CHAPTER SEVEN.
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The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

OSCAR WILDE
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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 are 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.

     They stop under a canopy of trees, blossoming with beautiful yellow flowers. Clarysse smiles up at them, remembering her own home. It flowers there almost all the time. But the palace gardens have their own sort of beauty. The memory of home stirs the realisation in her that if she were truly to stay here and wed this man — as her father and grandmother certainly believe — she should at least try and get to know him. She has come to know how people think he is and perhaps they are correct in their perception of him. But with the possibility of becoming his wife in the near future, it would not do to rely on the opinion of others. Clarysse will have to come to a conclusion of her own.

     "Politics don't interest you," she states, suddenly feeling bold. "Why?"

     Aegon shrugs. "Because it's fatally boring."

     She corrects him cautiously, "Because you don't know what it is to be without power. Because you have no interest in changing a world that suits you so well."

The answer gives Aegon pause. He comes to a halt and turns to look at Clarysse with a frown. "And what would you know of being without power? You are the daughter to one of the most powerful families in the Realm."

She lifts her chin haughtily and stares back at him with a sort of defiance that makes Aegon's mouth quirk up. She certainly has the spirit of her grandmother. "I am a woman, for one, and save for Dorne, women hold no power in the Seven Kingdoms," she says and gives him a wry smile. "I have certainly more power than the fisherwomen at the docks, but little power nonetheless."

     "I have heard that a husband may be ruled by his wife."

     "I shall come back to you on that one after my father has sold me to the highest bidder like cattle," she counters, smile intact but brittle.

Aegon's smile freezes. He is going about this all wrong. His intentions were right but now he's done the opposite of his efforts to be sensitive.

     Clarysse is sharp, for someone so young, and for a high-born lady that is taught to bite her tongue. Aegon can give her that. Still, she is messy, leaving crumbs behind every time she finishes a sentence, small details that he collects and carefully threads together with a needle as he has seen Rhaenys do countless of times; like the embroidery of his sister, it is becoming richer in its colours and more intricate in its patterns, and just when he thinks he managed to make out an image, the needle would prick his finger.

     He takes a step forward. And then his hand is on her arm. The contact startles her. Clarysse looks up at him with wide eyes.

His gaze is gentle as he looks down at her, and his hand remains on her arm. "I am sorry for my lack of consideration, my lady. My sister often tells me I have much to learn about the hardships of women."

An unexpected rush of warmth washes over Clarysse. Not many men of his station would be able to apologise so readily, she supposes. Many would consider it a weakness. Not Aegon, it seems. She looks back at him and smiles, small but sincere.

"Your thoughtlessness is acknowledged," she says, even as she realises that the crownprince of the Seven Kingdoms has no need for her accepting his apology. "And pardoned."

He smiles back at her as relief rushes through him. He didn't realise he was holding his breath. She puts her hand over his and something changes between them almost immediately. Never had she initiated any contact between them. It had always been Aegon.

There is a half-smile playing around his lips, but Aegon's eyes do not move, hoping to draw a reaction out of her; despite how hard it seems to be. Aegon keeps fixating her with his eyes, and he mentally tries to make her face move: when he glances at her and witnesses a slight twitch of her rosy lips, he silently cries for victory.

     He steps back and so does she, but their eyes do not leave one another. There is a moment of silence in the wake of whatever has just passed between them.

     "Shall we head back?" Clarysse breathes, unable to find her voice when Aegon is looking at her the way that he is. With confusion in his eyes and something else she can't place. She finds she is too scared to try.

     Aegon only nods, and she sets off ahead of him, aware of his presence at her back. They come to a stop at the entrance to the gardens and Clarysse steals a glance at him. Sensing her gaze on him, Aegon whips his head towards her and smiles. He is so free with his smiles, it almost endears him to her.

He leans forward. Clarysse notes that he has a habit of invading her personal space. "Will you meet me again tomorrow?" he asks.

"If my prince wishes for me to," she replies.

"And what does my lady wish for?"

     Clarysse swallows. Her opinion has mattered so little in the last months, that she is unsure what she wants anymore. But she does cherish their walks, and more reluctantly she admits, I do cherish him.

     Aegon is a little arrogant and spoiled, to put it gently. But even so, there's something about talking to him, walking with him, that puts Clarysse at ease. Aegon talks to her not in condescension like so many lords but instead like a person, like someone deserving of respect and it's nice. "I would certainly like for us to meet tomorrow."

     Aegon smiles at the answer as she gives him a quick curtsey and then walks off, her chestnut hair swishing behind her.

     She is no temptress but he is tempted still.