Clifford
Clifford could feel the sun over his head, for there was no shield of clouds to diminish its strength. He was forced to narrow his eyes to avoid the painful glare of sunlight reflected off the armour of those around him.
Lord Hugo Strickland had led a third of the Blackfyre army away from the Blue Byrn, in order to break the siege of Stone Hedge and rescue Daemon Blackfyre. In order to travel with all haste, Strickland had only taken cavalry with him, along with a small army of pack horses instead of supply wagons. Lomas had taken the bulk of the infantry southwards in order to collect the Hightower levies and rally the marcher lords. Quentyn had taken a mix of foot and horse to his own territory to break the siege of Ironhill.
Clifford had already lost count of the days since he had parted ways with Lomas Tarly and Quentyn Ball. He had lost count of the times that they had shirked larger towns to avoid being seen, the smaller settlements which they had raided for extra horses, and the number of fighting men whom he had slain in skirmishes.
Bands of soldiers seemed to be everywhere, declaring for one dragon or the other. Several had joined their own forces, swelling their numbers. Lord Strickland had tried to prevent infantry from joining his forces, or else mounting them with any horses which the Blackfyres could take.
Marching alongside Lord Strickland was also his brothers, Rupert and Ranulf; the aging knight, Ser Icham Rankenfell, and his grown son, Dain, who had served Daemon Blackfyre in his household guard; the esteemed knight Ser Aubrey Ambrose, who had joined their army with a hundred mounted men; Lord Caldwell Musgood, who'd accompanied the Cafferens with his best knights.
Clifford heard Addam speaking to his brother again, much to his chagrin. Addam had an irritating need to fill silence or tedium with conversation. He usually closed his ears to Addam's prattling, but one word caught his attention. He turned and looked at the lad, who rode beside him.
"Did you say Rohanne?"
"Aye, Ser," Addam answered. He was pink-faced beneath the sun, with sweat dripping down his brow.
"Who is she to you?"
"Ser?" Addam looked bewildered. "I was just saying that I miss her."
"Miss her?" Clifford tried to remember if Addam had had any interaction with Daemon's wife. A boy's fantasy, no doubt. Daemon would probably laugh if he knew about it.
"Well, you need not miss her much longer," Clifford assured the boy. "Mayhaps her husband will even allow you a kiss if you fight well."
Addam's eyes widened. "Will he? How do you know?"
Clifford shrugged. "I suppose I don't, but he seems a cheerful man. You saw that yourself, did you not?" He glanced up to smile at Harry over what a foolish boy Addam was being. Much to his surprise, Harry was also staring at him.
"What are you talking about?" Harry sounded utterly bewildered. "When have you ever met Geoff?"
"Geoff?" Clifford frowned. "Who is that?"
"Rohanne's husband!" Addam was more puzzled than ever, staring at Clifford in utter confusion.
Harry suddenly burst into a fit of laughter that startled the men around them.
"Oh Cliff..." he wheezed, leaning forward so far that his face nearly disappeared into his horse's mane. "We were discussing Rohanne Webber."
Addam began to laugh as well, making Clifford want to strike him across the face.
The boy turned back to Clifford. "She's Lord Wyman Webber's daughter. He married her to Geoff Inchfield."
Clifford said nothing. He turned back ahead and fumed as the brothers' laughter subsided and Addam resumed their conversation.
"Do you remember her?"
"I don't. The last time I was in Coldmoat, you weren't even born."
"You would remember her if you knew her," Addam continued. "She's beautiful! She's got this stubby little nose, a mess of freckles, her eyes are pale green, and her hair's the colour of a warm fire!"
"I hope Geoff Inchfield talks so fondly of her as you do," Harry mused.
From the corner of his eye, Clifford could see Addam look down, and it seemed that his face turned a deeper shade of pink. This was not lost on him, nor on Harry.
"Oh ho," Harry exclaimed. "You've become acquainted with this Rohanne, have you?"
"No!" Addam looked appalled as he shook his head wildly. "It was only a kiss! Well, more than one..." He trailed off as Harry laughed again.
A boy of twelve has had more kisses than I have since the war began. Clifford ground his teeth together as he tugged irritably on his horse's reins. When the destrier exclaimed his displeasure, Clifford hastily patted old Vermithor's neck, feeling ashamed.
Addam was speaking of Rohanne again. "She loves the blackberries, she does. I used to go and pick some with Mother. She'd put them in a bowl of cream and I'd eat them with Rohanne."
