Clifford
The sun continued to shine on Clifford as he fled with the Swanns, abandoning Lomas and the infantry to the flames. He had felt sick with shame, but only after he was well and truly safe.
Of course, he thought to himself as he rode northwards. He said that the sky would open up and weep upon me. It hasn't rained for days. So long as it does not rain, it cannot be true. Mayhaps Dondarrion's lightning wasn't what he meant either.
It did little good to stew over such a mystery, but he could not abandon it either. It was all that prevented him from turning on Alfred Swann and accusing him of murder.
Truthfully, that was not the only thing. Clifford was not fool enough to miss the truth of his situation. They needed him as a guide and as a man who could vouch for them, but they did not need him that much. If they knew what Septa Perianne had said to him, whether it was truth or lies, Clifford was sure that they would slay him where he stood. Their ignorance of his knowledge was paramount to his own safe return to the Riverlands.
It galled him to be so helpless. He was vastly outnumbered by the Swanns and their cavalry, even as he was guiding them to the Riverlands. It would only be when he returned to King Daemon's side that he would have the backing to properly challenge Alfred Swann.
A few men from Blackhaven had joined the Swanns on their flight to Daemon, but they had almost all been left behind to House Dondarrion's vengeance. The only man who had been able to ride away from certain death was Maynard Kellington. Clifford had not known him well in Blackhaven, and they made no attempt to rekindle some sort of acquaintance. He seemed quite content with the Swanns' company instead.
It was a tedious road, and perilous. They could not travel for three days without having a run-in with outlaws or broken men. They were forced to guard their camps carefully, so that few men had a full night's sleep. A number of men were ambushed and killed when they wandered too far from sight.
Yet they pressed on with as much haste as they could muster, riding across the eastern Reach, along the Mander, shirking Tumbleton, giving King's Landing a wide berth, then north into the Riverlands.
Then, after another six days of riding and searching, Clifford found himself on a hill, overlooking the southern shore of the God's Eye. A group of Blackfyre scouts had led him to Daemon's camp.
The massive lake shimmered beneath the bright summer sun. After years of the Blackwater Bay, Clifford thought the God's Eye seemed as smooth as glass by comparison. On the horizon, Clifford could just manage to see the Isle of Faces. A shudder passed through him as he recalled the ancient stories that he'd heard as a boy about that sacred place.
The sight of that island and the lake alone might have mesmerized him completely, were it not for the massive army which was encamped along its shore. Thousands upon thousands of men, women, children, and beasts dwelt amid a small town's worth of tents. Countless banners formed a dazzling display of colours and shapes. Clifford could not possibly identify all the sigils, but he recognised several from the Westerlands, Riverlands, Stormlands, Reach, Vale, Crownlands, even Dorne.
More plentiful than all the rest, however, was the banner of House Blackfyre. Clifford recalled how the forces of King Daemon once needed to hide their banners in order to avoid costly attacks. He has no need to hide himself now.
As he and the Swanns were escorted down to the camp, Clifford was overwhelmed by the scale of Daemon's power. Word spread quickly of the Swanns' arrival, until two vast crowds formed to watch the men ride deeper into the camp. Some cheered for House Swann, while a few recognised Clifford.
Clifford waved back to those he knew and gawked at those whom he only recognised. Arson Tork, better known as Redtusk, had come from the Vale. Robb Reyne had arrived from the Westerlands. He saw knights of great renown and dozens of lords and their kinsmen, all of them mingling with the smallfolk who'd joined the Black Dragon's cause. With a jolt, Clifford saw Eustace Osgrey sitting on his horse. The man gave a respectful nod, though Clifford did not know if it was meant for him or Ser Eward.
Eventually, the scouts led him to the centre of that mighty army. Five tents had been arranged in a circle around a campfire. Standing amongst them were several armed men, led by Quentyn Ball.
The Fireball approached the newcomers, grim-faced as his eyes scanned them. "Who comes before the king?"
"Ser Clifford Straw," Clifford reported dutifully. "I've escorted Ser Eward, Ser Cedrik, and Ser Alfred of House Swann."
Quentyn paused, then gave a curt nod. "His Grace will be pleased. Dismount." He turned and walked away towards the lake.
Clifford and the others got down from their horses and waited silently. He looked no one in the eye, focusing instead on the shimmering blue horizon, noting where the water shifted to a greener shade just over the tops of the tents.
It was not long before Quentyn returned, with Daemon Blackfyre in tow. He was dressed plainly, without any garish colour or fanciful fashion. One might have easily mistaken him for a commoner if it wasn't for his size, his Targaryen features, and the hilt of Blackfyre poking up over his shoulder.
From the corners of his eyes, Clifford could see the others hastily bending their knees for the king. He did the same, looking down at the great leather boots until a hand motioned for him to rise.
