A/N: Once, many moons ago, this was supposed to be the Halloween chapter. Now it is an Orthodox Christmas/ New Year chapter which really doesn't match the vibe at all (anyway, happy holidays to all those who celebrate!). This chapter was a real trial as can be seen from the fact that it took me three whole months to finish it. This far from my best work but just this once, I figured done is better than perfect.
If you still follow my little story, I assure you that future chapters will be better and more intersting and I will stick to a much less random update schedule from now on.
Please let me know what you think or how I could improve this!
Warning: This chapter is long! For your own convenience, I put in quite a few breaks and pauses, so feel free to read it as multiple chapters.
Chapter 6: The Lady's Curse
The night of the wedding
~o~
Daemon
~o~
He had left the great hall, disgusted by her lies and annoyed by the Dornishman. Now, he was roaming the dark corridors of the Hightower. The truth was he was getting bored. Not just tonight, no, of Oldtown as a whole. The city and the Hightowers had offered some diversion, and he conceded that provoking the elder daughter still held some fun – but their interactions were getting more and more tedious. It had nothing to do at all with her blatant rejection of him, he had not expected her to reveal that buried desire shel felt for him in her uncle's great hall and Daemon was not invested enough to try and wheedle the admission out of her. What did he care? She was not the sort of woman that could entice him, after all, not the sort of woman that would occupy his thoughts. Clarice Hightower might have a sharp enough mind, but she was of First Men descent, brown-haired and blue-eyed. Her ancestors had still quarrelled over stones and meadows when his had founded the Freehold. Her ancestors had ploughed the fields with oxen while his had brought forth dragons from magic, fire, and blood.
Oxen and dragons. And no clever word play, no icy glare could change their nature. It had been entertaining, his moon here at Oldtown, but as entertaining as a bard's song: predictable, repetitive, shallow, bearable only because it ended soon enough. His stay would end soon, too. He was a dragon but among the oxen, dogs and rabbits of the Hightower, his fire would go out.
This early in the evening, the corridors were still hauntingly empty. With the fog, fear had risen and the nobles of the Reach, cowardly fools that they were, moved in buzzing swarms, never daring to venture too far from the hearth's warmth – or from each other's company.
Once that Dornish bastard had taken his new wife up to their chamber to fuck her and claim her, the corridors would fill with drunkards and wantons looking for diversion.
By then, Daemon would have left the tower for the Street of Silk. All he wanted before the long descent was a cup of wine. Daemon had just helped himself to a filled jug in the morning hall when the door opened quietly.
He half expected her to have come looking after him but was disappointed.
The cousin had followed him like a lap dog.
"I saw you leave," she said in her high, whispery maiden voice.
He took a swallow of wine.
"I thought perhaps you wanted company," she ventured further when he made no reply.
"Then why leave?"
A part of him was annoyed. The girl was boring and predictable. Another part, the one that had listened rather too closely to Clarice Hightower's admission, thought that the cousin had come at just the right time. He had wanted wine and a good fuck, after all.
Cup in hand, there was only one thing missing. Daemon had always had a taste for this sort, young, dewy-eyed maidens. He found them amusing.
She was a maid, no doubt, and obviously wet for him.
And pretty, in a common sort of way. All the Hightower girls looked alike: the heart shaped face and soft features, those large eyes. But this girl's eyes were a muddy hazel, not blue, and she was shorter, too. She looked rather like the younger sister, the annoyingly precocious girl that clung to Rhaenyra like a bur. Alicent.
"I have never seen a dragon before." She sat down on the bench next to him. Daemon tried to recall her name but gave up quickly. It didn't matter.
Don't use her to spite me .
"Would you like to ride one?" he asked, waiting for that traitorous flush. It came, and it did not go well with her auburn hair. Too easy.
"Would you let me, my prince?" The girl fluttered her lashes in what Daemon thought was supposed to be a seductive look. He didn't bother to hide his amusement.
"I can show you how." He leant in closer, took in her sweet, flowery scent, the sight of her body, her large eyes. Even in the Street of Silk, he could not have found a more willing maid. Just what he needed.
Please. Leave her alone. You would ruin her.
Daemon traced the line of the girl's cheekbone. When she raised her face to him in response, his finger travelled lower, down her neck, to her collarbone. There, they rested, only for a moment.
I have never tried to seduce you .
Down to the neckline of her gown with newfound determination. It was too tightly laced and her tits spilled over the bodice. With a lazy move, he pulled it down. She wore a chemise underneath, but it was thin silk that did not hide much. For a moment, his eyes darted up to her face. The girl's eyes were focussed on him. There was fear, he thought, but more excitement. She wouldn't stop him. Not tonight. Not when her cousin had interrupted their dance. Not when she had something to prove.
Did you hope to ruin me? Or was I simply not to your taste?
Daemon's other hand went to the hem of her skirts. With girls like this one, he had to be subtle, or he'd startle her, but quick, or he'd lose interest.
"You are the most handsome man I've ever seen," she breathed when she noticed his look. "Like a knight from the songs."
He almost groaned in annoyance. Why did she feel the constant need to talk when she had nothing at all to say?
"A knight?" he laughed at the notion, and every mild semblance of arousal was gone then. He dropped her skirts.
"You have fought valiantly in battle and in tourney." She smiled as if that was some generous compliment.
"You were there?"
Her smile flickered. "I – I heard all about it. You once asked my cousin's favour. Alicent's, I mean."
Daemon couldn't recall but he didn't rule it out. It would have annoyed Otto Hightower, to be sure.
"You like me, don't you?" Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks and the faintest trace of uncertainty had crept into her voice." You have always been most charming to me."
What do you want?
Daemon withdrew his hand from her bodice. This was no good. Fucking her would come with complications. It wasn't worth the bother.
That sort of insight was strange for him. Usually, he would have found out the next morning how complicated exactly it was. Was he getting old that he developed such foresight?
"I don't even remember your name." He downed his wine.
She stared at him. If she started crying, he'd leave.
"Is it Clarice you want?" the girl asked, an octave too high.
Daemon snorted in reply. "Go back to the dance."
"She's married. She'd never take you. She doesn't even like you. She talks about you with father and uncle Otto, mocks you."
It meant nothing to him. A dragon did not concern himself with the mockery of oxen.
He rubbed his eyes impatiently. "Get out."
When she touched his forearm, his hand darted up to her jaw.
Then, she finally squirmed but Daemon held her in an iron grip.
Tears welled up in her soft hazel eyes. A child's eyes, despite her years.
"Go. Back."
He let go after a moment and reached for his cup. The girl was sobbing as she fled his presence. For a moment, Daemon tried to recall her name in earnest. Then, he gave it up. She didn't matter, as little as the rest of her damned family.
~o~
He meant to leave after that, he did. But he refilled his cup and drank, the muted notes of ribald songs in his ear. The bedding was about to begin.
