Chapter Text
Drawing in a long sigh, Claere leaned against the black stone railing of the bridge connecting the Kingspyre and Widow's towers while resting her chin in her hand. Below, Harrenhal was swallowing the last shades of purple and orange as the sun sank.
Her father's words echoed in her mind: "If you don't find a suitable match come winter, I'll choose one." That was the last thing she wanted, knowing her father would definitely favor some old, noble lord that would perish shortly after she gave him an heir.
Claere flipped her golden blonde hair over her shoulder with her free hand, tucking it behind her ear before smoothing out her white, Myrish silk gown. The girl wished she could take a mirror with her everywhere, so that she could make sure she always looked elegant.
From her viewpoint, she could see riders from the North entering the colossal main gate. The men were dressed in heavy furs even though it was still summer, and they all looked gruff and slightly unkempt even from afar. Narrowing her eyes, she saw the sigils of House Reed, House Mormont, House Manderly, and, in the very front of the party, was the direwolf sigil of House Stark of Winterfell. Claere, growing up as Leyton Hightower's daughter in Oldtown, could recognize any sigil from the greatest lengths.
As she looked at the Northerners, she found herself caught in another one of her reveries. I wonder what it would be like to live there with the cold, summer snows. The ladies there must wear their finest wools to keep warm.
Still leaning against her hand deep in thought, she was suddenly startled by her seven-and-ten-year-old brother, Garth. "Rah!" he shouted, coming seemingly out of nowhere and placing his hands on her shoulders.
Claere jumped and quickly spun out of his grip, holding a hand over her heart. "Seven Hells, brother!" she exclaimed, getting upset for a second before seeing the goofy look on his face.
Garth was dressed in his silver squire armor, bent over, laughing with his slightly damp blonde hair falling over his eyes. "I will never tire of seeing that look on your face, sweet sister."
She snorted, "You'd make a better knight if you would stop frightening your family."
The boy shrugged, stepping beside her. "It's quite all right. I am a fine multitasker," he grinned widely, clearly taking pleasure in her annoyance.
Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the arrival party, but they were already out of sight.
"Excited for the tourney? Everyone who's anyone in the Seven Kingdoms is here, even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. It is said that Tywin Lannister stayed back in Casterly Rock due to a quarrel with the King." Garth spoke with his eyes focused on the sunset.
Claere began twirling a loose string of hair in her fingers. "Yes, I am happy to be here," she told him, but her voice lacked real enthusiasm. In truth, she missed her home, especially her cat and horse.
Of course, her brother noticed. He was her closest family member in age and relationship; nothing ever got by him. "Claere, you only play with your hair when there is something wrong. What troubles you?"
She groaned a little, resting her head on his shoulder. "Father expects me to find a suitor here," she admitted.
"What of it? There is more than plenty fine men here that would cherish your hand in marriage."
"But what if the men don't cherish me? What if no one wants to share my bed?" she nervously asked, pursing her lips.
He looked down at her, their deep-blue eyes meeting each other's. "You are a fool if you believe that men wouldn't line up for your hand in marriage," he assured her. "If any man should dishonor you, I will make sure that day is their last day." Garth pressed a quick, comforting kiss to the top of her head.
Smiling, she felt her anxiety mostly dissipate at her brother's words. She knew he was right; she was a noble lady of an ancient house, and any man would love to have her hand. However, she didn't want a man to love her because of her status. Claere would never outwardly admit it, but she was a true hopeless romantic. Yes, she believed in the whole nine yards—love at first sight, soulmates, and fate. Yet, these days, it was getting harder to hold onto those follies as she was pressured more and more to find a husband. She never fancied the fruitless Southern men with their fake compliments and secret-keeping.
After a few more minutes of talking, Garth dismissed himself to tend to Lord Mace Tyrell, the man he was sent to squire for after their nine-and-ten-year-old sister, Alerie, was given away to him.
Claere stayed on the bridge for a bit longer after the sun went down, lost in her daydreams once more. Though eventually, she headed for supper, then to bed, awaiting the beginning of the tournament held in Lord Whent's maiden daughter's name day.
The next morning, she awoke to birds chirping melodically and the warm sun shining in through her window, which almost felt out of place in the gloomy keep of Harrenhal.
Shortly after waking, her handmaiden from Oldtown, a short, young woman with thick brown hair, came in to get her ready for the day; Ilya was her name. She was a woman of few words, working quickly to get Claere dressed in pastel yellow silks with gold jewelry accents, such as bangles, rings, and hairpins. Using the pins, she weaved Claere's hair into a beautiful half-up, half-down fishtail braid.
The blonde girl looked into the silver polished mirror across from her, searching herself for any imperfections. "Ilya, I think you missed a knot," she told the handmaiden, sweeping her hair behind her shoulders. "Brush it until it's as smooth as silk."
Ilya did as she was bidden, combing through the girl's silky, pin-straight hair until it was to Claere's liking. "Your family is breaking fast downstairs, M'Lady," she announced, prompting a dismissal.
Claere allowed the girl to leave while she stared in the mirror just a little longer, making sure she looked perfect before sauntering down to break her fast.
Around midday, the jousting began. She sat in the wooden stands of the lists that looked out over the misty Gods Eye lake. Her hands rested delicately in her lap, her posture as poised as a queen. To her left sat Alerie, and to her right sat two of her younger sisters: Denyse, a girl of five-and-ten, and Leyla, a year younger, who were sent to find suitors as well.
They watched as men got knocked and thrown from their horses, but Claere's mind was somewhere else, per usual. She was scanning the crowd and all of the men around her. Mostly, all she saw were aged men since more than half of the gallant, younger men were in the lists.
However, as her eyes raked over the stands for the fourth time in a row, they landed on a man with dark hair that flowed ethereally in the wind, and a face fit for the romance songs she loved to sing. Even with his slightly rugged appearance, he was by far the most handsome man she had seen in all of her years. He was positioned next to two men who looked similar, but his chiseled jawline and demeanor stood out to her the most. Just sitting down and watching the jousting, he seemed to exude solemnity and debonairness. When he laughed at something the man next to him said, butterflies flew through her stomach. His smile was perhaps the brightest thing she'd seen in the Seven Kingdoms. But when his eyes began wandering the crowd, she quickly turned her attention back to the lists.
"Oh, Claere, look! Ser Jaime Lannister is jousting next!" Leyla proclaimed, tugging at Claere's arm and pointing with the opposite hand.
She managed to snap out of her daydreams, watching Ser Jaime brutally take down his opponent, followed by Prince Rhagaer Targaryen donning him in a white cloak, inducting him into his father's Kingsguard. However, her eyes kept involuntarily drifting to that striking stranger in the crowd.
"Who is that man, Alerie?" Claere asked when the tourney was finished for the day, gesturing to the stranger from before as the sisters began to head towards the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
Alerie elegantly held her green silks up as she walked, turning to her sister. "Are you meaning one of the Starks?" She squinted and looked in the direction Claere pointed towards.
"Possibly. The man with the longer hair and a smile like the sun itself," she swooned with her voice brightening.
Alerie practically scoffed, "I have never heard anyone speak about a Stark in that way, sister. That's Eddard Stark, second eldest son of Rickard Stark, the Warden of the North."
Keeping her eyes on the man for as long as she could, Claere smiled to herself. "You don't fancy him?" she teased Alerie.
The older girl took her sister's arm and picked up their pace. "Oh, sweet sister, the North is full of gallant men, but they're much better to look at than to speak with."
Claere nodded her head, pretending to note the words, but really she was already attempting to build up the courage to somehow speak to him as they strolled into the hall for supper.