Clifford
"Are you unwell?"
Clifford turned to look at Harry. "Not at all. Why do you ask?"
"You seem rather flushed," Harry replied.
"It's this summer sun." Clifford gestured upwards as they rode along. "You might have warned me what summer was really like in the Reach."
Harry smiled. "King's Landing did not prepare you enough, did it?"
There was something in his knowing smirk which irked Clifford more than he expected. "Sneer all you like, then." He turned away and fumed silently.
They were riding south towards the Blue Byrn, which flowed in an east-west direction until it merged with the Mander. A rough path of dirt and pebbles guided them on their way.
"Cliff?"
Gods… Clifford turned back to Harry, shamefaced. "Forgive my temper."
"I do forgive it," Harry replied, "and your fears, too."
Clifford gave a frustrated sigh. "Nothing escapes you." Almost nothing…
"It is a foul trick, aye," Harry remarked, "But we are caught in a trap, and the others are counting upon us."
"Is there something amiss, Sers?"
Cliff turned back to Lady Cafferen. She was riding several paces behind with two of her ladies. They had consistently hung back, several paces behind the two knights. Cliff was still not sure whether they did so out of fear, modesty, or some other reason, but he was relieved that they kept to themselves. Now, however, the young lady was looking at them wide-eyed, even as she halted her horse.
"Nay, lady," Harry called back. "We disagreed on the route. All is well."
"Carry on then, Sers." Lady Cafferen might have been trying to sound authoritative, but she was far too mousy and meek for that.
That was also the most which she had said to either of them since they'd left the Blackfyre camp. She had looked utterly terrified when Tommax Cafferen had seen her off, though he spent less time comforting her and more time threatening Clifford and Harry.
"If anything befalls my wife," he warned, "I will hold you both responsible."
Clifford had barely known Tommax Cafferen for a week, and he already loathed the man. He had warned them not as a concerned husband, but more as a proud lord who did not wish to lose a valuable commodity. Clifford knew full well what marriage was, and what it meant, but he had never seen his own father speak of his mother with anything but affection and kindness. He doubted that Tommax had ever said a single affectionate word to his wife.
Tommax was not the only man who had threatened Clifford and Harry with the consequences of failure. Lomas Tarly had made it clear enough when he ordered them to ride for Merryweather's defences. He stressed that an army was coming up from the Stormlands, and the army at Bitterbridge would surely ride out to catch them in a pincer move. "Our lives are in your hands," Lomas warned them, speaking as if he would hold them accountable, even in death.
As Lomas had insisted, Clifford and Harry wore plate and mail, as well as the gold cloaks which defined all men of King's Landing's City Watch.
If it were not for their mission, Clifford might have appreciated the beauty of the Reach. They rode past farms which would soon reap a mighty harvest. Never before had he seen a land so plump and bountiful as this. How much of it will survive this war?
The bridge was made of stone, like the one at Bitterbridge, but it was a third of the size. A considerable company of armoured men lounged about, speaking amongst themselves. A wooden guard house stood on the other side of the bridge, as well as dozens of horses and several wagons' worth of supplies. Beyond the bridge, the rough path continued on until it disappeared into a distant village.
"Good day!" Harry called out his greeting as they neared the bridge. His empty hand was raised in the air.
The guards immediately stood to attention, eyeing the arrivals with unfriendly eyes.
One of them stepped forward, drawing his sword. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
"Ser Harrold Osgrey," Harry replied. He gestured towards Clifford. "Ser Clifford Straw. Captains of the City Watch of King's Landing."
"You are a long way from the capital," the guard remarked. He nodded to the three ladies on their palfreys. "And who are they?"
"That is my sister-in-law, Lady Sansa Hightower," Harry explained, "We are escorting her home until the war is ended."
The guard frowned. "They send only two men to escort a Hightower home? And two goldcloaks at that?"
"We were ambushed," Clifford interjected. He pointed to the blood stains on his saddle, stained almost black. The saddle had belonged to the young man who'd led the Stokeworth levies to war. He had been struck with two arrows and slumped forward, sobbing with pain as he'd been left alone by the charging knights. Clifford had seen him and aimed a blow to finish the young man's misery. The head had fallen to the ground like some overgrown apple.
