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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ━━━━━━━━━ Though lovers may be lost, love shall not.
DYLAN THOMAS ━━━━━━━━━
CLARYSSE REFUSES TO LEAVE HER CHAMBERS for two days. She allows herself this time during which the court certainly gossips. She rests. And she grieves.
The minutes trickle by, slow like a lifetime. Minutes turn into hours, and Clarysse is convinced dozens must have passed, but no. It's the heartbreak, toying with her, making her catch glimpses of a woman, from the corner of her eye. Sometimes she wears virginal white; sometimes she wears red, always besider her a man with silken silver hair. Is it Sansa Stark? Is it herself? Or someone else entirely?
The first day her rage is black and red and smoke, smoldering and sparking at turns, Aegon's silence, the king's choice, Sansa Stark's glowing smile. Clarysse thinks of silver hair and violet eyes and white skin, she thinks of betrayal and honour, she thinks of those things lost that she believed would belong to her.
The second day the rage is blue and softer and something inside her curls like a dying leaf, trembling and withered, and Clarysse thinks of the smell of spice and freedom in Braavos.
The higher the climb, the higher the fall, it echoes in her head.
In that time, her sister comes to see her, trying to comfort her. Loras doesn't know what to say, so he brings her sweetcakes from the kitchen and sits with her in silence. Even Princess Rhaenys orders for flowers to be sent to her chambers.
It is what finally compels her to rise, to call for her handmaidens so that they may wash her before leaving her chambers. Clarysse knows not what she will do — she longs to scream and rail, but fears she may instead cry, and while she ponders her actions, she calls for bucket after bucket of hot water. The servants pour it over her and it scalds, turning her skin hot and red, and she watches as they turn away to gasp for air, their faces flushed as they struggle to breathe in the smothering heat.
It is the sweetest pain, and Clarysse rises from the waters reborn, no longer the maiden of Highgarden who had dreamed of a gallant knight. The heat melts away some of her softness, the tenderness at the corners of her heart, and leaves her lean and reasonable. The girl suffocates in the steam and the woman bursts forth. She steps from the bath and leaves her old self behind, and with lowered eyes, her maids rush forward to wrap her in soft linens.
Clarysse decends the steps of the Maidenvault, down to her family's chambers, where lily pads sway on the water's surface and pear trees hunch over marvel walkways. Pale grey granite paves the paths and courtyard. She stares at the ironwood door, daunted.
Clarysse expells a bated breath, twisting the door handle and letting herself into her family's chambers.
Her grandmother sits behind a desk. "My dear," she greets, smile somber.
She kisses her cheek and bids her to sit.
"I called you here because our hopes of making an alliance with the crown have been crushed," Lady Olenna says carefully as if explaining something to a particularly stupid child. "A long betrothal has been announced due to the girl's young age and while that may still be broken when the time comes, the king seems steadfast in his foolishness."
A long betrothal, it echoes in her head. She would've rather had the whole thing over with. To see them wedded and bedded, so she could leave this city for good. To never return. To never frequent the gardens again, where she had strolled with Aegon almost daily. To never walk these halls again. To never see him again. Of course, that is a silly dream. He will be king one day and she is the daughter of a great lord. To never see him again is unlikely.
Her grandmother goes on, "Yet a lady of your breeding and age should be married to someone that befits her station. Your father has found a good match for you."
Clarysse's eyes flicker up to hers in a mild panic. She has known, of course, that they'd never let her go free, but she'd hoped that they wouldn't force her to marry so soon. She'd hoped for a few more months of freedom.
But just like all the rest of her hopes, that fantasy is shattered in front of her eyes.
There will be no argument. If she were younger, she'd stamp her foot. If she were older, she'd pluck as many gold dragons from the chest in her father's solar as she could carry and cross the Narrow Sea to Essos. But Clarysse is neither young enough to pout nor old enough to be bold. She is seven-and-ten instead, clasped in that perfectly suffocating corridor between one patriarch and the next.
She raises her head. If her eyes are glassy, no tears are shed. And if she has fears — small and squirming, and leaving her the scared girl once more — no one bears witness. She is a Tyrell; eldest daughter of Lord Mace.
Lady Olenna is looking at her expectantly and she forces herself to speak softly and with respect. "I will do my duty."
SHE SNEAKS INTO MARGAERY'S CHAMBERS as though they are children still and crawls into bed next to her sister, cheek pressing to her hair. Tyrell hair, smelling like flowers and freedom.
Their feet tangle together beneath the sheets, and Clarysse remembers so many similar nights full of whispered, breathless secrets, as though saying the words quietly would keep them safe. Her heart is full of secrets, now, heavier and darker than those past shared, and they weigh so heavily Clarysse thinks they will consume her heart and leave her bare.
"I don't want to be wed," she whispers, her voice thick with grief, into Margaery's hair. Her bones ache, and she clings.
"You don't have to," Margaery says softly, her voice uncertain. "I will marry him myself. What does it matter which sister he marries?"
Clarysse shakes her head. The love she holds for her sister is more than she can bear.
She shudders with another sob, tucking her knees into Margaery's. "I love him." She breaks off when her sister gives a half-choked sob at that, and it only makes Clarysse weep harder, for Margaery never cries, she is the strong one, but she is hurting, too. Clarysse knows that Margaery has harboured ambitions to marry Aegon as well. But Maegaery is just a girl, no matter her cunning, and at that moment Clarysse feels closer to her sister than she ever has.
Margaery rolls over so that she can embrace her as well, her cheek pressing to the top of her head, and they cry together, quietly, for tomorrow there can be no more tears.
