Part I: The Cursed Bride

The second wedding

~ Clarice ~

~o~

Less than a year ago, she had wed old Lord Oakheart in a splendid ceremony in the Great Sept, crowned by a wedding feast in the Great Hall. There was no greatness left for her second wedding. This one had been held in the Red Keep's sept and her father was hosting a banquet for a hundred in the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand.

Her husband was barely an improvement either. Ser Rollam Redwyne was not as old as her first husband, nor had he fondled her inappropriately at their first meeting, but the sour stench of wine followed him wherever he went and as the night had progressed, he had already vomited twice into a bowl next to his seat. That did not mean, of course, that he kept his hands off his chalice. Her first gentle reminder of the following bedding had gone unnoticed, the second he had commented on with a harsh remark, so she had stopped speaking to him altogether.

When the music had begun, Clarice had fled to the dancefloor, never caring whose lord's hand she took, as long as she could face away from the dais.

"Lady Clarice." The king inclined his head, an act of sheer courtesy. "You look splendid, if I may say so."

"Your Grace is too kind."

Her gown was cream silk and golden lace to denote her status as a young widow but it was still becoming enough. Quite a few things were different for widows, Clarice had found at the tender age of six and ten. She was no longer allowed in the sept on Maiden Day, but that was more relief than punishment; she was not allowed to wear white on her wedding day, but the colour had always washed her out. But there were downsides as well. Clarice found she had not changed much over the last year. She had grown taller, perhaps, and her bosom was rounder than it had been, but her face still looked the same. Still, the lords and knights of the capital seemed to notice a change in her.

As a maiden, they had been charming to her, had showered her with songs and compliments and trinkets. Now, as a widow, especially during the first seven weeks when she had worn only black and grey and purple, it was as if she was their unloved great aunt all of a sudden. They shunned her, tried not to meet her eye, and if they had to speak to her, they would talk of her husband and pensions, of inheritance and widow's right.

Clarice found that she was no longer desirable. It wouldn't last, she knew. Many a widow had returned to the Red Keep in black and purple and a few moons' turns later, when she was back in her old colours and allowed to dance and be merry, men had forgotten her past conveniently. Not that their lukewarm avances were in any way desirable for her. Clarice had always been known for her gentleness and courtesy, but no one could ever accuse her of being a flirt. Still, the change had not pleased her, so she had been almost relieved when her father had found a new match for her. The Arbour was not a bad place, the Redwynes rich and influential, and perhaps this time, she would be able to stay married longer. Ser Rollam had seemed a fine match on paper: A man of three and thirty, never wed, a knight of some renown in the lists and the melee. Clarice was not romantic, but she had seen in him the man she thought she needed. When he arrived, of course, those childish notions were gone as quickly as morning fog.

"Are you happy to wed again, my lady?" the king continued their forced conversation as they moved over the dancefloor awkwardly. He had asked her out of kindness, she knew, and pity. The king, too, heard the rumours, the mockery. He had only meant to honour her with this, to end the whispers, and their conversation was meant to be pleasant, but this was her second wedding in the span of a year.

Overjoyed. First a man with one leg in his grave, now one with one foot in his own vomit. My father honours me beyond my greatest hopes.

"Very." She forced herself to smile more brightly. "You know what the singers say, Your Grace. A broken heart is best mended with love."

Her tongue should burn in her mouth for such a remark, but she was no dragon, she breathed no fire.

"Well put, Lady Clarice. And your husband is a genial man by all accounts."

We must have heard different accounts then, my king.

"Oh, he is the very soul of courtesy."

From the moment he breaks his fast to his third chalice of wine. All in all, less than half an hour.

"The knights of the Reach have that reputation. I am glad that it is not just a tale."

"Of course not. My father, my brothers, they all have proven it true a hundred times over."

My father by wrapping you around his pinky finger and making you dance like a droll puppet, my brothers by whoring, drinking and senseless fighting.

Her smile stayed on. She had smiled so much, it didn't even take effort anymore. She could be shocked or angry or sad, her lips never let her down. When had this all begun? As a girl, she had known laughter, she was sure of it. Now, she couldn't remember the last time a true smile had replaced this forced grimace.

