Summer had come in a flurry of cherry blossoms and sunshine, but no Spring Queen had been chosen and no hay feast brightened the sombre halls of the Red Keep. When the first ripe cherries were made into wine and jam and pies, they were still in the greys of mourning for their dead queen.

Grey were their days, too, dull with memorial services, long dinners without song and melancholy feasts for the gods.

Clarice had spent most of her life in the Red Keep that now felt like a grey prison and she'd never known how triste life could be. There was a melancholy sameness to the days and when the queen was dead three moons, she might have been dead a year, or twenty, or a day.

It was not just Aemma who was missed. Daemon, as much as Clarice detested him, had brought excitement to the keep and men of cunning, ambition and loose morals – men who had made life in the keep more interesting, in short – had followed him like moths the light.

Now, few enough men remained in the keep.

Clarice's hunt for a husband was put on hold much to her father's chagrin, but he had deemed it unsuitable for Clarice to wed during this time of mourning and loss, more out of lack of options than true sympathy.

With her father now occupied with matters of state more than ever and Alicent so often with the princess, Clarice found herself without a mistress or duty.

At first, she had wandered around the keep idly, pondering her future.

Her best years were almost over. She needed to forge the iron now that she still could, but there was none to be found. The great lords mourned in the privacy of their own castles, where no one would see how they gorged on wine and venison or how many maids they bedded despite the mourning period.

What she needed was a gathering. A memorial, perhaps, or a feast to honour the newly proclaimed heir to the throne herself – there had been no feast for Rhaenyra's investiture as Princess of Dragonstone, merely a fortnight after Aemma's death.

At first, it had only been her intention to sway the king to allow such a gathering.

She had sought him out, as if by accident, and she had talked to him, spoken of Rhaenyra and Queen Aemma, her own mother and her sister.

At first, the king had barely listened, his eyes empty, his mouth hanging open. His mind had been with the woman he had killed.

But slowly, over weeks that stretched to moons, he had started seeing her. Now and then, her account of her own loss, her discussion of some mild court gossip or news from the east was suddenly interrupted by the occasional question or remark.

Was it then that Clarice, out of options and bored, decided to gamble for the highest of stakes?

She was too much her father's daughter to have made her choice this late.

Her father did not know of her frequent visits. Now and then she told him she had seen the king, but Viserys did not speak to Otto of her, nor did she mention how often they saw each other as she passed the royal chambers, her arms full of white lilies for Queen Aemma's lonely chambers, a candle still lit from the sept, her book of prayer held tightly in folded hands.

But sooner or later, her father would find out. It was best to prepare him for it, therefore, slowly, and hope that in the end, he might think the ploy his own: a Hightower queen.

"His Grace suffers greatly," Clarice observed. As of late, she had often broken fast with her father.

"He loved the queen."

"And nothing can replace a woman's love." But another woman's love, perhaps.

There was something in her voice that made her father look up sharply. "What do you know of such matters?"

"I was widowed three times, lord father. I know His Grace's pain."

Don't you see, father, how singularly suited I am to console him?

"He wants to forget the pain, not be reminded of it, Clarice." Her father rose from his seat. "Do not interfere with matters you know nothing of."

And with that strange remark, he left her.

A part of her, however small and weak, wanted to heed his command.

But that part was a child who still hoped her father would solve all problems for her, untie every knot and help her mount.

She knew better. All children of Otto Hightower were on their own, in essence, but never free enough to act like it. And only a crown could ever rid her of those shackles.

~o~

Her father wore a frown she had not seen in a long time.

The sweltering heat of the last few weeks had died down and after days of incessant rain, the red keep was dark, damp and cool as a crypt. Dry firewood was hard to come by, but in the Lord Hand's solar, a fire burned day and night to keep mould from feasting on his books.

"The king has called for you."

His tone demanded an explanation but she could very well be his next queen, she was no longer the unwanted daughter he could use as a pawn.

"Then I shall make haste," she only said. Before she'd reached the door, however, her father spoke again.

"How exactly have you been consoling His Grace, Clarice?" His tone was whip-sharp, his eyes fixed on her in his unwavering stare. He was questioning her.

