Clifford
Clifford slept badly after the battle.
His dreams were haunted by thunderstorms. He cowered beneath the black clouds and screamed with terror as he sought shelter. Young Daemon's words echoed to him as he fled, soaked with rain and deafened by thunderclaps.
He'd awoken in a cold sweat four times before daybreak, and there was no dawn to greet him when he jolted out of sleep for the fifth time. The whole sky was full of clouds. Most of them were white, but there were wisps of grey floating through the air, as if some great giants had lit a fire across the horizon.
The smell of bodies filled his nose. Gods be damned, not this again.
It had been at least half a day since the battle had finished, and the army had been too exhausted to set camp elsewhere.
He stood up and looked across the field of corpses. Birds and beasts had come to slake their hunger upon human flesh. Men and women had already looted the battlefield of valuables, so many corpses were stripped naked. Dogs, foxes, rats, crows, ravens, and various others grew fat on this feast.
The first time he'd seen such a sight was after the Battle of Tumbler's Falls. He'd been utterly aghast, unable to look and unable to turn away. He'd emptied his stomach twice at the sight, sound, and smell. Now, such dreadfulness was reduced to an irritation from his perspective.
He was not alone. All the men who rode with King Daemon were hardened by battle and war. The Black Dragon was a chivalrous man who forbade desecration of corpses. He often threatened to hang any of his knights who descended to barbarity by looting. But when he was out of earshot, men laughed and japed about the dead, mocking their enemies as they lay senseless and lifeless on the ground. Clifford could at least rest assured that he hadn't fallen that far. Yet.
Daemon had wanted to bury all the men who had fought and died along the kingsroad, but his followers persuaded him that it was not feasible before the war was over. The surviving northmen might rally and return to attack again, or some other force might take advantage of Daemon's gallantry. Thus, Daemon grudgingly limited the burials to just his own casualties and the most nobly born of the northmen.
"I thought the North was going to stay out of this war."
Clifford turned to his left, where Harrold and his brothers sat around a fire. They were cooking what smelled like horseflesh on a roasting spit, slowly turned by Harrold as his brothers spoke of the previous day's battle.
"We all thought that," Edwyn observed. "This was not supposed to happen."
"Mayhaps it's a good sign, brothers," Harrold interjected. "The Seven Kingdoms is throwing everything at Daemon, any army they can spare. And look at their fates!"
"It is taking a toll," Edwyn retorted in a quiet voice, as if he feared being overheard. "We are losing more men than we can replace."
Clifford was astonished to hear Edwyn speak so gloomily about their position. Since Tumbler's Falls, Daemon Blackfyre had fought six different armies sent against him, and he had defeated them all. The Riverlands had been beaten into utter submission after three pitched battles, retreating sullenly to their castles. As Daemon lacked siege weapons, numbers, and patience to overwhelm these castles, he resorted to living off the land, taking what he wished from loyalists who did not acknowledge his kingship.
Others had come to challenge him. Two separate armies from the Westerlands had invaded the Riverlands, and both had been sent reeling back through the Golden Tooth.
This time, an army of northmen had marched south through the Neck. Daemon, having learned of their arrival, had confronted them as they'd marched down the kingsroad along the Green Fork.
Some ten thousand men had been assembled from lords who lived closest to the Neck and furthest away from Skagos. The greatest of these was Lord Oswulf Manderly, whose bannermen had made up the better part of the army. Accompanying him were Lord Brodda Locke, Lord Wynton Holt, Lord Ceol Dustin, Lord Elric Woolfield, Lord Dunwine Moss, Lord Ithamar Stout, and two different lords named Flint from opposite shores of the North.
Of those lords, Lord Stout and both Flints were slain during the battle, along with nearly four thousand men of the North. Three hundred lords and other high-ranking men were taken prisoner, including Manderly, his firstborn son, Locke and all three of his brothers, Dustin, two of Woolfield's sons, and the new Lord Flint of Widow's Watch. The rest of their army had fled back towards the Neck, and nobody was fool enough to pursue them into that boggy terrain. Bittersteel spoke darkly of stunted men who dwelt within those swamps riding lizard-lions and fought with poisoned weapons.
