CHAPTER TWO.
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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

DYLAN THOMAS,
IN COUNTRY SLEEP
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CLARYSSE IS BORN A SUMMER CHILD. With soft chestnut hair that shines a bright ember under the blazing Southern sun and luminous eyes blue as the sea, she is the very embodiment of warmth and prosperity.

She never had to live through winter and its harsh winds or frozen fingers. The icy sensation of cold hands grabbing at her neck comes only once in her life, in the form of a man.

Lady Clarysse is adored and cherished, showered with the soft affection her parents can only give to a girl — and she is their first, after three sons. She spends her early years raised in the comfort of Highgarden, far from court life and all its intrigues. Her father is the only one to ride all the way to King's Landing, always bringing her back a gift, an exquisite dress or beautiful jewelry. She does not notice what he brings back for her mother: whispered words and frightened looks.

     Of course, she is not dense enough to miss Robert's Rebellion or any of its troubles even at the tender age of three but she is sheltered and too young to understand. After all, girls aren't groomed for such things. Clarysse is not supposed to inconveniece herself with battles and war strategies. No, she is taught to run a castle, birth a handfull of children and please a husband. She is taught to be the good litte lady. And perfect she is. She is as obedient as she is gracious, as pretty as she is clever. And if there's a pinch of her grandmother's cunning hidden behind bright blue eyes, well — no one has to know. In any case, it pales next to Margaery's sly ambition, though her sister is perfectly capable of concealing it.

The world outside of the Reach is rather foreign to her, the tumultuous landscape of Westeros entirely unknown but then she enters her seventeenth year and with it, come the whispers of an heir yet unmarried. However dainty and pretty Clarysse seems to all the world, she is no simpering fool. She certainly knows that her father wants her to become a princess and, after some time, queen. Their family has always been ambitious, reaching for the stars, and now an opportunity has been presented to them on a golden platter. After aiding the royal family during Robert's Rebellion years ago, the Tyrells are hoping for some kind of handsome reward. And what could be more handsome than crown prince Aegon himself?

Clarysse watches her somber reflection in the looking glass while her handmaid is fussing about the elaborate dress she has chosen to wear to supper. It is a fine gown of rich sapphire colour with long, flowing sleeves that almost reach the floors in a beauteous cascade. She has been restless all night, sleep stubbornly avoiding her, and has fallen prey to a horde of unwelcome thoughts she has been trying hard to suppress. Clarysse thinks of the rumours surfacing in the castle's walls every now and then, and the whispers between servants, thinks of her grandmother and her ambition, of her brothers without a single care in the world, of herself whose dreams are soon to crumble into dust. And of Rhaegar Targaryen, looking for a bride for his heir.

The maid has worked miracles, and soon Clarysse leaves her chambers to break her fast, her hair beautifully braided in a half-crown atop of her head, a few ringlets framing her face. She decends from her tower, down to the gardens, where lily pads sway on the pond's surface and cherry trees hunch over marvel walkways. Pale green granite paves the paths and courtyard. Clarysse finds it hard to believe that one day she will not frequent those grounds anymore. It is a day she fears — and one that may come sooner rather than later. She remembers how youthful she had once roamed the castle and its gardens, happy and joyous, rich brown hair rippling like waves as she walked the corridors. The memory of her own joy warms Clarysse as she finally reaches her destination. She stares at the ironwood door, daunted.

Clarysse expells a bated breath, twisting the door handle and letting herself into her father's private chambers.

She kisses her grandmother's cheeks, says, "Good morrow," and is seated at her usual place beside Margaery.

There is some talk of no importance to which Clarysse does not listen to until finally, her father proudly exclaims, "There has been a raven from the king," he says and then turning to her, "How would you like going to King's Landing, sweetling?" Lord Tyrell asks her, face bright with anticipation. Her father likes things best that are sweet and pliant, so she has always been his favourite.

     Dread settles deep in her gut at her father's words. Clarysse feels her stomach lurch, feels her throat beginning to constrict, but she lifts her chin and smiles. His question doesn't truly require a response, still she answers like the dutiful daughter she is. "It would be the greatest pleasure, father."

     That is enough for him to turn away once more and begin chatting animatedly with her grandmother. Plans would have to be made, they agree, and then they would set forth to the capital within a fortnight.

     They would spend four months as guests in the Red Keep, but their true purpose is, of course, far more daunting. Discussions of a betrothal have been quietly broached, between the crownprince and a Tyrell daughter — talks which this visit would either scuttle or cement. Four moons to decide a lifetime, Clarysse thinks darkly.

     Clarysse is lost in the fear of it, does not notice the silent words that pass between the two, the pride in every line of their faces. They can already picture the dainty crown resting upon her chestnut locks. Her family is so lost in the imagination of it that they are blind to her anxiety. Solely Margaery takes a shivering hand in her lap and squeezes, giving her some comfort. No one knows Clarysse so well as Margaery and it soothes her upset. She feels a swell of love towards her younger sister, who has the quick, sometimes cruel wit of their grandmother, yes, but above all a kind heart. Of course, Clarysse is not blind to the ambition growing in her sister's heart, she knows that Margaery sometimes wishes to be in her place. But their tragedy is this: Clarysse would glady give the honour of being the oldest daughter to Margaery and Margaery would never take anything that rightfully belongs to Clarysse. They are sisters, after all, they are born of the same sun.

In a short moment of madness, Clarysse dwells on telling her father that she refuses to go, that she has no wish of visiting King's Landing and being sold off to the crownprince like cattle. Margaery would happily take her place.

It wouldn't have mattered though, would it?

What the king commands, they follow.

     What other choice is there?

     And even if the chance of refusing happened to exist, Clarysse would always do her duty. As the daughter of House Tyrell, she has a destiny to fulfill.

She has, this far in her life — only a ten-and-seven-year-old body, and yet a spirit so weighed down it upholds deep wrinkles, wrinkles of time, as sinuous as the roots of the weirwood trees of the North — not known the turmoil her soul is bravely taking on at each and every one of her breaths. Clarysse doesn't even feel safe in her own home. The thought of going to King's Landing is such a terrifying one that she struggles to keep her composure.

     Clarysse has no wish to be married even at the age of seven-and-ten, particularly not to the crownprince and having to go live in the cold, grey waste that she imagines is King's Landing. Other ladies may be properly wedded and bedded at that age but not Clarysse, not when Highgarden has already triumphed so in the last years. There is no need for the girls to wed, save for ambition. And Clarysse wants to stay forever in the ripe plains of her homeland and it is her deepest and most sincere regret — one that dwells at the bottom of her heart, that she cannot confide, even to Margaery — that she was not born a man.

     But the world is cruel. That is the first lesson life taught her. She would do well to remember it.

     Very rarely, she allows herself to contemplate the gaping holes of her soul and the violation she had to endure. It had shattered her into a thousand pieces. That glass, today, is still slicing and cutting sharp every time she thinks of the evening. At times, Clarysse feels as if living only for others — for her mother and father, her brothers and sister, who all love her dearly — but not for herself. She is a ghost walking amongst the living. The past beats inside her like a second heart.

Still, she sits and waits and smiles.

Clarysse closes her eyes, and breathes deep.

When she opens her eyes again, she is still whole. She is still living. She is still here.

We must all do our duty, she tells herself and is rewarded with a rush of determination.

Lady Alerie looks all but enthusiastic throughout the entire meal and turns to her daughter when they take their leave together. "Are you certain you wish to go?"

No, Clarysse wants to say. I will never be up to such a thing. I want nothing less than to court a prince. But this freedom is for fisherwomen at Oldtown, not the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.