The first time he had done that, she'd been six and a good raspberry tart, meant for some noble guests, had disappeared from the kitchens.

That was when she'd learned to lie to him.

Clarice stared at her father with maidenlike innocence.

"We met in the sept. And then, once again, in the queen's chambers when I brought fresh flowers for remembrance. And on Mother's Morn, we both lit a candle for her. I have done nothing untoward, lord father."

Lord Otto's eyes searched his daughter's face for the faintest trace of betrayal. Clarice knew he would find nothing.

"Has he called for you before?"

"No," she answered truthfully.

"Has he ever taken an interest in you before?"

"An interest?" It was not difficult to summon confusion. Viserys, despite all his flaws, had only ever looked at Aemma.

"The necklace."

The other brother.

It had been weeks since she had last thought about the king's brother, who was now risking his life in a futile war on the Stepstones, his bastard growing in his whore's belly.

Daemon.

Whatever she might have thought about him, she had been wrong. And this was not the time to remember that humiliation. Daemon had no place on her mind anymore. Never had. She had loftier plans and those required her undivided attention.

Therefore, she shook her head and repeated what her father had once told her: "Her Grace's gift, my lord. Not his."

But he did not seem convinced.

Her father beckoned her closer to take in her dress, her shape and face and hair as if trying to determine whether a king could desire such a woman.

"You are twenty now."

"Yes."

"Your mother was already twice a mother at your age."

As I would be, had you not wed me to those three fools.

"The gods have forsaken me that blessing so far."

"Three husbands, and not once did your womb quicken."

"Only one of them was virile, my lord," Clarice replied. Her cheeks were burning with anger and indignation, though to her father it must look like maidenly shame.

"How has the king spoken to you?"

Was he trying to assess the king's desire for her? Viserys was not the sort of man women dreamed of. He was not like to kiss you on a whim, set your blood aflame with passion…And a good thing, too.

"Kindly. As always. He is very melancholy – "

She could hardly invent some signs of his passion but she had to give her father more than kindly.

"– but he appreciates my presence. He seems glad for it. He likes to show me his model, tell me about Old Valyria."

Viserys simply knew how to keep a young lady engaged. Carved sandstone, long-winded stories about a dead realm and the promise of a crown.

She didn't dare examine her father too closely for signs of his disapproval but when he asked another question, Clarice thought that a good sign.

"And what do you say to him?"

"I offer condolences. I try to distract him with news or poetry."

Her father's gaze was unreadable as he steepled his fingertips, always a sign of deep contemplation. Would he condone her actions? Would he spur her on?

But he surprised her once more.

"I see. Well, go then, Clarice."

And with that, he turned away towards the fire, gazing into the flames as if he was one of the dragon dreamers who saw the future painted there.

She'd have to win the king over quickly, for it didn't seem her father wanted a queen in the family.

It was madness, of course, to ignore the advancement that would come with such a match. But she had seen the mistrust in his eyes as he had turned away. He would not allow her to become more powerful than him.

Crowned, she would finally be free of her father. Crowned, she would have surpassed him.

There was nothing more sweet, no treasure more valuable than that. And it was worth fighting for.

"Your Grace." She curtsied upon entering. The king was once again sitting on a low stool, staring at the masons' version of Valyria. Viserys himself had of course never seen the endless city and the masons worked with ancient records bound to include more fantasy than truth. Not that that mattered to the king in the slightest. He'd always liked to lose himself in fantasies when reality was too harsh.

"It is ever growing," Clarice said, and applauded herself on the admiration in her voice. Just right, not too much, not too eager.

"So they say it was." Viserys looked up at her and smiled. "A city of constant change."

"A city of fire."

More fire than the ageing man before her would ever have. Daemon was the true Valyrian prince.

"So the accounts would have us think. Aemma always thought it folly." A smile tinged with pain dawned on the king's face. "My dreams about Old Valyria. She never said so, of course."

"Her Grace never thought you a fool, Your Grace. She often spoke with admiration of your knowledge of Old Valyria. She would often jape that she'd married a scholar."

The king's smile intensified. "Yes?"