For a third time, Clarice Hightower would be undressed by her father's allies, for a third time, her wedding gown would be torn in their haste to get her out of it, for a third time, men would rip the laces of her corset, tear at the high neckline of her linen shift. Daemon had seen it all before. He had found that women's bodies rarely improved with age, so why bother to take another look?
The wine did its work to dull the sounds and lull him into that foggy haze, a timeless state.
Daemon looked up at the sound of wood on stone and found Clarice Hightower staring at him.
"I had heard that the Hightower was haunted," he noticed himself how much he slurred his speech, "and by a widow, too, but I never believed the tale."
"If anyone is haunting the tower, it is not me."
She remained on the threshold, one hand on the door handle and a wary expression on her face.
Had she come here for solitude? Or for something else?
"A cup of wine?" he asked with an offering gesture.
She threatened to smile.
"That is my uncle's wine you are offering me."
Daemon raised a finger, as if to caution her to listen. As the silence dragged on, he looked at her: "I do not hear him protest."
She pushed the door open a few inches and Daemon saw that she wore only a bedgown under a robe and slippers on her naked feet.
He straightened in his seat.
"I must return to my husband."
She did not move. Daemon did not want her to. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the golden light of torches, her hair falling in waves to the hastily tied belt of her bedrobe, she looked almost like a maiden on her wedding day.
"Careful my lady, one might think you fear to be alone with me…Tell me, is it my weakness you fear or your own?"
She raised a brow in that inimitable way, impatient, arrogant and derisive at the same time. "Have you considered it might be your idea of interesting conversation?"
He stared at her. The wine had made her beautiful, softened her features, softened her voice. It woke a numbed part inside him.
She averted her gaze, strangely uncomfortable. "I take mine red and spiced. From the Arbor, not Dorne."
"Anything else, m'lady?"
He poured her a cup of Arbor gold like a servant. It was the only wine he hadn't touched so far.
She closed the door carefully before she walked over to him, slowly and alert, as if she was trying to catch him pouring poison in her drink.
She looked different, and it wasn't just the wine. Her hair was longer than he remembered. As a widow, she had worn it pinned up, usually wound around the back of her head, hidden underneath a heavy veil. Perhaps it was the divergence from her usual apparel, her sensible hairstyles and modest gowns, that made her flowing hair and bedrobe so appealing. She had clearly not thought to find someone here, or she would have taken greater care to hide her shape. The robe had been made for the bedding: Cream silk and frills of lace that did little to hide how low the neckline was. If she bent forward, he'd get a good look at her tits.
She had not been fucked, he though, as he tore away his eyes from the neckline of her robe and gave her hair a second glance. He could see the pin marks and the locks hung long and smooth and shiny.
Had her husband not claimed his rights? Had he truly been so foolish? Or had he done it so quickly that no evidence remained?
There was something wrong with Blackmont, he had sensed it as she had, and it was not his taste for cock. But she bore no bruises, showed no sign of the sort of terror a violent man woke. Not yet, at least.
Kill this one sooner.
Their fingers met briefly as he handed her the cup. Hers were ice cold. Had she not come from a warm bed?
"I will drink my wine and then I will go back to my chambers."
It pleased him that she seemed to feel the need to tell him this.
"Your beloved's waiting for you, is he?"
Daemon sat down again and, to his surprise, she took the seat opposite him.
"My lord husband is fast asleep."
She was cautious, always cautious. There was a reason why she had fled from their chambers on her first night with him. Did she fear the Dornish bastard?
What do you care? He did not. It was a casual interest, as one would watch a hare being ravaged by a wolf. There was nothing unusual about this. At all.
"Your bedding was over quickly."
"My lord husband is not the ceremonial sort."
Her tone was pleasant as if they were discussing the rising price of oranges, her face betrayed nothing.
Daemon had never known anyone with such a frozen face. Clarice Hightower had always been comely enough but she had never attracted as many suitors as her beautiful sister. There was something strangely distant about the older Hightower girl, something that kept lords and ladies at arm's length. Her manners to everyone but him had always been welcoming, it was something else, something that sat deeper than the studied courtesies of a well-bred lady.
Her icy demeanour had always provoked him and ever since he knew what was underneath, there had been a challenge in it, too.
He could rip her frozen mask off, he was certain. She was young and inexperienced, pleasure would hit her like a wave and knock her off her feet. He could imagine it well enough, the way her well-practised faint smile would slip in that moment of intense pleasure. Would she cling to him in ecstasy? Would she moan his name?
Only one way to find out.
As she bent forward to pour herself another cup, the neckline of her silk robe slipped. It was a slinky thing and had no doubt been part of her first trousseau.
When she looked up she saw him surveying the revealed skin with casual interest.
The frozen widow wrapped herself tightly in the annoying garment with raised eyebrows.
"You can hardly blame me," he said, "this is a welcome derivation from your usual widow's attire."
"This is a bedgown and you are not supposed to see me like this."
But she didn't tie the belt as tightly as she might have and the silk fell back in place, as it had before.
"You should not be roaming the halls in this then."
"Well, neither should you. Should you not be lavishing gold on the meanest brothels in the city?"
"I am your uncle's most cherished guest. And your father did tell you to keep me entertained."
She raised a brow in that delightfully disapproving way of hers that told him she had fully understood his implication. "He told me to keep you occupied."
"And yet here I sit, idle." Daemon played with his empty cup, his grin now openly suggestive.
But Clarice Hightower was not her cousin. His charm had never worked on her.
"I am sure there are whores galore who miss you on the Street of Silk." The remark was meant to cut but the meaning of her words undermined their intent.
It took her a moment to realise what she had just implied. "Your coin. I meant to say they miss your –"
"I know what you meant to say." His smirk only intensified with her growing anger.
"Stop it. You're drunk."
"Stop what?" he grinned as he watched her squirm. She would not be able to say it. He doubted her tongue was capable of allowing such words to trespass. But there were other things her tongue would be capable of after two husbands and no pregnancy.
The wine had woken his lust. Her slinky attire fuelled it. His desire had nothing at all to do with the woman before him. If anything, she was usually someone who cooled him down.
"I will not exchange ribald jests with you." She crossed her arms before her chest, perhaps hoping the posture would give her more dignity, make her look more formidable. Instead, it only enhanced the look of her cleavage.
"Who's jesting?" The jug was forgotten, he had no thirst for wine. "You taught me so much about your home –"
"Name one fact you've remembered," she interjected flippantly.
He ignored her. "Perhaps I want to teach you something now."
"I require no lecture."
"It will be more practical than that."
"You've had too much wine, my prince. You're forgetting yourself."
"Then why are you still here? On your wedding night?"
"I've had a thirst."
"And for what, I wonder."
He stared at her then, laying all the intensity of his wine-fuelled lust into his gaze. A treacherous blush crept over her cheeks although her face remained stone still. Hot fury shone in her ice blue eyes.
Yet, she didn't leave. Silently they sat for a while, her eyes trained on her cup and his focussed on her.