"Of course. Your father and brothers are all knights. It is easy to forget my Lord Hand is as skilled on the battlefield as he is in the council chamber." The king chuckled to hide his awkwardness.

He was wrong, of course. The council chamber was only a more ruthless battlefield but this toothless king would never know that.

"I have never witnessed his deeds with a sword, Your Grace, but I can attest to his chivalry."

The king smiled in return, the helpless smile of a man who was running out of ideas to continue a tedious conversation.

"Her Grace looks radiant tonight," Clarice helped him out, "If the gods will it, the princess will soon take care of a little brother or sister."

"If the gods will it." Viserys remained tight-lipped on this topic. Everyone knew what had happened during Her Grace's last four pregnancies. The queen was a hero for her efforts in the bedchamber but she was not like to be celebrated for them. Aemma Arryn suffered her face with quiet grace and gentle tenacity but her situation fed on her, reduced her to a vessel. She was the very sort of woman Clarice had sworn never to become.

"I am certain the princess would be overjoyed."

Rhaenyra would appreciate a younger sister, perhaps, though not a brother. The girl was used to being her father's greatest treasure.

"The whole realm would be." The king's voice was clipped.

"Of course." She inclined her head in agreement. "I remember when Alicent came into this world. I am three years older and I always liked to mother her, even when we were children. Everywhere I went, I would take her with me. In my arms first, when she was still tiny, then I'd always take her by the hand and drag her with me."

Her little sister had been her shadow and they had been inseperable until their father had brought them here. Alicent had found someone else to shadow and Clarice had been made to care for a dying king instead.

"Charming. It is so important, I agree, to grow up with siblings. There is no stronger bond."

Clarice did not look to where Prince Daemon was dancing with the beautiful Lady Falena Bracken. It seemed the prince meant to test the reliability of Lady Falena's low cut bodice with a series of vigorous turns and bouncing steps. So far, the bodice kept up bravely to the dismay of many a guest.

"Indeed."

The dance was almost at an end, there was no use to begin a conversation when it would be cut short anyway. Clarice concentrated on her final steps, as did the king, and he bowed with palpable relief while the final note still trembled in the air.

When Clarice rose from her curtsy, he was gone.

Viserys was not incapable. In his own way, he was even a good ruler. Clarice didn't doubt that he might have made a good master of laws, perhaps even a good Hand. But Viserys sadly lacked the gravitas of a king, the strength and assertiveness. He was not one to take what he wanted. It was the bane of kingship, of course: Everything was right there, ready for pick, but every lord and lady, ever septon and miller liked to tell the king why this fruit or that one was off limits, why this fruit or that one was sweeter than the others. A king had to choose his fruit, again and again and again, and everytime, he had to weigh his councillors' opinions and make a decision. There were those who might as well have left the picking to their lords and those that could have forgone the councillors completely. Neither was the way, of course, but neither was Viserys' problem. His tragedy was that he simply liked to pick those fruits that would please his people. He would stand on one leg, lose an eye or a finger in order to obtain the juiciest peach, not for himself, but for his people. And the vultures of the Red Keep smelled blood ten miles against the wind.

"You put my brother to flight, Lady Clarice. Pray, tell me, were it your feet or your words that sent him running?"

Weakness was nothing one could accuse him of.

"Prince Daemon. Do you ever leave King's Landing?"

He was the one person she had evaded at all cost ever since she had set foot in the Red Keep two moons ago. She had, out of her own free choice, sat with Lady Rosby and listened to her long-winded accounts of her perfectly uneventful life outside the city. She had heard the story of the apple and Lady Fossoway's ageing teeth four times and in the end, she would have been willing to hammer her own teeth from her jaw just to make her stop. Clarice had suffered through old Lord Bracken's braggings, through Lord Wylde's ominous warnings, through Lady Tanda Florent's third-hand court gossip and Ser Stevron Estermont's slimy compliments. But it seemed, Clarice had suffered in vain. The prince had gotten the hint and ignored her for two months. He had walked past her without seeing, had mocked her father but not her. Once, during a dinner, he had handed the meat past her, straight to Ser Stevron on her other side, as if she was only air. Not that Clarice had minded. She did not feel the slightest wish to ever speak to him again. Her first wedding had cured her of any interest in him. He was, the smallfolk was right, a rogue, and an honourless coward as well. He had left her in the yard at the first sign of difficulty. She might have been able to forgive his lack of honour, but never his lack of courage. Nor, of course, the slight to her pride.