Harry's amusement faded as he took in the feeling behind his brother's words. "What madness possessed Father not to offer you as a match to Wyman?"
Addam looked away. "It does not matter... Lord Webber's a loyalist. So are Geoff Inchfield and his uncle."
"Ah." Harry spat on the ground between the horses. "I do recall Ser Lucas Inchfield. Hard to forget a face as ugly as his."
Addam giggled nervously. "Geoff's a dirty clod. He chews with his mouth open and farts worse than any I ever smelled before!"
"Mayhaps you can kill both Inchfields and claim Rohanne for yourself as a spoil of war." Clifford suggested, eager to put an end to this discussion.
Addam's eyes widened before directing his attention towards his horse. Clifford turned back to look past the riders in front of him to see where they were going.
The Rankenfells were guiding them towards Stoney Sept. It lay in the south of the Riverlands, not far from the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush. House Rankenfell had held the Stoney Sept ever since the reign of King Maegor. Unlike many others, they had remained loyal to the Crown during the Faith Militant uprising. Stoney Sept had been House Rankenfell's reward for that loyalty. After Maegor's downfall, his supporters fell out of favour with the new king. Much like the Osgreys, House Rankenfell were landed knights, unable to support more than a single branch of the family. Icham had been a hedge knight, and his son Dain had been his young squire, when he'd crossed lances with Daemon Blackfyre. Daemon had admired the older man's hard-earned skills, and so had employed him as a household guard, along with Dain when the boy came of age. It had been a foregone conclusion that House Rankenfell would declare for the Black Dragon.
The walled town lay along the headwaters, with a modest harbour to accommodate the traders and ferrymen who plied their trade on the water. Even from some distance away, Clifford could also hear the tolling of several bells within the town. Above the walls arose the top of an old-looking sept which had evidently given the town its name. The sigil of House Rankenfell flew over the gates, and the sigil of House Blackfyre was hastily raised as the army approached.
Thousands of horsemen slowly rode into the town through its gates, making a great din with their hooves on the cobblestones. Folk cheered them as they passed, but Clifford noticed that others hurried into their homes to hide.
Eventually, Clifford found himself in a market square which had fast filled with horses and armoured men. More were still coming in, while several dozen carts trailed after them. He dismounted, as did Addam and Harry. They navigated their way to the north side of the market, standing before an inn.
"Stay with the horses," Harry told Addam, "we'll see about a room." The boy nodded, looking nervous as he began tying the horses' reins to a long post outside the inn.
The inn was already full of Blackfyre supporters, shouting orders for drinks as they spoke amongst themselves. Three barmaids hurried amongst the throngs with drinks, squeaking or flinching whenever men put their hands on them.
"You are being cruel to my brother."
Clifford flinched. He had never heard Harry speak that way to him before. He couldn't even look at him as he answered in a muted voice.
"Forgive me. I have been missing you."
"Missing me?" Harry was in no mood to be lenient. "We are in a war!"
Such was the commotion around them that Clifford could barely hear himself, let alone Harry. Emotion was also his only weapon against Harry's accusations without falling apart.
"Exactly! I could lose you tomorrow! I might never kiss you again!"
Harry faltered, but only fleetingly. "That's no excuse to vent your frustrations on Addam!"
Deep down, Clifford recognised that he was being unfair to Addam. The lad was cheerful, eager to follow in his elder brothers' footsteps, and fiercely determined to make his father proud. Oftentimes he would even offer to squire for Clifford if Harry didn't require him. He is too young and too innocent to join this war.
Despite that, Clifford was angry. He and Harry had rarely had a chance to be alone since the war began, and now with Addam's presence, Harry was reluctant to take any risks at all. There would be plenty of time after the rebellion was won, he promised, but that did little to assuage Clifford.
"Perhaps I should be angry with you, then."
Harry folded his arms. "I told you, this war-"
"To the seven hells with your bloody war! How could anything compare to what I feel for you?"
Again, Harry faltered. He opened his mouth and closed it thrice before he found words. "Love is the death of duty, and war calls for men to do their duty."
"Duty," Clifford repeated furiously. "I despise that word! What man ever lamented not doing his duty before he died?" Anger would serve him well, it helped him look Harry in the face, and it stopped him from desperately grabbing him and pulling him upstairs and keeping him there until he was forced to walk bow-legged for a week.
Now it was Harry's turn to look away, only he went further by shouldering his way out of the inn. Clifford stood where he was, paralyzed by indecision on what should happen next. He wanted to run after Harry, but pride and frustration seemed to nail his feet to the floor. He wanted Harry to come back and take charge of him again, as he always did when the world was simple.
