A/N: Thank you so much for your comments! They make my day. 3

Chapter 7: The Widow in the Tower

Oldtown

Clarice

"Three husbands, Clarice. All of them dead. They were of different ages and temperaments, came from different kingdoms and lived in different keeps, and yet, they all died within a year of marrying you."

Her father was in the greys of mourning for his good son. Clarice, as his widow, wore full black. For the first time, she felt like it, too. Their marriage had been comically short but this time, she felt the full weight of a man's death. Gunthor had been easy, more accident than deliberation. It had felt like flirting with fate, but she had never thought it would come to pass as she had hoped in her desperation. How harsh and bitter regret had been then until at last, she had convinced herself that it had not been her fault, not truly, although there had been that part of her, suppressed and half-forgotten, that had known the truth. It was that part that had reared its head during her second marriage. Rollam's death had been more hope than plan, though that time, she had known where it could lead. It had been keenly felt injustice that had driven her, disgust and resentment. This time, she had known how it would end. She had planned her husband's death as others would play their moves in a game and calculation had driven her, anger and a thirst for vengeance. She had used a man in love to kill his lover and against all odds, she had succeeded.

The whole weight of her guilt was supposed to crush her but despite that persistent nagging voice, she was relieved more than anything that this ordeal was over.

If there were gods, if seven heavens and seven hells existed in the realms beyond, she had just sealed her fate. There was no penance great enough to wash such a stain from her soul. She had not loved her husband, had not even liked him, but he had been tough and hard to kill, a man with a mind to match her own.

There was nothing she could miss, strictly speaking, she had barely known him and no ghost haunted the chambers they had shared so briefly. It was a strange sensation, characterised not merely by the presence of guilt, as was to be expected, but rather by the feeling of absence, intangible and distant and yet, always present at the very edge of her consciousness. A man had lost his life because of her and he left a hole in the tissue of this world – that was what she felt so keenly.

Yet, as she had lain awake at night, mulling over the events of the past few days, considering alternative reactions, alternative choices, every time, she found, that although she regretted this foul and cowardly murder, she would do it again.

Which no doubt meant that she would burn in the hottest of all hells for eternity.

She would not be alone there. Daemon Targaryen was sure to pester her in the afterlife as well, though he had left Oldtown not long after the sept's bell had announced her husband's death to a sleepy city. The Blood Wyrm had flown towards the eastern sun until it had become one with the blood red disc.

Now, she was in her uncle's solar once more and looked over the houses of Oldtown again. The fog had lifted over night, for the Lady had claimed her victim. The smallfolk's tale was not that far from the truth, in fact, though her father had heeded his brother to give out that Lord Blackmont had been found in the Street of Wine, on his way back to the tower, where he had ridden headlong into a wall in the dense fog.

Rumours had spread much faster than her uncle's announcement, however, and by now, all of Oldtown knew that Lord Blackmont, the Dornish rake, had been found on the less savoury end of the Street of Silk.

It did not do much to smooth over the political rift Blackmont's death in enemy territory had created.

It was a nightmare, of course, and Clarice hoped there wouldn't be a war, but at least this meant her father would never again attempt to send her to Dorne.

That was some consolation, she supposed.

"I am as despaired as you, father," she replied truthfully.

She had never wanted to kill him and had her father not brought him here, had he not forced him upon her, blinded by his political ambitions, Clarice's honour would have remained, if not intact, than at least largely unimpaired, and no murderous stain would tarnish her soul now. She was impure, there was no denying it, and every time she closed her eyes, she imagined him, bloodied and broken, on the cobblestones of the street, killed by the man he had loved the most. Perhaps it was not Blackmont she should pity, perhaps it was Kayn, the steward that had been so easy to manipulate. He had not left the keep, or so he claimed, and he seemed so terribly shaken by his loss that no one considered looking into it. Clarice felt no need to accuse him. The Grey Lady had taken her due, as far as she was concerned, and that was the end of it. She had ended one man's life, no need to end another. His life was forfeit as it was. She had killed an unloved husband by proxy, but he had wielded the stone himself and killed the one most dear to him. What salvation could there be for him in this life or in the next?

Clarice looked at her father who had buried one wife and had not mourned her beyond propriety. They were more alike than he knew, daughter and father, and she could never reveal the truth to him.

