Clifford
He was wandering in a dark forest, following a faint light which flickered weakly in the gloom.
The trees were black and twisted, threatening to swallow the light entirely. He ran faster, desperate to avoid being left alone in the blackness. Above him, ravens cawed and shrieked, as if they were laughing at his pitiful progress. He felt their feathers brushing his face, their beaks pecking his flesh. One raven flew in front of him, its beak opening to cry out in a man's voice. Cliff! The black beak was spattered with blood, and blood was the colour of this ghastly bird's eyes. Cliff!
Ser Clifford Straw awoke with a gasp. His heart was pounding, and his bed was wet with sweat.
The sun was shining through the window, casting a bright yellow light across the bed.
He sat up, trying to stay his breathing, blinking tears from his eyes. He was desperate to avoid disturbing Harry as he lay in bed beside him.
They lived in a house which lay just off of the Street of Steel, and it was costlier than what most of their fellow goldcloaks could afford. Pooling their wages to live in a nice part of the city was their excuse to live together without questions being asked. It didn't hurt that they were both annointed knights and captains in the City Watch.
Ser Harrold Osgrey commanded the Lion Gate, while Clifford held command over the King's Gate, outside of which the great tourney of 189 had taken place. Both Clifford's and Harry's lives had changed forever at that tourney, in more ways than one.
Harry stirred as Clifford got up from the bed, walking bow-legged to the window for some fresh air. He was still sore from the previous, but it was the kind of pain which he enjoyed more than the tenderest kiss. As per the rules, captains of the City Watch got three days off, and this was the first of theirs. They had stayed up half the night before enjoying themselves, fueled by two bottles of rum, before finally collapsing onto their bed, exhausted and utterly spent.
Clifford leaned against the window to support himself, groaning at the effort it took for him to even stand. Soft laughter wafted through the room from behind him.
"Pleased with yourself?" Clifford asked challengingly, but Harry only smiled at this bravado.
"Aye. Almost as pleased as you," Harry taunted as he stretched his long, muscular limbs and rose from the bed, just as naked as Clifford. His manhood was stirring, twitching with a life almost of its own. Gods be good, is he ready for more?
"What shall we do today?" Harry's voice was lower when he was whispering into Clifford's ear, embracing him from behind so that their bodies rubbed against each other.
Clifford blushed, especially when a hand reached around his body to grip his own cock and squeeze firmly.
"Gods..." he murmured.
"They're no use to you now," Harry whispered, gripping harder as he ran his hand up and down Clifford's growing shaft.
They went back to the bed and began anew, grunting and moaning as loudly as they pleased while the ringing of blacksmiths' tools drowned out their noise. It was their favourite advantage of living on the Street of Steel.
After their tryst was done, they collapsed in each other's arms again, trying to catch their breath as they breathed in their shared musk.
"By the way," Harrold said absent-mindedly as he ran his fingers through Clifford's hair, "my father will be visiting today."
Clifford stiffened, and not in the manner that he wished to do. "Your father? He's come to the capital?"
"Aye." Harrold got up and found a pitcher of water, drinking it half-empty before offering it to Clifford. "He was visiting my brother, but he's gone with Lord Daemon somewhere, it seems. He has news that he wishes to indulge. I do not know if he wants anyone else to overhear..." he added apologetically, looking embarrassed.
"No harm done," Clifford quickly replied, relieved that he wouldn't have to know. "When will you meet with him?"
"We will have an early supper together in Flea Bottom today," Harry answered.
"Give him my best wishes," Clifford offered, feeling awkward as always when it came to Harry's family.
None of them were aware of Harry's arrangement with Clifford. Far as they knew, they were simply living together to afford such an elegant house. Surprisingly, Harrold's father seemed not to mind at all that his son was a mere City Watch captain. Ser Eustace Osgrey was a proud man, but poor, and he was desperate for his sons to win such glory and riches that a name like Osgrey should be able to boast about. So why is he content that his son is here?
