Clifford
It was a strange thing, to realise something about oneself which had been present for years.
For Clifford, some signs of manhood were a distraction, a hindrance which took his attention away from those which mattered. He dreamed of being like the heroes he'd heard of; the marchers in the ballads who had always defended the Stormlands from invaders. They spent their lives at the sword, winning renown through song, some of which had been passed down for dozens of generations.
What was anything compared to that? He never wanted to discuss women with the pages and squires who filled his childhood. He wanted to train with them, to learn about warfare and knighthood. When they began to speak of which girls they wanted most, who was most likely to fuck them, how much it would cost to pay Priss, it was all rubbish to him. And yet, he knew it was a rite of passage which he would have to at least feign interest in achieving.
Thankfully, it had been Priss who had been his salvation. She had been so sweet to him when he'd given her some coins that he'd stolen from his father and begged her to pretend as though he had fucked her. She had agreed, and her performance had been masterful. A shy smile, a giggle, an aversion of eyes, even a hint of a blush. That was all that had been needed to convince the other boys that Clifford was one of them, even if he wasn't a squire.
It was so strange, then, that Clifford had not fully realised the truth about himself from that experience alone. Such desires had not been encouraged, but nor were they entirely condemned. Boys japed, as did some men, but Clifford knew full well that Blackhaven's master of horse was fond of one of the guardsmen. It hadn't occurred to him why that was, or what they did together, not until Harrold Osgrey had seduced him in the godswood.
He had almost never pleasured himself before that night; it had been tedious to try and arouse himself in the past. And it had always been a humiliation when he'd awoken to messy sheets with memories of dreams that were gone before he could recall them properly.
Now he had a clear image - a visceral experience - to draw upon, and he was desperate for more.
Thus, when he awoke the next morning, he ignored his headache and got dressed. He hurried down to the Great Hall once Titus was awake and clothed, hoping to see Harrold at breakfast.
His hopes were rewarded. There was Harry, but he was sitting with a group of other squires. Clifford approached more slowly, turning to Titus, "Ser, may I sit-"
"Go on," Titus answered, giving that same strange smile on his face. Clifford might have wondered what it meant, but he was too eager to go be with Harrold.
"Hello, Harry," Clifford declared as he approached the table.
He had already been smiling and laughing with the others, but his grin took on a new meaning when he noticed Clifford.
"Well met again, Cliff," he remarked, standing up to clasp Clifford's hand, as if they were comrades-in-arms rather than youths who had made each other climax in the shadow of the trees. Clifford knew it was the sensible thing to do, but he could not help feeling disappointed; he knew he would have to wait.
The other squires were the same ones who had been present at the feast, whose masters were such close associates of Lord Daemon Blackfyre. They japed about how wine-sodden that they and the knights had been, mocking each other's misery through mouthfuls of food. Harrold and several others had drunk far less than the others, for they were set to ride in the final lists of the squire's tourney that day.
Clifford enjoyed the company, laughing with the others, and he followed them out of the hall when a herald called for the remaining squires to assemble. Here, at long last, he had a chance to walk with Harry, unnoticed by the others.
"I dreamed of you," Clifford whispered into Harry's ear.
Harry grinned broadly, "I was that good, eh?"
He gave Clifford a playful shove, even as Clifford laughed shyly. "Who will be your first opponent?"
"Tyrek Lydden," Harry answered, "Robb Reyne's squire."
"Ill news," Clifford murmured. Robb Reyne was one of the last knights who were still in the main tourney, and the last one from the Westerlands to hold that honour.
"Not good enough after all, am I?" Harry shoved Clifford again, laughing at Clifford's expression.
Clifford still had his doubts about Harrold's chances, even as he cheered him on from the stands, alongside the other squires.
"Three half-pennies on Harry," shouted Wyman Lonmouth.
"Six groats on Tyrek," countered Barnard Cupps.
Clifford had no money that he was willing to bet, so he kept silent and ignored the wagers.
Harrold and Tyrek charged one another, looking so much like the knights whom they admired and served. Clifford wondered if Harrold would get his knighthood at the tourney like his older brother had.
