gifted to her on her braids for the ceremony tomorrow. It was heavier than any piece of jewellery had the right to be and made her neck and shoulders ache. But it would not do to offend her lord on their wedding day and she had borne worse.
As day dawned unseen, no wind moved the lingering clouds, no rain fell to tear apart the mist. At midday, it was as dark as it had been at dawn and the weather made the inhabitants of the tower strangely uneasy, ladies and maidservants alike. Clarice knew that there was no reason to fear. Fog were clouds, or so the maesters claimed, and at times, a cloud would fall and drift, but it would dissolve, sooner or later.
All in all, however, it wasn't a very promising first day of her betrothed's visit.
Decked out in onyx and red gold, wearing an unusually intricate black lace gown that was demure enough for a widow and enticing enough for a bride, Clarice descended the stairs to the great hall that evening. She was early to make sure she was firmly in her chair before the lords and ladies, filled with stories from their journeys and excited to see the notorious widow of the Hightower wed a third time, could filter into the hall. Clarice had had her fill of gossip and questions at lunch and later, during the tedious needlework sessions. Blackmont was not her dream, so high up in the mountains, isolated and lonely, but compared to the tedium today's banquet promised to be, it seemed almost tempting.
Clarice had thought she would be early, but it seemed the lacing of her gown had taken much longer than usual or perhaps it were the intricate braids that had stolen so much time, for as she looked up to the dais, she found most of her family had already taken their seats. Tomorrow, at her wedding feast, they would make a grand entrance, with Clarice and her husband walking in first, but today, the Hightowers would receive their guests from the dais above the hall.
Her husband was the guest of honour, of course, seated between Lord Hobert and Lord Otto. Beside her father sat Ser Jonos, seemingly glad to see his sister again. Lady Perianne, likewise, was unusually cheerful in her finest grey samite, wrapped in an ermine stole. Beside Lord Hobert, there was a seat left free for the tardy prince. Clarice had just taken her own place on the dais, next to her aunt, and two seats up from Berenice on this special day, when someone much taller and broader than her cousin Drusilla, for whom the seat was undoubtedly reserved, slumped into the velvet-backed chair.
"My prince, your place is beside my uncle, as befits your status."
The prince glanced to his left, where Berenice was busying her hands with her chalice. "I prefer my present company."
Lord Otto had noticed the commotion at the lower end of the table, as had Lord Blackmont, she saw, but neither made a move to tell the prince to shift. Lord Hobert seemed oddly relieved by the change of seating arrangements and welcomed his elder daughter, Berenice's half-sister, cheerfully at his side.
Daemon grinned at her. "Unhappy on the eve of your wedding?"
"With the seating arrangements, not my betrothed." She had to keep her voice low in the present company.
"I find them quite pleasant." The prince turned his back to her to lavish his attentions on Berenice, leaving Clarice free to take in the guests that had arrived for this historic match. They were mostly her uncle's bannermen and fellow lords. Lord Tyrell had not deigned to leave Highgarden for a Dornish viper, but had instead sent his nephew, Ser Desmond, an unpleasant, smarmy young knight who seemed to fancy himself the Longthorn come again. Clarice did not doubt that Lord Mathos was glad to be rid of the boy that liked to call himself his uncle's heir. The Lords Rowan and Merryweather had chosen to attend themselves, the former's family ties to the Hightowers and the latter's ambition had given them no choice. The young Lord Oakheart had sent a cousin Clarice had never met but Ser Rollam's younger brother greeted her warmly. He owed her a lordship, after all. The Florents had sent a boorish oaf but Clarice did not suspect them of ulterior motives. Brightwater Keep was infested with men like Ser Arrec, tedious and bragging without much substance. It ran in the family just like their protruding ears. Lady Perianne's brother, Ser Jonos Fossoway, had joined them tonight as well, though he was pleasant compared to the other guests. My lord will get a fine impression of the Reach. Though perhaps a little too honest. The Blackmonts were, after all, ancient enemies. If he hadn't known already how incompetent the Reach knights were beneath their oaths and ribbons, he would now.
But there was no helping it. Slightly exasperated, Clarice turned her attention to the wide lead glass window to her left. Panels with their family's sigil spotted the fog outside an eerie green.
On a clear night, the view over the torch-lit city was unparalleled and today, Clarice longed for a glimpse at the Citadel, for the familiar sight of the torch-lit harbour. Now that she had to leave the tower that was the closest thing she had to a home, she craved the view she was used to, needed that ghostly calm that came with overlooking a city as ancient and sweeping as Oldtown. But to no avail. The tower might as well have stood isolated on a distant shore, for the grey outside the windows swallowed every sign of life.
It was good luck that most of the guests had arrived late the night before, or even more accidents might have happened on the narrow streets of Oldtown. Clarice had heard of colliding wheelhouses, frightened horses and a galley that had sailed past Battle Island in the fog and run aground. But no one had died so far.
The prince seemed to have noticed the direction of her gaze.
"The tower is shrouded like an old widow."
He glanced at the black veil that she had fastened over her meticulous crown braids.
She might have answered softly in the hearing of her aunt, but was spared the necessity to react at all when a cup fell clattering to the floor. The serving maid who had dropped it should be red-faced with shame – Clarice thought she would be, in the presence of the lord's entire family and the king's brother – but the girl was pale as chalk as she gathered it with shaking fingers.