He did have a suspicion as to why that was. It brought him back to the great conspiracy from when he was squiring for Titus Dondarrion. Ser Eustace had been involved in a conspiracy to kill a member of the Kingsguard, only to replace him with Ser Quentyn Ball, the master-at-arms of King's Landing. It had not worked, but Clifford knew that there were still plenty of Blackfyre sympathisers in the city, and even in the Red Keep itself. There was Quentyn Ball, for one, but there was also Harry, as well as most of the men under Harry's command. Harry's former master, Ser Rupert Strickland, was now the Commander of the City Watch, and he was undoubtedly responsible for yet more Blackfyre supporters to join the goldcloaks.
Clifford had spent the last few years taking down the names of these sympathisers, submitting them to his new master. He couldn't decide if he hated Bloodraven more than he feared him, or if it was the other way around. But it was no use; Bloodraven had him firmly in his grasp, ordering him to spy for him.
After Harrold left, Clifford made his way through the city of King's Landing, until he found a stone structure which overlooked that street known as the Hook.
Inside was a tavern which was virtually empty. A wizened old man tended bar for several armed men. They were not girt with gold cloaks, however; these were men who wore the dragon of House Targaryen on their black surcoats. It was not a red dragon, however, but a white one.
One man sat apart, at a small table in the far corner. He was lithe, pale, and sinister, red of eye and white of hair.
A man loomed out of the shadows and gripped Clifford, crudely groping his body for weapons. Clifford bit the inside of his cheek, forcing down his temper. "Is this necessary?"
There was a small chuckle. Brynden Rivers leaned back in his chair, watching Clifford's examination. "The treacherous cannot trust, Ser Clifford. You ought to know that by now."
Clifford sighed. He waited for the man to finish, then stepped forward when he was permitted. He sat down at the table and placed several pieces of papers onto it. Brynden took them, his uncanny eyes taking in what Clifford had scribbled down since they'd last met.
Finally, Brynden looked up again. The light of a nearby candle cast a yellow glow on his skin, which only enhanced the wine-stain birthmark across one side of his face. The fire of the candle caused the raven-shaped blotch to turn the colour of a blood orange.
"They are clever, I'll give them that," Brynden chuckled, "but they have a predictable pattern."
He looked up at Clifford again, "Where is Harrold Osgrey now?"
"I do not know," Clifford answered, relieved that he could speak truthfully. Lord Bloodraven, as Brynden styled himself, was said to smell a lie like a hound smells wild boar in the woods.
"You did not wish to know," Brynden said scornfully, "But you still think you can deceive me. I see the same names again and again in your reports."
"What of it?" Clifford protested, "Those are the men and women who have spoken in support of the Black Dragon."
"And what of the men and women who listen?" Brynden asked pointedly.
Clifford felt a shudder down his spine, "Is it a crime to hear someone praise Daemon Blackfyre?"
"It is always a crime to listen to treason and letting it go unreported," Brynden snapped.
"Not all the talk about Daemon is treasonous," Clifford explained apprehensively, "Would you have me report any man who speaks his name?"
For the first time, Brynden Rivers smiled; it was the same . "I used to think that your stupidity was a tragic trait of yours, but now I begin to see how much you depend upon it. But tell me, are you so stupid that you've forgotten that I can have Harrold Osgrey arrested as a murder accomplice? I assure you that your king has not forgotten the murder of Red Robert Flowers."
Clifford felt himself turning pale. Shortly after the trial of the Dalt brothers, Maegor Toyne had been arrested. Clifford had not known it until he saw new arms and legs dangling from the Red Keep, beneath the head which had been set on a spike. Toyne's last expression was one of someone who had died in agony, and his eyeless sockets had shed tears of blood down his face. In Clifford's nightmares, it was Harrold's head which he saw on the spike, pecked at and torn apart by crows and ravens alike. He'd woken up in tears several times, unable to even explain himself when Harry comforted him.
"I expect more thorough reports," Brynden declared quietly, "Or else I shall be more thorough in my pursuit of justice."
Clifford looked at Brynden with utter loathing. He was barely twenty years old, barely older than his younger brother, but he had effortlessly made Clifford his thrall.