It was one thing to watch riders jousting, but quite another to worry about the safety of one of them. Reflexively, Clifford cried out and rose to his feet when the lances crashed against the squires' shields. Luckily, he was not alone; the others shouted their approval as both squires stayed on their horses.
A second round was declared, with Tyrek and Harrold being given new lances. Once again, they spurred their rounseys forward, lance points shaking in the air. This time, Harrold proved victorious; his lance hit the top corner of Tyrek's shield, knocking him off his horse and into the dust. Cries of alarm sounded, turning to cheers when Tyrek rose to his feet again.
Clifford applauded vigorously, shouting Harrold's name as the other squires exchanged money between them. He was ever after convinced that Harry heard his voice and gave him a wave as he rode back down the lists.
Much to his own surprise, Clifford lost interest in the rest of the jousts; he ran down to meet with Harrold amongst the pavilions while he was waiting for his next turn. Too many people surrounded them for a moment alone, much to Clifford's frustration. The next best thing was to stay close together, conversing and flirting in quiet voices, and then to go and watch Harry triumph against his competitors one by one.
By the time it was midday, only four squires were left; Harrold was to ride against Clarence Cargyll. Harrold had returned to his seat amongst the other boys and youths; nobody questioned his absence, for they assumed he'd gone to see Ser Titus; a squire was always required to serve his master foremost.
As usual, the two horsed warriors couched lances as the horses broke into a dead sprint down the list. The contact was so brief that one could have missed it with a blink, but the aftermath was clear as day. Harrold fell from his horse with a crash of metal, his helmet coming off.
Remembering Garrison Dalt, Clifford gave a cry of alarm and ran down to the ground level, but Harrold was already getting up, with nothing but bruises and a cut over his eye. Despite the courtesy that he showed the Cargyll lad, Clifford could sense Harrold's disappointment at having lost.
Later, he sat beside Harrold and helped take off his armour.
"What did your father think when Ser Titus took you on as a squire?" Harrold asked quietly.
Clifford paused, then shrugged, "He was happy, I suppose."
"You suppose?" Harrold sounded surprised.
Clifford felt awkward having to explain his father. But why not? How would Harry know him? "My father is not a man who laughs easily. He buries himself in his work like a mole in the dirt."
"Was he disappointed that you wanted to be a knight?"
Clifford hesitated; the question brought up memories of which he was steadily growing more ashamed. All their life, he and his brother Branston had turned their noses up at their father's attempts to pass on knowledge instead of training them to be warriors. He had never talked disdainfully about knighthood, but nor had he been the sort of man who was proud of such skill. He had amended his lessons to teach them about how to be proper squires, though they had been too young and too stupid to see the sense in it. I must write to him one of these days. I must apologise. Being a knight is not enough.
"Cliff?"
Sighing, Clifford looked up again and gave a voice to his thoughts, revealing the ugly truth of his life and upbringing. By the time he was finished, he was blinking hot tears from his eyes. His hands trembled as he tried to undo Harry's armour from his body while he spoke.
Harry, to his eternal gratitude, said nothing about his emotions, and simply put a hand on Clifford's shoulder, "Your father will understand, and you will make him proud. It is his own loss if he does not see sense."
"Aye," Cliff said uncertainly, "maybe so."
"A squire with his own squire! What a sight to see!"
It was Harrold's father, Ser Eustace. The big man's voice boomed as he approached the youths; it was clear that he was amused rather than scornful. He probably enjoys the sight of his son being served. The double meaning of that thought made Clifford's cheeks redden.
"Where is Ser Titus?" Eustace looked around, as if he was expecting the marcher lord to be hiding from him deliberately.
"He is preparing for the archery contests, Ser," Clifford replied.
"Ah, yes, of course. Wish him the best of luck for me, will you?" Eustace ruffled Clifford's hair with one hand even as his other one clapped his son on the shoulder, "Ser Rupert was looking for you, best not to dawdle."
"Sorry, Father," Harrold answered, using a tone of voice which he only ever seemed to use for his conversation with Eustace.
The final squire joust had concluded by the time he parted ways with Harrold. Over the applause and cheers, Clifford heard the herald announce the winner of the squire's tourney. He missed the first name, but he heard the family name to be Caron. No surprise that a marcher won, Clifford thought with a flash of pride.