"When you've travelled far and wide, my lady, you know that there is no place like home." He underlined that sentimental remark with an ironic grin. "Or so the singers say."

Her heart sang with rage as she looked up into his deep violet eyes. You think you can pick me up where you left me, huh? But she was not a glove he had lost to be retrieved at will. It was a strange sensation that coursed through her now, unexpected and unwelcome. Clarice was usually in control of her feelings, and widowhood had only hardened her shell. There was no one who could provoke her, no one who could stir the glimmering embers of her anger into a raging fire. No one but him.

"And of course, everyone knows how much your brother values your voice on his council. Are you still master of coin, my prince? Or master of laws? You have changed offices with such rapidity, it is hard to keep track."

"Oh, no one could blame you, you were far away from court for the past year, Lady Oakheart." He raised a hand to his chest in mock embarrassment. "Oh, forgive me. Lady Redwyne, of course. You have changed names with such rapidity, it is hard to keep track."

Two could play this game.

"Oh, no one could blame you, my prince. You are not renowned for your keen mind."

Clarice was not one to speak her words before weighing them but with the rogue prince, her tongue always seemed faster than her mind. In truth, she was too determined to win their battle of words, but this time, it seemed she had overstepped.

Usually, the prince took her insolence with a superior smile but not now. His gaze had lost all playfulness as he stared at her like a snake waiting to strike. Never before had his eyes burned with such fire.

"Careful, my lady," he said in a throaty voice that held none of the usual silkiness, "One day, your sharp tongue might affront me so much that I will cut it out."

She had offended him, had woken the dragon, as many a man had during his tavern and brothel visits. And many a man had suffered for it. Clarice did not think he would harm her, not here in the ballroom, but she wasn't certain. An apology was too serious, would give a fleeting foolish remark too much weight. There was only one way open to her.

"My father would be pleased," she quipped desperately, "but you cannot punish my lord husband so."

After a tense pause, Daemon Targaryen rewarded her with a wolfish grin. "Widowhood has not mellowed you."

Was this a game to him? Threatening her?

"Are you disappointed?" She would have liked to have the power to disappoint him.

"I'm glad to see you wed again. I remember your last wedding...well."

If a man had ever had the power to heat her blood with only his eyes, it was Daemon Targaryen. It had to be the colour, a purple deeper than amethysts. Clarice had read once that dragons were always hot to the touch, that the air around them shimmered with heat. If that was so then she glimpsed in Daemon Targaryen the truth of his heritage. His gaze held a dragon's heat and her cheeks were warming as she tried not to look away.

But this was her wedding and she could not be seen staring into the Rogue Prince's eyes, not longingly or otherwise. Focus.

Clarice swallowed. She had hoped that he would have the grace not to bring this up, but that had been foolish.

It would have been best if he had forgotten about their meeting altogether, of course, but it did flatter her that he remembered. She was one of hundreds, she knew. It was always nice to stand out.

"And I remember rather well the morning after." Her tone was icy and cutting. Lesser men would have bowed and begged her forgiveness for their honourless behaviour. Lesser men, better men.

"I fear there are parts of that morning lost to wine." He felt in control. His playful tone was back, he was toying with her.

"Yes, a man pays the price for a night in the city, they say."

"A woman would too, if she ever wished to go. I assure you, it does not come too dear."

It did not suffice, apparently, that he had slighted her honour once. Did he mean to insinuate she'd visit brothels with him like a common whore?

"It seems too dear to me to yield up honour and chivalry."

She remembered the feeling of his lips on hers but she also recalled, just as vividly, the way he had abandoned her in the yard like a used whore.

"Is that so? And I would think that would be a rather small sacrifice for you."

She would have liked to tell him that it was not her who lacked honour and chivalry but the memory of his roused temper was still too fresh.

"Have you come only to insult me, my prince, or did you mean to ask for a dance?"

They were becoming the subject of talk, standing at the side of the dancefloor, engulfed in a conversation that, so she feared, did seem every bit as hostile as it was.

"Widowhood has made you either forward or desperate, my lady. It is a good look on you. You know I always found you too haughty."