"And she was happier for it. When one of the girls said she wanted to marry a knight, a warrior, Queen Aemma smiled and tousled her hair. 'All men will keep you up at night,' she said, 'but I'd sooner be kept awake by passion than by worry.'" Clarice reddened appropriately.

But the king only laughed, the innuendo lost on him. "She said that?"

For once, Clarice did not have to lie. "Yes. She was always very gentle with her ladies."

"She was always gentle with me, too."

"And you with her, Your Grace," Clarice lied, and for a moment, they both thought of Aemma, cut open like a sow.

~o~

She was embroidering forget-me-nots onto grey wool when her father entered the solar. That alone should have made her wary. Usually, he called for her when he considered it urgent.

"The king has called for you again, Clarice."

Her heart soaring with vindication, she put her needlework aside, forgotten.

"Then I shall go at once."

But her father raised his hand. "No. Not today. I sent Alicent in your stead."

He took a seat opposite her, right by the empty hearth, another warning sign. But it was too late.

"Alicent?" Clarice asked, feigning confusion as the scale of her father's betrayal began to dawn on her. "Should she not comfort the princess?"

"A different kerchief will dry Rhaenyra's tears. You are fond of the king?"

"He is a good man, gentle and true."

"And he is fond of you." He dared her to object.

She stared at her father as if she had just realised his intent.

"He lost his wife, his most beloved wife, not half a year past."

"And yet, a king is more than a man, Clarice. You are a woman grown and well educated. Do not close your eyes to the truth. Viserys must wed again to bring peace and stability to this realm. For a secure future."

Do you want me –"

"You?" Her father smiled as if the notion was absurd. "You are lovely, Clarice, and accomplished, no one doubts that."

Rage woke inside her like a feral animal and she did not trust herself to speak. Her father didn't need her to.

"Yet the people suspect you are barren. Viserys needs a young maid, a happy maid, to take his mind off his loss. The realm needs a fertile young girl that will bring us the prince we need."

She had underestimated him. The lengths he'd go to. To give your twenty year old, thrice widowed daughter to an ill and aging king was one thing, to give your favourite, your maiden daughter to that man another entirely. She had been wrong. Of course he wanted a queen in the family. But one he could easily control. One who would find no joy, no happiness in her role. One who had no idea what she could do with her power.

"Alicent."

"You seem shocked. Your sister is fit to be a queen. The most comely maiden in the realm, his daughter's closest companion."

Did her father not hear the irony?

"He is fond of me," Clarice said, revealing her hand in desperation.

Her father shrugged with a fine, mocking smile. Had she ever hated him this much?

"The king is fond of his model of Valyria, too, and his prophecies, but neither will give him an heir. We cannot have a thrice widowed queen, Clarice. His own court would mock him for it. The cursed queen. Every misfortune that befalls the realm would be blamed on you. You would be…grotesque."

Never before had she seen the window behind her father so clearly. A few beams of timber, Myrish glass panels that gleamed grey and green in the light of the midday sun. Nothing really to stop a man's fall. Her fingernails felt sharp as claws as they dug into the heel of her hand and she tasted bile. Grotesque. She was only the grotesque he had made her. She had done everything he had commanded, had obeyed and served and done it all with grace.

And now, she was deemed too old, too used to wear the crown.

Alicent. Her father would crown her foolish little sister, a girl of fifteen with a head full of dreams. Clarice had seen the way her sister looked at the princess, had seen the way her sister had looked at that handsome Dornish soldier. She would never want the king, not for his crown and not for his kingdom. Her sister was not cut out to rule.

Clarice did not want Viserys, nor did she truly want the throne, sharp and uncomfortable as it was. But if there was nothing to be gained, what had she sacrificed all that for? What she had done to rid herself of those fools. What she had sacrificed. Her innocence, her dignity, all seven heavens if they existed.

All for a shred of power, all to finally escape her father. But there was no escaping Lord Otto. The Hand of the King was more than a leech. Like a fat spider, he'd have them all quiver in his net. She'd been a fool to think she could win like this. On her own.

Clarice wanted to object. She knew she could win Viserys, it was easy enough.