But he was also troubled; he remembered how Eustace, in his own gruff way, had at least given him words of encouragement after his defeat. He'd offered no such comfort to Harry.
When he found Titus, he was carefully stringing his longbow. It was a fine weapon, large even for a longbow, and the wood was a remarkable colour.
He approached his master sheepishly, "Forgive me, Ser, I can string that if you wish..."
"No need, Clifford," Titus replied without looking up from his task, "I will take care of this bow myself." He finished stringing it with a grunt.
"Is that yew, Ser?"
"Goldenheart." As Titus answered, he was hefting the bow and testing it by drawing an arrow.
The arrow sprang from the bow, whistling through the air before slamming into the practice target with a firm thud.
Clifford had heard of goldenheart before. "That's Summer Isles wood, no? They make the best bows in the world!"
"Second best," Titus corrected him. "Dragonbone is better, but small chance of anyone making more of those."
"All the same, that must have cost a fortune." Clifford eyed the magnificent weapon with reverence.
"Mayhaps, but this was a gift," Titus said solemnly.
Clifford could think of three people who might have gifted him the bow, but he knew better than to ask Titus about it.
When the archery contest began in earnest, Titus was the given the first shot, on account of him being the highest-ranked participant. Clifford found that odd, since there were three other knights participating, but then he remembered that most were referring to Titus as the Lord of Blackhaven, and since Titus was not correcting them, he saw no need to do so either.
His arrow set the standard, for though it was not dead center, it was very close. No archer like a marcher. That was the old saying in Blackhaven, and doubtless it was also said in Nightsong, Harvest Hall, and Stonehelm. Indeed, many of the competing archers had come from those places.
As the archers took their turns, Clifford stood with Titus on the sidelines. Like any good archer, Titus had unstrung his goldenheart longbow for the time being.
Even as he did that, though, he had fixed Clifford with a thoughtful expression. "You seem to have a good rapport with Ser Eustace's son."
What do I say to that? And how much does he know of it? Clifford shrugged and tried to say something nonchalant to conceal his uncertainty, but he trailed off into mumbling before any proper answer was given. He cursed himself inwardly for being such an obvious fool.
Titus showed no amusement, however; he simply looked solemn. "I have a request of you, Clifford. It will not be easy to hear, but you might be able to save two lives if you succeed."
Clifford felt cold shivers go down his spine; the idea that he might hold the lives of Uthor and Edgar Dalt in his hands did nothing to assuage the tempest of emotions which left him dumbfounded.
"If it is possible, can you try and find out if Harrold or his kin might know where to find Maegor Toyne?"
Clifford felt his insides turn cold. He was already worried enough that his lover was a party to this dreadful plot which Titus was investigating, and the idea of wheedling information out of Harry felt even more alarming.
Titus paused, and his expression turned thoughtful. "To be clear, I am asking you to try. Nothing more."
Does he know? It was pointless to wonder, for he was certainly not going to ask Titus that question. How would he know, anyway? Was I so blatant?
The first round of archery had not finished when the royal delegation arrived. Two knights of the Kingsguard, dressed in their fine armour and white cloaks, led a score of mounted Targaryen men-at-arms and a saddled horse without a rider. Goldcloaks took up the call for people to make way for these new arrivals.
"Lord Titus Dondarrion!"
All eyes, including Clifford's, turned from the Kingsguard knight who had spoken to the man he had addressed. Titus approached the delegation, looking confused. "Yes?"
"Your presence is required at once," the knight announced.
A thousand voices began murmuring together, but Titus seemed to take it remarkably in stride. Without giving up his bow, he mounted the spare horse. Then he looked down at Clifford. "Will you try?"
Please don't make me do this. Anything but this. "Yes, Ser," he replied. What else could he have possibly said?
"*" *"*"*" *"* "*"" *"*"* ""* """**"* "*
The archery competition continued, but Clifford paid it no heed. He asked where he could find Ser Rupert Strickland, and he was directed into the maze of tents and pavilions which had been set up to accommodate those who had assembled for the tourney.
He walked past all manners of sigil, be they beast, object, or shapes. He did not recognise many of them, while he took note of the ones he did.
Finally, he found the silver bullock and green field of House Strickland. It was an old sigil for a powerful house in the Reach, and so their tent was suitably large and well-kept.
