Chapter 3: An Unwelcome Guest

Clarice

~o~

Her father had called her to his brother's solar high atop the Hightower. He was not in Oldtown often of late, though he had considered it prudent to meet his now twice widowed, disgraced elder daughter in the familiarity of their ancestral home instead of taking her with him to the capital. It was not fatherly devotion that had motivated him to undertake the long ride, Clarice knew. The last thing he needed was gossip that might sully Alicent's golden reputation, and she would attract whispers and mockery like flowers did bees.

As Clarice entered, Lord Otto looked up from his oh so important letters, though only long enough to dip his quill into a pot of black ink.

"Is the seamstress done with your wedding gown ?" he asked casually as he continued writing.

"Almost. We had the last fitting this morning."

It had been already finished, in truth, but someone had been so clumsy and ripped a seam that, it turned out later, was unfortunately difficult to mend.

"Good. You will need it soon enough."

Clarice was still in mourning, and she would be until her wedding day. Thankfully, though, Ser Rollam had been dead for more than seven weeks now and she could wear grey and purple again. One did get tired of black rather quickly.

"Will I depart within the fortnight then?"

The prospect of setting sail so soon after her arrival was disheartening, even worse the idea of spending long, horrid weeks in the Dornish heat before an opportunity would present itself and a plan would come to her. She was in a precarious position: People found her pitiful now and were glad to blame her father and his choices for her early widowhood, but a third dead husband would no doubt draw too much unwanted attention, and too soon.

With numb fingertips did she trace the marks her nails had left on her palm when her father had first told her of the match – long after he had made the necessary arrangements. Right here in his solar had she stood and surveyed the tall window to her left with unparalleled interest.

Never before had her father managed to take her by surprise in such a fashion. He meant to bury her under dunes of sand, burn her with the hot southern sun.

Clarice was rarely worried. She had learned early on that the world was never dancing to her tune, so she had to sing along as she went. This marriage, however, had the potential to ruin everything.

Men would take a twice-widowed woman and pride themselves in being the first real man in her bed, more vigorous and more virile than his predecessors. They would look at a seemingly barren woman and tell themselves that it was only their cock she needed to get pregnant.

But Dornishmen had a different reputation, sinister and dangerous. No man would look at a Dornishman's widow and think himself the first strong man in her bed. They would know that a bolder, fiercer man had preceded them and that would take all the foolish desire out of them.

Clarice's plans for her future relied on men's unquenchable desire – for power, women, coin or glory.

And her father was dangerously close to ruining her plans.

She remembered to summon a smile as her father considered her, wearing his customary, slightly displeased, impatient frown.

"No." He returned his attention to his papers. Of course. He had given her more than she was due already. "The wedding will take place here."

Another surprise. Had she forgotten how the games were played that he managed to catch her off guard twice in the span of a fortnight?

"Lord Blackmont will come to Oldtown?" She wondered what her father had offered the man for his inconvenience. A marriage here, the union of two enemy houses, was a great victory for her father, and by extension, his brother. The smallfolk would flood through the city gates in the hopes of getting a look at her gown, her finery, and at her exotic husband. And for every cup of ale, every whore that opened her legs, every roast chicken sold, her uncle would receive a penny or two.

"You surely see what a great diplomatic victory that is." Her father looked up again when she made no reply. "It is said that the Martells are furious."

Clarice understood then that it was not simply her uncle's advancement her father had in mind. He had loftier goals. Perhaps she should be glad that he did not sell her cheaply.

"You hope to prompt House Blackmont to join the Reach."

"In time. The next Lord Blackmont will have Hightower blood. Your mother was a Rowan, your grandmother a Tyrell." His tone was casual, as if he was not just plotting what kings and hands had failed to do for a century. "The blood of the noblest families flows through your veins, and the Blackmonts will soon be cousins to these houses."

"That might pacify the marches and the Dornish draw strength from these quarrels."