"*"*" *"*" *"* "*"* "*"* "*"*"*
Neither Clifford nor Harry had resolved their conflict by the following day when they rode out from Stoney Sept to make a reconnaissance.
There were thirty riders in all, including Clifford, Harry, Addam, Rupert and Ranulf Strickland, Karnac Thorne, and a hedge knight called Ser Guyard of Wendish Town who served as their guide. They rode north-east from Stoney Sept and followed the upper fork of the Blackwater Rush.
"The Rankenfells have informed us where any Blackfyre troops should meet," Ser Rupert Strickland explained as they rode along. My brother will ride out behind us with the main army, and we'll secure Tumbler's Falls for them."
They rode vigilantly, eyes peeled for any signs of trouble. Rupert commanded that they show no sigils, in order that they might deter ambushers. Clifford was forced to go bareheaded, for his helm was decorated with the bronze scythe of House Straw.
After several hours, the company took shelter within a large thicket of elm trees. Clifford sat apart from Harry, fuming to himself beneath the eaves of an old elm. He was helpless with misery and self-pity. He tried to distract himself, but his mind was plagued by thoughts of Harry, his family, Harry's family, Daemon Blackfyre, House Targaryen, and Bloodraven.
"Ser?"
When Clifford looked up, he beheld Addam Osgrey standing before him. He seemed hesitant, nervous, but determined nonetheless.
Clifford was in no mood to interact with this boy, but Harry's admonishment was still fresh in his recollection. He kept his voice low and calm. "What is it?"
"Well, I was thinking," Addam explained haltingly, "that I could mayhaps hide Harry's horse."
Clifford frowned. "To what end?"
"So that you and he could go look for him."
He was too clumsy to mask his insinuations with any subtlety. Clifford fully understood Addam's intent, and it astonished him to have this boy speak so frankly about his dilemma.
His lack of an answer seemed to alarm Addam, or perhaps it was the look on his face that was to blame. Regardless, the boy's eyes widened and he held up his hands in a conciliatory expression. "I just thought you two had quarreled, and you wanted some time alone to sort things out."
Have I utterly misjudged you? "Thank you, lad."
Addam grinned and hurried off to make the arrangement. Clifford stayed where he was until beckoned over silently by the precocious boy.
He slowly arose to his feet and walked over to where Harry was attempting to cook some dried venison over a little fire.
"Brother," Addam called, running over as if he were in great distress. "Valiant has wandered off!"
"Gods!" Harry sprang to his feet, staring in astonishment at his squire. "I told you to tie his reins properly!"
"I can help look for him," Clifford interjected. "He is a spirited horse, it will take the two of us to secure him."
Harry seemed tempted to refuse, but this perceived loss of his horse was too great an emergency. He grunted and plunged into the forest whilst Clifford followed him.
As they moved further away from the others, Clifford suddenly felt very unsure. He was no master of improvisation as Addam had clearly shown himself to be; how was he to win Harry back and settle their argument? Revealing the deception would only make him angrier at this waste of time. All the same, he could not bear walking alone with Harry in silence, as if they were strangers.
"Harry…"
Before he knew what his next words would be, Clifford halted. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pushed him against a tree.
"Are you mad?" Harry exclaimed, only for Clifford to cover his mouth with one hand.
"Soldiers!" Clifford hissed frantically, gesturing to a point between the trees. Glints of sunlight flashed off of armour and weapons as the sound of horses drew near.
Both men drew their swords as they looked past their hiding spot to make some sense of the new arrivals.
"Are they friends or foes?" Harry whispered. "I can't see any sigils."
Clifford couldn't see them either, but he had no time to say as much. An arrow suddenly thudded into the bark of their tree, barely missing their heads.
"Drop your swords!"
Clifford obeyed with shameful alacrity, raising his hands high in the air. "I yield!" He stood in front of Harry to shield him from the unseen archer.
A huge destrier emerged from the cover of the thick trees, snorting and whinnying softly. Its rider loomed high above them, armoured in plate that was stained and worn from travel.
Clifford half expected the knight to draw his sword and cut them down, but instead he put a hand to his visor and raised it, revealing a pair of purple eyes.
"Osgrey? Is that you?"
Clifford breathed a sigh of relief; never had he been happy to see Aegor Rivers. A first time for everything. He felt a wild urge to laugh as the taciturn warrior dismounted before them. A dozen men on foot, all carrying longbows, stepped forward to form a rank behind Aegor.