"What is the matter?" she asked her. Paleness and shaking were a sign of fear as much as of illness and with her wedding only days away, a dreadfully frightened or a dreadfully sick serving girl would be most…unfortunately.
"The ghost, m'lady," a different wench answered in a low voice, not meeting her eye. "'Tis in the fog that she rises and wanders. There were ashes in the kitchen this morning."
It was a tale her wetnurse had told her again and again every autumn, though in her stories, it was the ghost that brought the fog and as long as it lingered in the city, she would roam the halls of her former home. And when she left, she would take a soul with her, a price of penance.
"In the fireplace, I suppose, where ashes belong." Her father said with some impatience. He had been talking intently to Lord Blackmont, no doubt about the tension in the Dornish Marches, and her father did not like being interrupted when he was setting the kingdoms to right.
"Ghost?" the prince inquired with his usual arrogant amusement.
Clarice shook her head impatiently. It was a foolish tale and not worth repeating, but Berenice had not yet outgrown her fascination with the strange and absurd, it seemed.
"The Grey Lady, my prince. She was once a lady of the Hightower, a hundred thousand years ago."
Only her good education stopped Clarice from snorting. The Black Fortress was the oldest part of the castle, and perhaps the only building in the Seven Kingdoms that could lay claim to being as old as her cousin stated, but the stepped tower the Hightowers had always resided in was barely ten thousand years old, if the records did not exaggerate, which they were wont to do. The lords of the tower had made arrangements and accomodations, added storeys or floorplans. Little still stood of the fortress the white tower had been during the age of heroes, and the Grey Lady was supposed to have lived long before then. For that alone, Clarice knew the tales to be false.
"Legend has it that she buried three husbands without shedding a single tear. Some claim that it was her who killed them for power and gold. The gods cursed her to walk the halls her lords had lived and died in until the end of time. When she ascents the tower, the fog rises with her, and when she leaves, on the third day, or sometimes on the seventh, she takes a soul with her as a prize and the fog clears."
Daemon still looked at Berenice on his other side but Clarice caught a glimpse of his face.
No man she knew could lay so much wickedness into a half a smile.
"Three husbands, all dead." The prince made a poignant pause. "Why, how disconcerting."
There was a spark of mischief in his tone, although he directed the words at her cousin, that Clarice's father must have noticed too.
"Enough with the ghastly tales. There is no truth to them, I assure you, Lord Blackmont." Her betrothed did not seem fazed by the tales. Mildly amused, perhaps.
"Every castle has its ghosts."
The way he said raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She was forcefully reminded of the gossip that had travelled fast, from maid to serving boy to maid. Lord Blackmont, those rumours had it, had once been born a Sand, with two trueborn siblings. But they had perished, cruelly and tragically, and left their father no choice but to legitimise his bastard. It was a gruesome tale, though not one Clarice believed. Lord Blackmont was the sort of man that inspired such dark whispers. Which father, she wondered, would reward his bastard for murdering his siblings? But now, in the darkness that a hundred torches in silver scones tried to fight without avail, she could almost believe it.
Her father alone seemed immune to the tense atmosphere. "Pick up that cup, then you may leave us and calm down. And I will not hear another word about that ghost."
But in Oldtown, far away from the Red Keep, Lord Otto did not rule supreme. After the main courses, when the sweetmeats and cheese had been served, the first, eager dancers took to the dancefloor between the lower tables. Her young cousin did not remain seated for long, soon enough, the son of Lord Rowan asked her to dance and she got up giddy as the maiden she was, and left the dais with one quick, stolen glance at Daemon Targaryen, who made no move to join the dancers. After a few jolly songs – the sort that Clarice had danced to at two weddings already – Berenice asked Horton Honeyvoice, her mother's oldest and most persistent singer, to sing the grey lady's song against Lord Otto's wish. Horton had once been a travelling singer, though he had not left the Hightower for as long as Lady Perianne. His voice was no longer as sweet as it had been when he had first come to earn coin with his songs, but the hoarseness lent the aient ballad an eerie, wistful note.
"My lady buried all her lords and shed no single tear.
Alas she now must walk right where her lords lay on their bier.
Her first lord was a bloodhound wild and slaughtered by a boar.
Her second lord built keeps so tall, he fell dead out the door.
Her third lord was a wiser man til poison stopped his breath.
Three husbands to three graves so went, the widow mourned no death.
My lady does still walk the earth, though now she shrouds her head.
My lady is an ashen grey - as one who is long dead. "
"Cheerful." The prince remarked, as the singer embarked on the second stanza.
"It is a sign of my family's ancient bloodline that we even have a family ghost, I should think."
Horton's voice wafter over to them: "A kin to ashes in the wind, so does my lady rise."
"A pitiable ghost. Was her tale a caution or an inspiration for you?"
"That depends. Have you found ashes on your threshold today, my prince?
"Why, were they a gift from you?"
"From the grey lady."
"I must have just missed her."
"She might come again," Clarice said, and bit back a grin. "She is usually doomed to haunt the halls where her husbands were laid to rest, the vaults down below the black keep. But in the dark nights of autumn and winter, she likes to rise from the catacombs and walk through the halls she once called home. She brings with her a fog thick and grey as a storm of ashes."