Lady Cafferen slowly led her horse forward. "Please… I insist you let us pass." She was trembling with fear, and her eyes were teary.
Clifford recognized that Lady Cafferen's emotions were no performance; she was utterly terrified of the plan succeeding, but she dreaded its failure even more. Clifford felt much the same, and it was all he could do to restrain his agitation.
The guard, thankfully, saw this display for what it seemed to be. His suspicion gave way to concern. "Who were these men?"
"I cannot be sure," Harry replied, "But I saw that several of them wore black dragons on their surcoats."
"Gods be good!" The conversation had attracted several of the guardsman's companions, and one of them had exclaimed in surprise. "That must be Wulf and his lads!"
"When did this happen?" The first man was panicked. "How many were they?"
But Clifford saw an opportunity with the second man who had spoken. He held up his hand to the first guard - hoping that his hand did not tremble and reveal his nerves - and forced himself to address the second guard with his captain's voice. "Who is this Wulf?"
"He's one of our household knights," the second man declared. "He declared himself for the black dragon and rode off with half our horses! They've been riding havoc on Merryweather lands!"
Clifford was astonished. He had never been told of how many houses were flying Daemon Blackfyre's sigil. Thus, he had fretted over how many - or how few - allies they had. He had heard of the houses which were opposed to them at Bitterbridge and these humbler river crossings, but he had not considered that men would forsake their house loyalties to fight for the king.
Harry, who was quicker than Clifford, pointed back the way they'd come. "We slew a good many and broke out. It was only a day's ride from here!"
The Merryweather men looked at each other. Panic and alarm mingled with confusion and anticipation. Some of them declared that they should hunt them down, but that began a furious argument over what Lord Merryweather would want them to do. Clifford found it increasingly difficult to follow all that was said. The more that these men spoke and argued, the harder he found it to justify his treachery. These men are not Bloodraven's lackeys. They are men who are following their vows. As I once did...
Suddenly, one of the men was pointing at him.
"What did you say?" Clifford pointedly removed his helm, as if he'd been unable to hear the question whilst beneath it.
"You must be our guide! Take us back to where you saw them last, and we will track them from there!"
Clifford gripped his reins, freezing in terror at the suggestion. But he knew that he must accept or else their cause was finished.
He turned to Harry. "Can you handle Milady alone until I come back?"
Harry gave a smirk, "If the gods give me strength."
How can you smirk at me as we arrange these men's demise? "I will see you shortly." Clifford gave a nod as Harry rode off, with Lady Cafferen and the others following him across the narrow bridge.
Meanwhile, three fourths of the guards mounted up on horses and followed Clifford as he sent Vermithor trotting back down the very path from which he'd just arrived.
Much to his relief, Clifford was not badgered with questions or conversation. But as the others rode on in silence, Clifford was struck by their grim determination. Wulf and his followers were one of them. This was not just treason, it was a betrayal.
Clifford felt tears in his eyes as he remembered seeing Cadwyn and Rolder's bodies after the battle was over. He thought of when they'd first joined the City Watch three years before. Rolder had been a farmer's son that wanted more from life than tilling a plot of land over and over again. Cadwyn had been a stableboy serving House Bywater, but he had fled his home in the Crownlands after he'd been caught abed with Lord Bywater's daughter. He'd reckoned that King's Landing was the only place big enough for him to hide away from Lord Bywater's vengeance. They'd both taken to the City Watch, and had both gotten into several scrapes, Holder because of his gambling and Cadwyn because of his fondness for women. Clifford had often needed to discipline them, but he had never enjoyed it. They had chafed under his rules, but after a time, they had grown accustomed to each other. Clifford had turned a blind eye to some of their milder antics so long as they did their duty, and they had respected this compromise after a time. They were not great men, but they were my men. Would they have slain me if they'd seen me on the battlefield? Could I have slain them?
He was not aware of the sun's journey across the sky until he sensed its final stretch across the horizon. He heard the others call a halt, and so he reigned Vermithor, patting his great neck. The destrier was older, and not nearly so springy as he'd been when Titus had first gifted him to Clifford, but he was a faithful animal and Clifford was unwilling to replace him.