"Do you think widowhood pleases me?"

The black veil hung heavy in her hair but it would be weeks before she could take it off or she'd risk the slander of her uncle's bored household.

Her father ignored her question.

"The whispers won't be silenced so easily this time." He was angry, not only with her. "Not yet twenty, thrice wedded, thrice widowed."

It did not take much to summon tears. "I never wished to bring shame upon our house."

"I know that." He sounded impatient. Wishes and hopes had never meant much to her father.

"Who will be my next husband?" She thought she saw a hint of surprise in his eyes but it was gone quickly. He never allowed anyone a glimpse behind the facade.

"Are you ready to move on then?" He lay the quill aside that he had been holding to show her she was a mere interruption of his important business.

"I am always ready to do my duty, lord father."

It is your pragmatism, father, that you passed on to me despite my sex.

"There is no offer that pleases me."

The marriage market was much like the horse market, Clarice had found. A young filly, untrained and of good breeding, was often worth her weight in silver. A young horse trained for battle even more. But once it had been ridden by this knight or that lord, once it had adapted to their style, their weight, their weapons and routines, the horse was sold at the lower end of the market to soldiers and hedge knights. Unless, of course, the owner was a man of power and renown.

Clarice would sooner take the white and run a motherhouse than wed a hedge knight and waste away in some draughty little keep but thankfully, her father was a powerful man. The most powerful, in fact.

He had only two horses in his stables and would be a fool to waste one on a hedge knight. However much she loathed her father, she had to admit he was foolish much less often than ordinary men and rarely in matters of business and politics. She had been ridden thrice and the blemish of widowhood was a stain that could not be washed out.

Yet, a bride in grey could be as comely as a bride in white, or so her father would reason, and he knew the Hand's eldest daughter would not be despised by the Tullys or the Marbrands, the Waynwoods or the Swanns. Even the Arryn cousins would be glad to wed Lord Otto's daughter, if only to advance their claim to the Eyrie. Her father was waiting for the rumours to die down. In a year or two, she would still be young enough to wed and her three dead husbands would be only a distant memory. And then, he would give her to one of those lords. Many a wife could die in a year or two, many a son grow to be a lord and many a betrothal break – or be broken according to the Lord Hand's convenience. There would be decent offers for her hand soon enough.

Decency, however, although a convenient guise, was not one of Clarice's chief qualities, and neither was humility. A different woman might have been grateful for such prospects but she had inherited her father's concealed greed and she wanted more.

Clarice, in fact, was not at all planning on waiting for her father to arrange another match for her. Not when Princess Rhaenyra was to be courted by the greatest lords of the realm soon enough. Clarice had always liked herself in cloth-of-gold – metaphorically speaking, of course, she owned no such frivolous gown – and for now, she thought it went as well with red samite as it did with black velvet. In order to decide which colours she would be cloaked in on her wedding day, she had to see these men, speak with them and learn all there was to know about them.

There was only the slimmest chance Lord Jason Lannister would ever visit the Hightower and no chance at all Lord Borros Baratheon would travel that far.

"Where will I stay until the matter is decided?"

She saw at once that he misliked the question. So he did not have an answer, not yet.

Perfect.

"Perhaps Oldtown might suit your needs. You have always loved the Citadel."

He meant to hide her away.

"That seems prudent. Away from court, I could rest until the gossip quietens. I will miss Alicent, of course, and Her Grace, but I can always write to them."

Her father would do well to remember that Clarice had been a firm favourite with the queen until her father had married her off to an old potato, a wineskin on legs and a Dornish dagger.

There was a rare smile on his lips. She had revealed her wish to him inadvertently – or so he thought. "Do you wish to return to the capital then? Brave the gossip and the rumours?"

Her father was no fool. He knew – or he would soon realise – that hiding atop the Hightower would only feed the rumours and the best way to deal with gossip was to laugh in the detractors' faces and counter their rumours with some even more scandalous fabrications.

"If I had a choice, I would return to King's Landing, yes. But I will stay here if that is your wish."

He considered her for a moment. "The queen has inquired after your health."

"How kind of her. She is with child once more, I heard."

"Her Grace was always fond of you and she has need of a companion, it is true." Her father's hazel eyes rested on her in that calculating way she knew so well. "And there are few gentlemen worthy of your hand in Oldtown."