"Fascinating." The prince turned the word into mockery. "And how kind of her to bring a gift."
"No gift at all but a warning. One tale has it that she brings up the ashes of those that were burned, thousands and thousands of years ago, before man learned to fashion stone into a sarcophagus to hold bodies for centuries. The ashes of the first Hightowers are held in bronze caskets in the catacombs below the city. And whenever the grey lady comes to visit the living, some of that ash clings to her and she leaves a trail as warning that death is near."
The prince did look mildly interested now.
"And the other tale?"
It was the sadder version, though if this legend did have a kernel of truth, Clarice did not doubt that this was it. Men had always shown themselves cruel and unforgiving towards women who walked their own road.
"The lady was burned at the stake for her crimes. In these tales, the ashes are a sign of penance and her wish to make amends with her descendants."
Daemon Targaryen considered her for a moment, trying, perhaps, to assess how serious she was about this matter of ghosts.
"Burned for murdering her husbands," he said at last, with a curious half smile, "That must be a frightening tale for you."
Clarice's eyes flickered to her aunt to make sure she was still engulfed in a conversation with her brother, whose honest interest in lady Perianne's thoughts surprised her. Her own brothers had never shown a similar inclination.
"Educational," she replied, returning his smile.
"And now you will wed again. I'm certain you will appreciate the heat of the Dornish plains after the glum cold of your home." Daemon glanced at the lead glass windows to their left. The silk drapes did not hide the bleak grey fog outside. "Of course, you will be more hostage than bride."
"Lord Blackmont is the soul of courtesy." And he was indeed. Clarice had rarely ever met such a courteous man though her betrothed's manners were so well rehearsed that she knew them to be nothing but a charade.
"And he is an improvement considering your last two husbands, I would say." The scrutinising look the prince threw at her betrothed was disconcertingly open though Lord Blackmont seemed too engulfed in a conversation with her father to notice. Clarice thanked the gods for that.
"He is under the age of thirty and so far, he has kept his wine to him. Though I would not vouch for his temper."
That was something Clarice had found as well, not only at the dance the night before. It was the way he walked and spoke, the way he behaved towards his servants and her uncle's that told her that underneath his courtesies, he was as hot-blooded as his reputation had it.
"I find it passing strange that my marriage seems to concern you far more than your own."
"Do you? My wife is an old and barren bitch guarding a pile of carved rocks. There is no change, no excitement. You, on the other hand, have potential to become the subject of many a song. The cursed bride of the Hightower, the murderous widow, the wily wife. All fitting, wouldn't you say?"
"I had never taken you for a bard, my prince."
"What can I say? I am versatile. Quite like you. A strained heart, a steep stair. You do not like to wield the same knife twice, do you?"
"I do not know what you mean."
He wore that smile again, as if there was a jape in her words only he understood, maddeningly smug and secretive.
"Tell me true, is it the bedding you enjoy so much? Is that why your husbands have to die?"
Clarice averted her gaze too quickly.
"Stop insinuating that I had a hand in my husbands' untimely deaths." Clarice tried to summon tears but failed. "I have suffered enough. I deserve neither mockery nor scorn for widowhood."
"Admiration, perhaps. No woman can choose the man she marries, but you, at least, choose the man you bury."
The wine turned to bile on her tongue and she was grateful her uncle had chosen the old-fashioned silver chalices instead of Myrish glass as her fingers clenched around hers.
Clarice's blood flowed slowly, and her temper was cooler than a winter beyond the Wall but Daemon Targaryen could set even her on fire with his relentless coaxing.
Her eyes bore into his, for once not taking in their intriguing shade of deep violet. "Enough."
For a moment, she thought he would continue, just to prove he didn't heed her command, but to Clarice's surprise, he rose from his seat and extended his hand.
"I offer you the opportunity to step on my feet once more."
With a quick glance to her right, she made certain that Lord Blackmont was still engulfed in conversation.
"As far as I recall, it were my feet that suffered."
"Then you should seize your chance at redemption."
She took his hand. It was warm and dry. Daemon Targaryen pulled her to her feet with ease and never wasted a look on the man she would wed on the morrow. But Clarice felt his eyes on her all through the first dance.
That was not what troubled her most, however. By taking his hand, she had accepted an unsaid apology, she was keenly aware. Never before had she seen Daemon Targaryen apologise, in word or gesture. It was terrible enough to admit to herself that she no longer loathed him as she once had, that the memory of being abandoned, disgraced in the kitchen yard was, albeit not forgotten, far less clear than it had been once. Thinking that he might have softened in a similar manner was frightening. She had seen him pursue women. Rarely ladies of the court, granted, but he was relentless. A part of her, that part that did not want to depart for Dorne, that foolish, girlish, weak part of her that she thought she had killed three years ago, that found the prospect of leaving her home daunting, that feared this strange southern lord, his customs and his court, that was uncertain whether she would succeed in her endeavours to return home, wanted for the prince to pursue her, to charm her, to defile her in a way that would prevent Lord Blackmont from wedding her.
But the prince was unreliable, as impulsive as he was charming, heir to dust and ashes and, of course, married. Giving in to his advances would not only mean an end to the Dornish alliance, it would ruin her entire future forever. She would be cursed to wander the halls of the Hightower like that wretched ghost, though no songs would be sung for her.