"How much further was it?" One of the guardsmen approached Clifford.
"I cannot be sure," Clifford answered hesitantly, wondering if he would be noticed. "We might need another half-day to find the bodies, unless Wulf and the others disposed of them."
"Wulf wouldn't waste his time doing that," one of the others remarked derisively. "The bastard couldn't clean the guardhouse unless you stuffed a mop up his useless arse!"
Several men laughed, but their mirth quickly dissipated. They forgot themselves, and they forgot why they were chasing Wulf in the first place...
"No use tracking men at night," one of the leaders shouted. "We'll set up camp and start up again tomorrow!"
Clifford did not heed their argument over the meagre supplies which they'd brought on the journey. He turned to one of the men and offered to scout ahead. Before the man could respond, Clifford led Vermithor away from their torchlight. You'll have to do some more running, old boy.
When he judged to be fair enough, he spurred Vermithor into a canter down the path, praying that he would be recognised.
The sun was gone by then, but the moon was still bright. Clifford stared about the darkness in front of him and and around him. He feared hearing the sound of men behind him, but he also feared the sound of men before him. What madness brought me here? How could I have been so reckless...
He could have asked that question a hundred times. He could have shouted it into the air with all the rage he could muster. But he always knew the answer to that question, and he knew full well that he would have done it again if he'd had a second chance. Where are you now, Harry? Is the plan working?
He did not know how many times he'd mused about Harry by the time he heard the order to halt. But after he'd urged his heart to resume beating, he halted Vermithor and gave a strangled cry, "It's me! Clifford Straw!"
"Stand down!" Lomas' voice echoed amongst the dark trees beside him. Moonlight and torchlight glinted off of Lomas' armoured form. "What happened?"
Clifford explained in a hurried voice, but now that he was safe, he felt fear gripping his bowels for an entirely different reason.
"Where's this patrol of theirs?" Lomas asked.
"Back down that path, maybe an hour? Two?" Clifford was breathing quicker and quicker, as if he'd been the one running instead of Vermithor. "They might have noticed my absence by now."
Lomas laughed, much to Clifford's surprise. Does he think I made a jape?
"We'd best catch them," Ser Robin Horpe declared, drawing his sword.
"Go on, lad," Lomas ordered. Only he could have gotten away with calling Robin Horpe 'lad', for although Robin was a proud man and fierce fighter, he looked up to Lomas as a father. Clifford had never liked him, and after the way he had cheerfully made use of the Ironborn whore which had joined their camp, Clifford liked him even less.
Clifford felt sick as he rode back down the path for the third time, and riding amongst a silent group of horsemen for the second time. The only noises came from the horses as they plodded along at a trot. Lomas wanted every man to save his horse's speed for the attack.
It was not long before torchlights appeared in the distance. Lomas quickly dispatched groups of riders off the path to ride around the camp and surround it, so that no man might break free and ride back to the bridge.
Clifford did not have the heart to draw his sword, not even when the main body of horsemen broke into a gallop. He did not join in the shouting of war cries, and the sound of trumpets made him shudder. Vermithor was too tired to match the other horsemen anyway, and Clifford used that as an excuse to stand by and do nothing. He would not look away; he had brought about these men's deaths, and he would see what he had wrought.
He saw men taken by surprise, unhorsed and only half-armoured. He saw Robin Horpe and the others ride men down with spears, hack at them with swords, and bludgeon them with maces and morningstars. The one mercy afforded to the Merryweather men-at-arms was that their deaths were swift. Lomas wanted no survivors, it was clear, and he did his work efficiently.
Clifford dismounted from Vermithor, tied the reins to a tree branch, and walked amongst the dead and the dying, confident that his golden cloak would prevent the Blackfyres from attacking him.
The moon glinted off of men's armour, most of which was stained with blood and worse. Clifford was determined to look each man in the face, or what was left of their faces, even as the others cheered their victory. They spoke of how Ser Quentyn must have overwhelmed the rest and taken that bridge by now.