"Well met again, Ser Clifford," Daemon exclaimed, grinning broadly as he clasped Clifford's shoulders. "The marcher lords told a wonderful tale when they arrived. They spoke of the brave knight who brought my command to their ears. Were it not for you, they might have been trapped between my nephew and Longthorn Tyrell."
It was said that when Daemon looked a man in the eye and urged him to action, that man could do anything. After months of fighting alongside him, Clifford did not dispute that notion. The effect was dazzling, and Clifford was at a loss for words. But then he recalled what he had planned to say. The trek from the Dornish Marches had been a long one, and he'd had plenty of time to think. Now he took a shaky breath and addressed his beaming king.
"You do me great honour, Your Grace, more than I deserve. If any men should be praised, they are Ser Lomas Tarly, Ser Byren Flowers, Ser Robin Horpe, Ser Gideon Farring, Normund Tarly, and thousands more whose names I do not know. Loyal men of House Swann. They fought valiantly so we could return to your side, just as I guided these men to you as you ordered."
Daemon's smile melted away. His purple eyes flickered to the ground as his face split into a frown. "Brave men, indeed," he murmured. "When this is over, their names will live on in songs across the Seven Kingdoms. This I swear upon my life." Slowly, he nodded to the Swanns. "I welcome all loyal men to my side. May the Warrior guide our arms to victory."
It was a colder reception than the Swanns had expected, judging by their hard-set jaws. That a mere knight such as Clifford had received such personal favour over them was further insult on top of that injury. Clifford restrained the urge to smile in their faces. The time was not ripe yet to pursue his revenge.
"A word alone, ser."
"Yes, Your Grace," Clifford replied. He hurried after the king as Daemon loped back towards the lake shore. Quentyn Ball trailed them both, plodding along with his heavy tread.
"You have done my family a great service," Daemon professed, "and not for the first time in this war. Let no man say that I am ungrateful for valour, nor that I am niggardly with reward."
He stopped suddenly, when most others were out of earshot. "What boon would you ask of me?"
"Boon?" Clifford gaped in awe as he looked up at that kindly and handsome visage.
"Aye, ser," Daemon confirmed, grinning. "And I'll have no modesty from you. If it is in my power to grant, ask it of me."
Clifford paused, trying to think. What do I want? A lordship? Riches? Command of his forces?
One by one, those notions left his mind. He knew that there was just one desire that he had, but he did not know how he could ask Daemon to grant it. He was utterly tongue-tied, desperate to make use of this opportunity.
Daemon suddenly patted Clifford on the shoulder. "No need to say it now, then. Give it some thought and speak to me when you decide."
Clifford felt abashed, despite Daemon's kind words. He felt especially nervous when he glanced to his right and saw Quentyn Ball watching him with his unfriendly expression.
Daemon followed Clifford's gaze and shook his head. "Don't mind Quentyn, he means to join my Kingsguard when I am crowned."
If Daemon meant to continue, he was interrupted. For Clifford had suddenly realised what he wanted, and how to gain it. Thus, he cried out for joy. "Your Grace! If it please you, I have my request."
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After riding for so long to reach Daemon's army, Clifford had run out of patience. He felt himself growing anxious with each passing minute, as if Daemon would withdraw his boon if it were not immediately granted.
Luckily, Daemon showed no sign of impatience. He asked Clifford questions about his journey as they awaited the return of Ser Quentyn.
Clifford told him as much as he could recall, including the detail that the Swanns had ordered him to flee with them.
It was a rare thing to see Daemon displeased, and Clifford almost felt nervous for the Swanns to look upon that sight.
"They shall have a chance to recall their courage," Daemon murmured. "Mayhaps they will prove that the others did not die in vain."
Eventually, the Fireball returned, bringing Harrold Osgrey with him. He looked even more nervous than Clifford felt. Trailing them was his younger brother and squire, Addam. They both knelt before Daemon, but not before Harrold shot Clifford a look of confusion.
"Rise, my friends," Daemon urged. Clifford recalled a time when the Black Dragon would urge men not to kneel until he was crowned. Now he simply took it in stride, speaking as a king.
Clifford felt a wild urge to laugh at the look on Harrold's face, as well as the looks on his brother. Instead, he stepped forward and stood before King Daemon, standing side-by-side with Harrold.
"You have both served me well," Daemon began, "ever since this war began. I have not forgotten your loyalty, nor your bravery and gallantry. And it has been brought to my attention that you both wish to serve me in my Kingsguard."
Clifford smiled at Harrold, who stared in astonishment at Daemon. His mouth opened, but no words left him. Clifford turned back to Daemon. "We do, Your Grace."