It was almost amusing to see her father arrive at the same conclusion as she had, though weeks later.

To be fair, she had had more time to prepare.

"You will have to take care," her father rose from his easy chair and walked around the desk. It was strange. Usually, a man was less threatening when seated and Clarice had always enjoyed looking down on people, but her father always seemed most powerful behind that heavy desk, books and letters and inkpots arranged in neat piles and rows. Standing, he was only a man.

"I would shield you, Clarice, if I thought it beneficial." Not even you can control every man's tongue, not even you can banish rumours . He would have done so if he could, she knew, though for his own sake more than for her wellbeing. "You must know that they call you cursed. Some fools claim it was you who brought your husbands' deaths."

Even a blind man may perchance hit the mark.

"Me? Have they never stopped to take a second look? Gunthor was near on seventy, Rollam liked to drink, my dear Lord Blackmont's blood ran too hot. It is not my fault the Stranger took them."

At the pitiful indignation that had crept into her voice, her father raised a hand in a silent command. He needed no futile affirmations of innocence, especially not when they were delivered so emotionally. It didn't matter what she said or swore, it only mattered what the people thought.

"And I know that, Clarice. As does the king. He has sworn to punish those who speak of curses."

Well, that had never worked. But Clarice would be surprised if this intention resulted in more than a half-hearted attempt at controlling all sorts of vicious rumours that were being spread at court as Her Grace was in confinement.

The king no doubt meant to settle his lady wife's nerves. The queen had to deliver a healthy boy this time, and for that, she had to be calm and well rested. Every wish was granted to her, Clarice knew, for she had been there during her last pregnancy. But no matter how much coin the king spent to keep her comfortable, the looming disgrace of delivering a girl, or worse, a dead babe once more, would never allow Queen Aemma to rest.

"I am grateful for His Grace's kindness."

He replied with a curt nod.

For a moment, she thought he would send her away now. He certainly looked as if he was done, one hand on his desk, his back half turned towards her. But some thought was still occupying his mind, would not let him get back to his letters yet. He had sometimes had moments like these, in which he seemed uncharacteristically agitated and restless and fazed, though the longer he had ruled, the rarer these moments had become.

Slowly, as if against his will, he turned around to face her. His gaze was strangely intense.

"Not even Viserys can still all wagging tongues, forbid every mocking play staged in the city. Are you sure you can bear it, Clarice?"

I have borne Gunthor, sweating above me, Rollam's stinking breath and Aron's threats.

Rumours were a cakewalk compared to her marriages.

"I am stronger than I look." She gave her father a shy smile.

"I think there is truth to that."

He nodded again but made no move. Still as a statue he stood next to his desk, not quite behind it and not quite near her.

An uneasy silence stretched out between them until at last, Clarice bopped into a curtsy, ready to leave.

She had not yet turned to the door when her father stopped her with a raised hand.

"I know how much you have sacrificed for our family, Clarice."

He approached her slowly, like a hunter would a deer but in her father's eyes, Clarice saw something strange, something she'd never glimpsed before: insecurity. And maybe…shame? Pain? Fear?

Lord Otto Hightower was never ashamed, he felt no pain and he was certainly never afraid.

And yet, the sentiments were etched into the creases of his age-lined face, a face she had once known smooth and almost young. He seemed older today, too, weaker. There was a slight slope in his shoulders and his back was not as straight as usual.

What was he thinking?

But as her father took another step, the midday sun his figure had blocked out sent its bright rays of light into the room and made any other attempt at trying to read Otto Hightower's face impossible.

"It will not be for nothing, my daughter."

He reached out and took her hand in his rather awkwardly.

Something blossomed inside her like a rare exotic flower and with it rose a softness, a sense of kinship that could not be explained by blood or likeness but only by old, half-forgotten affection rooted deep in her heart.

Her father cleared his throat and his usually unflinching gaze flickered to her eyes, then down to their linked hands, then up again. Suspense was thick in the air between them. What would he say? What could he say?

Otto Hightower opened his mouth and drew a deep breath, as if to prepare himself for a daunting task but before that breath had left his lungs again, he straightened and his grip around her hand loosened. His insecurity was gone.