Suddenly, Clifford noticed something which the others did not. A man was crawling amongst the bodies, hidden by the long shadows cast by the riders and their horses. He seemed to be unwounded, for Clifford saw him rise to his hands and knees without issue. He was tempted to do nothing and let one man escape, but he knew that he could not risk Harry's life.
He drew his sword and followed the man as he crawled into the bushes. He could hear the man's ragged gasps of fear and effort, and he was tempted to sheathe his sword again.
"Stop," he called out.
The man gave a shout of fear and turned around.
It was the second guard who had spoken at the bridge. His outburst had inspired Clifford, and given him the opportunity to lead men away to their deaths. I'm sorry. I did what I had to do. Forgive me. "Yield."
"Yield?" The man repeated, cowering from Clifford. "You betrayed us!"
"I never claimed to be anything I'm not," Clifford urged. He felt almost as desperate as this man looked.
The man now scrambled to his feet, his fear giving way to outrage and loathing. "You're with Wulf! You helped him!"
"I don't know who Wulf is," Clifford protested, "and he's no companion of mine. My word on that."
"Your word!" The man spat at Clifford. "Your word means nothing! Traitor!"
"Yield and live!" Clifford pointed his sword at the man.
"Clifford!"
The shout almost caused Clifford to drop his sword. Lomas emerged from the bushes, carrying a torch. He was spattered with blood, and his sword's blade was red from point to hilt.
"What are you doing?" Lomas regarded Clifford with a glare.
"He's a prisoner, Ser. He yielded," Clifford answered quickly.
"I did not!" The man shouted as he tried to back away. He tripped over a tree root and fell with a curse.
Lomas looked from the man to Clifford. His face was growing dark.
"What sort of game are you playing, Straw?"
"No game, Ser," Clifford answered. "I mean to take this man prisoner." He might be useful. He could give us more information on the other crossings. He is unarmed. All these excuses were on the tip of his tongue when the man suddenly leapt up from where he'd been crouching on the ground. In his hand was a rock.
Clifford gasped as the man screamed as he brought the rock downward upon him. Clifford had already begun to lunge forward, as Titus had taught him to do during a skirmish. The rock, aimed for his face, instead landed on nothing, while the man's forearm landed hard on his shoulder.
"Stop this!" Clifford shouted, pushing the man away from him. The man stumbled backwards, only for Lomas to strike him across the face with the lit torch.
The man shrieked at the pain on his face, and he fell heavily to the ground. Lomas drew his sword and thrust it downwards. Much to Clifford's horror, the point pierced the pale throat, pinning the man to the ground by his neck. He squirmed and thrashed, his gurgles spewing blood from his open mouth.
Clifford stepped back in horror, looking from the dying man to the implacable face of his killer.
Clifford had grown up alongside Ser Lomas, thanks to his father's position as steward. He'd even been trained by the old man on rare occasions. He had always been an imposing man, powerful and unafraid to use that power. As he'd grown older, Clifford had also seen him give way to drink, especially after Daeron had brought Dorne into the fold. Reuniting with him at the Aegonfort, Clifford was stunned to see the change in the man. His grey hair was streaked with white, but he seemed more content than he'd ever seemed before, and he had looked almost as fit as when Clifford first remembered him.
But seeing Lomas now, hard-faced and sadistic as he forced the Merryweather guard to die slowly, Clifford was suddenly reminded of a forgotten memory.
He had been seven years old, wandering the castle after his chores were done, making his way to the training yard of Blackhaven. He had always enjoyed seeing men train and fight with swords, and he wished desperately to join them someday.
But on that particular day, he did not just see men fighting with swords; he saw Ser Lomas lashing at an older boy with a hazel rod beside a tub of icy water. The older boy's head had been shaved, and he was soaking wet and shivering.
"You will learn discipline," Lomas had raged, bringing the hazel rod down upon the boy's back again and again. There had been a savage joy in his face, as if he took pleasure from administering pain upon those he misliked.
Titus Dondarrion had been Lord Armond's youngest son, and it had shocked Clifford to see him treated thusly by Ser Lomas, until he had seen Lord Armond standing by, glaring disgustedly at his son.