It was clear that Bittersteel had spent his time campaigning. His black hair and beard, normally cropped close to his skull, had grown wild and unkempt, and his face was marked by two half-healed scars. If it wasn't for his voice and purple eyes, Clifford might not have recognised him.
Now he shook his head as he berated the pair of them. "We were about to pin your miserable hides to this bloody tree! You call yourselves outriders?"
Clifford was cowed, but Harry gave a good-natured shrug "Well, we found you, didn't we?"
A few of Bittersteel's men chuckled, earning them a nasty look from their commander.
It was not long before Harry and Clifford led Bittersteel back to Rupert Strickland and the others. Harry did not even question it when he saw his horse, safe and sound, beside his little brother.
Ser Rupert clasped Ser Aegor's hand in a firm handshake. "Well met, Bittersteel. Is there any news about Blackfyre?"
"King Daemon," Aegor reminded them gruffly. "And what sort of question is that? Did you just come blundering through the country with no idea where he was?"
"That's unjust," Ranulf interrupted. "We heard that he was trapped in Stone Hedge. Why else would we have come all the way from the Mander?"
"The Mander, eh?" Bittersteel's voice softened, and a rare leer appeared on his face. "That bodes well for us. I was hoping word would travel fast. Our plan is working."
Clifford was baffled, as were most of his companions. Ser Karnac scratched an old scar on his cheek as he raised his hand. "What is your meaning?"
"Brynden is not the only man who can think up a cunning plot," Aegor gloated. "There are many riverlords who wish to prove themselves to the red dragons. I had word spread of Daemon being trapped because it would draw both sides to a decisive clash in the Riverlands. Their forces will likely outnumber us, but we will have a few surprises for them at Tumbler's Falls."
"The besiegers are already on their way?"
"Aye," Aegor replied. "I've been leading them a merry dance across the countryside with my forces. Stone Hedge's siege has been abandoned but for a skeleton force led by the Blackwoods. They will be routed whilst we deal with the main threat."
"A risky plan," Rupert observed. "You had great faith in Stone Hedge's qualities not to fall before we all assembled."
"In time of war, risk is commonplace," Bittersteel snapped. "That is what all true men have longed for, it is how we shall prove our worth, in the time-honoured way. Daemon shall win his own with war, and we shall cheer the warrior king when he sits upon his rightful throne!"
The men in Aegor's company hailed these words, as did Harrold and his brother Addam. Even Clifford felt stirred by Aegor's passion. Not since the start of the rebellion had he heard Aegor Rivers convey himself with such fiery fervor.
Further plans were agreed upon with much greater ease. The main Strickland host was less than a day's march behind. Aegor would resume drawing the loyalist army southwards and draw the loyalist army southwards whilst half the outriders -Clifford, Harry, and Addam among them - would ride to Tumbler's Falls. The other half would guide Lord Hugo to the impending battlefield.
Tumbler's Falls was not as big as Stoney Sept, nor was it walled. Clifford was astonished to find that all the buildings were empty, abandoned by the inhabitants. Where they had gone, or whether they were still alive, remained a mystery which he did not like to unravel.
Only a handful of soldiers were present in the town, flying the black dragon of Blackfyre from a dozen poles. Much to Clifford's amazement, these occupants included the surprise which Aegor had hinted at earlier.
Daemon Blackfyre had taken the biggest inn for himself and his household. All of them looked a bit more ragged than when Clifford had last seen them, but the children appeared well-fed, Rohanne and her maids still wore fine clothing, and although Daemon bore new scars on his face, he was buoyant and jovial as ever.
When Clifford and the others knelt before the Black Dragon, he gave a booming laugh and urged them back to their feet. "Welcome, all of you. Good to have you by my side once again. Ah, Harrold and Addam Osgrey! I recognise you both. Your brother will be pleased to see you two again. He'll return sometime tomorrow."
Rohanne, his wife, sat more subdued in a corner with her daughters and her small entourage of maids. The sons of Daemon roamed about the inn as the princelings they were. Surprisingly, Aegon and Aemon, normally the wildest of Daemon's children as far as Clifford could recall, were dutiful and solemn as they stood close to their father and served as his squires.
Daemon asked for news about Fireball, Lomas Tarly, Eustace Osgrey, and the others who had remained in the south. Clifford found himself tongue-tied and nervous in the Black Dragon's presence, so he accepted a drink of ale and kept to himself in a corner of the inn as others sought a moment with Daemon Blackfyre.