"I will choose your next husband with the utmost care. You will be a great lady, Clarice. Would you like that?"

The flower withered and died.

Her courtier's smile slipped into place.

"Very."

~o~

A moon's turn later

~o~

"Prince Daemon led the gold cloaks into the city last night and carried out the harshest punishments himself like a common footsoldier."

The queen's chambers were akin to a beehive this morning, but Aemma herself was absent, still abed and not like to rise from her featherbed today. This pregnancy was even harder on her than the one before and there was a silent understanding amongst her ladies what that might mean. They all had lost mothers, sisters and aunts to siblings, nephews and cousins. They knew the danger that came with fulfilling one's wifely duties and it made them nervous.

Clarice sat in a corner, her embroidery frame on her lap and her attention seemingly undivided on the fine silk thread. But as the younger girls around her repeated the gossip they had heard from their handmaids, their servants and scullery maids, she listened. Of course she knew all there was to know about the prince's latest escapades. After having disappeared for more than a fortnight, he had returned to the Red Keep the day before, then taken his new gold cloaks into the city to mutilate half Flea Bottom, it seemed, though to be fair, half Flea Bottom was lawless and brutal. The smell of rotting meat would spoil royal hunts on the riverbank and trips across the Blackwater on painted pleasure barges but winter would be upon them soon enough, so all outdoor revelries would have to wait anyway and it was no great loss.

"He is as lawless as the city," a red-haired girl claimed. She was new at court but louder than maids who had been here for years and she would share her opinion on anything, from the Triarchy to onion soup, with everyone who was polite enough not to make up an excuse and leave. Naturally, Clarice, so different in temper and upbringing, found her tedious.

"Lord of Flea Bottom indeed," the girl snickered, "I heard he has lice."

The last words were spoken in a very audible whisper. Some of the ladies hid a gleeful smile. The prince had made it a sport to offend the daughters and sisters of great lords, and an even greater sport to reject their advances in favour of the lowborn whores of the city. Others, in turn, looked scandalised by the vulgar remark. The prince was popular with many at court, for despite his temper and caprice, he could be charming and enjoyed playing the golden prince now and then. There were those, most of them old companions of the queen, some of them who had once served Queen Alysanne, who were taken aback by the forwardness and cheek of the remark. Back in their day, no one, no less a maid of four and ten, would have dared to question a royal prince, no matter his actions.

And although Clarice numbered among neither of these factions, the remark angered her. It was not that the girl had dared to criticise the prince. Clarice was aware that she was not the only one who had the right to do so. Perhaps it was the lack of respect towards their queen, or the blatant exploitation of their mistress's absence that drove her to raise her voice on this matter.

"Prince Daemon is the Lord Commander of the City Watch," Clarice found herself saying, "It is both his right and duty to restore order to the city, especially when lords and ladies from all the seven kingdoms are expected for the autumn tourney."

A different maid might have nodded and agreed pleasantly with the elder girl, one of the queen's favourites, the Hand's daughter, but not Jessa Redwyne. She should have been on her knees, thanking Clarice for her placement at court. Had Clarice not murdered her uncle, her father would have never succeeded to the Arbor earlier this year and Jessa would still be a mere second son's second daughter, wasting away in a seaward tower of her uncle's keep, doomed to serve her better-born cousins and wed a knight in her uncle's service. But nothing was so hard as a brazen young maiden's ingratitude.

"What do you know about these matters? You just returned to court."

Clarice laid her needlework aside and looked at the younger girl. At Jessa's question, some had dropped their pretence and stared openly, eager for something to tell their friends later on, or their fathers, if they were ambitious.

"Before my marriage, I was Her Grace's maid of honour for five years." And before that, she had read to old Jaehaerys and dried his sweaty brow with kerchiefs of silk. She had been at court almost as long as this girl lived.

"Before your marriages, you mean."

"Indeed." Clarice inclined her head in agreement pleasantly. "My marriages. I understand, Lady Jessa, that you are new at court and not used to the way things are handled here, especially as Her Grace is so rarely well enough to join us. But I feel the need to tell you that slander of the royal family is never tolerated, not in Maegor's Holdfast nor elsewhere in the Red Keep."

By now, Jessa seemed uncomfortably aware of the attention they were attracting. She was no fool, she knew that word of this would reach her father. And perhaps that was why she could not back down now.

