Clifford
The rush forward by Daemon's army had caused Clifford to veer away from the centre. Such was the press of men and horses that he could not change direction. Thousands of cavalry were massed together, milling about as they awaited the clash of infantry to finish.
How did I let myself get separated from the king? From Harry? Yet try as he might, he could not find a way to push past the rush of men who were following Aegor Rivers to the right.
It seemed as though Bittersteel had sought to outdo Daemon himself where appearance was concerned. His armour had an unmistakably gold tint to it, and had also been decorated with gold at the shoulders and helmet. His personal arms had been carefully painted on his shield; the red stallion of House Bracken, snorting fire and sporting dragon wings on a golden field.
Much as Clifford disliked Aegor Rivers, he couldn't help but admire him. He had spent months campaigning with him, and any man who did such was unable to deny Bittersteel's qualities. Quentyn Ball might have become the better known of Daemon's generals, but that was only because Aegor had ridden under Daemon's command, and Daemon's victories were always accredited to Daemon alone. Men spoke of Daemon Blackfyre, even those who fought for him, as if he was a god of war walking the earth among mortal men. But great as he was, Daemon was still just one man. Clifford had long ago seen that Aegor Rivers had been just as responsible for those triumphs. Aegor had been the man who had organised the Battle of Tumbler's Falls, who had commanded part of Daemon's army and ridden to victory. He had fought in every single one of Daemon's battles. Bittersteel had proved himself a natural campaigner, and he had done all in his power to bring discipline and efficiency to his troops.
Now he was leading the right flank, ordering shield walls to match the one awaiting them. Clifford hung back, still poised between fighting his way to Daemon and continuing on to Bittersteel's command.
He was still weighing his options as he was brought closer and closer to the left flank. He'd lost sight of Bittersteel, but he could certainly see the infantry driving the scattered vanguard back to the three main battles. Horns and trumpets urged their infantry on, until their shield wall slowly slammed forward.
It was a terrifying spectacle. Even after months of fighting pitched battles in the Riverlands, Clifford was unprepared to see so many men assembled in one place, butchering each other with such wild fervour. He also felt frustrated; he could see no way for cavalry to play an important part. No horse would charge against such a formidable block of men. The only thing for the cavalry to do was wait for an opening.
As the infantry battled, Clifford noticed Bittersteel gathering a great number of horses around him. Curiosity overcame his diffidence, and he made his way towards the milling host.
"Useless," Lord Shawney was objecting when Clifford came within earshot. "They can simply make another shield wall if we circle them! They'll turn into a bloody tortoise with hedgehog spikes on the shell!"
"Forget their infantry," Robb Reyne declared. "We can bring down their skirmishers and their cavalry!"
"Do you not see those bloody farmsteads?" Joar Butterwell gestured furiously to the clump of trees and abandoned buildings which blocked the southern flank of Maekar's army. "We'll need to ride around all that lot first, and who knows what sort of ambush is waiting for us!"
"We stay here," Aegor decreed. "We have the numbers, they cannot stand against us. I will not have us galloping on some glory hunt."
And so the horsemen remained behind the infantry lines, watching for an opportunity which did not come.
The one consolation to Clifford was that he was able to disentangle himself from the thronging horsemen to make his way back to the centre.
He tried to find Daemon or Harry, but the journey was especially tedious. Horses were restless, reacting badly to their crowded condition. It was as though they had caught the frustration of their masters at this tedious stalemate.
Suddenly, horns and trumpets blared, followed by a wave of cries which rippled outward. It called for men to rally, prepare to charge.
Clifford was still on the outer edges of the host. He wanted to scream with frustration as the hubbub grew amongst the knights and other riders. Worse still, men from the stalled right flank were hurrying to join in, eager for any opportunity which promised a fight.
A great thunder of hooves suddenly arose with the noise of battle. Clifford craned his neck to see where the cavalry were charging, where Daemon and Harrold were, and how quickly he might be able to join in. It was in vain; too many men stood in his way.