For the second time that day, his isolation was broken by a boy. This one had the silver-gold hair of his father, with wide eyes of indigo shade. He looked to be seven years of age.
"Prince," Clifford stood up from his seat and gave a shaky bow. "Forgive me, I do not know your name."
"Daemon," said the boy. He pointed to Clifford's helm on the table. "Is that yours?"
"Aye. I am Ser Clifford of House Straw."
"I saw you die in one of my dreams."
Clifford felt his stomach lurch. It was quite a thing to hear a child say in such a plain manner. "How do you know it was me, Prince Daemon?"
"I saw that scythe," answered young Daemon, "I saw it on your helm just as it is there."
Clifford shuddered. He had heard that some members of House Targaryen possessed the skill known as 'dragon dreams', and House Blackfyre was a cadet branch of the dragons. Why shouldn't this boy have the gift as well?
"How did I die?"
"You were struck by lightning," came the reply. "I saw a lightning bolt come down upon you and take off your arm, black and smoking. You fell to the ground and died, as the sky opened up and rained on your corpse."
Clifford nodded slowly. It had been a fine summer day, but there had already been word that the next day would be less pleasant. He offered silent prayers to the Seven to protect him from an ill fate.
"Your dreams, Prince Daemon," he began anew, "is it possible to avoid that fate if you tell me of my fate?"
"I do not know," young Daemon answered, "maybe you can." At that moment, one of his younger brothers ran past him, shrieking with laughter as he splashed Daemon with a cup of water. Shouting indignantly, Daemon turned and ran after his brother, ignoring Clifford.
Abandoning his ale, Clifford sought for Harry in the inn, which was filling up as more men trickled in. He found his lover at a table with his brothers. Edwyn was one of the new arrivals, and now he sat with Addam, laughing at something the boy was saying.
Clifford grabbed Harry's shoulder and met his eyes, urging him silently to follow. Without looking to see if Harry followed, Clifford went up the stairs of the inn, claiming an empty room. Who is left to charge me?
"Cliff?" Harry stepped in after him, looking confused. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."
"Not a ghost," Clifford answered shakily. "I have heard my fate from Daemon's dragon-dreaming son."
"Gods be good!" Harry's mouth dropped open. "How do you know for sure that he speaks true?"
"I don't," Clifford admitted, "but if my days are numbered, I don't want to waste them." He closed the door behind Harry and bolted it shut. Then he turned around, gripped Harry's face in both hands, and kissed him like he'd longed to do for too long.
Harry gave a long groan as he returned the kiss and put his hands upon Clifford's body, pulling at his clothes. Clifford did the same, for he was utterly inflamed with desire and longing now that he was finally alone.
"*"* "* "* "*"*"* "*"*" *"*"* "*"* "*" *"*
When they awoke the next morning, stinking with sweat and other fluids from their night of lovemaking, Harry and Clifford beheld a commotion outside.
Thousands of soldiers had assembled in the town since they'd gone to bed, more than they could count from their window. They saw the sigils of their own army, along with the sigils of many other lords whom they'd not yet seen. Trumpets were being blown and drums were being beaten to bring on the final muster.
With Addam's help, Harry and Clifford put on their armour and fell in with Harry's elder brother, Edwyn, who was charged with leading the three dozen men of Daemon Blackfyre's battle guard.
They were kept busy following Daemon around the town, for the Black Dragon insisted on showing all his troops that he would personally lead them in battle. He held his mighty sword aloft so that all might see it, and whenever men saw him they cheered themselves hoarse.
There had been a council of war, Edwyn explained to Clifford and Harry. The Blackfyre left would be commanded by Bittersteel, the centre by Hugo Strickland, and the right by Daemon himself. The rearguard was commanded by Lord Musgood, and the vanguard was given over to Lord Mavis Blanetree, a lanky man who'd lost most of his hair and a third of his teeth.
House Blanetree were among several houses of the Riverlands who had flocked to Daemon's side. Through memory or inquiry, Clifford learned to recognise the banners of Bracken, Roote, Perryn, Wayn, Terrick, Shawney, Goodbrook, Haigh, and Groves. The most bemusing sight was the ragged band of men who nevertheless flew a gaudy sigil of a golden crown on a red-brown field.
"House Mudd," one of Daemon's knights, a man named Joar Butterwell, explained with a smirk. "Ruled these lands once, they did, now they scrape a few acres of mud along some old riverbank who knows where. They're trying to keep a dying name alive."
Several times did Clifford glance up at the sky whilst the army formed and marched out of the town. There was a strong wind, and the sky was grey with clouds, but he recognised that they were not storm clouds.