I have always found you too roguish.

"It seems uncourteous to hinder me from dancing when you have no intention to lead me."

There were other men after all, though not many, who were all too ready to lead her to the dance floor.

"Enough with the begging," he raised a hand as if to stop her, "I enjoy a little cajolery as much as the next man but you overreach."

"And I thought you were the sort of man who thinks there can never be too much of a good thing."

It was the worst thing that his approving look made her somehow feel better. I do not need your approval, my lord.

"Astute judgement of character, my lady, but you seem to consider your begging too enjoyable. I won't deny that I find it amusing but it gets tedious after a while."

I never beg. There was nothing she wanted from him. She should simply leave him standing here and show him how little she cared but her feet wouldn't move. The people would talk if she stormed off, anyway.

"Lord Lannister seems more in the mood to dance, my prince. If you excuse me."

Daemon Targaryen turned around to find Lord Tyland in the crowd, thereby blocking her way to the dancefloor with his admittedly broad shoulders.

"You think he does?" The prince turned around with a doubtful look, a hint of mock concern added for perfection, "I wonder, are you desperate to dance or just desperate to elude my company?"

"Courtesy will not allow me to answer this question truthfully, my lord."

"When did you learn courtesy, my lady? Much seems to have changed since I left you in that courtyard."

"Not so much, I think."

The prince extended his hand to her.

"I shall do you this favour, my lady. I am wearing good boots tonight. Perhaps that is something I should pass on to my brother for your next wedding. Will you wait until autumn this time? Is that your aim? Do you wish for singers to call you the Four Seasons Bride?"

"I have said it before and I shall say it again, my prince, you have the mind of a singer."

"Now, what did I say about flattery and desperation? It is a thin line, Lady Clarice, and you have crossed it repeatedly."

She took his hand. "Perhaps we should dance silently. So that I can be very mindful of your boots."

He led her onto the dancefloor with nonchalant assertiveness. They called him dragon but he moved more like a cat, quick movements, graceful, strong and precise. Despite this, his dancing skills had not improved. He was still too close, too quick, too forceful.

"You must be glad to wear your dancing shoes once again. I doubt you had much occasion in your oaken keep."

"Indeed, I was busy with other things."

If there was anything Daemon Targaryen had perfected, it was his mischievous grin. How many maidens had he won over with a lazy curl of his lip? Not me.

"I know the things that keep a young wife up at night."

His remark brought heat to her cheeks and she hoped he couldn't see her blush in the candlelight.

"That is no topic for pleasant conversation."

"I never knew you meant for this to be pleasant, my lady. I am most interested in your tragically short marriage."

She had to tread carefully now. Her past marriage was rotten ice, one wrong word would spark rumours beyond count.

"I mean to look forward, my prince, not backwards."

"I do not doubt that you do."

Daemon Targaryen pulled her even closer until his lips were somewhere above her left ear. "Is it true that your husband perished on top of you, worn out by his efforts in the bedchamber?"

His hot breath fanned over the bare skin of her temple and ear. It smelled of wine and spices. Clarice ignored the fluttering in her stomach. Her foolish body reminded her of their meeting last year, as if she needed the reminder. The room was hot and stuffy.

It is only the rumour. The embarrassment. Nothing else.

That rumour was indeed a mystery to her. It was true and that alone was horrifying enough. There was more to the tale, more that made her wake up in the middle of the night, with only the moon as witness to night terrors and sleeplessness. Gunthor had died between her legs, though not inside her, and it taken a lot of strength and desperation to push him off her silently, turn him around, close his stubborn eyes and pull the covers over his massive body before fleeing the bedchamber through the side door. She still couldn't shake off the feeling of guilt, no matter how often she told herself that it was not her fault, not truly, that it had been a coincidence and nothing more. But that part of her did not belong here, on the dancefloor. She shut it away in broad daylight and only in the weakness of her dreams could it come forward again.

Clarice was certain that no one had witnessed her efforts that terrible night. The chamber doors had been locked, Lord Gunthor had never liked intruders, and there were no little spies in the walls of Old Oak. She had come to the conclusion that this particular rumour was not far-fetched; it was sensational and humiliating enough to be spread with great enthusiasm and amusing enough for people not to care much about the truth.