Daemon smiled. "I cannot grant this request yet, but rest assured, when I sit upon the Iron Throne, I shall bestow white cloaks on the both of you. I only ask that you keep this to yourselves until then."
"Of course, Your Grace," Clifford agreed hurriedly. "We swear it."
Daemon's eyes flicked over to Harrold and Addam. Both nodded their heads, still bereft of words.
"In any case," Daemon continued, "I shall arrange for your tent and belongings to be moved closer to mine own on the morrow. Until the war is finished, you shall join my household guards."
Harrold said nothing after Daemon dismissed them. He seemed to traipse alongside Clifford as if he were in a dream. It wasn't until they returned to Harrold's tent that he pulled Clifford inside and faced him incredulously.
"What did you do?" His voice was quiet, almost too quiet to be heard.
"This is how we can be together, and serve the Black Dragon," Clifford murmured in reply. "Men of the Kingsguard take no wives or lands, father no children, and they win eternal renown. This is what you always wanted, no?"
Harrold slowly nodded. "Truth be told, I never thought myself worthy enough for the Kingsguard." Then he started and looked at Clifford. "What I always wanted? What about you?"
Clifford smiled. "The Kingsguard is a great honour, but I only want you. I will follow you to the seven hells if I must." He felt tears coursing down his cheeks as he leaned forward and kissed Harry's lips.
He had missed this so much on his long journey south. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have Harry's lips on his, to feel his tongue wrestling with his own, to feel his hands undressing him…
All caution between them was cast to the wind. Both were soon breathing heavily, hungering for each other's bodies and their own ecstasy. Harrold murmured Clifford's name as he bent him over and entered him from behind. It was all that Clifford could do to avoid crying out with joy as he felt Harry inside him once again.
After such a long wait, it seemed to end far too quickly between them. Soon, they lay beneath a blanket on the soft grass, holding each other in their arms.
"Edwyn is betrothed," Harrold remarked of his eldest brother. "Lord Strickland's sister is newly widowed without children."
"A worthy match," Clifford observed. House Strickland was a powerful house who would have normally turned their noses up at a poor knightly house such as House Osgrey.
"Father was ecstatic," Harrold remarked. "Our fortunes are rising again after so long."
"And now his second son will be in the Kingsguard," Clifford added encouragingly as he rested his head against Harry's warm shoulder.
"I was worried that Father would try to arrange something for me as well," Harrold admitted softly. "He has been pestering me for so long… my knighthood, my service in the goldcloaks, my lack of a wife… but this is something he will not dismiss. This is glory beyond his hope. An Osgrey in a white cloak…" He kissed Clifford's forehead. "Thank you."
He could not recall how long it had been since he'd felt this content. Nothing else mattered in that moment: the Swanns, revenge, young Daemon's prophecy, even the war. For months, Clifford's mind had been beset by worries and fears, looming over him like storm clouds. But now the storm was raging elsewhere, perhaps on the other side of that beautiful and tranquil lake.
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Daemon was true to his word; men arrived at dawn to help move Harrold and Clifford's belongings across the camp. The king made it clear to them that Quentyn Ball was their commander from now on.
"It will be good practice for your future roles," he japed as he led them to a makeshift armoury which had been established. "You shall also receive new sets of armour as befitting men of my household guard. Speak to Hibald about any particular details you wish to have inlaid."
Thus, Harrold requested a rampant lion on his helm, whilst Clifford asked for a bronze scythe on his own.
Whilst they waited for the armour to be forged, Clifford and Harrold spent their time guarding Daemon in shifts organised by Quentyn. This meant that they were present for Daemon's war council.
In an army of more than forty thousand men, there was no shortage of wealthy noblemen. As a result, the council had exploded in size, for Daemon was loath to snub those minor lords who'd served him before the reinforcements had arrived. This also meant that there was even less consensus on their next step.
"We must lay siege to King's Landing," Aegor Rivers insisted on the second day after Clifford's return. The king's half-brother strode amongst the seated men, grim with determination. "The time has come to topple the false king from his stolen throne!"
He walked over to a large map which had been spread across the ground in front of Daemon. Bittersteel planted his food on the drawing of the God's Eye, emphasising the southern shore. "We build boats, we ferry everything downstream until we reach the Blackwater Rush, then we advance on King's Landing itself!"
Lord Gaul Westerling stood up. "How can we lay a successful siege? We have no ships to block the bay. Daeron will die of old age before his city starves."
"The city will turn on him," Aegor retorted. "When they see the might of our army, when they see their true king returned, they will not suffer the Targaryens any longer!"
"Nay." It was Joar Butterwell, the second son of Lord Ambrose Butterwell. "We cannot rely on the people of King's Landing. My father sent me word before the war. Brynden Rivers was on the small council, and he purged the city of our supporters."