Her father nodded approvingly at his papers. "The king is very pleased. He has written to me and sends a wedding gift for you. I suspect it is jewellery. You will wear it for the ceremony."

I will wed the man you chose wearing the gowns and finery you chose reciting the words to told me to say. Even the dogs in their kennels were not as well trained as she was.

"His Grace is too generous."

Lord Otto paused in his writing, the tip of his swan feather quill hovering over the parchment, irritated, sidetracked.

"The jewels are meant to sweeten his second gift. Prince Daemon will be the one to hand it to you, as he will attend the ceremony as a royal envoy."

That took her by surprise once more. "Why him? Princess Rhaenys –"

"Daemon means to spite me." Her father's voice was a saw on stone.

He was wrong, she realised. The prince meant to spite her. Not only for her insolence, most of all for her lies. She had hurt his pride that night, and every time they had met after that. Daemon Targaryen did not have to fly across two kingdoms to spite her father, he had all the time in the world to do so in King's Landing. He was bored, she supposed, and there was no way to tell what he would do when he was bored.

"Well, he will learn that he has no power to do so here in the south. You have just made peace with the Dornish, father. The prince is nothing but an inconvenience."

In Oldtown, the Hightowers ruled supreme.

"Of course." Her father waved her remark away, sending droplets of ink onto the polished wood of his desk. He wiped them away disapprovingly with his kerchief, but the ink had already seeped into the wood.

"He hasn't realised it yet," he spread the ruined kerchief over the black spots, "but he is nothing more than a thorn in his brother's side. Viserys will learn to appreciate his brother's absence – while he will keenly feel mine."

The King's Hand turned away from the mess on his desk to face the window behind him. Clarice knew he loved the view from the lord's solar.

Otto Hightower had always liked to see the world at his feet and there was no better view than the one from the topmost storey of the Hightower. It was said that the Lannisters' rock was higher, but it was a rock. And the Wall was just as high, but the only thing one could glimpse at one's feet there were snow rabbits and direwolves and the ever freezing black brothers.

No, Clarice thought as she stepped next to her father, this one vice she could easily forgive him. The whole of Oldtown, lords and merchants, septons and maesters, they all were forced to look up to their masters in the tower and right here, at the window, she was one of them.

~o~

Her future lord husband was tardy. The ship had been delayed by a storm, he wrote, though no storm had been witnessed in the Reach. More likely, it was a lord's power play, but as so often, it was a lady who paid the price in humiliation and indignity.

Her father was displeased but even the Hand of the King did not command the winds nor the Dornish, so they had to wait, as Lord Blackmont no doubt intended.

Quite unfortunately and also rather unexpectedly, Prince Daemon arrived early. The red wyrm landed atop the Hightower, unbothered by the flames, and gave the smallfolk of Oldtown a story to tell their grandchildren.

Clarice had not been present when the prince had climbed into the lord's solar through a latticed window with outrageous nonchalance, breaking several very expensive panes of Myrish glass in the process, but her father's rage was still palpable hours later when he gave her an abbreviated account. Daemon's early arrival discomfited the family, and the prince enjoyed this effect. Her uncle, Lord Hobert, had to vacate his chambers for the king's brother hastily, so as not to offend the royal blood, her father was hard-pressed to organise diversions and entertainment for a man who was very hard to entertain in a seemly and courtly manner. Clarice could have told her father to spare himself the effort. It was entertainment enough for the prince to annoy her and her father by day and the whores of Oldtown by night.

"Prince Daemon." She gave him a measured curtsy when she met him at the hastily arranged feast in the small hall. "How gracious of you to honour us with your presence so early."

Her tone was tame and gentle, no one but him would hear the barb.

"I came as quickly as I could to offer you the crown's sympathy. One dead husband is a tragedy, two…some speak of a curse."

Her aunt tittered nervously.

No, this would not do. Her relatives should think of her as their poor niece, tested by the gods. A cursed relation often found herself cast away and the Silent Sisters were always welcoming.