But she was still only a daughter. Should she continue to try and woo the king, her father would send her away and Viserys was not man enough to fight for her. And what would she have gained then?

A crown lost was bitter but there were other prizes. Better ones, perhaps, given Rhaenyra's investiture as heir. In a different castle, she could wait and plan, far away from her father, unseen and unheard of until her skill was needed.

For her father was right: The realm would be plunged into chaos. He was wrong, however, to think that a boy would prevent the realm from being torn in two. The lords had sworn their oaths to Rhaenyra and not all of them would forget it as easily as Lord Otto did.

So Clarice did what daughters did best: She heeded her father with bent knee and a forced smile.

"Viserys likes you. You were his wife's dear companion. Surely you can help Alicent. Guide her. Make sure she…presents herself well. Willing. The king is – well, he will not see a ripe cherry and pluck it. One must pick it for him, and serve it appropriately."

Father, you are wasted in the keep with all the gold you'd make on the street of silk.

Whoremonger.

"Cherries?" Clarice asked. Petty revenge.

"You know the ways of men and women well enough by now. Alicent is beautiful but we both know she lacks assertiveness and determination. You must guide her in this. Help her win the king. Viserys has to agree to the match. And then you will be the queen's sister."

"I will do my best."

"Once Alicent is queen, you can choose whomever you want. No lord will be too noble for a queen's sister and a Hand's daughter."

Otto raised a hand to her cheek in a rare show of paternal affection. Clarice almost flinched away from his touch, so calculated, so transparent. Appeasement. Empty promises.

Seize this chance.

"Whomever I want?" she asked, holding his gaze. His hand sank half an inch before he recovered and smiled.

"Your next husband will be of your own choosing. You have my word." He stroked her chin with his thumb before he withdrew his hand and rose from the chair.

"I shan't keep you from your needlework."

To a lord, the king, even to a servant, the Lord Hand's promise would have meant something. As a lord, he stayed true to his word, usually, and if that was causing him discomfort, he would find a way to circumvent it. He did not bother to hide his nature from his children. Her father would promise one thing in the morning and then deny it before lunch. She was expected to change according to his whim, to the great vision he had of his blood on the throne and history tomes written about his politics and influence. She and Alicent, and their brothers, too, they had to be grateful for everything he burdened them with for the sake of his, nay, their future.

The crown might not have been a burden she particularly wanted, nor was the king the husband she dreamed of, but at least, this time, it would have been her choice.

And Clarice was too angry, too humiliated to realise that a part of her, the very kernel of her soul, was relieved by the failure of her lofty ambitions.

~o~

She had forgotten her book in her bedchamber and was too tired of needlework to continue, otherwise she might not have seen her sister in the hallway between their chambers, clearly on her way back from somewhere else.

The book was already forgotten.

Alicent wore a gown of dark teal silk, the fabric alive with rolling waves that emulated the near sea. It was so out of fashion that it could be considered timeless, the clear lines of Oldtown, the rich details of the capital. Allie's gowns had been girls' dresses, the skirts ending an inch or two above the ground, the necklines high and modest.

This gown's neckline was modest too, at first glance, but the fabric was partly sheer and left no doubt that Alicent was a woman grown.

That was not what startled Clarice though.

"That's mother's dress."

Alicent had their mother's pretty features, her willowy figure and auburn hair. It did not seem fair that she should also have her gowns, even though they would not have fit Clarice anyway. Alicent had been only a little girl when Lady Elinor had died, and she had never been by her bedside as the fever had taken her seven years ago, not long before Clarice's thirteenth nameday. It had been her who had read to her mother, The Seven-Pointed Star and Tales of the Blessed, who had wiped her brow and tried to give her strength.

Why was it that her sister always had everything Clarice wanted?

"Father said I should wear it," Alicent blushed prettily. She did everything prettily.

"She had so many," Clarice agreed, feigning nonchalance when she would have liked to tear the silk to shreds.

"It would be a shame to give them to the moths, wouldn't it?" Alicent replied with a nervous smile.

Clarice returned it, as if she did not notice her sister's aggravated state. "You look a lot like her."