Look at him , she told herself firmly, he is no ally. He is an enemy.
As she studied him, she noticed that the prince's eyes darted up to the dais occasionally, as if to check whether her husband had seen them already. It was relief and slight at once to realise that he had been so ready to dance with her only to affront the Dornishman that had denied him yesterday.
Daemon seemed to have noticed her gaze now. "Are your feet protesting yet?"
She shrugged as she stepped out of his embrace and danced a circle around him.
"You are not the worst dancer I've ever taken to the dance floor with."
He reached for her hand a beat too early.
"Charming." Prince Daemon smiled down at her, though the mocking edge had softened.
Clarice studied the garnet-eyed dragon studs of his doublet. "Not very. Some of my partners were more squid than man."
He ignored that remark and pulled her a little closer until his lips were near her ear.
"I think it might even be more charming than your desperate attempt to kiss me."
Clarice brought a foot between them with a rapid step backwards that forced Lady Merryweather closer into Ser Arrec's embrace.
"Is this a desperate attempt to get killed, Prince Daemon?" She glanced up at the high table. Her husband was not looking at them but she knew he had seen. She knew she should return to his side, feign interest in his seat, his family's history. So why didn't she leave?
"Why, my lady, I thought you could never kill a man."
"I am firmly of the same conviction, but every time you open your mouth, said conviction is severely tested."
Clarice let go of one of his hands to spin, the unusually full skirts of her court gown twirling around her legs. She was already losing her balance when she noticed the bejewelled toe of her dancing shoe had got caught in the heavy fabric. It would be a terrible indignity to fall here in the sight of all like a sack of flour, her skirts tangled between her legs – strong arms caught her before she could hit the ground, gripping her waist and shoulders a little too tightly. To the guests, it had to look like an extravagant step in their dance, but her right breast brushed against Prince Daemon's velvet clad shoulder most indecently. The thumb of his right hand pressed into the bare flesh of her back, just above the neckline.
"This once, I am glad I have not killed you yet."
He smiled at that, his face so close to hers that she could smell the spices of the mulled wine on his breath. His thumb seemed to caress her skin fully intentionally. "So am I."
The prince did not let go of her for a long moment and when he finally helped her to her feet again, fiery phantom fingers were still grabbing her and her skin burned where he had touched her so deliberately.
Oh gods, please, keep my husband occupied. But Lord Blackmont's dark eyes had found them in the dancing crowd. Clarice smiled as if she had done nothing wrong.
Daemon's eyes followed the direction of her smile. "You can barely take your eyes off your betrothed."
Their involuntary closeness seemed thankfully forgotten.
"I might have been widowed twice but even my abused heart is not immune to a lord's courtesy."
"You talk of hearts, my lady, as if you had one."
"What would you know of the matter, my prince?"
"More than you could understand."
His superior little smile drove her mad.
"By which right do you call my mind into question, my prince?" she asked, perhaps too fiercely indignant, for the prince seemed amused.
"I am more experienced in matters of the heart."
Clarice would have liked to point out that matters of the heart and matters of the cock were not the same, though she feared where that conversation would be going.
"Is that so?" she asked instead, her voice inflected poignantly to make her incredulity plain, "Do you write ardent love letters to your lady wife? Crown her with flowers and send her jewels as a token of your love?"
Daemon, in turn, raised a brow. "Parchment, weeds, stones. Is your heart so easily bought?"
"Oh, I was just informed that I have none, my prince."
They were dancing out of tune, too quick, to close, but neither of them slowed as they circled each other like beasts of prey, waiting to attack.
"Oh, perhaps you do." His eyes rested on her lace-clad chest for a moment. "But it would freeze even the Others."
"Then a dragon should take care, don't you think?" The threat was not more than a whisper but he was close enough to hear it.
"Dragonflame is hotter than fire. I am not particularly afraid of the cold."
"Well, you are in no danger from my heart, I assure you."
Her fierce words elicited only faint amusement. There had been a time when she had been able to enrage him. When she had felt like she was the only one whose jibes cut right to his soul. Now, it seemed, he only found her mildly entertaining. She didn't care for the effect she had on him, of course. It was for her father's sake that she worried.
Daemon Targaryen wrapped an arm around her waist and turned with her, shoulder to shoulder, but looking in different directions. It was an apt metaphor, Clarice thought spitefully.
"A pity. I do enjoy the excitement that comes with peril," Daemon turned to face her, although the dance did not dictate it, his arm still around her waist, pulling her unnecessarily close. "A certain…ecstasy."
The word turned into an obscenity on his tongue.
The great hall had become warm and stuffy and their swift dancing left her breathless.
"My lady." Lord Blackmont had manifested at her side and spared her the awkwardness of a reply, though she wasn't sure whether she should be altogether grateful for his appearance. "You should have told me that you wished to dance."
Clarice had stopped moving, though the prince still held her hand in hers while his other hand was far too low on her waist. She tried to turn out of his embrace inconspicuously, but failed.
"You were talking to my lord father. I did not wish to disrupt your conversation."
And you set my teeth on edge in a strange way. Never before had her body warned her of someone so acutely.
"You could never be a disruption, my lady."
He extended his hand to her, ignoring the prince, which was no small feat considering the tension that rippled from Daemon's body. "May I have this dance, my betrothed?"