Quickly, she took her seat beside the prince. It was a place of honour, not far from the lord's throne-like chair, as this feast was held to celebrate her betrothal as well as the prince's arrival.

Even five seats from her aunt, Clarice kept her voice low and even.

"My prosperous marriage to Lord Blackmont will prove them wrong."

The bread and salt had not yet been served. Her uncle's servants were tardier than she was used to, but then again, the kitchens were situated in the bowels of the tower and each dish had to be brought up in a basket. In order to keep the dishes warm, they were placed on heated platters.

"Is it true his sigil is a vulture with a baby in its beak? Frightening, wouldn't you say?"

"No doubt a sigil with an interesting history that I cannot wait to learn all about. The Targaryens' dragon is emphatic, I will not deny it, but it is a little self-evident."

"While the sigil of the Hightowers of the Hightower is shockingly original, you mean to say?"

He had a point, unfortunately.

"We, like the Targaryens, follow a more traditional approach to heraldry. The Dornish Marches are steeped in history. No doubt their heraldry reflects this."

Sometimes, her own words annoyed her.

"Did your husband's forebears not try to rob and kill yours?"

She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. "Indeed. Our marriage will end such strife once and for all."

"Let us hope Lord Blackmont lives long enough to reap the fruits of this peace. Your husbands are so tragically short-lived."

"Lord Blackmont is a young man, vigorous and healthy, by all reports."

"I suppose you must enjoy a challenge once in a while."

There were quite many things Clarice would have liked to give back, but she had not yet spent much time in his presence, her temper was still even and calm. So she only smiled at him in a lenient way, as one would at an unruly child.

"Have some of the baked trout, my lord. It is very good."

~o~

Daemon Targaryen liked to provoke. He liked to prod and taunt until he got a rise out of her or her father or even her uncle. He also liked to disrupt their familiar routine by walking where a man of manners and good breeding would never have intruded.

The family's intimate breakfast in the morning room, for one. Guests customarily broke their fast in their chambers and then joined their hosts later on for prepared activities.

Prince Daemon did not seem to believe in such formalities.

They broke their fast early since the prince's arrival, hoping anew every day that his nightly excesses would make him rest till midday, but whenever Prince Daemon found an opportunity to spite and taunt, he would seize it, however much sleep it cost him.

He came in through the double doors that morning as Clarice was about to finish her oatcakes, dressed inadequately in a white undershirt that had not seen a washer in a while, a worn sleeveless leather jerkin he had seemingly forgotten to lace up and linen breeches with boots. He looked like a footsoldier.

Lady Perianne Hightower, Clarice's delicate aunt from Fossoway stock, dropped her fork at the sight, and so did her eldest daughter, Berenice, though for entirely different reasons, as far as Clarice could tell.

Prince Daemon only had eyes for Lord Otto, however.

"Good morrow to you, too. I'm famished." He threw a glance at Clarice, who remained seated and returned his look with defiance.

"Alla, bring a plate and wine for the prince, and whatever he wishes to break his fast on."

Daemon Targaryen surveyed their half empty plates to see what was to be had.

"Roastbeef, bloody, some of that cheese, and some of those apple pastries."

He had, in short, chosen the most expensive foodstuffs. Clarice doubted he even ate pastries, she'd never seen him eating cake.

It was a sign of the Hightowers growing annoyance with the prince that Lord Hobert did not leave his seat in the middle of the table for their guest. Instead, he was seated at the short end, opposite her father and next to Berenice, who seemed positively tongue tied in his presence.

Clarice, on Berenice's other side, tried to finish her last oatcake in haste but it was too late – the prince had already sat down. The laws of hospitality and female courtesy bound her to her seat until he had finished his last bite.

Her gaze travelled up the table to her father, whose morning wine seemed to hail from Dorne and not the Arbor, judging by his face. Her uncle was still occupied with his sausages, Lady Hightower busied herself with her delicate apple pastries, strewing her plate with flakes of crust. The two seats between Lord Hightower and his brother were empty: his two younger sons had risen before the prince had interrupted their morning routine and picked up their training swords and mail. The lucky ones had escaped just in time.