Harrold was sitting out in the open, brushing down a massive destrier which could only have belonged to one of the Strickland knights. In keeping with their sigil, the horse had a grey coat which was as close to silver as any animal was going to get.
Clifford approached Harry, only to realise that he had not thought of what to say. By the time that he came to that realisation, it was too late. Harrold sensed his presence, then gave a surprised grin, "What brings you here?"
"I wanted to see you again." That was no lie, but Clifford loathed himself for saying it all the same.
Harry smirked. "Did you give the same excuse to Ser Titus?" He resumed brushing the horse, but not before motioning for Clifford to come closer.
Clifford obeyed, even grabbing the horse by the bridle to assist Harry with his task, "Ser Titus had to leave. He was summoned away by the Kingsguard."
"What?" Harry turned to look at Clifford. "Why?"
Clifford shrugged. "They did not see fit to tell me."
Harrold laughed, as if Clifford had made a jape. Clifford smiled bashfully, then gave a sigh.
"Harry..."
"Aye?"
"Have you seen Maegor Toyne?"
Harrold's hands halted in the middle of his brushing, and he gave a puzzled glance in Clifford's direction. "Why?"
Clifford paused. His mind sprinted from one excuse to the other, and he might have stayed silent for too long if he didn't see the squire called Barnard Cupps inside the Strickland tent, polishing a breastplate. Inspiration struck him in the nick of time.
"I made a bet with him on the first day of the tourney. I won, but now he's been avoiding me ever since." He felt himself blushing as he forced himself to look Harry in the eye. "I didn't want to involve you, but I can't have this continue. It was not my money to bet."
Harry, much to his relief and shame, seemed to believe the lie. He shook his head, "I always thought he was a foul cheat. No wonder you didn't make any bets today, Barnard was mentioning that earlier."
He was? What else are those squires saying about me? Clifford banished those idle thoughts from his head as Harry turned around to look in one direction, then another.
He turned back to Clifford, "I do not have long, but I can take you to where I last saw Maegor."
"*"*"*" *"**"* "*""*"*"*
Clifford felt his apprehension growing as Harry led him deeper and deeper into the city. As a squire who'd spent all his life living in Blackhaven, Clifford was still unable to grow accustomed to the gargantuan scope of the capital. The throngs and crowds of varied people made him skittish and nervous, for it seemed to him as though a man could disappear into the back streets and never be seen again.
And yet, that was exactly where Harry was leading him now. Clifford tried not to look at the ragged people they passed, for many of them were looking at him with an unfriendly gaze. He tried to stand as tall as he could and show no fear, but that seemed to do nothing. Can they smell my fear like a stench? How can it stand out amidst all the other stinks of this dirty city?
Clifford walked as close to Harry as he could, but then gave a start when Harry turned and spoke to him. "It does seem strange that he would be avoiding you like this. Begging your pardon, but you are not yet a warrior on his level."
Clifford shrugged, trying to hide how nervous he felt. "Mayhaps he's hiding from someone else, then?"
"Maybe," Harry allowed, "I daresay he strikes me as that sort of man. Even Father dislikes him, and I thought Father liked any man who supports the Black Dragon."
That had an interesting ring to it, something which Ser Titus would probably want to hear. Clifford had never been an especially deep thinker, but he tried to store that tidbit away in his mind for later.
"What's troubling you?"
Clifford looked at Harry with alarm. "Nothing! I just... well, it's not..."
Harry grinned, "You can say it if you wish. Are you worried we'll be attacked?"
Clifford sighed, partly in relief at this proffered justification for his frayed nerves, but also shame at how accurate it was.
"No shame in fearing this place," Harry reassured him, "it is a perilous neighbourhood, even if you do live here."
"Why aren't you afraid, then?" Clifford wanted to know, for he envied his lover's casual confidence.
"Ser Rupert is the Captain of the Dragon Gate." To prove his point, Harry pointed vaguely to the north-west, though there was no sign of a gate anywhere.
"I've been patrolling with him for the last three years. I plan to join the City Watch when I get my knighthood," Harry continued, "but don't tell my father that."
"Of course," Clifford promised, "but surely there is honour in wearing a gold cloak?"