More worrisome than the sky was the approach of their foes. A mighty force was arrayed in three battles to the north of the town. Archers, infantry, cavalry, all of them stood firm beneath a forest of banners that flapped wildly in the wind. Joar Butterwell identified the towers of House Frey, the ravens of House Blackwood, the dragons of both Vances, the acorns of Smallwood, the naked maid of Piper, the red salmon of Mooton, and the silver trout of Tully. Worst of all, the loyalists had taken position on the high ground, which meant that the Blackfyres would have to attack them whilst marching uphill. At least there's no rain.
The Blackfyres marched forward, arrayed in the time-honoured way. Longbowmen marched in front, followed by a large and uneven block of infantrymen. Knights and mounted warriors were on the wings and in the rear. Their banners were no less colourful than those of the enemy, but Clifford knew full well that they faced the most powerful lords of the Riverlands.
"That looks like some twenty-five thousand men to me."
Daemon's voice was loud enough that it carried to Clifford, who rode between Joar Butterwell and Harry.
"Ten thousand more men than us, Sire," answered Dain Rankenfell.
"Then some of us will have to slay a few more men," Daemon declared jovially.
Several of his knights roared with laughter, and this prompted several cries of "The Black Dragon". Soon, it seemed to Clifford that the entire Blackfyre army was cheering for their chosen king.
They were nearing the slope of the hill when Ser Mavis Blanetree suddenly called for a halt.
Clifford looked around in confusion. They were still far from the enemy, who now began to jeer and taunt the approaching Blackfyres to come and die.
"Why did you halt us?"
Daemon Blackfyre pushed his horse forward between a gap in the infantry, cantering over to where Lord Blanetree sat atop his horse with one finger in the air.
The maple leaf lord was not daunted by Daemon's demeanour; instead he grinned and emphasized his raised hand. "This is as far as we need to go, Your Grace. Give me your trust, and I'll have those bastards shifted from the hill down to us."
Daemon frowned, but he waved down his other commanders and enforced the command to halt.
"Archers!" Lord Blanetree shouted so that his voice could carry above the strong wind. "Archers to me!"
Clifford watched as Blanetree organised the longbows into one long line. He saw that their bows, while impressive, were not made of dragonbone or goldenheart, like Titus'. They don't have the range. Might be they'll only scratch the first rank, if the enemy doesn't step backwards. What does he mean to do?
His question was soon answered as the archers began their assault. Hundreds of bows twanged as they launched arrow after arrow into the air. Much to Clifford's amazement, the arrows plunged deep into the packed ranks of the rivermen. Screams began to sound out like some horrific choir.
"Gods be good!" Clifford turned to Harry. "It's the wind! The wind is with us!"
The Blackfyres cheered as their archers continued to rain death upon the enemy, but now the loyalists sent their own archers down the hill.
"Don't aim for the archers," Lord Blanetree ordered. "Leave them be! Keep aiming for the knights and lords!"
Once again, the vanguard commander was proven correct. When the loyalists attempted to loose their own volleys, the wind caused the arrows to flounder and fall short. Some of the furthest landed right at the Blackfyre's feet, allowing the longbowmen to pull the arrows from the ground and shoot them right back at the enemy.
Clifford felt himself slipping into a fey mood; he laughed to see the might of the Riverlands in such a state of humiliation.
It was too much for the loyalist commanders to stomach. Trumpets and horns began to sound an advance. Their cavalry cantered down the hill, shouting for blood and death.
As Blanetree pulled the archers back, Daemon's bellow rang out over the heads of his right flank. "Pikes in front! Lock shields and hold your ground against those horses! Cavalry on me!"
Clifford dug his spurs into Vermithor; the veteran destrier sprang forward alongside Valiant. Soon, however, Harry was lost in the midst of so many armoured knights and men-at-arms rallying to Daemon as he charged to the right of his army. Where is he going?
Through the jostle of his own comrades-in-arms, Clifford saw a large host of cavalry charging after Daemon. Behind him, Clifford heard a sudden clash of metal so massive that it could only be the infantry slamming against each other. Fear and rage folded together within him and caused him to laugh giddily, as if he was going insane. Is this what makes men laugh when they go to war?
Thankfully, his hands were steady. He had full control of Vermithor, as if he and the horse shared a mind. He held his lance pointed upwards towards the sky, waiting for Daemon's command to attack the enemy.