Clifford turned to the man beside him, a freerider who bore no sigil. "Never bloody thought I would have to wait in line to fight!"
The freerider gave a short guffaw. "Best be happy it wasn't us in the front row!"
Clifford bit his lip to hold back the angry words which bubbled up inside of him. He tried his best to move forward past this coward.
He did not know how long he was struggling before he finally saw the spot where Daemon's cavalry had entered the fray. Whether they were winning or losing was still a mystery, until Clifford saw men pulling back and halting their attack. What's going on?
As he tried to understand the unfolding events, he suddenly noticed movement atop the ridge.
A banner had been planted there, and the sight of it made Clifford's blood turn cold. Bloodraven!
Even after all he had done, all the battles which he had fought, all the hope he'd placed in Daemon Blackfyre, the sight of Brynden Rivers' pale dragon filled him with terror.
He was helpless; trapped in a maelstrom of screaming animals and shouting men. When the first volley of arrows flew up into the sky, the noise only increased.
Clifford lifted up his shield, bracing himself for the worst. Mother save me, Father save me, Warrior save me…
No arrows thudded into his shield, but it was no comfort to his fear. He heard the screams and wails of injured men.
Thankfully, he finally had an opportunity to advance; men were pulling back and scattering to avoid coming within range. Others had engaged in battle, either ahorse or afoot. Clifford briefly recognised Ser Eustace Osgrey, lifting up his visor to shout some battlecry as he shook his lance in the air.
"Harry!" Clifford screamed, looking for his lover. He will not retreat; he'll keep fighting. Gods, please watch over him.
Though he could not find Harry, he did reach his king. But as soon as Clifford drew near, he wished he hadn't.
Daemon Blackfyre's helm was still on his head, but any man close to him could hear a savage scream emanating from that helm.
Clifford soon saw why. With a gasp, he saw one of Daemon's twin heirs, lying atop a pile of bodies. The white-and-black arrows of Brynden Rivers' Raven's Teeth had found several marks.
"Your Grace!" Clifford turned to Daemon.
But the king did not heed him; he spurred forward, shrieking curses at the top of his voice. Blackfyre was brandished high in the air, and it shone like a beacon of fire.
"Forward!" Clifford turned to the men around him. "He wants us to charge!"
Whether those men heard him or not, it made no matter; they simply lingered where they were, seized by some strange panic which had overwhelmed them.
Clifford turned back to the Black Dragon, just as Brynden Rivers' second volley descended upon him.
"No!" The cry of horror left his mouth as Daemon Blackfyre, the greatest warrior of his day, lowered his sword for the last time. Pierced with twice as many arrows, his horse's death cry halted as soon as it began. Whether Daemon died immediately or clung vainly to life a moment longer, Clifford would never know. All he knew was that when the Black Dragon collapsed to the ground, still clutching Blackfyre in one hand, he did not stir.
Cries of dismay and horror erupted around Clifford; he did not even have the heart for that. He simply sat atop Vermithor, too stunned to even raise his hands. When the second of Daemon's twins rushed forward, along with a handful of other men, they too died beneath a third volley.
The deaths of Daemon and his sons took mere moments, but a hundred thoughts seemed to course through Clifford's head. The war was surely over now. What was he to do? Death was preferable to becoming Brynden Rivers' prisoner. He thought of fleeing the field, but he could not abandon Harry or Addam, wherever they were. Then he was seized with the notion that they could not survive unless Daemon's army still triumphed. What's to be done? He has other sons, but they are children, hidden away. There is no hope left.
Then he heard the trumpets and horns again. Turning in his saddle, Clifford beheld a miracle.
Thousands of horsemen were marshalling themselves once more, joining a large company which made their way from the right flank. Aegor Rivers was at their head, waving his arms furiously at men, beckoning them to follow him.
He still lives. The king's half-brother. Thank the gods that he waited to charge.
Clifford barely had to think over what he did next; spurring Vermithor, he charged forward to where his king lay. Blackfyre troops were already pulling back, yielding ground to cheering Targaryen soldiers.