"Not if it means serving the wrong dragon," Harry retorted ruefully, "and I do see his point in that regard. But he is also convinced that an Osgrey should aspire to be more than a glorified guard dog. Still, it is a place where I can make a fortune before I seek out glory. And if the true king is to take his throne, then he will need well-placed supporters in the capital, no?"
A shudder passed through Clifford, even as he returned Harry's smile, "No doubt."
Harry put a hand on Clifford's shoulder. "Mayhaps you should join me when you finish your term with the lightning lord."
Clifford gaped; he had never imagined living in this city. The very idea of it was such a surprise that he found himself shaking his head reflexively.
"I cannot...what would Father say?"
Harry looked disappointed. "You think you have better prospects in Blackhaven? Would your father wish to see you live as meanly as him?"
Clifford felt embarrassed, and defensive on behalf of his own father. And yet, he did not know how Gulian would react to the news of him living in King's Landing, serving as a member of the City Watch. Was that really so much different from patrolling the walls of Blackhaven? There was certain to be no war between Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms any longer. Why shouldn't he look elsewhere for a better life?
He was about to speak his thoughts aloud, but then he noticed that they were walking back out of Flea Bottom, up the Hill of Rhaenys, towards the old Dragonpit when the Targaryens still had dragons which weren't made of cloth. The buildings were larger, better kept, as was the street itself. The people looked different; many of them were still ill-kept, but most were well-dressed commoners or even knights and minor gentry.
"Where are we?"
"The Street of Silk," Harry answered, "has Ser Titus never taken you here?"
"No. Why would he?"
Harry shot him a glance, then smirked, "Mayhaps he does not partake, then. But Ser Rupert enjoys his visits. Maegor is staying at the Treasure Trove."
Clifford was about to ask what sort of place would bear that name, but then he registered what sort of women were hanging out of the buildings, calling to those on the street. He saw their scanty dress, and began to blush. Harry led him to nearly the top of the hill, in the very shadow of the Dragonpit.
The building was made of stone, and stood four stories tall. Like all the others which they'd passed, this building was a brothel. Scantily-clad women cackled and catcalled from windows while men entered and left through the large doors which were guarded by two men who were of a size to Daemon Blackfyre. One was a greybeard with black skin, the other was younger, pale and scarred, and both were armed with short swords which could be easily wielded in close quarters.
Clifford kept his eyes down deferentially as Harry walked up to the two men and greeted them. From their tone of voice, they seemed to recognise him and welcome his company, but Clifford did not try to overhear their conversation; he was scared and embarrassed enough as it was.
"Well, that's that," Harry suddenly said to him, causing him to look up again. "Maegor's still staying here, up on the fourth floor, but I don't know if he's inside. He might be out for dinner or else gambling down in Flea Bottom. Did you want to wait for him?"
"I would," Clifford answered nervously, "but Ser Titus will miss me if I wait too long. And I don't want you to get in trouble with Ser Rupert either."
"As you say, then." Harry gave him a small smile. "Though I don't know what you expect to gain from him, he's a formidable fighter."
"All the same," Clifford intervened, "Thank you for your help. Truly."
"My pleasure." Harry put a hand on Clifford's shoulder. "I hope that you might reconsider what I suggested."
"I already have," Clifford said quickly. He put his arms around Harry and embraced him. It was more friendly than romantic, but that was all he dared to do in the open. "Forgive my hasty words. I would gladly serve under you," he whispered.
"Is that a promise or a proposition?" Harry's voice was amused, but there was also an underlying lust about it. Clifford felt his breeches grow tighter, especially since his groin was rubbing against Harry's. He wished that he was as quick-witted as Harry so that he might say something clever in return.
Instead, he broke off the embrace and bid him farewell. "Can we find another time together?"
"Soon," Harry promised, even as he turned and walked back the way he came.
Clifford was so delirious with joy that it wasn't until Harrold Osgrey had disappeared from sight that Clifford realised he hadn't asked him for directions back to the Red Keep.
It proved a long walk, even for him, and he lost his way twice until some kindly merchants gave him directions.
But the worst part of his journey did not occur in Flea Bottom where a half-naked madman splashed him with urine, nor on the Street of Silver when he ran afoul of some gamblers in the street. It happened when he was on the King's Way, facing the grand majesty of the Red Keep, when a voice called to him from the shadows.
