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CHAPTER SEVEN. ━━━━━━━━━ The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
OSCAR WILDE ━━━━━━━━━
CLARYSSE'S TIME IN KING'S LANDING can be described with one word: exhausting. It isn't just the constant posturing, the expectation that she should prattle on with the daughters of every grasping lord that seeks favour with House Tyrell — though that has certainly gotten old quickly. No, it is the growing sense that she is nothing but a piece of meat being dangled for men's attention.
Of course, Clarysse has always known that she is destined for more than a life as the lady of a minor house. Her father's ambitions are legendary.
Aegon and her have taken to walks in the gardens. She loves the gardens. She feels free out here, instead of cooped up in the Red Keep. Sometimes she invites Margaery along, but her sister always seems to have some sort of excuse not to accompany them.
She would never admit it to anyone, hadn't even admitted to herself not too long ago, but she has been quite fond of him from the start. She can at least reluctantly admit to herself of being fond of Aegon now, enjoys her afternoons in his company because he is charming, his cleverness manifesting itself in easy wit, his handsome face and effortless charisma drawing her in. Even as she tries her hardest to close her heart off to him — it is a treacherous thing that beats in her chest.
But after what has been taken from her, Clarysse is determined to never lose anything again. And so, she is stubborn in her disregard of him. I must be, she tells herself.
Still, Aegon keeps Clarysse at his side constantly. Brushes his fingers on her arm as they walk about the courtyards.
In flesh, she may be. But she is far away from him. He can sense it. Her blue eyes are round and wide on his as they chatter, but there is a distance in their shadows. Something in the way she holds herself. Tension piquing the corners of her eyes — as if it is a mask she wears, not her true face.
He does his best to break those strings. Little smiles thrown at her in the halls. A touch that leaves her breathless, bright-cheeked beneath an archway. But she is almost wooden. Her hand is on his arm, but her eyes are elsewhere. He feels her against him: strung tight as a puppet. He wonders — not for the first time — why it is that she is so restless in his company. No lady ever seems to be.
And she is so hard for Aegon to read; he is too used to Rhaenys' free laughter, Oberyn's wild grins, Jon's tapping fingers and his mother's expressive eyes. Even his father and his melancholy is easier for him to discern. Looking at Clarysse is like looking through milkglass. He never knows if what he sees is what she truly feels, or only a reflection of what he thinks.