Between his shouts and cries of pain, Titus had tried to spit at his father, over and over again. His spittle never travelled far enough, and each show of defiance only brought him more grief. Clifford could no longer remember how long the beatings lasted, but when Titus had finally broke down and wept, Lomas had himself almost collapsed from exhaustion.
That had been fifteen years ago, but Lomas did not look any less formidable. He glared coldly at Clifford, still keeping his weight down upon his sword. "What did you think war was to be like, Ser? Or is it that you regret your choice of dragon?"
A bitter taste was in Clifford's mouth, and he found himself paralysed with indecision and fear. He knew that Lomas could not discipline him anymore; he was an anointed knight, and a man grown. Yet he still felt foolish in front of the respected knight and former master-at-arms.
"He was a terrible squire," Lomas suddenly remarked. "And he made for a worse knight, if this is how you turned out."
Clifford's confusion was short-lived. "What exactly are you saying, Ser?"
He spoke in his captain's voice, a voice which commanded authority and respect. He had worked hard to give himself that voice, and it had only come because he felt that he'd earned it. He had spent years serving as a faithful member of the City Watch under Harry's command. He had refused to allow Harry to promote him, insisting that it must needs be earned. It had taken him five years to earn it, but it had been worthwhile.
Lomas was not intimidated. His mouth twisted into a grimace. "I hoped that you would shake off the influence of that..." he turned and spat contemptuously as he held onto his sword. "It seems that he left his mark on you after all."
Clifford drew his sword, "At least he never did it the way you left your mark on him."
Lomas slowly raised up his sword, pulling it from the corpse's neck and pointing it at Clifford's head. "Are you threatening me?"
"Are you insulting me?" Clifford retorted.
They might have fought. They might have argued. They might even have apologised, for all Clifford could predict. But before the matter could be resolved, men shouted Ser Lomas' name.
Lomas gave Clifford one last look of distaste. "I shall pray for young Harrold. May he come to his senses and find another man who is worthy of him." Then the commander walked off through the darkness, in the direction of the others. Clifford stood by. I thought you were being kind to me. You were only being kind to me for Harry's sake.
A grey-bearded knight approached him. It was Ser Icham Rankenfell, one of Daemon's oldest household knights. "Clifford! What are you doing out here? Have you not heard?"
Clifford sheathed his sword and pretended to wipe his brow so that he might brush the tears from his cheeks. "Heard what?"
"That bridge of yours was taken. Fireball holds it, we must bring the rest of the army at once!"
With a shaky sigh, Clifford went back to where he'd left his horse, then rode after Ser Icham to the Blue Byrn crossing.
By the time that Clifford returned to the bridge, it had already been seized by Ser Quentyn, along with the village nearby. The villagers had confirmed that there was another bridge over the Mander, just south of the Blue Byrn, only half an hour away. It was quickly decided to seize both bridges and hold them both against any attackers.
Clifford and Harry were commended by Ser Quentyn for their roles in the seizures, and he urged them to get a good night's rest for their troubles. Lomas had stood by and said nothing, eyeing Clifford with a suspicious glance.
Thankfully, there were more important matters for everyone to concern themselves over; Lord Tommax Cafferen, reunited with his frightened young wife, rode for the Mander crossing. Riders returned to the Blue Byrn two hours later, declaring that the bridge was secured.
It was a long night, for Lomas and Fireball insisted that they must prepare their defences before the morning. Scouts were also sent out to find out where the enemy would strike.
It was the hour of the wolf before Clifford finally collapsed into an uncertain sleep, but he did not sleep for long. The morning sun awoke him, as did the commotion of those around him.
When they had both arisen and rubbed the sleep from their eyes, Clifford and Harry helped each other put on their armour.
"Gods be good," Harry grumbled as his fingers fumbled with one of Clifford's greaves. "This will be easier with squires."
"No, Harry," Clifford said instinctively, as he always did whenever this suggestion arose. "We cannot."
"Cliff," Harry murmured patiently as he stood behind Clifford and readjusted a leather strap connected to his breastplate. "We can find you a trustworthy boy."
"Me?" Clifford frowned, turning to face his love. "Why only me?"
Harry seemed to catch himself. He gave Clifford a worried expression.
Gods be good. "You've got a squire already?"