"Are the whores of the city not waiting?" she asked at last, her tone curt and snappish.
"Desperately."
"Then why keep them waiting?"
He looked at her, took in the glimmering angry spark in her eyes, the colour in her cheeks that his insolence had summoned. With an agitated flick of her hand, she tucked her hair behind her ear.
She didn't want to leave. Whatever was waiting for her in her bedchamber had to be worse than his clumsy advances. Daemon got to his feet, seized her cup, then emptied the flagon of Arbor gold into it.
"Drink quickly if you mean to catch up." He set down the cup before her, ignoring her raised hand.
"That seems impossible." She was smiling now, reluctantly, as if her lips were rebelling against the hard regimen of her mind.
"Are you giving up this easily?" Daemon leant back in his chair, aware that his jerkin was unlaced, that the linen shirt underneath was now gaping open. Her eyes did not flicker down to his chest, she was too well bred for that. But he knew she saw. And he was certain she liked what she saw, too.
She took a swallow of wine and glared at him. He would miss this look. Most people glared at him every now and then but her eyes were especially expressive.
"It depends on the challenge," she traced the rim of her chalice with one long finger. "And this one does not entice me as much as you seem to think." Now her gaze darted up to him, blue and cold.
"Pity. He held her gaze lazily. "You won't have much time to win against me."
It was a strange thought. He had seen her wed twice before but this time, he was certain she would not return, widowed once more and in perfect health, in a few short months. Blackmont was a different kind of man, stronger, more tenacious, and hard to kill.
Daemon did not care for her, barely noticed her absence, as it was. But something about the prospect of never seeing her again made him feel strangely wistful. For the past, perhaps, a golden past in the Red Keep, when his days were spent training in the yard, knocking men who fancied themselves important in the dirt.
"Seven days." She drank deeply. "More or less. We'll depart when the baggage train is well on its way."
"Baggage train?" He didn't hide his grin. "Shouldn't a saddlebag suffice? You never stay long enough to unpack all your chests anyway."
" You should change your golden cloak for motley, Prince Daemon."
"While I am flattered, it pains me that you must soon live without the entertainment I provide you with so generously."
She gave him a mocking smile but tonight, it seemed, it had lost most of its edge. "I am sure Lord Blackmont's fool will make me forget you in a fortnight."
"Are you?" He leant forward, aware of the gaping neckline of his jerkin, aware of the narrowing distance between them. If he got to his feet now, he'd be close enough to kiss her.
She stared at him, seemingly mesmerised by their proximity, when the faint padding of feet against stone sounded through the sleepy silence. Someone was in the servants' passage.
She had heard it too. Her eyes were no longer heavy-lidded, clouded from wine. It seemed as if this shuffling sound had driven the wine from her system. Her gaze was clear and sharp as ever as she leant back slowly.
Daemon should get to his feet and cut that eavesdropping bastard open from navel to throat for disrupting this. For ruining his last chance.
"The water was quite refreshing." She said pleasantly as if they had never discussed anything but the quality of their drinks, "But I must return to my lord husband now."
She pushed the cup back calmly and tugged at the neckline of her nightgown until it was as modest and boring as all her gowns.
"I bid you a good night, my prince."
Despite the fear that was no doubt chilling her to the bone, there was no trace of tension in her calm movements as she left the hall. All servants answered to her father. And Lord Otto would not be pleased about this. How deep does the marble run? He knew what she hid, had known it ever since her first wedding, but there were times when he wondered whether it had gone out completely. Her father made her his best liar and he doesn't even know it. What story would she tell Lord Otto on the morrow when he'd call for her?
Something else began troubling him, a nagging thought he couldn't drown.
Had he even truly stood a chance tonight? Or had she played with him, enjoyed the drunken blunder he had made of this conquest?
Daemon drained his own cup then and left the hall straight for the gilded cage. On the long ride down, he fell asleep twice, both times, he saw the cold, hard face of Lady Clarice. It was time to have a decent fuck.
~o~
[Time to take a break if you want.]
~o~
Clarice
~o~
She had done nothing wrong. Their words, if taken at face value, were nothing but threadbare pleasantries and lame barbs. The eavesdropper could not have seen them, and even if he had peaked through a hole in the mortar, he would have seen her, dressed properly by all accounts, her bedrobe wrapped about her tightly. Her nightgown was more modest than most of her cousins' day gowns. And the spy had not seen the prince in his inappropriate attire, he had not seen the triangle of smooth, muscled chest he had revealed, the edge of his scars. He had not seen how tight the prince's peasant breeches had been, how tousled his silver-gold hair. And Clarice would soon forget the sight as well. It did not matter. She had allowed herself a brief respite from this marriage but now, she had returned, and so had her common sense.
In her maiden wedding chamber, she found the bed still empty. After fucking his steward, her husband had gone into the city to explore the lower end of the silk street, or so she had surmised, and it seemed he was still enjoying his stay. Not that she minded. If anything, this was the best wedding night she had ever had. Her standards were low, admittedly, and a pleasant wedding night did not mean it would be a pleasant wedding, but at least she was now allowed some time for thought. In a week, she would depart, and something told her she would not return soon.
Blackmont had never been downright unpleasant but there was the warning he had issued, well-hidden and covert, when he had taken off Daemon's necklace. A man who had as much gift for subtlety as her was a danger in himself. But his temper and the rumours that surrounded him were worse.
I still have a week. Enough time to come up with some semblance of a plan.
She knew, of course, that she was woefully underprepared. That was Daemon Targaryen's fault, he had kept her too busy in the days before the wedding and when she had finally had the opportunity to size her new husband up, he had threatened Berenice's innocence, so she had wasted too much time then as well.
This would stop now. For the next seven days, she would spend all her time with her beloved lord husband and find out exactly how threatening he was. There were long roads and a dangerous sea voyage between the Hightower and Blackmont, after all.
Rather calmer than she had felt for quite some time, Clarice fell asleep much more quickly than usual.
Early the next morning, she broke her fast on oatcakes and plums alone and in high spirits that were not dimmed by her father's call. She had expected it, of course, and had dressed and prepared accordingly.
Lord Otto was not at his desk – he did not mean to show her how insignificant she was, so whatever he had to say to her was urgent.
And important, she surmised, as he rose from his easy chair by the window to look at her.
Clarice knew his words before he gave them breath.
"I heard you spent your wedding night with Prince Daemon." There it was, the cold, disapproving look that no one knew as well as Lord Otto's daughters. There had been a time when Clarice had feared this look, when the memory of her father's disapproving hazel eyes had sufficed to send a shudder down her back. When she would have done absolutely everything to be spared. Now, it had lost its effect but she lowered her gaze appropriately anyway.
"I beg your pardon, lord father?" she asked to buy herself some time.
"In the morning room. You were seen sharing a cup of wine in the middle of the night." He had lowered his voice, rightly afraid of spies in his brother's walls.
"I drank water." Now she looked up at him, careful to appear both hurt and confused.