"Are you the matron here, that you give out commands?"

She grinned but only very few girls snickered at her words. There were other women, older women, ladies from the Vale and the Crownlands, women with children and grandchildren, even, but not one of them spoke up. They stared at their embroidery as if they could will the needles to pierce the fabric. Dissent was rarely heard of in the shielded chambers of good Queen Aemma, who valued harmony and serenity.

"Some well-meant advice, Lady Jessa, not a command at all." Clarice smiled at her. "It is your decision entirely whether you will take it or not. I never meant to affront you."

And with that, she picked up her embroidery, a border of red and black dragons for the young prince, and continued her work as if no one had ever interrupted her.

Slowly, the chatter began again and soon enough, it was almost as if nothing had happened. Only Jessa's pink cheeks, that clashed terribly with her hair, told of their argument.

Clarice should not have lashed out like that. She was always calm and even-tempered. It was what Her Grace found so soothing about her presence. But she could not tolerate such a slight against a member of the royal family, not with her father being Hand of the King, not with the entire household present.

It was not so much that she agreed with the prince, which she did not, of course. The city was lawless, yes, and this state had been criticised by her father for years. He had had Lord Strong draft new laws, had ordered masons to cobble the streets, had regulated trade and markets in Flea Bottom but with little effect. Over time, her father had directed his long-sighted gaze elsewhere to better the realm and had conveniently turned his back on the lawless pit the lower part of the city had become. It was one thing, of course, not to condone the prince's brutality.

Such a task might have been handled with greater delicacy and with regard to the image of the throne. Public executions for murder or rape might have turned justice into a spectacle, would have kept up the appearance of legal immaculacy and still achieved the same effect, but the prince was neither a politician nor especially prudent and Clarice had to admit that his unexpected and violent venture into the very heart of the cesspool of vice was a clever move in some ways. She was entirely convinced that it was for that reason that her father was so furious. He had never expected Daemon Targaryen to do something clever and he had surely not expected him to do something for the benefit of the city. In the eyes of many nobles at court, the prince had had the right of it. And while some disagreed with his method, they were also unwilling to condemn his brutality entirely. Otto Hightower had miscalculated. And what was worse, with Daemon in command of a functioning and effective city watch, the prince was much more of a thorn in his side than he had ever been.

Clarice knew her father had suggested the prince for the office, as he had previously suggested him as Master of Laws and Master of Coin, and been pleased each time to see him lose interest and make a botch of it within moons. This time, her father had been wrong and he hated being wrong above all else. He had thought, perhaps, that the prince would have as little interest in the undisciplined and untrained soldiers of the run-down city watch and the safety of the city as he had shown in numbers and laws. And she had to concede that it was probably not an honest interest in the upkeep of moral and order or a feeling of companionship for his men that had made him so successful as Lord Commander. He delighted in fighting, he liked the grimy parts of the city and he was determined to best her father whenever he could. So Otto's failure to resolve the struggles of the smallfolk must have fuelled the prince's interest.

There was some justice in that and as Clarice would have liked nothing so much as seeing them both fail, the prospect of Daemon getting bored with his post – a certainty, as he got bored with everything – only sweetened his temporary success for her.

Yet, that night at the feast, the prince was triumphant. He was late, as always, garbed in black and red with a cape of cloth-of-gold. It was a chilly night that promised winter but the hall was hot and stuffy and the cape as unnecessary as it was useless against the cold. He wore it merely to flaunt and taunt her father.

Otto Hightower sat at the king's right as the queen was absent once again. The golden hand gleamed on his chest and he wore the grey and green of their house. His days of mourning for his short-lived good son were over, although Clarice still wore the dark purples, greys and blues of a widow in a show of loyalty. Tonight, she had chosen to sit among the ladies-in-waiting in the hall, not on the dais, and from her seat, she saw the princess and Alicent, engulfed in conversation as if the court around them did not exist. When the prince sat down next to her father, his cape draped over the back of his chair dramatically, Otto might as well have been switched with a statue. His face was stoney and he barely touched his food while Daemon no doubt served him insults and jibes.