Alicent brushed away a non-existent strand of hair. Even from ten feet away, Clarice saw that her sister's nails were red-rimmed.

"You have her eyes. The only one of us." Alicent failed to meet her eye.

"Where were you this afternoon?" Clarice asked and her voice was even, casual.

"With Rhaenyra." Her sister tried a smile and failed. She had never been able to lie, not if her life depended on it.

"It is good of you to console her."

"Yes." One bloody hand clutched the other and Clarice saw how Alicent began picking at her fingers again, tearing at the skin.

Clarice knew for a fact that the princess had been dragon riding all afternoon. But the king had been in his chambers, no doubt, musing and admiring and forgetting all about the world outside his window.

What a feeble liar Alicent had always been.

And this was the girl her father meant to elevate above all others. Alicent, who had no taste for politics, who liked reading the fables of the Seven and sentimental romances. Alicent who could tell no lie without turning the colour of gooseberries, who was so shy and frightened she chewed her fingers bloody. Alicent, her little sister, barely five and ten, beautiful and sweet, but not strong enough to carry the weight of her own jewels, let alone a crown.

Clarice was the one who had cared for their mother, who had kept their father's household, overseen the steward and the chamberlain in those months after Lady Elinor's death. She had married every fool her father had presented her with, had opened her legs for them if they required it, had worn black for three years, borne humiliation and mockery and now, Alicent, young and maidenly and guileless, favoured by their brothers and father, the princess's dearest friend, the greatest beauty in the realm, was to wear the crown and rise above her.

The gods were cruel but her father was crueller.

Had he sent Clarice to the king, Viserys would have wed her. It could not have taken much to sway him, not in his current state.

Had her father only let her continue unbothered. It was her, after all, who had consoled the king, who had spent hours on her knees in the sept, who had picked white roses and lilies until her fingers were sticky with sap and blood. With her, he had found some shred of hope to lead him from day to day. But her father had wanted his golden daughter on the throne, his pride and glory and Clarice was sentenced to a life on the sidelines.

"The king must be devastated," Clarice said slowly. "Some blame him for the queen's death, I heard."

Of course no one had been fool enough to say such things.

Alicent's eyes widened, only for a moment. "I think he is very sad. He loved her dearly."

"She was lovely. And how dear you were to her." Clarice reached out and gently pried apart her sister's bleeding fingers. They were warm and sweaty. The hands of a foolish, frightened little girl, not a queen.

As she looked down upon her sister's beautiful face, her soft auburn hair and slender shoulders, her lovely hazel eyes, a hatred took hold of Clarice as fierce as she has never known.

It was that hatred that moved her to lower her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Father asked you to console the king."

And then, the last shred of countenance left Alicent. The tears had welled up in her eyes and threatened to fall and now did, running down her perfect cheeks and discolouring the aged teal samite of their mother's gown. "Father told me to speak to him, gentle the pain, but all the king ever does is talk about that stupid model. I don't know what to say to him. I talk…about mother and the Seven and Rhaenyra…I cannot tell – I don't know what to do. What father wants me to do."

When her sister's head sank against her shoulder, all hatred vaned and left only shame and regret.

It had never been Alicent's choice. Perhaps that was what made it so hard.

Clarice reached up to stroke her sister's beautiful burnt copper locks that she had envied her for since their maiden days. Alicent's tears seeped through the fabric of Clarice's gown and her sister's small, thin body, still so much like a child's, shook with violent sobs.

It seemed as if Alicent was too small to hold all that desperation their father's orders had brought her, as if it burst out of her like wine out of a casket.

"Shh," Clarice said, hoping she sounded soothing. In truth, she was at a loss. Tears were rare visitors in the Hightower family and when they came, one hid them as well as one could. She had not seen Alicent cry since their mother's death, and back then, those had been pretty tears cried for the onlookers as much as for her grief.

"What should I do?" Alicent sobbed against her shoulder and right then, Clarice might have changed fate. Hers, Alicent's, the realm's.

But in her sister's arms, she was too much herself.

"You will win the king. You will be queen. I will help you."

Alicent's small, sweaty, bloody fingers reached for her hand and clutched it tightly.