"I don't care for the liquid in your goblet," his tone sharpened, she noticed his annoyed impatience at her seeming lack of understanding. Her father loathed those who slowed him down. He found explanations tedious, questions tiresome and a lack of understanding was sure to drive him mad. He was most easily deceived when he was irked. "It's the company that worries me, Clarice. Tell me true, did something transpire between you?"
"No" The insinuation did sting, she didn't even need to summon false indignation. "I was thirsty, I did not want to wake my husband or my maid, so I went down to the morning room. There's always some water or cider there."
How innocent she could make it sound. He had to believe her, nothing about her story seemed odd. She was known for being considerate – far too considerate.
"And there he was waiting for you." Her father tried to twist the knife once more but now, it was only for show.
"He was there but he wasn't waiting for me, of course. What for?" she asked that question wide eyed, as if Clarice, thrice wedded and bedded, was still too much of an innocent to understand the bestial meaning of her father's implication. And Otto Hightower did not repeat it.
"What was he doing then?"
That was a good question.
"Drinking." She shrugged. Looking strangely forlorn . And, unfortunately, rather attractive .
"I suppose he was on his way down to the city." She supplied when he waited for an explanation.
"You suppose?" Her father raised a brow.
"I did not speak with him. Well, as little as possible. I know what he said, about mother and you and our family. I do my best to be courteous, lord father, but never more. I greeted him, asked whether there was anything he needed, and when he replied with a jibe, I filled my cup, drank, and left."
"The servant that saw you said you laughed with him. Discussed your marriage with him."
Clarice looked up at him, confusion etched into her even features. "They must have a taste for the sensational."
Her father considered her, looking for the treacherous tells he thought every person had.
You shouldn't have taught me that, father.
She gazed back, summoning soft and righteous anger over that servant's sensationalism. That was the ruse: Feel what you feign.
For years, she had done her best only to feel what she needed to show.
After a while, Lord Otto nodded, not pleased but convinced.
"Next time you have a thirst, call for a servant instead of wandering the halls when we have guests. A maid and a husband are easier to put to bed than rumours."
"Of course, lord father." She bopped into a curtsy.
He considered her as he weighed his options and she sensed that there was something else, a darker part of this story.
"You should perhaps know, Clarice, that earlier last night, before your chance meeting with the prince, he made rather unchaste suggestions to your cousin."
"Berenice?"
Her father studied her face.
"He paid her much heed at dinner and she seemed to be glad for it," Clarice explained when she saw the way his brow twitched. At her words, he frowned.
"It seemed he tried to seize his chance when she happened to meet him in the morning room, also looking for a cup of water and some apple juice."
What is it with Hightower women looking for water and finding a fiery prince instead? It sounded strangely like a fable. Though not one for children.
"Seize his chance how?"
"I will spare you the details, but rest assured that there was no mistaking his lewd intentions."
"She is only twelve."
"Four and ten, in fact, but that is beside the point. Had he succeeded in his endeavours, your cousin would have been ruined. And he, of course, would have been unable to do the honourable thing and wed her."
Why was he telling her this?
"I understand, father. Yet I promise, I have never had an unchaste thought – not about the prince, nor any other man. The prince frequents whores, it is said, and he is a rogue and a skirt chaser. I'm not foolish enough to fall for his cheap charm." She felt keenly every word that left her mouth.
Last night, had he seriously attempted anything, she might have yielded, confused and forlorn as she had felt. Yet knowing that he had tried to bed her cousin just hours earlier woke her pride. She was no second choice. And she was no easy conquest, won in one night, and forgotten before dawn.
The rogue prince was not the sort of man that piqued her interest: He was rash and impulsive, most uncouth at times, he spent his days on dragonback and his nights in mean brothels and winesinks. He was a prince, perhaps, but heir to dust and air, called no fortune his own but what coin he wheedled out of his brother and had nothing to pass on to his children – or to support a wife with. Daemon Targaryen was not the sort of man a sensible woman would choose and Clarice had always prided herself on her good sense. She was married for now but should she ever have the chance to choose a man for herself, it would be a great lord, with a seat worthy of kings and a position powerful enough to entice even her.
"And it seems, he has no interest in you, thankfully." Her father's cold hazel eyes rested on her face, as if this remark was one final test.
"Thank the gods." She smiled and passed. He turned his back on her and took his usual seat behind his desk.
"Go and ready your chests." Her father had lowered his gaze to his letters again. "Ser Egon wants to send the baggage train on its way in two days."
Even the steward could command her, it seemed.
She inclined her head – a futile gesture. Her father had already turned his back on her. He knew she would do as he said. She always did.
~o~
Clarice returned to her bedchamber to find her lord at the table, drinking lemon water. He had bathed, she thought, his hair was a shade darker than usually and his shirt was washed and ironed.
When he saw her enter, he rose from his chair. There was tension in his posture.
"Where have you been?"
His vehemence surprised her. And Clarice did not like being surprised. "My lord father summoned me, my lord. To inquire after our wedding night."
Her husband took her by the shoulders like an unruly child, a little too tightly. She tried to wriggle free but his grip was iron.
"Clarice." He had the nerve to smile at her. "Soon enough, we will leave these kingdoms for Blackmont, where I rule alone. Our marriage, my affairs, Dornish politics are not your father's business, no matter how much pride he takes in arranging our match, is this understood?"
She understood more than he wanted. She understood that she was like a bird in a cage here but in Dorne, she would be the mouse in the trap. This match had not seemed so bad last night when she had thought that her husband's tastes awarded her an unknown power. But she had been short-sighted and foolish and unfortunately distracted. She had not taken into account Dornish independence – and her husband's temper. He would not let her get away. He would not give her a chance to use her knowledge against him. She would not be allowed to return and what would her father do then? Would he insist on meeting her once every few years? More likely, a forced written correspondence would suffice for him.
She had to find a way to end this match here, and within the next seven days.
"I understand, my lord." She inclined her head in a show of demure deferral.
"And you know as well that you are no longer the daughter of the Hightower, no longer a woman of the Reach, a subject of the king – but the mistress of Blackmont, a vassal of the Prince of Dorne, and, most importantly, my wife?"
"I am yours, my lord."
He smiled, though the grip on her shoulders only intensified.
"One small matter for the duration of our visit here…and beyond, if necessary." She looked up to him with a strange sense of foreboding. "Should I find out that you have met a man for…say a cup of wine in the night."
He couldn't know. He was a guest, his servants were mostly borrowed. How could he know?
"I would be sorely disappointed in my lady wife."
I am not your wife, she meant to say. Our match has not been consummated. I drank with Daemon Targaryen while you fucked your steward.
"I hope I never give you cause to be disappointed, my lord."