The great hall was crowded with the autumn tourney set to begin in a few days. Lords and knights from all over the kingdoms had travelled to the city, ostensibly only to fight for glory and fame, though the princess's hand made for an even sweeter incentive. Not that Rhaenyra was aware of this. The child was blissfully ignorant of the machinations of court and politics. The Lords Lannister and Baratheon had not yet arrived, but Ser Tyland, Lord Jason's twin, and Lord Wylde, who had been master of laws before the post had been given to Daemon Targaryen for half a year, had recently returned to court.

Wylde liked to claim his unyielding attitude towards laws had earned him the moniker Ironrod , though others said it were the twelve children he had fathered on his now deceased wife. Either way, Clarice found there was little wrong with the nickname. He was a man in his forties, with the powerful build of a stormlander and coarse dark hair, that oozed virility and strength. Ever since his wife had died, not in childbed but claimed by a summer fever, maidens and ladies alike had craned their necks after him. He was attractive in a common sort of way, though he lacked charm and wit as well as grace. Iron-willed and hot-headed, he was not an ideal husband for Clarice, but his convictions were, albeit strong, at least simple, and he was not inclined to discussion or self-reflection.

Until the arrival of the great prizes, therefore, Clarice had decided to bestow her favour upon Lord Wylde. Ser Tyland would wait, he was always at court, but Lord Wylde would depart for Rain House after the tourney. As the smiths liked to say, it was best to have other irons in the fire and she was a little rusty. The chase would hone her skills for the true prey. Wylde was not the sort of man that would be quick to form an attachment to a young woman, if he had the capacity at all. He was in want of a mother for his children and Clarice, childless and untrained as she was, would be a poor candidate for that.

That only made the challenge more enticing.

All evening, Clarice had thrown badly disguised glances at him, had smiled and stared with the other ladies until at last, when the tables were moved for the dancing, he made his way over to her. By then, she supposed, he had been told that she was the Hand's elder daughter, respectable but thrice widowed. If his moral principles were as steadfast as people liked to claim, then he would no doubt note the seven pointed star that hung from her neck, her pinned hair and demure but well-cut purple gown appreciatively.

"Lady Clarice." Lord Wylde took her hand in his, though he planted no kiss to its back, as a young knight might have. "If I may introduce myself."

"I already know you, Lord Wylde. Or think I do, at least." She gave him her warmest smile and a deep curtsy.

As the lord bowed, a little stiffly, she saw that up on the dais, her father's eyes rested on her. She gave him a faint smile. Beside Lord Otto, another head turned towards her. Deep violet eyes took in her smile, her hand in Lord Wylde's and the man's ungainly bow. With a hard, mocking smile, Daemon Targaryen turned away, as if even this brief moment was too boring to witness.

Wylde took her arm to walk with her, though only to the trestle table on which the wine was served.

"You cared for the old king when his health failed him." He poured some Arbor gold without asking for her preference.

"I read to him," Clarice agreed as she took the cup of wine he offered her. "Thank you."

"My wife was only a fair reader. A bard read for us…well, for the children, mostly. All my daughters are taught to read well by their septa. It is one of the womanly arts I value the most."

He downed his cup, then offered her his hand in a silent invitation to dance. He did not strike her as the elegant sort and considering his size, she would have rather not offered up her toes to him, but there was no way to refuse.

"Reading, my lord?" A womanly art? If her father had heard this remark, Clarice suspected he would have hit Lord Wyle with his heaviest tome for such heresy. But then again, he was a prospective husband, so Lord Otto would have probably forced a smile and ignored the man's ignorance as well as he was able.

"Indeed." He smiled as if Clarice was the one that was slow of mind. "In a soft, sweet voice. I imagine His Grace is grateful for your service."

"I think he might be. I was only a child back then."

"You were already so proficient at such a young age?"

"Not so proficient, my lord." He did not strike her as the sort of man that liked his women clever or skilled.

"I am sure you were." He patted her hand. "And are. Old Jaehaerys was the greatest king. You can count yourself lucky you knew him so well."

"Only very briefly," she interjected, but her lord had no interest in her comment.

"Those were better days for the realm," Lord Wylde said, though the words sounded as if they came from the mouth of a much older man. "There was order then. Stability."

He chased her across the dancefloor with too large steps and she backed away, fearing for her slippers as much as for her feet.

"My lord father says that His Grace's reign is one of peace."