The prince's fingers tightened around hers.
"Of course, my lord. My prince, you must excuse me."
She withdrew her hand with some difficulty.
"I will wish to spend the entire evening with my betrothed, Prince Daemon. And all other days from now on, as man and wife should."
The prince made no reply but sized her betrothed up in a way that would have sent every sensible man running. But Clarice's luck had run out and the Dornishman was everything but sensible when roused.
"You seem to know much about marriage customs for an unwed man, Blackmont."
"If you need me to clarify some things for you, prince, you need only ask."
The prince laughed. "Oh there is a question I've been pondering regarding your duties."
"I am not surprised that duty puzzles you." Her betrothed seemed to have abandoned all attempts at polite pretence.
"Fulfilling them must be…hard for you." The prince bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Or, rather the opposite."
Clarice felt this conversation was getting out of hand. She wasn't entirely certain what it was about but the prince and her lord seemed to know rather too well, for Lord Blackmont's face darkened at the prince's words.
"The dance, my lord." She offered him her hand but her husband still stared at Daemon, never seeing her.
"My duties are none of your business, dragon prince. Remember that."
"I'll try." The prince had noticed the effect he had on Lord Blackmont and he was not one to leave a flickering flame alone. He had to stoke the fire until there was no way of putting it out. "But when you fail…it might just become my business." Daemon's superior grin seemed to be the final straw that coaxed Blackmont into a threat.
"On the morrow, my betrothed will be my wife. And no man but me will enjoy her company."
Heavens above have mercy. Would he fashion a leash for her?
"Prince Daemon has no interest in my company, my lord."
The prince's darkened eyes rested on her curiously for a moment. "Indeed," he said after a tense pause, almost softly. "Enjoy your lady's company all you like, Blackmont."
The prince took the hand her betrothed had ignored and raised it to his face.
"My lady." He pressed his lips to her knuckles without sentiment while he stared at Blackmont. "Enjoy the dance." He dropped her hand then as if she had burned him. Ice can burn as well as fire.
For a moment, her betrothed stood silent, shaking with anger, but then, he remembered himself, took her hand and began dancing so seamlessly as if they had joined on the first note.
"The prince has an interest in you." he smiled down at her, though Clarice knew she had to treat carefully now.
"He has an interest in my father, in truth, but he likes to provoke Hightowers where he can. My pardons, my lord."
"What for?" he reached for her hand and placed a soft kiss on the back, where moments earlier, Daemon Targaryen's lips had touched her. To their audience, it was a touching gesture, but Clarice knew, as the prince had to as well, if he was somewhere in the hall, that her lord was marking his territory.
~o~
The next day dawned as glum and grey as the one before. It seemed fitting, considering this was her third wedding day in as many years. Lord Otto was displeased. The wedding ceremony would be held in the Hightower's small sept, not in the Starry Sept in the city, as her father had originally planned. Silk banners and street cleaners, new saddles and a gilded wheelhouse, all those investments would not pay off now. But not even the Lord Hand could compel the skies. Too dangerous was the fog that still lingered, too frightened the horses. And the lords and ladies of the realm were superstitious, despite their affirmation of the opposite. They had been penned in in the small hall, the lady's parlour, the library ever since their arrival, frightful of leaving the security of company, especially in the dark.
Similarly subdued was the ceremony. Only the choicest guests had been offered seats, the rest had to wait outside in the hallway – the sept was too small to hold all the guests. It was probably courtesy that made Prince Daemon give up his seat in the sept to someone who needed it more. And Clarice had certainly imagined the smell of wine that reached her later, when they were seated in the great hall for the feast. A royal envoy would not forego the ceremony he had come for to drink cheap wine in his quarters.
A young bard played as they were all seated, singing the songs Clarice had not heard in almost a year. She was delighted to notice that she knew most of the lyrics by heart already. A few more weddings and she could pick up the lute herself.
The guests were famished after the septon had preached and preached about love and loyalty and peace, thinking perhaps that he had to make up for the humble site of worship by drawing out his sermon. But before the eagerly awaited meal, their guests of honour would present their wedding gifts.
Clarice received balls of cloth, prayer books and embroidery silks as if this was her first wedding. She could never wear all the gowns fashion from the fabric she had been gifted, and not only because the giftings' taste was often questionable. But as futile as the presents were, she smiled and thanked them all with her most charming smile. Her husband was better off: He received horses and books, arrows and even a brilliant new sword from Prince Daemon. It was good steel, even Clarice saw that, and the scabbard was gilded and set with onyx. But despite the generosity of the gift, the message was not lost on Lord Blackmont after the quarrels of the past two days. He thanked the prince with a threadbare smile. "I will put it to good use, Prince Daemon."
The prince turned to her as if he hadn't heard him.
"For you, my lady, my brother sends this."
She stood up to receive her gift from the royal hands. It was a flat box of silvered wood, inlaid with moonstone and light blue turquoise.
In itself, the box was precious enough, but as she opened it, the value of what she held in her hands took her breath away.
On the fog white velvet lay a necklace, light and dainty, the chain of little more substance than a spider's web. But the metal gleamed smoky grey in the dark candlelight and Clarice knew it wouldn't tear. Not the strongest metal known to man.