"So do I. For both of us." He smiled. "Do you know why I married you, Clarice? Perhaps you think I took a Hightower to wife for the marches. Your father does, I know. He dreams of Dorne in his hands, us lords bowing to your dragon king. He is wrong. I wedded you not for your dowry, though I'll admit it is sizable, nor for the northern alliance – the Blackmonts have no need for gardeners and farmers to fight our wars. I took you because you are a widow and more wily than you let on. Those dewy-eyed maidens with their soft smiles and heads filled with dreams would never suit my needs. You are practical, I've heard, sensible and prudent. And even more than that, I think. I have great ambitions for my house. With your wits and my reputation, we will soon rule half the Red Mountains. We are a good match, Clarice. You will be a good and obedient wife, and loyal only to me. And in return, you will enjoy a freedom and power you northern ladies know nothing about."
He presented this fact to her like a some finely wrapped gift. Freedom on your terms. Power under your wing. What he truly offered her was a bigger cage. And he was the one who decided how free she'd be, how powerful. As free as a dog, left unchained to roam the courtyard. As powerful as a cat, set loose to rule over mice.
It had rarely been so difficult to muster a smile but she succeeded.
"Much of a lord's business is done on horseback in Dorne," her husband continued. He did not need a reply from her. "And with the pirates on the Stepstones, I might be gone for a longer time. I will grant you rule over my lands – but only if you prove yourself loyal. Only if it is House Blackmont you wish to advance. Should you persist in your role as your father's lackey, I assure you, you will not find Blackmont very welcoming."
Last night, when he had eyed the servant, she had thought she knew what her lord husband desired but now, she was no longer certain. He was a ruthless man, that much she knew from the tales, he fucked men, and he wanted power. Had Lord Blackmont truly once been a younger son? Or even a bastard? Those things were possible in Dorne. Clarice had allowed that wretched prince to distract her from her research. She should have known all this before their wedding.
"I will gladly make your castle into my home, my lord."
"Well put." He smiled as one would at a child. "You have realised, I trust, that I rarely have a taste for women. Once every winter, I liked to jape in my youth, though less frequently these days. You are barren anyway, or so I was told. You are in luck, my lovely wife: I do not care for such matters. The sands can take my castle when I am dead and gone, and I know my uncles and cousins will squabble over it."
Her husband reached for her jaw, held it in an iron grip as he forced her to look at him.
"You see, I hope, that I expect only very little from you. But those expectations must be met. Is that understood?"
She nodded as well as she could and he let go.
Clarice sank into a curtsy so that he couldn't see the death threat in her eyes.
"Whatever pleases you, my lord."
"Wonderful." He put a hand on her shoulder, as if one would pat a dog, forcing her to stay on her knees. "That is all I ask of my wife."
He offered her his hand to help her up again. "Then we shall depart at first light tomorrow."
"At first light? My lord, the baggage train will only be ready –"
"I say at first light. I am not the sort of man that likes to ride behind mules, my lady." He sketched a bow before he left their shared chambers. "I will see you at the feast."
And I am not the sort of woman that stays married for very long.
He liked widows for their good sense, he had said. Did he not know that good sense had made her widow twice?
Now that Clarice had realised, much too late, that Dorne would be the end of her road, as it had been the end for Queen Rhaenys and so many others, she had to find a way never to walk that road. A mishap would be most fortunate, brigands or a storm, but neither weather nor outlaws heeded her command and with so little time, she could not prepare anything of consequence.
How shortsighted she had been, how arrogant to believe that one man was like the other.
There was only one weapon at her disposal: her husband's interest in men and, by extension, perhaps, his steward's affection for him. She would have to survey him more closely to be certain. It was a sword without a hilt, awkward and difficult to wield, but even such a blade was better than none.
What could she do with her knowledge?
Tell her father? There was a slight chance he would not give her up to a man who couldn't give him the desired heir, but she had blocked that road off herself, he believed her barren and if he didn't, her father was stoutly of the conviction that duty could overcome desire – that his word would suffice to make Lor Blackmont plant his seed where Lord Otto wanted it. No, the chance that he would allow an annulment and soil their family's reputation and relations with the Faith was slim and if she did tell him of her troubles, her father would be the first to realise that any accident that might befall her unfortunate husband was too convenient to be a twist of fate. No, she could not trust Otto Hightower to help her. There, she realised, the list of allies ended. Her uncle was too weak to act of his volition and he could be trusted less than her father, her aunt was useless, Berenice talked too much.
For a brief, desperate moment, she thought of Daemon Targaryen. He'd love to kill the Dornishman and likely go unpunished, too. There'd be the diplomatic catastrophe but what was another Dornish war compared to her own fate at Blackmont? Men lost their lives every day and for all kinds of causes after all. If they did not fight the Dornish, they'd raise their blades against the Ironborn in the west or the pirates in the Stepstones.
Daemon Targaryen had the skill and reputation she required and he'd be easily provoked.
But he suspected too much already – should he understand the game she was playing, he'd be a more dangerous enemy than her vulture lord. Daemon Targaryen was all fire and smoke and there was no safe way to keep a grip on him and no way at all to control him. No, she would sooner beseech the Grey Lady to help her than the prince.
For a moment, she felt all was lost. Clarice had no allies, no confidantes.
But her husband did.
The steward had risen high in Lord Blackmont's favour and all those who had risen feared the fall. He also seemed to be bound to her husband by true affection – his manners towards her had spoken of jealousy and insecurity.
It seemed that Clarice had found a way to grab her blade.
A lover's jealousy could be as potent as poison, as fatal as a dagger to the heart.
Alone in her chambers, Clarice sank onto the window seat.
Heavy fog still lingered outside though suddenly, it had become a hopeful sign.
The Grey Lady's curse was well known in Oldtown. Should her husband pass this very night, preferably far away from her, in the narrow and winding streets, perhaps, or in the even more unsavoury parts of the city, his hot-headed lover's knife in his throat, who would point their fingers at the poor widow? At the dinner tonight, they would all see how happy she was with Lord Blackmont, decked out in his gifts, drinking from his cup.
Superstition would, for once, work in her favour. And if she succeeded in sending the steward down to those brothels at the far end of the Street of Silk, if he spilled Lord Blackmont's life's blood there, and if her husband were found where he had died, which was likely given the pragmatic attitude of those who worked in that business, then she would come out of it unscathed entirely. There would be a hasty execution if the steward was foolish enough to stay in the city after the deed, but nothing public, nothing memorable. There were prejudices enough against the Dornish to steer the public discourse into a favourable direction for her. Gossip would target Lord Blackmont, not his wife of two days. Their union would be short lived enough to leave no lasting impression in the minds of those who had not been present for this match and Clarice knew that her fourth husband would not come from the Reach, nor from Dorne. Her father would be in no haste to wed her off after such a mistake and he would never allow her to stay behind at the Hightower when her husband had died here and the rumours were impossible quell, which meant he would take her with him to King's Landing where all men of importance and influence were currently courting the Princess Rhaenyra.
If Clarice didn't know better, she might have thought the Maiden herself had elected to help her in her struggles.