Blackfyre lay where it had fallen, dropped from the lifeless hands of Aegon or Aemon; Clifford could not see his face beneath the closed helm. He slid from Vermithor's saddle and landed on a ground that was soggy with bloody mud. Only then did he see the chequered lion.
His cry of anguish had already left his lips as he lifted the man's visor with a trembling hand.
Edwyn Osgrey's eyes were still open, but his pupils had rolled so far upwards that Clifford could only see white. His surcoat was stained with dirt and blood, leaking out from three arrow wounds.
"Thank the gods," Clifford sobbed aloud, only to feel sick with shame at his selfish relief. Perhaps it was this sense of guilt which steeled his resolve to risk death like he'd never done before.
It took him a moment to nerve himself, but he grasped the Valyrian steel blade and then ran back, ducking behind Vermithor as he ran back. Forgive me...
He did not get far before the arrows began burying themselves in Vermithor. The aging horse cried aloud and reared, kicking his legs once before he slumped heavily to the ground. His whimpers were so terrible that Clifford found he was weeping as he ran.
The warhorse had not died in vain, however. Clifford ran back out of range, waving his hands towards Aegor Rivers.
Whether it was Clifford himself or the sword in his hand, he was not sure, but Bittersteel did not take long to readjust his horse's path. He came to a halt before Clifford and raised his visor. His countenance was a mixture of outrage and shock. "What happened?"
"The king is dead," Clifford declared, unable to stop his voice from breaking. "Aegon and Aemon lie with him." He held up the sword hilt first towards the taciturn knight.
For the first time, Clifford beheld grief on Bittersteel's visage as he processed Clifford's words. Only for a moment did he hesitate to take up the proffered sword. Then, his face turned fierce and resolute once more. Dropping the morningstar, he seized Blackfyre and held it aloft to catch the sunlight. His harsh voice, echoing from out of his opened helm, seemed to drown out all other noise.
"Ride now," he shouted. "Ride with me, men of Blackfyre! Avenge the king! Avenge the Black Dragon! Death or victory!"
"Avenge the king!" Men took up the cry from every direction as they waved their own weapons in the air. Redtusk, Robb Reyne, Eustace Osgrey, and so many others rallied to Bittersteel's call.
"After me!" Aegor Rivers' horse broke into a gallop, aiming for the ridge where Clifford could see hundreds of men running down the slope, doubtless wishing to get in closer range for their arrows.
He turned around and strove to find a new horse. Inspired by Bittersteel or desperation, he could not be sure, but he was determined to help turn the tide. Luckily, there was no shortage of riderless mounts, and he soon found one that bore him.
In a panicked rush, he strove to follow Bittersteel, joining thousands streaming to the Blackfyres' left flank. Clifford could see Aegor among the foremost horses that scattered the Raven's Teeth. It was a sight to make him laugh. Go on, Ser Aegor, slay that monster!
Battle had begun again all across the field. Blackfyre infantry strove to regroup and halt the Targaryen advance. Scattered cavalry units also joined in as the shield walls on both sides began to splinter in chaos.
Clifford strove to follow Aegor, urging his horse to the left. The marchers had made the most advancement there, driving the Targaryen right backwards when the other units had faltered. Even men of the centre were turning back to aid their fellow loyalists.
One of these screamed as Clifford drove his spear point into his face. Clifford abandoned that weapon and drew his sword instead. He sent a group of smallfolk scattering as he hacked at them with all the fury which had accumulated inside of him.
He shouted curses at the men in his way, slaying as many as he could to snatch victory from a certain defeat. Always, he kept an eye out for any sign of Harry, but in that he was disappointed.
He did see Gormon Peake, that grim-faced lord, laying about with his sword as his horse trampled the banner of House Hayford into the mud. He saw the Swanns, fighting together as they cursed their foes. He saw Pearse Caron, now a lord, pulling his father's body away from the fighting. He saw men of House Ball striving to avenge their lord. He saw men of House Tarly, maintaining their discipline in defiance of the growing chaos.