~o~

Her sister married the king two days after her sixteenth nameday. She was a beautiful bride, everyone agreed, and no one seemed to notice or mind that she was not a happy one.

Clarice served her young queen as she had the older. Alicent's household was larger than Aemma's – the populous Reach had sent the sweetest daughters and their cautious lady mothers to serve the Hightower queen.

But where Aemma's smaller court had been filled with laughter and chatter and song Alicent's was awkward and silent. A queen was never alone but that did not mean she was not lonely. A queen had no friends. All the young maids that had been sent north to serve her, cousins and former playmates, they all wanted her favour. They wanted to sing to Alicent and be praised by her, they wanted to learn her secrets and be proud to be her confidante, perhaps betray these secrets to their scheming parents. They wanted to bask in the glow of her jewels but not a single one of them cared about her.

Alicent had always been shy, and she had never made friends easily, none of them had. Their father had encouraged allies, not liabilities.

The only friend Alicent had ever had was Rhaenyra and the princess had not taken kindly to her friend's marriage to her father.

The two had not spoken a dozen words since the wedding.

Burdened by loneliness, the weight of her new role and her ageing husband, Alicent became a shadow. She hid behind her books, histories and tales of the Seven and soon, the faith became her armour, her shield, her retreat when court life overwhelmed her. She clutched the seven pointed star to her heart with empty conviction and the septa was never far to whisper in her ear, offer a respite from all the voices around the queen, each one trying to drone out the others.

Clarice had envied her sister for her position, she had envied her for their father's pride and the casualness with which she had been thus elevated.

But as Alicent chewed her fingers bloodier than ever, as this once shy but happy girl became more and more withdrawn, Clarice could not envy her. Had their father heeded her counsel and made Clarice queen instead of her dewy-eyed sister, why, they might have both been happier for it. Alicent would have been happy as a great lady, far away from court, far away from power. She would have liked to tend to the roses at Highgarden and she would have found beauty even in the ugly keep that was Casterly Rock or the thick walls of Storm's End. Clarice, on the other hand, was used to keeping people at a distance, would have enjoyed her new power and she had borne so many fumbling attempts at coupling, that Viserys' clumsy lovemaking would not have fazed her as much as it did Alicent. But fathers rarely heeded their daughter's counsel and so, Clarice was envious and Alicent was desperate.

She would return from the king's chambers at night, shaking despite her heavy robes, her eyes dead and dull. Clarice would wait for her there, press a cup of mulled wine into her hand and then wait until the queen had fallen into a restless sleep. Only then would she leave the holdfast, cross the moat into the bailey, hasten down the serpentine stairs, climb up the many steps to her maiden bedchamber in the Tower of the Hand before she, too, could fall into bed.

As Alicent's marriage had left her friendless, she clung to Clarice like a royal bur at first. For a time, it seemed the estranged sisters would reconcile, but too much water had flowed down the Blackwater. No matter how often her sister expressed her gratitude for her presence, Clarice felt she was a second choice and, having been the second choice all her life, it simply wasn't enough to make her open her heart to her sister again. Alicent, likewise, felt like Clarice stepped in out of duty rather than sisterly affection, and felt all the lonelier for it.

Necessity soon meant that she had to confide in Clarice nonetheless – their father was distant and busy, all her maids and ladies were in someone's pay and only her sister had no hidden agenda. And yet, the closeness that was between two sisters, the closeness that had been there once before their mother's death, would not come. The elder was too distant and envious, the younger too disappointed and insecure, and neither could give voice to these feelings.

So the next year dragged on, Alicent's stomach swelled and flattened, and her sister was there. Rhaenyra's courtship was postponed again and again.

Her mother and brother have just passed, the king said at first, let her mourn her loss. Her father remarried, let her come to terms with that. She has a half-brother now, let her get to know him. But as Rhaenyra grew only wilder and more wilful, even the most indulgent father had to put his foot down – or let his Hand do it for him.

And so, a year and a half later, it was announced that the Princess of Dragonstone was in want of a husband and would hear all offers, brought forth by a man of unbroken

noble lineage.

Thus the game began.