She had been given good steel in the form of that steward but she still had to forge him into a blade sharp enough to cut.
The first step was to find out more about him. Her opportunity came when the servants appeared to take the empty dishes and ready her for the day.
Soon enough Clarice knew the man was a knight, though not of distinguished birth. He had served Lord Blackmont as a page and a squire before he had made him a knight and then his steward. She did not dare ask more questions but it was not necessary. She had what she needed.
Clarice busied herself with packing her trunks conscientiously, as if she truly meant to depart in the morrow, as if her gowns would have to travel for a moon. She folded with care, never put silks on top of linen, kept wool away from her softest satins.
~o~
For the feast, she dressed in bridal white, her husband's emeralds hanging from her throat and ears, some of them gleaming in her hair. Green was her family's colour. Green was a declaration of war.
Her husband never saw that, though. "You look lovely, my dear lady."
"You are too kind, my lord." She passed Daemon Targaryen without a glance, her eyes only on her handsome lord.
The servant pulled back the chair between her father and her husband and she sank onto it with grace. The first course, a hot broth of greens and beef, had already been served, but the dish was not exciting enough to distract her guests from her grand entrance. They would remember how maidenly, how beautiful she had looked in her husband's gifts, radiant with a bride's joy.
"I am glad you have finished packing," her father said as he took a spoonful of broth. "With women, it can often take too long."
Gilbert and Gwayne always took much longer to pack their trunks than Alicent and I.
"Well, I had to make haste, I'd sooner have my things with me on the journey than wait for them at Blackmont."
Lord Otto turned to her in confusion. "You still have a week."
"Oh, we will depart on the morrow. My lord husband is homesick." She smiled sympathetically for the guests, for her uncle, her cousins within earshot. Her father, however, did not smile.
"On the morrow?" he asked, a little too loudly. Clarice saw his own impulsivity angered him. Lord Otto had practised controlling his temper since his days in the cradle.
"Indeed." Her husband answered calmly, taking up Clarice's hand and squeezing it. A warning. She squeezed back and he dropped her hand again without so much as a glance at her.
Only when her husband was engulfed in a conversation with Lord Hobert did her father speak again.
"How long have you known this?" his voice was quiet but whip-sharp.
"My lord told me earlier today." For the part that followed, she would have to keep her voice down as well. Lord Blackmont was much sharper than she had known.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"I thought it was in accordance with your wishes, lord father." She sounded guileless, surprised, as if she couldn't believe anyone had the gall to act without her consent. It was a rare pleasure to show him up.
Would her father admit that he held no power over her Dornish husband?
"What about the baggage train? It will not be ready."
"I am afraid he has not shared the details with me, lord father. I am certain his steward will make sure our luggage is transported to Blackmont safely."
"Who is his steward?" Lord Otto's eyes roamed the hall. He could not discuss the details of the journey with Lord Blackmont, not here in front of all the people, not when the Dornishman might be curt and proud with Lord Otto, the King's Hand. But he could command a Dornish steward – or so he thought. Her father would not succeed, Clarice knew. The steward was too fond of his lord. But Ser Kayn would be right where she needed him.
"Ser Kay, I think. Or Kayn." Her eyes roamed the hall. "There. Next to old Berros."
Her father sized him up from afar. A young boy, he saw, drinking deeply, japing with other youths on the lower benches.
Had there been more time, Lord Otto would have called the man to his solar to discuss the details of their departure. Had there been more time, he would have found a way to prolong their stay so that Oldtown profited from the foreign visit, so that the king would see the Dornish alliance as a victory for crown and coffers. But being presented with his guest's hasty departure so abruptly even though there were feasts, a tourney, a visit to the Starry Sept and the Citadel planned once the fog had lifted made it a necessity to act quickly. Her father had certainly not been presented with a fait accompli in recent years. It took some audacity to disregard the Lord Hand's wishes. Lord Otto was never easy to anger but when his pride was hurt, he was more inclined to act rashly.
Clarice had counted on this as well. Her father had taught her that, back when she had been a little girl studying with her younger brother because Gwayne had been reluctant to be by himself. It was quite like duelling, he had said, although Ser Otto had never been a great knight. Analyse your opponent's behaviour. Then find a way to use their routines, their strengths and weaknesses against them.
Her father turned to the servant behind him. "Bring Ser Kayn up here to the dais. Quickly. Without a fuss."
And the steward came. He was drunk, she thought, though he never staggered on his way up.
Lord Otto's eyes rested on the hall though now and then they darted to his good son. But Lord Blackmont was now telling Lord Hobert of the tax reforms he had implemented in the three years since his ascension as lord of Blackmont and her uncle seemed to understand that pointed questions were needed to distract him.
"My lord?" Ser Kayn seemed reluctant to address his host this way, his eyes rest on the back of his lord's head, though with him being so wrapped up in conversation, there was no polite way to interrupt him.
"You are Lord Blackmont's steward."
The boy inclined his head.
"We need to clarify some details concerning your journey to Blackmont." Lord Otto had never been a loud man. In a hall full of people, he understood the impact of a whisper. Ser Kayn approached him with furrowed brows. "My lord?"
He stood between her and her father now, his back to her. She was sure he hadn't even noticed her sitting here.
Turning her head to her left, she pretended to give her father some privacy, feigning to listen to her husband as he talked to her uncle about horses and vultures. With her right elbow, she pushed the jug of wine back, inch by inch, as if accidentally.
Her father didn't talk for very long, not here, at least. When Ser Kayn turned, a little too quickly, his sheathed dagger pushed the jug that was balanced precariously on the table's edge right into Clarice's lap.
"Oh." She drew in a sharp breath at the coolness of the liquid on her gown and felt a droplet of wine run down her neck.
Dornish red soaked her maidenly white gown. The effect was breathtaking, she could not have chosen a better colour.
"My lady." The steward looked shocked as he reached for the jug in her lap. "I –"
"No need for apologies, good ser," she said, giving her voice a high-pitched edge.
At the commotion her husband turned to them, took in the sight of his lover, the jug in hand, blood red wine on his wife's costly gown.
Anger flickered over his features, barely contained.
"What happened here? Kayn?" His tone was curt, as if he spoke to a hunting dog.
"A mishap," Clarice explained. Her father on her right was displeased. Her husband on her left was furious. The poor steward stood beside her, his face alive with terror.
"I should change," she murmured, eager to leave the young man alone between a rock and a hard place.
As she pushed back her chair, she felt a pair of purple eyes on her and caught an edge of the prince's smile. Did he enjoy the sight of her, drenched? Or did he suspect something?
As Clarice left to change her gown, she heard her husband chide the servant with unnecessarily sharp words.
The lords and ladies in attendance would remember his rough tone.
When she returned to the feast, garbed in a much plainer gown, she found that her husband and her father were close to starting an open quarrel concerning their departure.
There were days when everything fell right into place, somehow.