Still, the rumour filled her with a dreadful sense of foreboding, as if the facade she had built and curated so carefully was only moments from being torn down.

"His heart gave out one night, that is true, but I was far away in my own chambers then, and fast asleep. My lord died peacefully in his sleep."

She tried to step away from him, bring at least a foot between their bodies, but his grip on her waist was iron.

"Separate chambers?" His tone was more suggestion than mockery now. The prince was like a cat in more ways than one: He liked to play with his prey.

"My lord was most considerate of my needs."

In truth, Lord Gunthor had liked to bed kitchen wenches and scullery maids in the same bed as her, so she had slept in a childless nursery in the east wing of the keep. She had not minded. He had called for her less after the first fortnight and the kitchen girls kept him occupied.

"He seemed very considerate at your wedding. The soul of chivalry."

"A great compliment, coming from you." She forced herself to stare at the silver buttons of his doublet, to keep her mind clear. She would not be seduced by him again, she would never again be cast away like an old rag.

The prince ignored her jibe.

"How old was he again? Eighty? Ninety?"

"Seventy."

"Struck down in his prime, I'm sure. You have made a convincing grieving widow. Black suits your colouring much better than white."

"Should my seamstress ever need counsel, I'll send her to you."

The prince was usually richly dressed in doublets of velvet or silk or brocade, embroidered in thread of gold or silver and embellished with rubies and black diamonds. He looked more like a king than his brother. It was almost comical.

"Oh, please do. Widow or not, you dress worse than Rhaenyra's septa."

He eyed the high neckline of her gown pointedly.

"Modesty is a virtue you know little of, my prince."

"Modesty is for peasants." He spat out the remark. "Why pretend to be less than you are?"

Because being underestimated gains me a headstart.

"Virtue is a subject unsuitable for a conversation at a feast."

"I wouldn't have much to contribute anyway."

"Your personal motto, my prince?" This time, she looked up to him and allowed some mockery into her smile. Prince Daemon grinned in response.

"Has my tight embrace emboldened you, Lady Clarice?"

"In this position, I'd reach your dagger before you, my prince."

That made him laugh. "Did your old husband know that old Otto gave him a snake to warm his bed? Does your new one?"

"Ser Rollam is glad to wed me."

He was an eldest son, and though his father was old, Lord Raymon was not as old as Lord Gunthor had been, and in good health. The alliance with the Hightower gave Ser Rollam a more senior position at his father's court and allowed him to travel widely and with importance. And there was, as always, the matter of heirs. Ser Rollam's younger brother had three children already.

"Where does your lord father find these men?" Prince Daemon threw her second husband a look full of false admiration. "An old sod, now a drunkard. Have you committed a crime the realm may not know?"

She had wondered the very same thing once she had gotten to know Ser Rollam.

"The Redwynes are wealthy and powerful. Well-combed and properly dressed, Ser Rollam cuts a rather dashing figure."

It seemed her father had truly thought this match would please her. When she had come back to the Hightower from Old Oak, he had awaited her there, in a rare show of paternal affection. Together, they had travelled to the capital. Three moons of widow's reprieve her father had given her to rest and reassure her husband's family that the old oak of Old Oak had not planted any small oaks inside her belly. Then Lord Otto had revealed his new wedding plans to her as if they were a treat. He had even told her that in return for her dutiful approach to marriage, he had found her an even greater match worthy of a noble lady of fine rearing and bearing, such as herself. Clarice had almost laughed out loud when she had been seated next to Ser Rollam at a dinner. He was wealthy and some fool had knighted him, but that counted for little and less in the Reach. Men would knight everything there if it only kept still long enough.

"Does he?" Prince Daemon's deep violet eyes travelled over her husband's bearded chin where some vomit still glistened, his greasy fingers that were currently trying to tear a chicken wing off and the state of his grape-red doublet that clashed quite terribly with his orange hair. "I can only imagine."

~o~

~ Daemon ~

~o~

"Is it true she killed 'er 'usband?" Mysaria asked as she brought him a cup of wine. She did not say her name, she did not have to. He had come to her to fuck himself senseless but his body had ruined that pleasure for him.