"It's different," Harry protested. "He's no stranger, it's Addam!"
"Your brother?" Clifford turned to Harry. "He is squiring for your father, is he not?"
Harry sighed and shook his head. "Nay. Addam only accompanied Father to the Aegonfort. Father told me that he was serving the Webbers, but something happened... something about Lord Webber and his daughter, I can't recall. In any case, he is in need of a new master, and so I offered myself."
Clifford saw the sense of it; Addam was a sweet boy with a kind heart, and he would never dream of betraying Harry. All the same, he could not help but feel upset. "You might have consulted me first."
"I know," Harry agreed in a surprisingly meek voice. "I should not have deceived you. I apologise."
Gods... he is apologising to me for keeping that secret? Panic gripped Clifford as he banished his own hurt feelings with alacrity. "Speak no more of it, Harry, I forgot myself. I have... I have had some cruel words with Lomas."
He explained hastily what Ser Lomas had said - careful to omit the suspicions about his loyalty - much to Harry's shock and disgust.
"I knew he couldn't be trusted." Harry shook his head.
"He will not betray us," Clifford pointed out, "he respects you."
"What of it?" Harry's jaw was set. "If he continues to disrespect you..."
"Stop," Clifford put a hand on Harry's shoulder, though he felt so gratified by Harry's support that he wanted to kiss him instead. Instead, they walked back towards the bridge over the Blue Byrn.
The Blackfyre forces had been busy during the night, and work was continuing in shifts so that the men could take turns sleeping. Trenches were being dug along the riverbank. Studying them, Clifford saw that there was enough space for a kneeling man to be concealed, and also enough room for that same man to stand and loose arrows from his bow.
Behind the trenches and the throngs of men milling about, tents and wagons had been established. Servants, children, and women were present, but they were outnumbered by the fighting men. Archers, levies, knights, men-at-arms, thousands of them were present. Yet Clifford could sense that many more were missing from their camp, presumably having established themselves at the Mander crossing.
The first enemy scouts were spotted as men ate a hasty breakfast along the bridge. The riders kept out of range as they observed the Blackfyre camp. They had been long expected, thanks to their own outriders. Hundreds of men were crouching down in the trenches, hundreds of other men hid behind the tents and wagons which had been clustered together. Whether their ruse succeeded or not was unclear, for the scouts simply rode away after a time.
Hours passed as they waited for the enemy to appear again. Men ate sparingly as they grew restless from boredom. Hundreds of men volunteered to pass on messages to the Fireball, or to go out and scout for the foe.
The first day finished without any attack. Ser Quentyn had also reported seeing scouts, and he too had hidden most of his men from view as a deception.
On the second day since they'd secured the bridge, with grey clouds threatening rain, an army approached the Blue Byrn crossing.
Lomas had already deployed his men at the first sighting of the attackers. Spearmen crowded on the bridge, with a line of spears pointed outwards on the far end. More men stood along the length of the bridge, until the other side of the bridge gave way to two blocks of infantry whose ranks almost touched at one end, forming a triangular space where the bridge began.
Standing beside Harry by the bridge, Clifford could see hundreds of banners flying sigils from the Reach and the Stormlands alike. From gaudy lords and shining knights down to smallfolk levies armed with their farming tools, all were represented in those thousands of men. Even though the bridge was narrow and its defences were secure, Clifford was fearful as he beheld the enemy's approach. They will be forced to send men in a narrow place, but they have five times our numbers here.
He turned to Harry. "I love you." He whispered the words so that only Harry would hear them.
Harry looked him in the eye as the ghost of a tender smile flashed across his face. Before he could return the words, Lomas shouted his signal to the archers.
Hundreds of men arose as one from the trenches and began to loose arrows upon the surprised enemy. They faltered beneath the sudden downpour, then retreated out of range to regroup. When they tried to advance for a second time, they reached the bridge and exchanged blows with the company on the far end of the bridge. The stone bridge and the long spears frustrated a charge of knights, but the fighting was fierce enough that both sides pulled backwards. The far end of the bridge was yielded, though it took the enemy another hour or more to find the will to charge a third time. Their resolve was broken when the third charge was repelled, and the coming of night persuaded the enemy to withdraw for the night.