"You might wish to reconsider," her father said, with that even, exasperated tone he used for those he deemed the most foolish. Quite often she had heard him address Prince Daemon in that tone. "There will be a tourney held in your honour outside the city walls. Lord Tyrell has affirmed his attendance. The stands have been erected and the lists are being sanded as we speak."
"Are they? In this fog, the knights are like to take their heads off. The air inside your tower is getting stuffy, Ser Otto."
It was the most blatant disregard Lord Blackmont could have shown her father. He had not been called "Ser" for ten years.
"If our feasts and frolics cannot sway you, my lord, then consider your wife's comfort, at least. The baggage train will arrive a week late. What will your lady wife wear?"
"Dornish silks, I imagine. Your northern linens are too thick for our climate."
Did her father only understand now that he had put her in a viper's bed? That in his greed and ambition, he had forged an alliance with a man from a kingdom that owed him neither allegiance nor diplomacy after the fires of the past. He might have chosen a Dayne or even an Yronwood, whose strong First Men ties might have afforded him a closer personal connection. But eager to advance the Reach itself as well, he had chosen a fierce and sharp-tongued Marcher lord, well-known for his ferocity, pride and temper.
It seemed Clarice would have to help her father choose her next husband. As skilled as he was in the management of the realm, his own emotional coldness and lack of interest in personal connections rendered him rather incompetent when it came to marriage alliances.
"I am glad we depart so soon, father," Clarice soothed him. "You know how the fog frightens me. And we can return in the summer and bring the best knights from Blackmont to uncle's tourney."
Her diplomacy was without consequence, she knew, but it did not matter. Murder was rarely without effect, so she could afford a smile in vain.
The feast ended early, not only due to the frosty interactions on the dais. Their guests were getting tired of being hauled up inside the tower, and the tension in the hall was palpable. Before the sweetmeats, the guards had already escorted a few servants and soldiers from the hall for ill conduct.
That, too, would work in her favour. As Clarice sat in her chambers alone after the feast, taking off her husband's heavy jewels, she knew that only one final act of deception was necessary – and possible. Her human weapon was humiliated and angered already. Only a personal affront could intensify that feeling so much that he would act on it.
It was as if the fog had heard her prayers, for in came the very man, garbed in a brown roughspun cloak.
"My lady." He bowed, though his eyes were searching the chamber.
"Goodman." She inclined her head, a nod to the gods of fog and rain. "Why are you here?"
"I meant to apologise –" he said, though it was a feeble excuse. He had hoped to find her gone and someone else in her place.
"Oh, no need at all." She smiled and felt almost sorry for him. It was not his fault that he had elected to love her husband. It was not his fault she had no taste for Dornish sands. It was not right to give him up like a sow for slaughter but it was either him or her and that choice was easy enough.
"I know Lord Blackmont considers you a very competent steward."
"He does?"
The boy reddened. He was a little older than her, she thought, though there was something unbridled and youthful about it that prevented her from calling him a man.
"He trusts you with my safety, does he not?" she smiled.
He sobered. "Of course."
"You will ride with me on the morrow. Keep my leisurely pace while he rides ahead with the captain of his guard."
He reddened at the disgrace but said nothing.
"My lord told me after the feast when I confided in him that I have little trust in my skill on horseback. I am sure it pains him to let go of you for the journey."
"Ser Varyon will accompany him?"
Yes, the handsome young captain had been a wild guess, but it seemed it had worked.
"Indeed."
"Do you know where he is? Lord Blackmont, I mean. My lady."
Wherever they had arranged to meet, Lord Blackmont had not come. So the spurned lover came looking.
"He went into the city, I think. Why did he call for you?" she asked, softly.
"I – Yes."
"He must have forgotten." She said with considerable pity and watched the man redden. "It was a strenuous day for my lord husband and he was quite displeased over that little mishap at the feast."
Her words were as cruel as a twisted dagger.
"Your care for your lord is moving but Ser Varyon is with him, I think. So there is no need to fear for him."
She waited a moment before changing the topic.
"Why did he call for you anyway? Matters of importance?"
"The horses," the man lied quickly and badly, "For the ride tomorrow. My lady." His lie was so feeble she considered it an affront.
"I see. You will find him in the winesinks. I warned him of the fog, of course. But my lord husband is brave and he seemed determined to enjoy his last evening here, where the city can offer him diversions Blackmont cannot. And he seizes his opportunity, that must be said. He didn't come home before dawn last night. I am glad he enjoys Oldtown so much."
She smiled as if that was an amusing anecdote.
The poor, confused man looked at her with barely concealed rage. She wondered, briefly, whether she should ask him to take her husband's dagger with him to protect him when she glimpsed a hint of steel at his waist as a gust of wind moved his cape aside.
"I must leave."
"Do close the door on your way out," she smiled at him. "It does get rather chilly and my lord likes it hot."
She had to trust the gods with the rest. Had her words been painful enough? The boy had cared, she had seen it in his eyes. He had not known that his lover liked to spend his nights away from him.
She needed a lover's jealousy. Did he care enough, was he foolish enough to risk everything just to prevent someone from robbing him of his beloved? Whom would his dagger pierce first: his love or his rival? Clarice did not know the man well enough. She could only hope that in the dance of steel and blood, one blade would find the right heart.
It was a feeble enough plan but she had run out of options. The stairs were well guarded here, especially with all the guests holed up in here. She didn't dare leave her chamber at night. Poison was messy and traceable and every kitchen maid and boot cleaner knew her here. Her options had never been this limited and her dear husband had no easy flaws, as the first two had. She could claim neither rape nor violence: Her husband had the right to call one lovemaking and the other one chastising. Theft was out of the question, and there was no one she could trust with such a delicate task. Every man capable of killing her husband reported directly either to her father or her husband. Clarice had to hope and trust and think of alternatives. For she would not stay in Blackmont for long.
If her plans did not come to fruition today, she would have to trust the seed – even if it would only ripen after their departure. She knew men like Kayn. Hot-blooded, always thinking on their feet. One day, he would stumble.
~o~
[Take a break if you need one.]
~o~
Daemon
~o~
Daemon had always liked her in red. Dornish red was no exception. He had studied her today from his seat next to the old lady. Had seen her move the jug to the table's edge so that the servant would push it over into her lap. Had she been so desperate to escape her husband's presence?
He had meant to ask her during the dance, to seize this final chance at teasing her but Blackmont had taken that chance from him when he had downright forbidden her to dance.
Whenever he thought back of the moment, his large, hard hand on hers, the steel in his tone. He had not even bothered to look at him as he had denied her to him as if she was his possession.
Was it then that he had made his decision? The idea had been broiling since the Dornishman's arrival. He had no interest in the Hightower woman but those who denied him would always be taught a lesson.
Blackmont had never left his wife's side during the feast but as soon as night had fallen, he had departed for the city.
Daemon had heard tales about the Dornishman's tastes and knew the places on the Street of Silk that catered to these.
A sword gone astray in a drunken brawl was not like to be noticed til morning and who would be fool enough to accuse him?