Another hindrance to pursuit was the high price which Daemon was paying for victory. He'd fought the Battle of Tumbler's Falls with some fifteen thousand men. After six battles, he'd lost nearly half his army, along with several of his most prominent followers. Mavis Blanetree and Karnac Thorne had perished at Tumbler's Falls. Rupert and Ranulf Strickland had both died of wounds they'd sustained at the Battle of Peasedale. Lord Musgood and Icham Rankenfell had been buried along the Greenapple where they'd fallen. Half the riverlords who had joined Daemon's cause were dead, as were a number of their kinsmen. Thankfully, Harrold and Edwyn had avoided serious injury, though it was clear to Clifford that the war was taking a toll on them nonetheless. Even Addam had lost much of his cheery disposition.
"Cliff!"
It was Harrold. He had cut a good chunk of meat from the spit and held it out to Clifford on a small wooden plate.
Clifford shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I shall go for a walk."
He left the brothers and made his way through the Blackfyre camp. He never failed to notice how much smaller it seemed since their Riverlands campaign had begun.
Despite the grinding loss which they had suffered, though, there did not appear to be any diminishing support for Daemon Blackfyre. He suffered every hardship with his troops. His tent was as modest as that of a hedge knight, and he was always in the thick of battle. If anything, the soldiers were more devoted to Daemon than ever before.
As he wandered about, time lost all meaning as Clifford brooded on the army's predicament. They had picked long stretches of the Riverlands clean. Daemon had insisted on paying their allies for any supplies they took, but he'd soon discovered that it was much better to occupy their enemies' territory. Still, they were running out of places to stay. A change of strategy was in order.
He also pondered his family in Blackhaven. He'd sent letters to his father and brother whenever they'd had access to ravens, but few birds were trained to fly from the Riverlands to the Dornish marches. One bird had carried three of his letters at once.
It hadn't been easy to explain why he'd joined the Blackfyre cause unless he'd admitted his love for Harrold. Agonising over it hadn't been any easier. He'd simply admitted the truth to his father and prayed that he might forgive him. There hadn't been any possibility of receiving letters, and this only made Clifford despair. Did he try to write back? What did he think when he read my confession?
"Ser Clifford?"
Aegon Blackfyre, one of Daemon's twin heirs, approached him while stepping over a sleeping dog.
Clifford quickly gave Aegon a respectful bow. "Your Grace?"
"My father requests your presence," Aegon ordered. He spoke the words courteously, but brusquely.
Me? What does he want me for? "As His Grace commands," Clifford replied, feeling nervous.
As he followed Aegon westward, Clifford needed to remind himself that the prince was the same age as Addam. Whatever boyish innocence lingered within Addam was gone in Aegon, or his twin Aemon for that matter. Both brothers had ridden behind their father into battle several times, determined to bloody their swords. Daemon had declared that he would knight them as soon as they'd slain their first men, and the boys were eager to earn their knighthood.
Truthfully, Clifford despised both boys. For all that they wished to be like their father, it seemed they would only ever succeed in achieving his skill at arms. Like him, they were growing tall, far taller than most twelve-year-old boys. They had inherited his features, but very little of his personality. Daemon was a gracious man, pleasant and openhanded and chivalrous to a fault. Aegon and Aemon were arrogant bullies who put on airs and relished inflicting pain. Their younger brothers were their most frequent targets, but Clifford had also seen them start to despotize anyone who did not match their standards of manhood.
Daemon Blackfyre had formed his council on a hill which overlooked the Green Fork to the west and the kingsroad to the east. The meagre remains of a small ringfort were in evidence, or perhaps they were just stone monuments that children had built.
The king's council consisted of the surviving riverlords, Bittersteel, Lord Hugo Strickland, Lord Androw Costayne from the Reach, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Aegon's twin brother Aemon, and - Clifford's eyes widened in surprise - Edwyn and Harrold Osgrey. Gods… he is running out of noblemen if we are invited to sit on his council.
"Welcome, ser," Daemon stepped forward and put his hand on Clifford to stop him from kneeling. "No need for that, I'm not a king yet."
"Your Grace," Clifford mumbled. He'd forgotten that Daemon did not want men to kneel in his presence.
Daemon smiled good-naturedly, as he was wont to do, but Clifford got a terrible sense that his smile was forced. He had no time to ponder it, for Daemon turned away to look at the other council members. "Shall we begin?"
Hugo Strickland stepped forward and gave a small nod before he spoke. "Your Grace, there is news from the Westerlands. A raven from Castamere. It seems that Ser Quentyn has broken the last of the Westerlands' strength. Damon Lannister has barricaded himself in Casterly Rock."