"His reign, aye. But not his legacy. Twenty years wed, and no son. Worse, his brother should be Prince of Dragonstone but the king has yet refused to grant him that honour."

Heavens forbid that the prince would ever sit the Iron Throne. He was likely to set the realm on fire only to spite his detractors.

"The queen is with child and if the gods are good, we will soon bless our Prince of Dragonstone." She smiled.

"And if the gods are cruel, the king must finally declare Daemon his heir, ere there is talk of crowning the princess."

"The Great Council's decision made that choice unlikely." Clarice said, as she turned in his thick arms.

"You seem to be your father's daughter, my lady. Do you have an interest in politics?"

There was the edge of disapproval in his voice.

"I do hope I am my father's daughter, my lord," she gave him a mischievous smile, "But I have no taste for the endless schemes of politics. I prefer a peaceful life, and tranquillity."

That pleased him.

Lord Jasper Wylde was not quite as handsome as Lord Tyland, and about as clever as Tyland's pinky finger, but he was the lord of a keep and controlled one of the few ports south of King's Landing while Tyland could only offer the promise of a tenured post on the small council once Lord Beesbury had died from old age. The question Clarice pondered as he stepped on her toes, her hand in his sweaty, meaty fingers, whether she would be able to bear all that profane idiocy he was spewing. It seemed too high a price to tolerate such a buffoon for a castle in the Stormlands that was at risk of drowning in the rain that had once given it its name.

"Women are happiest in their homes, I found, surrounded by children and tending to their husbands' needs. It is only natural. War and politics and laws are too much for their pretty little heads."

Clarice raised her pretty little head to meet his eye. "The Book of the Seven and my embroidery needles are all that I need. And a husband, of course." She gave him a sugary smile and he returned it.

"I am glad you think that way." He pulled her a little closer. "I am widowed, as you are, and my children have been without the loving touch of a woman for too long, as have I. You have been married, my lady. Did you find strength and solace in your husbands' company?"

"Great solace indeed."

Though I took greater solace in their deaths.

"As it should be. A keep is only a home when a woman waits beside the hearth, I say."

"How touching."

No, she decided, as his hand lay heavy on her waist and his sour breath met her face, this was all she could stomach of the man.

When at last the musicians had ended their song (Clarice had listened closely for any sign that the dance would be over soon), she fled the dancefloor, feigning tiredness. It was much easier to engage suitors than she had thought, it seemed, though as she planned to be married longer this time, Lord Wylde would not do. Sooner rather than later she would feel the urge to shove him down the stairs and there were only so many times a woman could don a widow's veil without being called a murderer.

Clarice sought refuge from both Wylde and her father's eyes in a distant corner of the great hall, where tables and chairs and chests had been pushed against the wall. Leaning against the edge of an oaken table, his long legs crossed in a show of casual nonchalance, Daemon Targaryen surveyed the dancers with tenuous interest.

She would have liked to turn and run but her dignity forbade her to flee. Instead, she gave him a measured curtsy as a sign of her disrespect.

"Wylde." The prince was playing with one of the small councils' marbles, a golden hued one with a hint of green. Clarice didn't need to ask whose it was. The stones had been chosen according to house colours, she had often seen her father's, a beautiful ball of clouded white marble veined in emerald green. The prince's was sure to be black, but the Wyldes' sigil was a blue-green maelstrom on gold. Their colours were one of the few reasons in favour of marrying Lord Jasper. Blues and greens had always suited her colouring.

She wondered briefly where he'd found it.

"You seem to mistake me for someone else, my prince."

"Now that you mention it, I think I did. I thought you had standards. Some, at least."

"Evidently not, judging by my present company."

"This is the great hall. You are free to leave."

And for a moment, she meant to, but the imposing figure of Jasper Wylde was pushing through the dancers, no doubt looking for her. She had feigned obedience and gentleness too well for her own good.

"I think I will stay despite the company." She turned her back to the dancers and stepped behind the tallest chair quickly, hoping against hope the prince had not understood her reaction.

But even a man as slow of mind as Daemon Targaryen must have noticed how strange it was that she would willingly remain in his presence, for a smug grin spread over his face.

"I suppose we could arrange for Lord Wylde to honour us with his presence. He seems to be looking for someone right now, you need only wave –"

"Stop it." She leant against the column in an attempt to become invisible.