As for Clifford, he felt the madness infecting his own mind. Daemon was dead, but victory might still be within his grasp. It might not yet have been in vain.
He fought his way northward, bulling past his fellow Blackfyres to reach the bottom of that evil ridge.
Men fought on foot or horseback, with three different dragons represented. Red, white, or black, all of them bled that day. Clifford shrieked with savage joy as he cut down one of Bloodraven's men. He sought eagerly for the man himself. What a gift that would be.
His revenge against Bloodraven was not to be, however; Bittersteel had found him first.
It was not difficult to find them, for men gave them a wide berth. Whether Bittersteel had dismounted by choice or not, Clifford was unsure, but he now fought Bloodraven on foot. It was a strange sight; the dark-faced scowler, adorned in golden armour, fighting against the pale man in a motley of dark plate and black mail, a chilling grin plastered across his face.
They were evenly matched; Bittersteel was taller and stronger, and his blade had a longer reach, but Bloodraven was quicker and lighter on his feet. Each bore a sword of House Targaryen, using them against each other in combat for the first time in that house's history. Through them, the ancient feud of Bracken and Blackwood was also renewed. A lifetime's worth of hatred went into every swing of Blackfyre and Dark Sister. The gods themselves couldn't stop these two from killing each other.
Men of Blackfyre and Targaryen alike were stunned by the display of swordsmanship. No cheers interrupted their brutal duel. They even forgot to fight each other, so intent were they to witness this clash of kin.
As Bittersteel backed away from one of Bloodraven's lunges, the pale man's grin widened. "Come now, brother, are you afraid to die? Daemon is waiting for you!"
Aegor snarled as he swung Blackfyre, forcing his half-brother to retreat.
"Nothing to say?" Bloodraven circled left, then right, holding Dark Sister at the ready.
"I waste no words on the dead!" Bittersteel hefted Blackfyre. He stood still as a statue; only his eyes followed Brynden wherever he went.
"Are you sure? You spoke to Daemon and Fireball often enough," Bloodraven taunted. "You should have listened to my warnings when you could! You were fated to fail, and Daemon was fated to die! By my hands!"
Bittersteel spat at Bloodraven's feet. "Sorcerer! Kinslayer!"
"Aye," Brynden laughed. "For the good of Daeron's realm? I will slay every one of Daemon's brood! Like poisoning a family of rats! And for each one that falls, I'll ask your ghost if this treason was still worth the cost!"
"I could live a hundred years," Bittersteel vowed as he slowly advanced, "and suffer a thousand tribulations. And after all that, I'll still die with a smile on my face when I recall the sight of your blood on my sword!"
"Your sword, is it?" Bloodraven leapt forward and lunged again. Aegor parried it without flinching, but Clifford could see his face darkening.
Bloodraven was not finished. "Was that your plan all along? Is that why you claimed a wife from your dear brother?"
"Go on baying while you still have a tongue," Bittersteel rasped. "Words and arrows and poison, anything to avoid fighting like a man!"
"Spoken by one who cannot slay me," Bloodraven retorted with a cackle. "When I cut you down for good, I'll gift your ugly head to our sister! I hope she won't reject it, as she rejected your cock!"
Bittersteel gave a guttural roar of rage as he sprang forward. His onslaught was so aggressive that Brynden could only dance away.
Clifford watched in awe as the two men continued to fight, their will and drive never diminishing. On and on they danced, no longer speaking.
It happened so quickly that Clifford could scarcely believe it. One instant, Bittersteel and Bloodraven were evenly matched. In the next, both were screaming: Bittersteel in furious triumph, Bloodraven in pain.
The pale warrior clutched his face with one hand. Blood and other fluids seeped between his fingers. His shriek was unearthly.