This time, Daemon had waited for the bedding. He, along with half the court, had undressed Lord Otto's darling daughter. Like a fool had he thought that this would end the torment, that this would dispel any lingering thoughts of their nightly meeting half a year ago. He had waited near the end of the line, close to the chamber door, senior enough in standing and fierce enough in reputation to make sure no man would challenge him for this position, but it had only served to aggravate him further.

Clarice Hightower was comely, some would even call her beautiful, but there was something lacking – an expressiveness, a feminine presence that her sister possessed but she did not. Her features were even enough but her lips were on the thin side. She was the only one of Hightower's five children who had not inherited their father's dark hazel eyes. Hers were blue as forget-me-nots, darker than ice and lighter than a summer sky. Cold eyes, Mysaria had the right of it, and yet, they held a certain charm he couldn't fight off.

He had meant to strip her off her gown and dignity both, had hoped to see her crumble naked before him, fall to her feet, perhaps, or cry with shame, but she had not. Her armour was not a corset and a shift. Her very skin was impenetrable, like the white stone of the tower she had been born in.

The feeling of her skin under his fingers, the look of her bare breasts, nipples perked up in the cold night air, the expression in her blue eyes as she had seen him stare at her naked state, half smug, half something else, all that had haunted Daemon when he had tried to fuck the memories away. It had not helped that his mind had been desperate to remind him that just a few miles away, Clarice Hightower was being fucked by a drunken, red-headed fool whose sad sausage was probably doing a better job than his.

Daemon did not desire her, not like he desired Mysaria, or other comely women. She was so cold and passionless, she should have adopted the Tully arms. Before their first meeting, he had thought about fucking her occasionally, depending on her gown, but only with a rag tied over her mouth. But then she had kissed him with a fire hitherto hidden to him completely, had touched him with a naked greed that had enticed him like little else. It had awakened a desire for her that had only been fuelled by the further events of that night. Daemon had been refused before – not often, of course, but it had happened now and then – and never had such a foolish woman of ill judgement left a lasting impression. He was not one to linger when there was nothing to gain.

It was a strange hold she had on him, both fleeting and persistent, alternating between desire and hatred, while one fed into the other. It was part loathing for her rejection, part shame for his continued interest, he supposed, and a not unfamiliar longing for something that was so obviously unavailable for him. Those apples that were just out of reach always looked sweetest, the smallfolk said, but he was a dragon, no apple was out of reach entirely. There was always a back he could step upon, a stone, a ladder he could use…Even the highest apple itself was not completely unavailable and hope was a dangerous and destructive fuel.

This was the sort of creature the Hightower bitch made of him. A philosopher. A ponderer.

"The rumours say she did not. But that he died fucking her," Mysaria pushed further. This sort of tale was good for winesinks and singers and the lady had a hand for business.

Daemon shrugged. He did not want to think about her, much less talk about her.

"She didn't confide in me."

"She looks like she could kill a king and get away with it." The whore rubbed his shoulders with well-practised hands and he found himself leaning into her touch.

"When did you ever see her?" Mysaria had never been in the Red Keep in broad daylight and he doubted that the Hightower girl had ever been in Flea Bottom.

"She rode through the city with 'er father when she came back, all in black. 'er eyes are cold, even when they are filled with tears."

That seemed an apt description.

"She loathed him. The old man and his eager hands. But this one…"

The drunkard was a different sort of man. Easily governed by a clever woman and then wielded like a sword. Admittedly one that had lost its edge when it had discovered the perks of wine, but the Arbor had gold enough to make most people forget their steel. Winter or summer, the lords and ladies always drank wine. Perhaps this one would prove more to her taste. Daemon knew she was too clever to want love and affection in her wedding bed.

Yes, she could well rule the Arbor come winter, the old lord was often sick and she had once before buried an old lord. A Lady Redwyne had no reason to come to the capital. She would see to it that their fleet was the strongest of the kingdoms, rivalling her uncle's in Oldtown, she would fill the Arbor's coffers until their richest surpassed her father's. Daemon did not know her, not truly, but underneath her sweet lily of the valley perfume, she reeked of ambition and she had no reason to love her father for two mediocre marriages that served him more than her.

Daemon had no objections to that course of action. He liked seeing old Otto humiliated and all the better if betrayal came from his own daughter. But it felt strange to think that he should never see her again.