"Well done, Cliff."
Clifford stopped where he was and glanced around for the speaker.
He was half-hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, but Clifford spotted him right away. He was a weedy-looking boy of a same age as he, if younger. But there was something so much older about this boy, and not just his white hair. He was very pale, but for a dark red splotch on his face and neck. It was shaped somewhat like a raven. He was dressed in dark greys with a black cloak and hood over his head.
Clifford was footsore by that point, and deeply hungry from his walk through the city, and dinner had already begun inside the castle. "What did you say?"
"I was offering you my congratulations," came the snide answer, but so softly that Clifford warily walked closer to hear him better.
As Clifford took more furtive steps forward, the youth went on, "I also owe you my thanks. You made my search for Maegor much easier than anyone dared to guess."
The more he said, the less Clifford liked him. Fear moved through him like a river freezing over in winter. Everything inside him was turning into ice, even though he could feel his heart beating faster than it had all day.
"You spied on me?" Clifford wanted to confront him, maybe even attack him, but something held him back. There was an air of surety and power which seemed to drift through the air like smoke, intoxicating his fearful mind.
He smirked, "You made that easy enough for me too. Did you think you were alone in the godswood?"
Clifford halted mid-stride. His fists were so tight that he thought his nails would break the skin of his palms. He stared blankly, for that was all he could do as he thought back to that night. He had suspected that someone - or something - was watching them that night. I thought I was mad...
The youth had not stopped talking. Clifford blinked several times to focus himself again. "What did you say?"
"I said that I kept your secret, but I do not keep it out of charity. You will provide me with information on the Blackfyres and their allies."
I was wrong; this one is mad." You cannot do this! What do you take me for?!"
"I take you for a fool," the youth answered smugly, but also dangerously, "I take you for a fool who is too much in love with that dashing squire to let his father or his master find out about your little trysts."
Clifford felt trapped; he wanted to break every tooth in that sneer, drive his boot into that narrow neck, but something urged him to restrain himself.
"You will finish up your training with Titus," the youth continued. "Normally I would not have you stay with such a stubborn ass, but I do not want him to find out about our arrangement. Not a word to him, and not a word to Harrold when you two join the City Watch."
There was going to be no end to this, he thought with a shudder.
"Why? Why me?" Clifford was ashamed, but he could not stop his tone from sounding like he was pleading, but this demon had trapped him. He might have endured having his own part in the secret revealed, he was already half-convinced that Titus knew about him. But he had not accounted for Harry's family, or the knight he served. Would they be as accepting as Titus? He could not risk it if it meant that Harry might be shamed.
"You know the answer to that yourself." He had all of Harry's assured confidence without any of the charm which made him human. "But unless your stupidity is not feigned, let me explain. I am serving the realm. Your squire's precious family and friends are traitors to that realm. They are guilty of hiding a murderer from the King's Justice. A man who murdered the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I could have Harrold Osgrey and his father dragged before a trial and have them sent to the Wall in disgrace."
Clifford wanted to protest; he wanted to defend Harry, even though he was remembering what his lover had said to him regarding King Daeron. But the idea of informing on him, betraying him on a regular basis... he was filled with misery, impotent rage, and self-loathing.
It was his fear which won out, though.
"This is cruel..." Tears of helpless rage and sorrow formed in his eyes as he looked down, defeated.
"The world is cruel," came the callous reply, "I will be keeping in touch with you. And one more thing; Titus will not find out about Maegor. I don't want to give that insufferable idealist any more fuel for his pomposities."
He pulled the black hood over his head again, but before he could move otherwise, Clifford found his tongue again.
"What am I to call you, then? How will I know who you are?" Clifford knew that he was defeated, so now he could only ask for clarifications and important details. And it turned out that no son of Gulian Straw could have a mind which was not at least partly attuned to practicalities.
Out once again came that toothy smile, that sardonic gleam in his red eyes. "You shall call me Bloodraven."
The youth turned and went down the alley, disappearing into the blackness, leaving a miserable Clifford to limp up to the Red Keep. He was twice as tired, but only half as hungry. Forgive me, Harry. Forgive me.