The force of his attack had caused him to stumble away from Bloodraven and fall to his knees. As he rose to his feet again, Bittersteel suddenly burst into wild laughter as Bloodraven continued to screech. Clifford did not know which sound was more horrible to hear.
"Hail, Bloodraven," Bittersteel bellowed as he caught his breath. "The man of a thousand eyes! A thousand eyes, and one!" Laughter erupted from those Blackfyres who watched, including Clifford.
Bloodraven had not collapsed, but perhaps that was because he was leaning on Dark Sister. He kept one hand to his face, even as his remaining eye was wide and stormy, never blinking as it was fixed on Bittersteel.
Now the golden knight approached again, holding Blackfyre in both hands. "Tell me, demon, for all your foul magic, did you ever foresee losing an eye?" More laughter from his followers.
"Laugh on, brother," Bloodraven hissed. "Take my other eye if you can, take my hands and feet, but it will never save your cause! Daemon lost, and so will you!"
Bittersteel raised Blackfyre again, but before he could attack Bloodraven once more, he halted.
For in that instant, fresh trumpet blasts broke out across the grisly field of battle. But so far as Clifford could tell, they did not belong to the Blackfyres, nor to Maekar's forces.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Bittersteel frowning as he looked about in confusion. Bloodraven still stood ready to defend himself, but he was smiling again. No… gods no…
From his position on the slope, Clifford was given a better view than most. He beheld thousands of men pausing in their fight, looking about in confusion as the trumpets grew louder.
Then, from out of the screen of trees on the northern end of the field, a third army burst forth.
Clifford, rigid with horror, stared at the motley display which danced above the advancing host. He saw red fire, black scorpions, green dragons, yellow quills, suns and moons, red and white griffins, dark green sea turtles, triple spirals, blue-green maelstroms, golden wheat, purple lightning on black. But greater than any of these was the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"No," Clifford murmured. "Please, no…"
"Rally!"
Bittersteel had seen them too, and unlike Clifford, he had sprang back to his horse. Bloodraven had withdrawn amongst those surviving Raven's Teeth who closed ranks around their injured commander.
Clifford soon forgot him too, for he urged his horse to gallop. But he did follow Bittersteel this time. He made his way back to the centre line with all haste.
"Harry," he cried out again. "Harry!"
For the briefest instant, he was aware of a black-fletched arrow burying itself in his horse's head. But he had no time to react.
He could feel the horse's forelegs buckling, then its torso lowering, until it began to skid on the ground.
Before Clifford even had a chance to scream, he was flying through the air, then slamming against the ground. His body seemed to be on fire as he continued to tumble. His ears were filled by the sound of his own armour fracturing, breaking, twisting apart. Pieces of metal dug into him, but the force of his fall had knocked the wind out of him.
By the time his body came to a halt, and he was lying on his back amidst broken bodies of men and beasts, he could scarcely breathe. At least the pain in his body was greatly reduced, though he did not understand why. He tried to move his legs, then his arms. Nothing happened.
No… it can't be… this was not my fate… Daemon did not tell me this… was he wrong?
He could not even turn his head. All he could do was look up at the bright blue sky while the sound of carnage was all around him. Screams, horse hooves, weapons… These sounds which had terrified him before were all the more worse when he could not see their sources. He was trapped by his own broken body, and all he could see was the beautiful day above him.
The gods are cruel. He began to weep, from pain and fear and helpless fury. He wailed as loudly as he could, begging for salvation or death.
Bloodraven's taunts returned to him; they had been directed at Bittersteel, but did they not apply to him as well? Had he not been manipulated and blackmailed by Bloodraven for six terrible years? Had his happiness not hung by a single thread, with that vile man constantly threatening to cut it? Was this treason worthwhile, he asked. I was fated to fail and die, he said.
He cursed me. He set me on a terrible path that day, in King's Landing… I never had a chance to escape this evil fate. He just wanted me to believe that I could.
He was still lamenting this when a war-horse suddenly appeared above him. One of its hooves came downward towards Clifford's face, too quickly for Clifford to thank the gods for small mercies.