She held up her gift for their guests to see and the aquamarines caught the candlelight and twinkled like morning stars.
Her father seemed more than displeased. This wasn't a king's gift, a reward for the Hightowers' loyalty to the crown, a recognition of Lord Otto's service. It wasn't expensive and generic. The Valyrian steel was uncommon and strange and these stones had been chosen for her specifically, that much was plain.
They were the exact colour of her eyes.
For once, no cocky smile graced the prince's lips.
The hall seemed oddly quiet for a moment before Clarice remembered herself.
"I thank His Grace kindly for his generous gift and you for the delivery, my prince. I shall treasure it and wear it on this very special day."
"Are you not already wearing some very fine stones, my lady?" Lord Blackmont's words were soft as a caress but they raised the hairs on her arms.
"Very fine, my lord." She turned around to face him. "Your generous gifts still take my breath away. But my throat is still bare."
In truth, it was her gown's cut that had prevented her from donning the tight emerald collar that suited her tiara and her bracelets. Her wedding gown was silver and ivory and high cut, as most of her gowns. A collar of stiff silver lace reached almost to her chin. It was a gown fitting for a woman who was twice widowed – nothing about the gown spoke of youth or innocence or joy. This was a gown fit for the occasion: A contract, cold and loveless and pragmatic. The seven pointed star hung about her neck, wrought in silver especially for today, and resting right on her chest. It seemed almost comical to combine this symbol of faith and serenity and virtue with the rogue prince's gift.
But it would not do to shut a royal gift up in a box, and the prince would perceive it as an affront with good right.
"To honour His Grace, and thank him, I shall wear his gift today."
"Let me help you." Prince Daemon seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he took his gift from her hands and heeded her to turn around, so they would both look at her husband while he fastened the necklace around her throat.
There was no hair to brush aside: She wore hers wound around her head in a tight braid. With one smooth motion, the prince had put the necklace in place so that the stones rested between her collarbones. While he was fumbling with the clasp, she felt his breath on her neck, her ear.
"Your husband does not seem to appreciate your beauty." It was a whisper, meant only to provoke her, but Clarice was well-rested and in full sight of her father, so she smiled as if he had paid her a courtly compliment.
"Perhaps it is the sight of you that bothers him."
One finger stroked her neck along the seam of her lace collar.
"Do you truly not see it?" he asked, but he gave her no chance to reply.
With a step backwards, he announced that he was done. Clarice turned around to face her guests with an icy smile.
What did she not see? The prince had returned to his seat at her father's side and after a moment, she did the same, taking her husband's hand in a show of matrimonial companionship.
Seven courses came and went, both Dornish and from the Reach. Clarice did not care for the fiery peppers or the strangely fragrant cheese but Dornish almond paste was better than the one she knew.
Before long, her husband had led her onto the dancefloor to The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown . At every wedding, Clarice had always dreaded this part, for after the dance came the bedding. Twice before had she been undressed by drunken men, twice before had she stepped into her chamber undressed, flushed and aching from the eager touch of too many hands.
Perhaps, this would be the last time. Perhaps her lord, as controlling and hard as he had shown himself so far, would mellow with time.
A foolish dream.
On their wedding day, at least, her husband could not claim every dance. Before long, he was urged to dance with Lady Perianne, then drink with Lord Redwyne and play a game of cards with the widow of the Hive. Clarice was grateful for the respite and was just about to pour herself a cup of that sweet Arbor gold she had developed a fondness for when she saw the prince offering his hand to Berenice.
There was nothing wrong with that, of course. He was supposed to dance and, in the eyes of their guests, Berenice was honoured by the prince. But something about the quick sidewards glance in her direction and the placement of his hand on her cousin's slim hip didn't sit right with Clarice at all.
She stood at the table, frozen, her empty cup forgotten, as her eyes followed the couple. They looked good together, that could not be denied. She was young enough to be his daughter, or almost, but that had never stopped a man. Berenice looked more like Alicent than Clarice ever had. She had the same fire in her hair, though hers was darker, the same soft brown eyes, and her features held the same gentle softness. Berenice, just like Alicent, was more beautiful than Clarice, seven years younger and the daughter of the ruling lord, not the second son.
She was well acquainted with jealousy. A woman went through her fair share of it in her life, especially if she spent her youth at court. But this was something else. There was the sting of humiliation at the thought that the prince preferred her cousin but there was also the disquieting thought that, if Daemon defiled her cousin, she would be responsible.
When the last notes of the song rang softly, Clarice stood at the prince's side.
"A moment." She grabbed his sleeve with an apologetic smile at her cousin and pulled him into a curtained alcove to escape her husband's attention – although it was probably too late for that.
"Leave my cousin out of this. She is only a little girl."
"Beg your pardon?" He hid his triumphant grin badly enough.
"I am aware we have our differences but Berenice is a dewy-eyed young maid. Don't use her to spite me."
"What do you have to do with this?" he inquired, and if he only feigned confusion, he did so well.
Clarice could not admit that she felt entitled to his attention, if only because he had always given it freely.
"My father, then. You mean to spite him, as you always do."
"Your little Berrie is charming. Pretty, vivacious. Ripe for plucking. Are you insinuating that a man cannot feel drawn to such a maid unless he means to spite you or your father?"