Garbed in a grey cloak, the hood pulled into his face, Daemon rode through the streets slowly, mindful of the walls that loomed overhead.
The Street of Silk was a long, winding band lined with all sorts of erotic establishments. The establishments Blackmont was seeking out were at the far end. Daemon himself had spent a night or two there.
Golden light streamed from windows and doors, enticing and warm, and he wondered whether he should sample one of the whores when a black silhouette manifested only ten feet from him.
Even in the fog, he could make out the sickly yellow of the other man's doublet.
It was surprisingly convenient.
The lord was still ahorse.
"Should you not be in the Hightower, getting your wife with child?" Daemon revealed himself to him.
Lord Blackmont looked down on him, swaying in his saddle, his dark eyes clouded. Daemon was almost disappointed. A drunken foe rarely made for a compelling challenge.
"I was not aware that the crown cared about such affairs."
"The crown does not."
Daemon lingered as a sense of certainty flooded through him. It was here the Dornishman's blood would wet the stones.
"They call you the prince of whores in Dorne." Blackmont's voice was arrogant and dark. "All I want to know…is my wife one of them?"
He drove his horse forward, as if he meant to threaten him, and Daemon found he was standing with his back against a wall.
"Is she your wife, Blackmont? I see you are here to warm some boy's bed instead of hers."
"She is not your whore, I think. But you want her."
He meant to reach for Dark Sister when his left hand found a loose sandstone brick. As his fingers dug deep into the crumbling mortar, Blackmont's horse whinnied. When Daemon made no reply, the younger man seemed displeased.
"She'll never have you. She might be old and cold, but she has sense and taste. Do you know how she mocks you? The motley prince. She likes to play with your desire for her."
Even in the foggy cold, Daemon felt a dragon's heat course through him at his words. It wasn't true. She didn't know. Mock him she did, to his face and to his back, but she didn't know how hungry he had been for her that night.
"She never let you bed her, did she?" he asked, calmly, though he didn't fool the Dornishman.
"Oh, she will be bedded. I'll remember to tell you how she sounds when she's being fuck –"
The stone hit him right in the forehead before bouncing back to Daemon. The lord of Blackmont keeled in his seat as the blood started rushing from the wound. Even in the fog, Daemon could see the white bone. As he approached the wounded man, his steed whinnied again, frightened by the smell of blood, and reared, throwing off its rider and then galloping into the night. Daemon saw the horse run with some annoyance. It was a good steed and rather a waste.
Lord Blackmont, it seemed, was kin to scorpions. He was crawling away from him, into the mists, but a man on two feet was much swifter, and the deed was done soon enough. There was a lovely stretch of wall just made to bash his head in.
Afterwards, Daemon wiped his bloodied hands on his cloak, pocketed the sandstone brick that had done him such a service and mounted again, riding at quite a pace towards the shimmering red flames of the Hightower that was home to a young widow once more.
The Mander took his sacrifice as he rode across the drawbridge, and it sank right to the bottom, never to be seen again.
~o~
Clarice
~o~
She had been anxious with fear and hope, too nervous to sleep for a long time until at last, her eyelids had grown heavy and she had sunken into a fitful slumber.
It was a strange noise that woke her, a knock, insistent but faint, as if from a child's soft fist.
For a moment, she was lost, but then she remembered her husband. He had not died. He had come back, perhaps knowing what she had done, what she had meant to do. Or perhaps it was the young steward, trying to render her responsible for his crimes.
But neither would knock like this, gently, softly.
As Clarice opened the door, the corridor was empty. At the far end, near the stairs, the wind had wafted some grey fog through a window that must have burst open. She stepped out of her chamber to close the shutters again when something crunched under the soles of her slippers. A trail of ashes led down the hallway to the turret staircase that had been out of use for centuries, falling slowly into decay. Some servant must have been careless with the ashes swept from her fireplace.
Had Clarice followed the trail, she might have seen that the ancient staircase led right down to the guest quarters. Had she lingered there, she would have witnessed Prince Daemon Targaryen emerge from his chamber, as if a faint but firm knock had woken him from a wine induced slumber. She would have heard the crunching sound as he stepped out into the corridor and the soles of his boots met a trail of ashes, left, he thought, by a sloppy servant.
But Clarice, strangely unsettled, closed the door to the wafting fog, and barred it twice before returning to her bed, hoping the steward's knife had already made her a widow, wishing instead of thinking that only this once, she did not have to save herself, that only this once, she had a knight to save her.
Daemon, head heavy with wine, thought he glimpsed the shadow of a woman in the thick fog that spread through the corridor. A serving woman, perhaps. He paused there, thinking back on Clarice Hightower in her maiden white nightgown, hair streaming down her shoulders. For a moment, he almost saw her face in the fog, but then a gust of wind carried the image away from him, as if to taunt him into moving towards it. When he blinked, the fog was only fog and he closed his door again, lingering only a moment before collapsing back onto the fine feather mattress, his blood-soaked grey cloak bundled up in an oaken chest.
Come morning, the wind had blown away the ashes and the day dawned bright and clear. Gazing out of the window into the rising sun, whose blood red light turned Oldtown into a city on fire, Clarice Hightower found that she had to unpack all her trunks again.
End Note: Please let me know what you thought about Aron Blackmont! I really wanted to write him as the sort of man that could be the hero in a different story. He was supposed to be a truly perfect match for Clarice with his hunger for power but she is just set on returning to King's Landing.
Review Replies:
I do this a lot on AO3 but on here, I never wanted to comment on my own fics.
Thank you to all people who reviewed! Your feedback motivates me a lot and it's just nice to see actual people on here rather than the number of clicks.
Trizos: Thank you for your review! I did consider making Aron impotent as a mirror for Daemon but decided that this made more sense. I also really wanted a murder of jealousy in which the husband's lover mirrors Daemon and they are both like "A yes, a murder of passion how stupid" and then Daemon actually kills Aron out of jealousy and Clarice thinks about asking Daemon but realises that she cannot rely on him as it will render her vulnerable because they are already too much involved.
SayianWizard: Thanks for your review! Yep, Otto Hightower is a cunt, a wise man once said. I will explore his relationship with Clarice and Alicent later on in the story. But he could always rely on Clarice doing her duty and sees himself in her much more than in Alicent, who is more like their mother, dutiful but also fun-loving and really sweet. So Otto knows Clarice will be fine, basically, and he knows he owes her for her help in difficult times while Alicent is just his little girl. I cannot say Clarice found peace but this marriage would have been much better than the previous ones if Clarice had given them a chance.
MalishaMaiden: Thanks for your review! I love it when people quote bits of my story they liked. 3 Otto no doubt wanted them to kill each other in the tourney that was planned. But Daemon just couldn't wait. I'm glad you enjoy their dynamics! Writing dialogue for them is my favourite part. Daemon would drive me absolutely mad but he very high up on the annoying/hotness scale, so I'd be grand.