Strangely Daemon gave no such order. Clifford couldn't see his commander, nor did he have the nerve to look backward and see what was happening to the main army. He simply charged forward, keeping an eye on the line of horses riding across from them on the plain ground. Will we charge like this forever?
Suddenly, Daemon gave a great shout, and for a brief second, Clifford saw the Black Dragon shoot past him in the opposite direction.
"To the king! To the king!"
Dozens of voices echoed that cry, and Clifford felt the charge shift its direction. One by one, ten by ten, the horsemen followed after Daemon, causing the enemy to falter and become disarrayed. Clifford gave a loud cry and forced Vermithor to do the same, desperate to not be left behind.
It was glorious, maddening, and terrifying. The wind howled above him and the earth thundered beneath him. Clifford felt tears in his eyes as he stared ahead of him. He saw the foremost Blackfyre knights charge into the rearmost ranks of the loyalists, cutting through them like fire in a dry forest.
Clifford's spear finally found a target of its own as he charged headlong into a group of Frey knights. Time seemed to slow down as his lance's spear point buried itself into one of the knights' horses, causing the steed to rear and throw its rider to the ground. Whether that man was trampled underfoot or managed to get up again Clifford would never learn.
He had no time to dwell on such mysteries, for he needed to drop his lance and draw his sword. Daemon's counter-charge had taken him and his followers so far that Clifford saw they were among the rear ranks of the enemy infantry and their archers. His sword was soon stained red as he slashed at lightly armed bowmen who were caught in the charge. It seemed so absurdly easy; a feeling akin to ecstasy coursed through Clifford's veins as he slashed his sword downwards more times than he could count.
For the first time, he could see the main front of the battle before him. The great masses of infantry had slammed headlong into each other, even as Daemon's cavalry ran amok amongst the rear ranks or else engaged the scattered enemy cavalry. On the other side of the battlefield, more cavalry were engaged in a brutal contest. Clifford caught a glimpse of Bittersteel, unmistakable thanks to his gold-coloured shield and winged stallion, as well as Aubrey Ambrose, whose yellow and red sigil shone even beneath the pale sky.
Suddenly, Clifford heard a man scream beside him. When he turned, he saw one of Strickland's men fall from his horse, only for his attacker to charge at Clifford himself. The man swung a morningstar at Clifford's head, shouting beneath his helm.
Clifford cried out in panic as he swung his sword to halt the blow. The morningstar chain wrapped itself around Clifford's swordblade.
It was a level of clarity that he had never thought was possible; he could see the inevitable even as it began to happen; his sword would be wrenched from his hand and he would likely be struck down.
Instead, he let go of the sword and threw it forward so that it struck the knight's helm with a loud clang. Before the man could recover, Clifford drew a long dirk from his saddle and plunged it headlong into one of the knight's eye sockets. Both men were screaming, but Clifford remained horsed.
He charged onward, unsure of where he was going, but he knew that he could not stay still. He reached down and grabbed a discarded spear which had been embedded in the ground. With it, he rode down a fleeing infantryman. For a brief moment, he turned to try and hack at Clifford's horse with his long-handled axe, but the spear passed through his leather jerkin as easy as a knife cut through a pie. Clifford claimed the axe for himself and cut down a wounded knight that was fighting on foot.
All around him, men were fighting ferociously, but Clifford suddenly saw Harry in the distance, riding against a man whose helm was decorated with some wide-mouthed monster. Clifford spurred Vermithor into another charge, even though he could feel the horse's sweat soaking him.
"Harry!"
Neither Harry nor his foe were listening, or perhaps they couldn't hear him. The battlefield was such a cacophony of sounds that Clifford could barely hear himself. Instead of shouting again, Clifford simply leaned forward and raised the axe. In less time than it took for Clifford to blink, the axeblade buried itself into the neck of the enemy horse.
Once again, he was bereft of a weapon, and now Vermithor slowed to a crawl, gasping wildly from exhaustion. A sudden terror seized Clifford as he wondered whether to dismount and find a weapon or to lead Vermithor away from the fighting first.
Before he could make a choice, the battle became rent with trumpet blasts. He looked around wildly to see what was happening now, but to his delight, he saw that the loyalists were fleeing the field. Scattered, broken, defeated. We won!
"Victory!" Clifford raised his visor with one hand and raised his other one high in the air. "Victory!"
Some of the Blackfyres continued to pursue the fleeing enemy. Others were halt with wounds. Several others joined Clifford in cheering.
Clifford turned back to see where Harry was. His lover had not gone far from his latest enemy, standing over the knight's broken body whilst leading Valiant by the reins.