She bit her lip. "Please. Leave her alone. You would ruin her." Her tone was terribly pleading but this situation was her fault and the prince would never take a command.
As he looked at her, a small, triumphant smile conquered his lips, perhaps against his will. "I might be convinced."
"What do you want?" She didn't like to bargain but the prince was the sort of man that would ruin a young woman's reputation for sport.
"Nothing much. A few choice words. An admittance, if you will."
"What shall I admit to?"
"That it was you who tried to seduce me that night."
Their unfortunate meeting in the yard had been three years ago and it still haunted her. Was there anything she regretted as much as stepping out of the great hall that night?
"Would that stop you from bringing it up constantly?"
The prince shrugged artfully. "Remains to be seen."
"Why did you leave me there that night?" The question burst from her lips but then, it seemed she couldn't stop herself. "Did you hope to ruin me? Or was I simply not to your taste?"
This is about Berenice, not you. But no follow up clarification redirected this conversation. A part of her, it seemed, had not put that incident behind her.
He tilted his head almost thoughtfully, as if she had offered up something that took him by surprise.
"You are not in the position to demand the truth, my lady. How much do you love your cousin?"
Clarice had learned her lesson on blackmail at a young age when a serving girl had tried to get gold out of her in return for silence. She had paid at first, her precious needle money, all to keep that wretch quiet about her trip to the Citadel. But soon enough, she had demanded more until at last, Clarice had told her lord father about it. The serving girl had been sent away that day without pay. Clarice had never gotten her needle money back but her father had not chastised her for her trip to the Citadel. He had almost been proud.
The truth was a frightful thing at times, but it would never do to pay others to hide it. They would only ever demand more.
"I have never tried to seduce you." That much was the truth, however little he wanted to hear it. She wanted to go on and tell him he had used her, but the words died on her lips. "If I could go back in time, I would never leave the great hall again, but I cannot. I am punished for my mistake with your japes and threats and my own regrets and humiliation. Do you think I will allow for the same to happen to Berenice?"
His face remained stone still through her admission but a fire burned behind those terrible violet eyes.
She knew she had lost when his lips pulled into a cruel smile that held none of his usual amusement.
"Have you warned her of me, then?" As he bent down to her, his voice had become a low growl. Daemon Targaryen was known by all for his vicious temper and now, it seemed, it had turned on her. His eyes gleamed with anger, his body was taut.
"I must return – " she tried to bring forth but interrupted her at once.
"I thought not." There was a terrible spark in his eyes, a tension in him she had never witnessed before as he lowered his face to hers.
"Do you think I taunt you for your weakness that night? Do you think I have forgotten the sort of man your father gave his maiden daughter to in marriage?"
He was much too close but behind her, there was only whitewashed wall. The curtains shielded them from view, at least, or this alone would suffice to cause a medium sized scandal that would ruin her prospects forever,
"Had I been you, I would have fucked my way through the barracks that night. It is not that I loathe you for, Clarice." Her name was hard and sharp on his tongue as he hissed the consonants like a snake.
She knew what it was before he spoke the words. He seemed to sense that as well for he brought his face even closer to hers, so that she had to look at him.
"Why? You are clever, you can tell me, can you not?" The wine and her admittance had made him angry.
"The next morning." Even now, she couldn't admit to the lie.
"You know you lied. The one person you cannot deceive is you."
"And you, it seems."
He smiled.
"Disappointed?" He drew the word out and softened the consonants into a lover's whisper.
His breath was hot and wet on her lips. She would only have to bend forward an inch to kiss him. But why would she?
Because his eyes looked like molten amethyst, deep and dark and enticing. Because his breath smelled of spices and his hair of lemon and wood. Because her whole body called out to him, shouted at her to throw herself into his strong embrace.
Because sometimes, even Clarice Hightower longed for contact of flesh and soul.
And he knew her better than anyone.
"Would that please you?" she asked, trying to lean away from the temptation but the wall behind her did not allow it.
The black in his eyes had almost consumed the purple but he was still staring down at her, his body vibrating with strain. Was he holding himself back from killing her or kissing her?
Slowly, agonisingly, he straightened, as if against bounds.
"Yes."
And the prince turned on his heel and stormed off. He had made that an annoying habit recently, she thought, leaving her somewhere speechless.
She remained in the alcove once he had fled, trying to steady her breath.
There was nothing disquieting about her body's reaction to his proximity, she tried to reassure herself.
The gods had been too generous with his looks, that was all. His character was despicable, his manners could barely be called that, and he was a rash fool who acted without thinking.
But whoever had made him had used a fine chisel for his features and been generous with his colouring and height.
It was not only her. He had that effect on all women. She only had to think of Berenice – Berenice?
Her cousin was not among the dancers. Neither was Prince Daemon. Had he truly gone that far? Out of true interest in Berrie or to anger her? Clarice didn't know what would be worse.
She crossed the dance floor, trying to get to the double doors but Lord Blackmont seemed to have taken a leaf out of the Grey Lady's book. Once again, he appeared at her side so quickly it seemed like dark magic.
"Do you wish to flee the heat of the hall?"
"I was looking for someone, my lord."
"Are you worried for your cousin? Or for the prince?" her husband asked. He truly missed nothing.
"It appeared to me that Prince Daemon had an unsavoury interest in her," she replied, impatiently. "He is not the sort of man a woman should trust."