Daemon took a swallow of light golden wine as he waited for his food. He was most dangerous – and most annoying – when bored.

While his general apparel spoke of a night well spent in the bowels of the city, his hair and face were unfortunately no match. He did not wear his silver mane pulled back from his face today and it flowed down his shoulders and framed his face freely, but it was neither dirty nor greasy. His face, likewise, was clean enough, though there was a long red scratch on his left cheek, no doubt a gift from an eager whore. Even that did not disfigure him. Clarice, however, had only a moment to muse over how terribly unfair the gods were.

"Are you looking forward to breaking your fast on Dornish oranges, Lady Clarice?"

"I have always appreciated their sweet, yet sour taste." Her voice was even and betrayed no sign of irritation. In the presence of her father, she mustered her best empty smile.

The prince seemed disappointed.

"Lord Blackmont shows bad manners," he said, this time to her father, "That is the man you want to give your daughter to in marriage, Lord Otto?"

Her father gave the prince a threadbare smile. "Lord Blackmont is not to blame for the autumn storms."

"Ah yes, the famed southern storms." The prince surveyed the fruit basket on the table, sent by Lady Hightower's family, and picked a dark red apple. "How long will they keep him from his betrothed?"

"Lord Blackmont's ship will be here within the next five days, my prince." Lord Otto kept his voice polite. "Until then, my good sister and my daughter will take care of your entertainment, my prince."

"Will you?" Prince Daemon shot her a nasty look, then took a bite from his apple in a way that made her blush.

It is only an apple.

But it was not. His fingers moved smoothly over the red peel and he licked his lips clean with a quick tongue.

Mother have mercy. Why did he have to look so pleased as he ate? Why did he have to savour every bite? And could he not just wipe his fingers on a napkin as every highborn man, instead of sucking the juice from his fingers with great care?

Berenice seemed mesmerised as well. He does have an effect on women. He wouldn't have to visit the whorehouse, he'd find a warm bed right here. Not hers, of course, but some kitchen wench would be all too happy to let him in.

Her cousin's blue eyes darted to the prince's face occasionally while her fingers played with a cluster of grapes.

"Did Torra scratch you?" she asked at last, breathless as if she'd climbed all the stairs to the lord's solar. Her cousin was a maid of twelve or three-and-ten, young and guileless.

Daemon's eyes snapped to the young maid with faint interest. "I fear I cannot quite recall her name."

Now that her cousin had spoken once, she seemed eager to keep up a conversation.

"Torra's young and small," Berenice clarified helpfully, "with midnight black fur and one floppy ear."

It was rare to see the prince absolutely confused. In this state, his eyes went to her for clarification.

Clarice savoured the moment before she helped him out.

"Lady Berenice's cat. Torra. The one that might have scratched you."

Some of the wine went down the wrong way as the prince laughed and he sat coughing for a while, raising the suspicions of those on the other side of the table. Lady Hightower did not look up, proving Clarice's suspicions that she had heard every word of what had just transpired, but the two lords seemed taken aback.

"Is the prince alright, Clarice?" her father asked pointedly. It would not do to have the king's brother suffocate at their table, no matter how much he would appreciate Daemon's passing in general.

"Just a little wine that went down the wrong way, lord father. Uncle. No reason to trouble yourselves."

Soon enough the coughing ceased and the Hightower brothers went back to discussing private matters in hushed voices.

Daemon, red-faced and grinning, turned to young Berenice. "Your cat is blameless, my lady. It was a more ferocious beast that left this mark and be certain, I paid her back in kind."

Berenice, emboldened by the prince's manner, turned to him fully now and forgot her maidenly shyness.

"I'd wager it was Tabby. She used to be Clarice's until they left for King's Landing and ever since, she's been quite wild."

The prince raised a brow in mockery, though it was lost on Berrie.

"Do you know, my lady, that might have been her name."