"You don't want to see 'er go." Mysaria's hands stilled on his shoulders but he leant back and urged her fingers on.

"I'll be glad to see the back of that bitch."

"'as she a lovely back?" He could hear her smile as she teased him.

"Not as lovely as yours."

Daemon turned around to her, ready to try one more time, but her face spoke of unasked questions.

"Forget her. She doesn't matter anymore. She'll be gone on the morrow." He told her that as much as himself.

The whore's face said more than she did. You should learn from the frozen bitch. Clarice Hightower's face was better guarded than the king's bedchamber.

Daemon shook the thoughts from his mind as he descended upon Msyaria, tugged at cloth and hair, squeezed and gripped what was within reach.

It was a desperate fuck and they both knew it. Her silence weighed more heavily than any remark could have.

As he lay down on the straw-stuffed mattress and chased a flea from his thigh, he pulled his whore into a bruising embrace.

On the morrow, he would see her off. Perhaps that was what he needed for his peace of mind: To be sure she was gone. To be sure he'd never see her again.

~o~

~ Clarice ~

~o~

In the flattering morning light and before his first cup of wine, Ser Rollam did look passable. He was tall and seemed strong enough. His nose was less red in the weak sun's first rays and for perhaps the first time, he did not stagger towards his chair beside her. The belly that he owed to wine and feasts was still largely hidden by high cut breeches and a structured, quilted doublet while the deep blue of his garments brought out the watery colour of his eyes so that he looked knightly and clean.

"Lady Clarice." He bent to kiss her hand. "You are a vision of beauty this fine morning."

She smiled at her husband over her cup of watered down wine. Perhaps he would make a passable husband after all. At least he had bathed without her insistence, that was more than could be said for his unlucky predecessor.

"It is true what they say, good ser. The Reach is the home of chivalry."

Little was left of this famed chivalry, however, when Ser Rollam sat down and began to drink and eat everything in his reach with baffling speed.

"Are you quite well, ser?"

He looked up from his third cup of wine. "My lady?"

"You seem…famished."

He grinned. "That's what the wine does to you, my lady. After a good night, I could break my fast on a whole chicken."

He was breaking his fast on a whole ham now. It was not the amount that troubled her either, it was the desperate manner. Starving children in Flea Bottom would have eaten with more grace.

"How often do you have nights like the last, my lord?" She tried to produce a convincing smile and spoke in something akin to a light conversatory tone but there was a lingering disapproval she couldn't quite ban from her voice.

Perhaps that was why he dropped his ham then and wiped his hands on a cloth perfunctorily "The taverns of the Arbor are not as good as the ones in the city," he conceded, "but our winesinks are better."

"Do you sample the good Arbor vintage every night?" She had meant to hide her disapproval but perhaps that was the wrong approach. A man like Ser Rollam needed a firm hand, leniency would only support him in his unlordly exploits.

He stared at her for a moment, seemingly uncertain how to answer, but then his beard parted into what she assumed was a grin: "You know the saying, my lady: An heir that is bored makes a troubled lord."

Her husband looked at her as if he expected a laugh.

"I did not know it, no." She wasn't even certain what he meant to tell her.

"Surely, as a husband and father, you would soon find that your father's keep offers better diversions than a winesink?"

There. She couldn't have possibly fitted more duties into one sentence.

"You have never been to a winesink, have you?" He laughed again. "I give you my word, my lady, that I shall do my duties by you, as I did last night."

Which duties? You passed out on top of me naked and smelling of vomit.

She had hoped that Rollam, as an heir, would feel more compelled to be dutiful and dignified under the ever watchful eye of his stern mother, Alerie Florent. She had hoped as well that, as an heir and a young man, he would feel the need to follow conventions more than her first husband, who had the fool's licence to do as he pleased due to his advanced age and standing. It seemed that her hopes were to be severely disappointed. There was nothing like impending marital misery to spoil one's breakfast, especially if the reason for said misery was quick to devour the cream cakes and fresh strawberries as a side for the roast ham.

Clarice was not devastated, as a different woman might have been. Hightower women were well acquainted with disappointment, and they were used to being disappointed by men. Long before her vows in the sept had she made vows to herself and she meant to keep the older ones at all cost. Husbands, after all, were not as scarce as they seemed to believe, while Clarice had only this one body and soul.