Leaping from Vermithor's back, Clifford landed heavily and threw himself at Harry with all the vigour of a man with everything to gain. Such was his propulsion that both he and Harry fell to their feet amongst the reddened ground.
"Gods!" Harry pulled off his helmet and stared at Clifford. "Are you-"
Clifford silenced him with a kiss. Tears were pouring down his face, trickling into both their mouths.
"*"* "*"* "* "*"* "*"* "*
Clifford never found his sword, but he had plenty to choose from in the battle's aftermath. Thousands of men had fallen on both sides, leaving a veritable treasure trove of plunder. Sellswords and hedge knights were soon dressing themselves with silvered steel, carrying weapons with jewels welded into the handles.
Clifford's new sword had been wielded by the man whom he'd helped Harry bring down. His helm, as it turned out, had been adorned with the Tully fish, though none were sure which Tully he had been, on account of Harry having caved in his face with his mace.
Daemon Blackfyre was everywhere, cheering on his victorious troops, mourning some slain man in his service, assisting a wounded soldier back to the town for healing, or knighting some man who'd earned a reward for his service. Men cheered him wherever he went, kneeling amidst blood and guts on the field as a warrior king was due.
Men swore they would pay singers to make songs of Daemon's daring charge, the one which had turned the tide of battle. For his part, Daemon once insisted that the true hero of the battle was Lord Blanetree, but few heeded such modesty.
For Blanetree's part, he was in no position to appreciate the glory. He had been cut down when the battle was joined. His body was taken off the field with all honours, with Daemon personally leading the escort before some other task called him away.
Clifford was one of those who had returned to the town. He and Harry had stripped themselves of their battered armour and rested beneath the pale clouds. Addam was already hard at work, asking them a thousand questions of what the battle had been like.
At one point, Harry excused himself to visit the latrines, leaving them alone.
"I never properly thanked you, Addam," Clifford declared. "It was very kind of you to think of that trick with the horse."
Addam smiled and shrugged. "You're most welcome, Ser."
Clifford sighed, trying to ignore how much his hands were trembling. "Gods be good, I did worry so much that our secret was not safe with you around. I underestimated you greatly, Addam, and I can only apologise."
"Leave it be. Harry told me the truth a few days ago. He said you needed some time to understand."
"Well, he was right. All the same, I blush for how I made light of that fancy of yours. Rohanne, was it?"
Instead of answering, Addam gave a long sigh as he began to study his shoes. He suddenly reminded Clifford of how his own brother Branston would look when he was keeping a secret.
"Addam, is there something amiss?"
Without looking up, Addam gave a quiet confession.
"It wasn't no small fancy, I do love her. And she loves me. She told me so herself. Father even tried to betrothe me to Rohanne."
"Did he?" Clifford could scarcely believe his ears. Proud as Ser Eustace was of his family line and their long legacy, such an engagement seemed delusional to Clifford. He might as well have asked for Cassana's hand in marriage to Old Lord Armond Dondarrion.
"Father thought it possible. Harry was a captain of the City Watch, Ed was serving Daemon Blackfyre himself... Father said it would be fitting that an Osgrey become consort to the Lady of Coldmoat. So he came to the castle and spoke with Lord Webber. Webber spoke courteously to his face, but then as he left, he laughed with his steward about it. Geoff's uncle." Addam added the last two words bitterly.
Clifford was astounded at how much Addam seemed to know about this meeting. "How did you hear of this?"
"Rohanne espied them," Addam answered, "and she told me about it when I returned from a hunt. Father doesn't know that I know."
Clifford nodded slowly. "Well, that is a pity. You would have been a fine match for Rohanne."
"How would you know? You don't even know her," Addam mumbled awkwardly.
"I do know you," Clifford insisted earnestly. "I was cruel before, and I can only apologise. But I do hope that you can marry Rohanne when this matter is resolved."
Addam smiled shyly. "She said she would wait for me. She gave me a last kiss before Father took me to the Aegonfort."
If I find Geoff Inchfield, I'll kill him for you, lad. He did not want to distress Addam further, however, so he kept that thought to himself.
The boy suddenly looked nervous all the same. "You cannot tell my brothers, Ser. They will not take it well, and my father would be mortified if his humiliation was known."
Clifford looked upon this twelve-year-old squire, desperate to protect his family, and felt ashamed for having ever resented him. He leaned forward and ruffled Addam's hair in an attempt to cheer him up. "Your secret is mine, Addam. My word on that. And please, there's no need to call me Ser."