Daemon's smile was genuine this time. "Good man!" He clasped his hands together. "That makes three kingdoms taken! We need only assist our allies in the Vale and the Reach, then we can move against King's Landing itself. Who else is left to oppose us?"
Clifford felt his stomach sinking as he watched Strickland exchange glances with Bittersteel. The latter, grim-faced as always, stepped forward and took over.
"Our enemies are not defeated yet, goodbrother. Last we heard, Redtusk has control of the Bloody Gate, but he is still besieging the Eyrie. Leo Tyrell is reconquering the Reach. The false king has sent his youngest son to subdue the Stormlands."
"What of it?" Daemon seemed determined to remain optimistic. "Maekar is a boy, scarcely older than Aegon and Aemon! What harm can he do?"
"It is not Maekar which concerns me," Bittersteel countered. "Our spies in the capital report that Brynden is one of his captains."
Daemon folded his arms. "Daeron is growing desperate, Aegor, that is all. He has nobody left, so he sends his spymaster to win on the field of battle."
"All the same, we have heard distressing news," Bittersteel insisted. "My kinsmen at Stone Hedge received a letter from Felwood." He nodded his head to where Lord Tybolt Bracken stood.
Daemon turned to look at Tybolt. "Well? Go on, then."
"It is difficult to say what has happened, Your Grace. My sons received a letter which appeared to have been scrawled in haste. It speaks of Felwood being under attack and soon to fall. I do not know what else is going on in the Stormlands, but the fighting is far from finished."
Daemon was frowning. He turned his gaze back to Bittersteel. "This is not going as you assured me, Aegor."
Clifford could almost hear Bittersteel's teeth grinding beneath his black beard. Before he could say anything in response to Daemon, one of the riverlords called Dalibor Groves pointed an accusing finger at the taciturn knight.
"We have said it all along, Your Grace! Bittersteel has led you into one blunder after another! He promised you the Ironborn, and where are they? He promised us a swift victory to a brief war, and now we have been fighting since the new year began! More than half a year now, and what do we have to show for our sacrifices? What did my brothers die for?"
He turned to the other riverlords. "What of you, Lord Perryn? Were you promised that you would see your father slain before your eyes? And what of you, Shawney? The loyalists razed your castle after we won at the Threepenny Wood!"
"Leave me out of your grievances, Dalibor," Lord Shawney snapped. The others were staring at Lord Groves. Clifford saw outrage on their faces, but he could also sense fear. How many of them have been speaking with Lord Groves behind Daemon's back?
"You coward!" Groves spat at Shawney's feet. "Too scared to speak your mind, are you?"
Bittersteel drew his sword, as did Shawney, who raised his blade so the point was level with Groves' face. "Call me a coward again!"
"That's enough!"
Daemon Blackfyre's fury cowed every man on the hill, even Bittersteel. Clifford, who had said nothing and done nothing, nevertheless took a step backward in his panic.
Daemon's wroth was slow to rouse, and Clifford had only ever seen it on the battlefield. Now, as the Black Dragon held up Blackfyre in his mighty hand, the stormlander braced himself for the terrible fate which would befall Lord Groves.
"Your Grace," Groves protested, white-faced, "You said it yourself, did you not? Bittersteel has failed us! It is thanks to him that we are losing!"
"You have grossly mistaken me," Daemon shouted as he towered over the hapless riverlord. "I have not lost my faith in Aegor Rivers, nor have I lost my faith in this war!"
Clifford pitied Lord Groves as the man attempted to speak, but all he could do was stammer out unfinished words.
"I will not have any man sowing discord amongst my followers," Daemon continued angrily. "I will not have it!"
"Your Grace! Please!" Groves knelt before Daemon, tears forming in his eyes. "I did not speak against you! I have always supported your just cause!"
"I have not forgotten," Daemon spoke more quietly, but he neither lowered his blade nor cooled his wroth. "You say you do not speak against me, but you see fit to find fault in my kinsman. Would you defend your charges against him?"
Groves did not answer. He simply lowered his head and began to weep. Aemon and Aegon snickered at the sight of him.
Bittersteel laughed scornfully as he stepped forward. "Give me an axe, goodbrother, I will make an end of this pathetic display!"
"Nay!" Even as Daemon held Blackfyre in one hand, he raised the other towards Bittersteel. "This man has committed no crime except giving voice to his despair. And I do not have enough men to justify slaying one for such an offense."