The prince's smirk was almost as unbearable as Wylde's condescension.

"His children will be disappointed to hear that he will not be your next corpse. All seventeen of them."

"Lord Wylde has twelve children and only one stands to inherit Rain House. A boy of twelve. The younger ones do not care whether he lives or dies."

He tilted his head in that mocking, taxing way.

"He needs a wetnurse, not a wife. You would seduce such a sad old sod for what…a wet keep and a marble?" He tossed it into the air and caught it with arrogant ease. Just this once, she would have liked to see the heavy ball land on his leatherclad foot.

"Seduction?" She raised her brows in incredulity. "Only true and honest affection could move me to wed once more, my prince."

He chuckled at the absurdity of her remark. "And how fitting that your period of mourning has ended just as the city is flooded with lords and knights."

As if knights could spark her interest. She was not dealing in eventualities and she was done with lordlings and heirs.

She folded her hands primly and gave the prince a mellow smile. "The tourney was sent by the gods indeed."

"A strange way to refer to your father but I am sure he insists on it."

Clarice would not admit that he had scored this once.

"Will you ride in the lists as well, my prince?" she asked, knowing full well that he always did. "A dragon or a horse?"

"I prefer a different mount most times, my lady, though for the tourney, a horse must suffice." She hated the way he looked at her then, the lewd tone of his voice and the tasteless ribaldry. Much was said about his habits in the bedchamber and for once, Clarice wouldn't be surprised if the gossip wasn't less scandalous than the truth.

"How refined," she said, determined not to step on this rotten ice of vulgarity where he was certain to beat her.

"Why, were you offering me your favour?" Daemon paused to survey her from head to toe. "You will understand that the winner of a tourney must have certain standards when it comes to his queen of love and beauty."

"Then you can be grateful this weighty decision will fall to Ser Criston Cole and not to you. He is young," she stressed the word, "and undefeated with the lance as much as with his morningstar."

The prince was apparently unfazed by her objection. "Three husbands have made you a lance expert then."

She would have liked to hit him, wipe that smug grin off his face and force him to lower that lewd, condescending brow he had raised.

But her hands were still folded and a lady's weapon were her words.

"Every day, after breaking my fast with Her Grace's ladies in waiting in her chambers, I walk back to the Tower of the Hand to assist my lord father. Every morning, Ser Criston is fighting in the yard when I walk from the Tower to the holdfast and he is still there when I walk back at noon. I have seen him fight often enough to know that he will win."

The prince was no longer leaning against the table and he had uncrossed his arms. Was she unsettling him?

"How can he not," he retorted, "as he evidently has the cursed widow's favour."

He had stolen a ghost's title for her. "My favour would neither help nor hinder him."

That seemed to please the prince, absurd as it was. "So he has not asked for it."

Was he trying to shame her by insinuating she would grant her favour to a steward's son?

"I have never spoken to the man."

"Understandable. You've been so busy being wedded and widowed, you're rarely at court."

"Quite like you. Have you made so many friends amongst the rats that you stay in Flea Bottom for weeks?"

"No need for jealousy, my lady."

"Indeed, none at all."

He grinned at her denial and she felt he looked a little too complacent.

"I only suffer your presence to escape a bothersome suitor," she said with a little more vehemence, raising a brow herself now to underline the arrogance in her voice.

The prince chucked the marble into a corner where it promptly rolled under a heavy chest, then he offered her his now empty hand. "One dance with me and you'll be ruined for our Lord of Rain."

Hardly. She doubted Wylde would consider the married prince competition.

"You flatter yourself, my prince."

"Never more than I'm due."

He seemed so certain she would agree. The way he held out his hand, as if he knew she'd take it, his smile and that look in his eyes.

Clarice raised her hand to brush a curl of hair out of her face. "While I am grateful for your selfless offer, I must refuse with the greatest sorrow."

Whatever he had thought she would reply, it was not that. For the briefest of moments, Daemon Targaryen stood opposite her, his hand extended, palm up, as his devilish grin faltered upon her refusal. Then, he rested the rejected hand on the pommel of his sword and the smile returned, even more complacent than before.

"Do not worry on my behalf. I will have forgotten you as soon as I turn my back on you."

"I cannot wait."