CHAPTER FOUR.
━━━━━━━━━
We all wear masks and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing our own skin.

ANDR BERTHIAUME
━━━━━━━━━

               IT IS SOMETHING CLARYSSE HAS NEVER LEARNT: what it means to be alone. All her life she has been surrounded on all sides. By flesh and by ghosts. The quiet, moving shades of mothers, brothers, distant ancestors at her back, showing her the way.

Clarysse hopes they will continue doing so for she is completely and utterly lost.

If only she could be honest. If only she need not weigh her every word, her every gesture, always guessing at the consequences, knowing her future depends on the whims of strangers. All my life I have tried to be good, and dutiful, and obedient, she thinks bitterly, feeling the hard marble floor through the paper thin soles of her shoes. But that is no longer enough. I must be the person they expect me to be. But what sort of person is that?

Titled, chaste and innocent. Clarysse wonders whether that is all she is entitled to be. Whether the only wish for a respectable lady is to be married — in love if one would find herself so lucky — and to produce heirs. Surely there must be something else in life to aspire to.

Arriving to King's Landing, Clarysse holds two convictions: one, that she is not interested to be wed, not to lords who paraded impeccably around courting innocent young ladies at balls only to close their nights in brothels and especially not to a prince. Two, that if she does not secure a husband herself, her father will make a match with someone half her wits.

Clarysse had needed a walk to get away from her family. All it did was make her chest ache for home. She loves to take long walks, breathe the fresh air, enjoy the summer, which is forbidden for young ladies as tanned skin is highly unfashionable. So naturally, when she gets the chance, she makes the most of it.

The trees of the gardens are heavy with blossom. Around her the world is all noise: lords and ladies chatter, the birds chirp and sing, dogs bark. This forest of blossom is quiet, though, in the crimson spill of dusk, and Clarysse looks out onto Blackwater Bay from one of the stone benches.

     Clarysse is suddenly reminded that this may become her home and that she may not return to the Reach in many years. She would be confined to the Red Keep for the better part of her marriage while producing plenty of children. She listenes to the chirping of the birds with a heaviness in her heart that makes her want to curl up in her bed and never come out again.

     It is something she learns in that single moment: what it is to be alone. All her life surrounded on all sides. By flesh and by ghosts. By puppets, too. That is what she is — here, now — a puppet strung-tight by the hand that moves her. Tears prick at her eyes, but Clarysse wills them down.

Still, her frown remains and she crushes a handful of blossom.

To her left, she hears the faint, hesitant steps of someone who is uncertain whether to disturb her or leave her to herself.

Clarysse looks up from the fallen blossoms in her lap. "Your Grace," she greets with a soft smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

     He's pretty. She has noticed that before, of course, it would be hard not to, even if the entire realm wasn't always talking about his beauty, which it does. The silver prince, the songs call him, more beautiful than the dragonlords of old. He is beautiful, she's not about to deny such a thing, but almost unnervingly so, in a way. If there is no fault to be found on the outside, there is most likely something rotten on the inside, Clarysse presumes.

"May I sit with you for a while, my lady?" he asks gallantly.

She swallows around the lump that keeps trying to form in her throat. Clarysse widens her smile to cover the flutter of nerves in her stomach. She would take Margaery's advice and make the best of this.

     If she can endure what she already has, this will be child's play.

     I am the daughter of Lady Alerie Hightower, Clarysse tells herself, making her back and shoulders straight, folding her hands just above her navel, as her Septa has taught her so many years ago. My father is Lord Tyrell. I will not be afraid.

"I would be delighted," she replies carefully, making some room for Prince Aegon on the bench.

For a while they sit in silence, Aegon notices that Clarysse is watching him. He doesn't mind. He aims to be the sort of man that people like to look at, and doesn't mind much whether they're doing it from want or fear or envy. The way she is watching him now — hesitant, suspicious, out of the corner of her eye, as if that means Aegon won't see her do it — is none of those. That doesn't mean Aegon hasn't seen it before. That doesn't mean it isn't welcome.

When he looks at Clarysse, she startles, like a child with her hand caught in the sweets jar. Aegon grins at her tiger-wide and white, with all his teeth. It has the effect he intends: Clarysse huffs a little, the tension runs out of her shoulders. She looks a little amused, a little exasperated. A little suspicious, still. But he doesn't mind suspicion. She is more than capable of deciding on her own whether she'll trust him.

"Is the Red Keep to your linking so far?"

Clarysse hums. She watches, fascinated, as the drifts fall in white and red around him, catching in his hair, his vest, his lashes. It's hard to look away from him but she manages before her staring becomes obvious. "I must admit that it does not compare to the beauty of Highgarden. And the smell is not quite bearable, if I may be so bold."

Aegon tries to smother a grin but fails. "You get used to it," he replies, amused. "Or so I've been told. Still, there must be some things you like."

      Clarysse shrugs. "Well, at least the stench is barely noticable from up here."

Aegon snorts in a very unprincely way. "I hope to persuade you to appreciate more than that before long," he laughs.

Even Clarysse allows a chuckle to escape her lips, as she looks off to the sunset dappled beyond the drifts of blossom, the boughs of trees. "Admittedly, this spot is deserving of a compliment. It is beautiful here."

"Lovely indeed," he softly replies and when Clarysse turns to look at him, she finds his gaze already on her. She raises a brow in question.

     It is his turn to blush, for a vulnerable light to appear in his lilac eyes and her jaw slackens in incredulity. She hasn't thought it possible to embarrass the famed Aegon Targaryen, but she has, somehow, and the thought loosens the pressure in her chest. They are only human, after all, and when she smiles at him, he smiles in return.

     As their eyes are locked in a close embrace, she wonders whether she should expect a magical feeling. Prince Aegon is a charming man, with a never ceasing smile, and silver curls that give him an angelic look. And yet, despite all his charms, Clarysse does not feel drawn to him. He's too charming, too aware that he doesn't need to ask for the things he desires. He can just take. No one would dare reprimand the crownprince of Westeros for taking whatever he wants.

For a moment, they dwell in comfortable silence, then Clarysse says "I must bid you a good day, Your Grace. My family will be wondering where I have wandered off to." She gives him a cursory apologetic smile.

"It was a pleasure, my lady," Aegon tells her and the truth is plainly written on his face.

     She curtsies flawlessly, and he watches her walk away, her hair like copper in the sunlight.