He looked back down at Groves. "You have proved your manhood several times before, and so I will give you a chance to recall it. Until then, you will escort our prisoners to Harrenhal."
Groves shakily arose to his feet, cuffing at his face. As he prepared to speak, Daemon silenced him by using Blackfyre to gesture towards the camp. With a hasty bow, Groves turned and hurried down the hill towards his shameful task. Aegon and Aemon watched him flee with a disappointed look on their faces.
Dispelling his anger with a forceful sigh, Daemon sheathed Blackfyre and turned back to Bittersteel. "Since I was not clear enough for some men to understand, I will correct myself. I do not hold you responsible for the Ironborn's treachery, Aegor, nor the setbacks of our war. You have proved yourself time and again the foremost of men. Let no man question your loyalty to my house."
Much to Clifford's astonishment, Bittersteel seemed moved by Daemon's affirmation. Although he had forgotten to smile, the brooding man's scowl left his face as he respectfully nodded his head. "Now and always, Your Grace."
Daemon turned back to the rest of the council. "However, it is clear that we must amend our strategy. We need more men and more coin."
"It is as Ser Aegor said before," Ser Aubrey Ambrose interjected. "Our strongest warriors are scattered across the realm. We must draw them to you before each one is destroyed piecemeal by our foes."
Daemon nodded. "It will take time to assemble everyone. How many ravens do we have left?"
"Your Grace, we should be lucky to scrape together half a dozen birds," Lord Costayne ventured.
Lord Strickland made a dismissive noise before responding to Costayne's words. "What good are ravens to men like Quentyn Ball? Do we know where he is? We must send out riders!"
Daemon sighed. "It seems we must linger in the Riverlands for a while longer. But so be it. Let it be known that any man who will fight for me should travel to the Riverlands.
"Where in the Riverlands, Your Grace?" asked Lord Shawney.
Daemon paused, then turned to Bittersteel.
"It is best if we do not give one single rallying point. Suppose our enemies find out?" Bittersteel paused to clap his bare hands together to crush a wasp that buzzed around his head. "Fireball, Redtusk, and Lomas Tarly are all leading forces. Give each of them a different destination, and we will collect them as they arrive. We cannot stay in one place anyway."
Daemon nodded. "Very well."
"Your Grace," Lord Tybolt Bracken added, "mayhaps we need to turn to Essos for manpower. There are an abundance of mercenaries to be found there."
Daemon frowned. "Men should fight for me without expecting a reward, no?"
"These are desperate times, are they not? Forgive me, Your Grace, but we must tip the scales in our favour before all is lost."
"And with what gold shall we pay them? Our allies in the west have not provided us with more coinage for at least two months."
"I will pledge my house's fortunes as an upfront payment, Your Grace," Bracken offered, "and our victory will ensure the rest of the payment."
"Handsomely said," Daemon replied. He stepped forward and clapped Lord Bracken on the shoulder. "I can see where Aegor learned loyalty, my lord. I will not forget this."
Lord Bracken echoed his kinsman by bobbing his head to Daemon.
"Go and see to it yourself," Daemon ordered. "Go to Maidenpool and sail for Essos. And make sure to take my family with you."
"To Essos, Your Grace?"
"Nay. I mean for them to stay with House Upcliff on Witch Isle. They can embark on the same ship which you take for the east."
Lord Bracken bobbed his head. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
"If I might suggest something, Your Grace?" This time it was Edwyn Osgrey who spoke.
Daemon turned from Lord Bracken. "Yes?"
"There is a great treasure beyond any price to be had if we dare to take it," Edwyn explained. "I have seen it for myself, as have you. Do you recall when Prince Baelor invited you to Dragonstone?"
Most of the men - including Clifford - gaped at Edwyn.
"Dragon eggs." It was Daemon who said aloud what the others did not dare to speak of; he folded his arms and looked thoughtful. "Some might call that a fool's errand."
Clifford agreed with Daemon, and it was clear that everyone else thought the same.
Edwyn was undaunted, however. "Your Grace, Prince Baelor is in the North. Our spies reported that Daeron recalled his family to King's Landing, did they not? What reason would Daeron possibly have to leave a strong garrison on Dragonstone?"
Slowly, the men's astonishment and skepticism faded as they pondered Edwyn's words. They looked at Daemon, curious for his response.
The Black Dragon suddenly began to chuckle. "Let no man say that House Osgrey lacks daring and courage. Your father will surely be proud to hear of this."