"Understood," he said meekly, hating himself even more than Bloodraven in that moment. The low light in the tavern did at least avoid men from seeing the tears welling up in his eyes.
They fell down his face as he ambled through the city. He had no destination in mind, for it was useless to go anywhere.
Everyone in the city carried on as usual, oblivious to the awful truth that they were being spied upon, examined, and judged by Lord Bloodraven. Clifford passed several whose names were on his lists, and many more whom he'd spared from the lists and would now be forced to condemn. What does he mean to do with all this information? He dared not think too deeply about that, of course.
Summer days were long, and his feelings of melancholy and impotent rage had caused time to lose meaning. After what felt like days of restless pacing, Clifford found himself back in his home on the Street of Steel. The forges were as noisy as ever, and the sun was finally beginning to set, and Clifford continued to brood, waiting for Harry to return.
He finally did, without the company of his brother. He smiled casually at Clifford when he entered from outside, but the smile left his face as he beheld his lover.
"Are you ill?" He crossed the floor and put a hand on Clifford's forehead.
"Difficult to say," Clifford answered, shuddering beneath Harry's touch; it was difficult to enjoy Harry's embraces after a meeting with Brynden Rivers.
"Shall I get Cedra Wise for you?" Cedra was a wise woman who lived further down the hill, providing cures for ailments or injuries for a fee.
"No need," Clifford answered, "It should clear by tomorrow, methinks."
"As you say," Harry conceded as he moved Clifford to their bed. He undressed them both, then lay down with Clifford, wrapping his brawny arms around him, warming Clifford's neck with his hot breath.
"Harry," Clifford murmured, "I have been thinking; would you like to see the Free Cities?"
Harrold paused, then gave a bemused chuckle, "I would not object a visit, but when would we possibly make one?"
"I don't mean a visit," Clifford replied. He wanted to say more, but the words caught in his throat. He was already afraid that he'd said too much. Who knew how many spies were reporting to Bloodraven?
Harry did not take long to grasp Clifford's meaning. "You want to run away?"
"Not forever," Clifford amended, "but why not make our fortunes and our names in Essos? There are many riches to be found there."
Harry did not answer. He simply held Clifford tightly, but his breathing seemed more troubled than before.
"Cliff, I do believe you have some sort of fever. You know not what you're saying."
"I do," Cliff persisted hotly, "I am beginning to feel as though something terrible will happen."
"You may be right," Harry whispered, "but it is not so terrible as you imagine."
Gods, no. Don't tell me. I cannot know. Forcing himself to keep his voice calm, Clifford kissed one of the hands which were held beneath his chin. "Is this to do with your father?"
"Mayhaps," Harry answered playfully.
"If that is true," Clifford interjected, "then you had best keep his secrets. You said yourself that he wanted to be discreet, no?"
There was a short silence between them.
"You worry a great deal for my father's secrets," Harry observed coolly.
Clifford felt himself turning cold, "Forgive me, Harry, I didn't mean-"
"Yes you did," Harry interrupted, "I did not think you capable of such spite."
Beneath his blind panic, Clifford was confused. "Spite?"
"What else would you call it?" Harrold sat up in the bed, looking down at Clifford, "I would have invited you to meet with us, but he urged me to meet him alone. I did not snub you willingly."
Slowly, his fear faded as he realised what Harry was saying.
"I meant what I said before," he pleaded, unable to suppress his sense of relief, "I understand why we must be careful around him."
"He still suggests women for me to marry," Harry lamented, "I don't doubt that I'll have to wed one soon."
"All the more reason to cross the sea. He cannot chase you that far."
Harry sighed, "It is not so simple, you know this."
It could be simple. We could be happy together, away from this cursed realm. Away from the dragons, our fathers, our rivals, and spymasters. But you want to fight for the Black Dragon.
He did not look at Harry as he lay back down behind him, and resumed his protective hold. His body trembled from weeping, but he forced himself to weep silently. He had long ago learned how to shed tears without disturbing Harry's sleep.