"And yet, he is the man you spend most of your time with."
That shocked her speechless for a moment.
"I will not inquire, my lady, how you know that a woman should not trust him. I merely hope that you have learned that lesson already."
It seemed Clarice had to trust her cousin to deal with the prince on her own. She had a husband to take care of and he proved much more difficult than his two predecessors combined.
"I required no lesson, my lord."
He turned to her with his merciless black eyes that saw everything. "Is that so?"
"The prince will depart soon enough."
"Not at all soon enough. I know he is your king's brother. Perhaps you feel like you owe him allegiance because of that. But from now on, dear wife, you are a Blackmont. You are Dornish. Daemon Targaryen is no prince of yours."
He folded his hand over hers in a loving gesture but his fingers held hers much too tightly.
"Your only lord, your only master…is me."
Gods have mercy.
"Of course, my lord."
"I say we forego the bedding, my lady. Do you agree?"
That did take her by surprise. Most men would relish the thought of some two score women undressing him, and usually undressing themselves in the process.
Lord Blackmont was a different sort of man and that disquieted Clarice considerably. She didn't like her husbands too complex.
"Forego the bedding, my lord? But it is customary –"
"You must be tired of it. This is your third wedding, is it not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then with your leave, I shall tell our guests to keep feasting while we go upstairs."
"If it please you." She inclined her head so that he could not see the doubt in her eyes.
Once upstairs in the fine chambers her aunt had had prepared for them, Lord Blackmont took off his cape and sat down at the table, a flagon of Dornish before him. Clarice stood there forlornly.
"My lord?" she asked, after a while.
He turned around as if he had forgotten her.
"Ah, yes. You can go to bed, Clarice."
"The bedding, my lord –"
"I require no such ritual. The Seven have decreed us one heart, one flesh, one soul, after all."
She tried very hard not to look shocked. "My lord, a bedding is legally required –" Fool. Why tell him? Have this match set aside for lack of consummation in time.
"I am aware." her husband barely looked at her. "But I never found this very dignified. You must be tired. Go and sleep, dear lady. You have a long journey ahead."
There was something furtive about him now. He was hiding something from her. And Clarice hated secrets.
"If I may, I would like to share a cup of wine with you, my lord." Refuse me. Say it. "Those storms have robbed us of almost a fortnight together."
She summoned her sweetest smile. He had wanted to own her just an hour ago, had he not? Now that he had her, she seemed to have lost all value. How much he reminded her of the prince. It was uncanny, really.
"Of course." The words were forced, as if he knew that a refusal at this time would only serve to provoke her suspicions.
He rang the bell on the table. It was the steward who opened the door much too swiftly, not one of her uncle's serving girls, and he seemed taken aback by her presence.
"The lady requires a goblet and a flagon of…Dornish, my lady?" She preferred an Arbor vintage but that would have been uncourteous, so she inclined her head in gratitude.
"A Dornish red. You can return in an hour to pick up the cups."
That seemed passing odd to her. One did not tell servants when to return.
For almost an hour, she sat there with him, still in her uncomfortable wedding attire, sipping terribly sour wine and talking pleasantly about trifles and trivialities, watching her husband as he became more and more nervous.
"Let me help you," he said at last, almost desperately. "Your jewels must weigh a stone."
Clarice rose like the obedient almost-wife she was and allowed him to take off the priceless tiara he had gifted her with while she unfastened her bracelets and took off her heavy earrings. She was rubbing a throbbing earlobe when she felt his fingers at the back of her neck.
"It was a generous gift," he said as he took the aquamarines from her. Armed with a growing suspicion about her dear almost-husband and knowing that, if it proved true, she had as much power over him here as he thought he did over her, Clarice dared to venture beyond the sensible.
"Very. I think I might wear it again tomorrow. It goes well with my favourite gown."
Was this how a predator felt like? Waiting for its victim to make a foolish mistake?
"It brings out the colour of your eyes, I see that now." Her husband stepped around her and held up the stones.
She smiled to provoke him. "His Grace is very attentive."
Lord Blackmont rose to her challenge. "I'm glad you have something to remember your home by once we have departed for Blackmont."
His voice held no sharpness but she understood him all the same. I will not see my home for a very long time...or so you think, my lord.
"Why, Blackmont will be my home, will it not?" she smiled at him.
"I do hope so." He reached for her hand and dropped the prince's gift onto her palm like an old rag.
"Sweet dreams, dear wife."
He turned around and filled his cup once again.
Clarice went to bed as her husband had decreed, but she did not go to sleep. When there was a knock at the door, faint, but audible, she knew that her husband's command to his steward had not been a coincidence.
Everything fell into place then, every jibe from the prince, her husband's fear of humiliation, his need to control her, his disinterest in her.
He preferred men's company to women's. That was a relief. Her lord was not immune to seduction, only immune to her charms and wiles. And who knew, if their marriage failed to be consummated, she might even have a chance to end it without bloodshed. Not now, of course, her father didn't care what happened in her barren bed as long as the Marches complied and the king toasted him for arranging such a politically sensible match. But there would come a time when Blackmont would not be the most important ally, when her hand could win her father something better.
And that was all she needed.
A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! I'm more actively replying on AO3 or tumblr but know that I read every review and am grateful!