It was Clarice who was the target of his wicked grin now. She pitied her aunt who no doubt knew how much her daughter was embarrassing herself presently, but, bound by a lady's courtesies, could not step in to clarify.

Thankfully, the food arrived soon enough, and not long after, her lord father ended his conversation with his brother as well and directed his attention at the other end of the table.

"Prince Daemon. Lady Clarice will show you the city today and for tonight, Lady Hightower has prepared a lavish feast."

Her aunt inclined her head in the prince's direction without meeting his eye.

The feast had cost her uncle a pretty penny but then again, a prince in the city was good for the coffers.

Clarice knew that all objection was futile. She briefly considered feigning a headache, then less briefly considered falling down a flight of narrow stairs to break a leg, but her last husband had taught her how dangerous stairs could be and she would not risk her life just to get away from Prince Daemon, so she nodded and flashed him a sardonic smile.

"It will be my pleasure."

Once her uncle had excused himself, her father, too, left them in the morning hall, striding from the room in an unusually dark mood. Daemon Targaryen did that to Hightowers, she found. He could be most annoying if he wanted to be, and here, he definitely wanted to be.

The prince took his sweet time finishing his breakfast, especially once he had noticed the furtive looks her cousin was giving him. Lady Perianne, still determined not to look at the half undressed prince at her table, never saw her daughter's unchaste behaviour. It was better that way, Clarice thought, this might have been the nail in the coffin.

That was one thing that could be said for the prince: It was much better to embarrass oneself in front of him than, say, in front of the king. Viserys would have dealt with it more graciously, no doubt, but the moment Daemon was out the door, he forgot little Berenice, she'd wager, while for Viserys, she'd always be the little girl that had spoken so embarrassingly passionately of cats.

When at last, Daemon lay aside his knife and fork and wiped his mouth on a napkin – not that it would have been necessary: the prince even ate with grace, much to her chagrin – Clarice breached the matter of the trip.

"We will be riding today, my prince." She looked pointedly at his attire.

He ignored her look.

"Horses, I suspect." His eyes flickered briefly to her cousin.

"You are as bright as you are courteous."

Her aunt coughed violently. Berenice sat there, wide-eyed, staring at her cousin.

Clarice should have paid better attention to their company.

"Are you quite alright, lady aunt?"

She patted her soft back. After a while, the bright red of her face faded slightly.

"It seems your compliment took Lady Hightower ill at ease. I wonder why."

"I was merely suggesting that you change into more suitable garb, my prince." She gave him a sweet smile.

"I shall try and not take that as an affront."

"Please. Nothing is further from my mind than insulting you."

He got to his feet quickly and brushed a few crumbs off his white shirt, smoothing the fabric against his chest and stomach in the process. Clarice knew he was doing it on purpose, she knew he wanted to catch her staring, make her uncomfortable.

But she also knew how his chest felt against her palm, how smooth his skin was, how hard his muscle.

And she looked. Furtively, out of the corner of her eye, but she looked. The fabric was thin and allowed a glimpse at what was underneath, his dark nipples clearly visible through the sheer linen. What kind of man wears such a shirt to break his fast with his enemy?

As the prince leant back, he also allowed Clarice a look at his linen breeches, laced a little too tightly for her taste. Now, finally, she remembered a lady's modesty and turned her gaze back to her empty plate.

"I will meet you in the yard then, my lady." She found him grinning at her in a way she disliked entirely. Pleased. Arrogant. Knowing. "After I have changed into some garb that is more to your…liking."

She stared back, trying her best to ignore the blood that was rushing to her cheeks, betraying her cool gaze. "How considerate of you, my prince. The people of Oldtown expect a certain dignity from their liege lords – and their guests."

"Dignity?" he stretched the word into an insult. I have caught you staring. I have caught you undressing me with your eyes, his smile was saying, And I will not let you live it down. "Then I should truly dress more appropriately."

As Prince Daemon Targaryen left the morning hall, three Hightower women were staring after him with varying degrees of indignation.