So while she found her brief sober conversation with Ser Rollam rather discouraging and the prospect of sharing a wheelhouse with him for the journey to Duskendale, from where they would board the ship to the Arbor, more than annoying, her general perspective in life did not bother her all too much.

She left her chambers in the Tower of the Hand on her husband's arm in seemingly good spirits, replying to farewells and bawdy jests with coy smiles.

A few spectators had come to see her off: Those that wished to please her lord father with their show of loyalty, others who hoped for some last minute gossip, and others again who were bored by court life and appreciated every distraction. Among the latter group was a certain man Clarice would have fared better without.

"You look pale, my lady." Although she'd wager that Daemon Targaryen had spent the night in the whorehouses of Flea Bottom one could not tell from the way his immaculately brushed hair fell over the shoulders of his crisp and clean black and red doublet. He chose to play the gallant prince today and she found it to be a maddening act.

"Ser Rollam." He offered a nod to her husband. "Safe travels. You bereave the Red Keep of one of its finest jewels."

Standing next to the Rogue Prince, all her earlier praise for her husband turned to ashes. The prince towered over Ser Rollam, long limbed and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. His silver-gold hair seemed to stream in a barely-there breeze and no one could match the arrogant charm of his boyish smile. No man had the right to be as beautiful as Daemon Targaryen.

The Seven be damned for making him this way.

"You are too kind, my prince." She cut their farewell short. Clarice couldn't bear to be near him only for another moment, especially with Ser Rollam at her side. In the past, Deamon Targaryen had been a thorn in her side but now, he had the potential to be dangerous. He had the power to destroy her with a single story and that was something Clarice could not forgive. She could not forget it either, for at night, her mind would go back to their embrace in the yard, to the feeling of his lips on hers…And to the lies she had told herself to protect this secret. Lies she had repeated so often to herself she almost believed them.

"We must hurry now, my lord, if we want to reach Rosby before nightfall."

She gave her husband a well-practised sweet smile that prompted the knight to turn a very unsightly shade of pink. At Rosby, he would bed her again. Perhaps this time, he would be able to do the deed, but Clarice wasn't too afraid. She had heeded the cook to pack half a dozen casks of strongwine.

"I wouldn't wish to delay you love-birds." Prince Daemon shot her wicked grin.

"Ser Rollam." He barely inclined his head to the knight but that seemed to suffice for her lord husband. "Lady Clarice." The prince held out his hand for hers. In broad daylight and in the middle of the yard, she didn't dare refuse him and so it was Daemon Targaryen who led her to the wheelhouse and helped her up the stairs after her lord husband.

"I wish you a pleasant journey." He smiled up at her with unhidden glee as she stood on the topmost stair. Clarice couldn't remember ever looking down at his face but it was a flattering angle. Are there unflattering angles for him? This one brought out his straight, strong nose, the angles of his forehead and the arch of his brows. The gods have wasted these good looks on a scoundrel like this one.

"I thank you kindly, my prince." She kept her voice cool and pleasant, in case her husband overheard them, but allowed herself to mirror his smug smile. "Should you ever return to the Vale, I would be ever so grateful for some of its prized mutton."

"Naturally," he said, with inimitable smoothness. "And I'll send a few casks of wine along for your lord husband."

She looked down upon his silver-golden head as he bent over her hand to plant a dry, firm kiss onto her knuckles. His teeth scratched her skin, though not enough to leave a mark.

"A safe journey, Lady Clarice. I won't see you again, I suppose. Farewell."

The words sounded strangely raw, not forced or rehearsed. Was it the tone that took her off-guard or the intensity of his violet eyes, hauntingly beautiful by daylight?

All she knew was that she stared after him, open-mouthed, until his tall, slim-hipped silhouette had disappeared in the shadows of the keep.

Angry with herself, she threw the wheelhouse's door shut and promised herself to end this war with Daemon Targaryen. Should she ever come back to King's Landing and find him here, she would treat him as she did his brother. He wasn't more to her than that after all.

A/N:

Thank you, Books-n-Harleys, for your review! I'm glad you enjoy their tension, it the part I enjoy writing very much as well! I'm always scared I put too much bickering in my stories. I hope you like this installment as well.