Edwyn and Harrold smiled gratefully, as did Clifford.
"But I cannot spare men for Dragonstone any more than Daeron," Daemon lamented, "least of all such a man as you, Edwyn."
"Dain Rankenfell was with us that day, Father," Aegon suddenly interrupted. "He is the son of a hedge knight. Why not spare him?"
"Mind your tongue," Daemon addressed him sharply, "Ser Dain and his father were serving our household before you were born, boy!"
Aegon recoiled, looking embarrassed and alarmed.
"All the same," Daemon admitted, "Ser Dain is the only other man who has been through Dragonstone that I have left. But he cannot attempt this alone." He turned to the riverlords. "If we shall attempt this, we will need a man who is accustomed to such scurrilous behaviour." He is too proud to use the word 'thief'.
"I believe I know just the man, Your Grace," Lord Costayne answered. "Before I joined your side, I recruited criminals - lesser criminals," he added hastily, "I promised a reprieve if they fought well for our cause. One of those who joined us named Fain, though he is better known as Quickfinger."
"Not quick enough if he was caught," Bittersteel quipped dryly.
"I will not defend a man's reputation as a thief," Costayne countered pompously, "but if you have a better candidate, do enlighten us."
Bittersteel ignored Costayne's challenge and changed course instead. "How can we trust such a man to return the eggs to us?"
"Give him to Dain Rankenfell's keeping with a handful of men who are loyal to us and who are also… suitable for this task." Costayne did not need to clarify his meaning.
Daemon pondered what had been said, then gave a slow sigh. "So be it, but I pray the singers will never remind me of this business when I sit the Iron Throne." It was meant as a jape, and the men duly laughed, but their amusement was hollow.
The Black Dragon gave Lord Costayne a nod. "Send for this Fain. Promise him gold, a minor lordship, and promising futures for his children."
All you needed to promise him was the gold, Clifford thought to himself.
"In the meantime," Daemon resumed, "I must send trustworthy men to seek out our strongest allies."
The king regarded Ser Aubrey. "You must go to the Vale and find Redtusk. Mayhaps he will have seized the Eyrie before you arrive, mayhaps not. But he must bring as many Valemen as he can to my side."
Ambrose wordlessly put a hand over his heart and inclined his head.
Next, Daemon glanced at Harrold Osgrey. "Our last correspondence with Fireball came from Ironhill. No doubt he will return there from the Westerlands when my raven reaches Castamere."
Clifford felt a jolt of alarm, but forced himself to keep silent.
"I know the northern Reach very well, Your Grace," Harrold affirmed.
"Good. Seek out Fireball and your father. Bring them back to my side with all haste."
As it was still sinking in for Clifford, he suddenly felt Daemon's eyes upon him. He looked back into those deep purple eyes with a sudden sense of foreboding.
"You are the last of my knights to hail from the Stormlands, Ser Clifford," Daemon began, "and I have not overlooked your valour."
Clifford was dazed at the compliment; he hadn't thought Daemon had ever noticed him before. He could see Harrold smiling proudly from the corner of his eye and he felt himself blushing.
"I can think of no better man to find Lomas Tarly and his men. We need the marcher lords and Hightowers more than ever. And if you can, you must also collect our allies on the Dornish border."
It was a major responsibility, and a daunting one, but all Clifford could think of was that he was being separated from Harrold. Panic seized him, and his tongue seemed to swell up in his mouth.
"Ser?" Daemon's voice sounded puzzled, which only added to Clifford's alarm.
Another voice rang out, this time scornful. "Is this task beyond your abilities?"
"Peace," Daemon turned to Bittersteel, "Clifford is no craven, you have seen that yourself."
Finally, he willed himself to speak. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I did not wish to leave your side."
"No doubt." Daemon's smile was warm and reassuring. "And the sooner you return, the better will it please me."
As if they had a will of their own, Clifford's eyes flicked to Harrold. Ever since they had joined the goldcloaks together, he had not been out of Harry's company for longer than two days. This would be at least a month of riding back and forth across lands ravaged by war. I joined the Blackfyres to stay by your side, and now this war is tearing us apart all the same. The injustice of it filled him with a savage fury at the Blackfyres, the Targaryens, the gods… everyone who seemed so utterly bent on destroying his happiness with Harry.
"I thank you for this honour, Your Grace," Clifford was careful to reply as he looked back at his chosen king, "and I swear to you that I will see it done."