Clifford watched it all, his sword back in its sheath. Not even their victories on that first day were enough to relieve him of concern. The losses on either side were not enough to merit a true triumph, but he saw no way to break the stalemate. They could have us stay here for days, and we shall run out of supplies before they do.
Elsewhere, messages came to them throughout the day from the Mander crossing. They too were facing a mixed army of their foes from Bitterbridge and from the Stormlands who'd chased after the Cafferens. As Lord Tommax oversaw the defence of the bridge, Ser Quentyn had seized a number of rafts from the smallfolk and led a number of horsemen downstream. Then he had crossed the river, waited for the army to become engaged, and charged the flanks. The army had broken and retreated, leaving many of their best warriors dead or wounded on the field. Ser Quentyn had covered himself in glory, slaying Lord Wilimar Caswell and all but one of Lady Penrose's sons. The youngest he had spared as a favour.
"What Lady Penrose do to earn such a favour?" Ser Karnac Thorne had asked.
Clifford spoke before anyone else did. "He must have trained those boys at some point. Lady Penrose's brother is on the Small Council, is he not? He is also married to a Targaryen." Even as he finished saying those words, he felt sickened at what this explanation implied. He spent years training boys, but now he has no qualms to slay them?
His ruminations left him bitter as night fell, and he awoke with the feeling that his dreams had been thoroughly unpleasant.
The survivors of the enemy had returned, advancing more cautiously than ever. Clifford hefted his shield as their own archers launched volley after volley against the Blackfyres. Many were slain, but the entrenched archers brought some relief.
Battle was joined again on the bridge, with the enemy pushing more determinedly than ever. The Blackfyre men yielded the bridge to the loyalists, one step at a time. Bodies were either thrown over the side of the bridge or else dangled uncomfortably, draped over the sides in death.
Clifford drew his sword as the enemy moved toward their end of the bridge. He pressed his shoulder against Harry's, murmuring prayers to the gods.
"Infantry! Now!"
Clifford was close enough to hear Lomas' attempt at a bellow, but it was the trumpet which blasted its noise over the clash of metal.
From out of the tents, the reserve forces charged forward on foot. They shouted war cries as they formed two great blocks who were connected by one corner. They formed a triangular shape, with the bridge serving as the third side. The advancing loyalists, whether they were on foot or on horseback, advanced into the trap.
Weapons and shields closed in on the advancing men from two sides. Clifford and the others swung their weapons down upon the attackers, sowing dismay with every new blow. Fear was on their faces, and they fought desperately to break through the Blackfyre ranks.
It was no use. Archers continued to loose shafts at the men who were still on the other side of the river, whilst the infantry stood their ground.
Standing beside Harry, Clifford was equal parts terrified, devastated, but also triumphant. The exhiliration of such a fearsome battle caused him to forget the feeling of fatigue. Harry's presence beside him was all the motivation that he needed. He no longer hesitated and no longer questioned his cause's justness. He was fighting to stay alive, and to keep his lover alive. Be damned the Blackfyre cause, and be damned the Targaryen cause. He would do what he must to keep Harry safe, regardless of who won the war. But since Harry's safety was guaranteed amongst the Blackfyres, he would strive to make sure that they won.
He was not sure how long he stood by the bridge and fought with Merryweather men. He did not even hear the trumpet blasts, so he was stunned when Ser Quentyn Ball burst from the nearby copse with his knights clustered around him.
The rear ranks wailed as hundreds of knights smashed against them with relative ease. No weapon could bite upon Fireball, who fought like the Warrior himself as he cut his way through to the enemy's reserve forces.
Clifford could not see all the fighting on the other side of the bridge, for the men still on the bridge fought all the more fiercely to reverse the tide of battle. They gave no quarter and asked for no mercy, and none was given.
The loyalists finally did break and flee, though many were ridden down and slain by Quentyn's exultant cavalry. Cheers broke out amongst the men who watched their commander scatter the surviving enemy.
We have won again. Clifford breathed a sigh of relief as he began to clean his sword, whose very hilt was sticky with blood. Mayhaps we will be able to win this war after all.