"Your father said that, did he?" Aegor turned on Joar with a suspicious air. "Do you fear for his life, ser? Or do you fear for your brother's safety? Remind us for which side he's fighting."
Men murmured angrily as Joar looked away, abashed and ashamed.
"And what will you say to me, Bittersteel?"
Clifford almost gasped as Harrold pushed his way past the ranks of Daemon's guard and stood in front of Joar Butterwell. "My father and all my brothers have fought for Daemon, just as you have. And before that, I spent nearly six years with the goldcloaks. Joar Butterwell speaks the truth. Brynden Rivers has the city by its throat. Even the gutter rats of Flea Bottom do not dare to squeak against Bloodraven."
Cold rage came easily to Aegor's face; Clifford was not sure whether it was because of Harrold's defiance or because Brynden's power infuriated him.
Joar and Harrold's examples, coupled with Daemon's inaction against dissent, seemed to inspire other men to speak out. This time, it was Ser Eward Swann.
"And what will they say when they hear how our castles are falling? What will the smallfolk say when they hear how the Targaryens drove us out of our own territory?"
"Drove us out?" Quentyn Ball did not hesitate to challenge the heir to Stonehelm. "I've not been driven away by any man that Daeron sent against me!"
Other men began to shout, and there looked to be some sort of violent outburst. It was halted when Lord Arson Tork, the towering figure known as Redtusk, stood up and bellowed until the others quieted down.
"My lords! My lords! We are getting ahead of ourselves! Daeron's sons are still alive, including Prince Baelor! Before we left the Vale, I received word that he was sailing south from the Wall!"
This news caused a great hubbub amongst the Blackfyre supporters. More men shouted and argued, so that Clifford was not able to follow what was said. It might have taken all night to peter out if it wasn't for Daemon, who ordered a horn to be blown. When the others halted, he declared that they would continue after everyone had gotten some rest.
The following day, Clifford was given the morning off from guard duty. Daemon and his family enjoyed the lake before the council resumed. With two blunted swords, he spent his time training Addam in swordplay and combat.
It struck him just how much Addam was thriving in the war. He was growing taller by the week, or so it seemed to Clifford, and he was already outgrowing the leather armour which he'd worn into battle before. Now he was training with steel weapons, eager to hone his skills as soon as possible.
"Move your feet," Clifford urged as he took a wild swing from Addam on his shield.
Addam obeyed, sidestepping one way, then the next, hoping to get around Clifford's defences. "You'll get to train with Quentyn Ball once you join the Kingsguard," he observed, but only after looking around to make sure none could eavesdrop.
"Indeed," Clifford replied, lunging with his own blade to make Addam jump. "I expect to learn much from that man."
"He frightens me," Addam admitted. "He sent Damon Lannister flying back to his castle! Father told me about his western campaigns. Not even Daemon Blackfyre is as strong as the Fireball!"
"Take care to keep that notion to yourself," Clifford warned him. "The wrong man might take offense, even when there is none."
Addam nodded, looking sheepish.
They spoke no more as they continued to spar with each other. Finally, Clifford perceived that Addam was growing very tired, but he was too proud to admit it.
Feigning weariness, Clifford raised a hand. "That's enough for me. Best you get some rest as well." He dropped the training sword and walked back to their tent for water.
As he took a drink from their jug, he noticed his old helm lying in a corner. His father had commissioned it for him when he'd first left Blackhaven for King's Landing. It had certainly seen better days; the outside was dented and scratched, and only half of the decorative scythe remained. Clifford had been reluctant to abandon his father's helm. Even now that he had a new suit of armour being made, he revolted at the notion of throwing away this helm.
His happiness was ebbing, and the storms were making their way across the water again. He had not heard any trouble from the Swanns, perhaps because they recognised Daemon's favour was with him, but he had no idea how to get the truth about his father's death. Harrold had been sympathetic, but he had no solutions for Clifford's dilemma either.
He was still pondering what he should do when he heard the men shouting. Immediately, he dropped his father's helm, picked up his sword, and ran to find King Daemon.
By the time he reached the king's side, a crowd had gathered around him. Before him knelt a ragged-looking man. He was dressed in ill-fitting clothes that hadn't been washed in quite some time.
"I remember you," Daemon was saying as Clifford came within earshot. "You are one of my smallfolk. Arron, son of Chiggen."
"Your Grace is good to recall me." The man spoke humbly, unable to even look upon Daemon. His hair was greying, with large whiskers on his cheeks. Clifford was surprised to see a hideous scar around his neck, as if he'd been hanged from a noose.
Daemon had noticed it too, and he was visibly alarmed at the sight of the scar. "What has become of you?"
"Your home has fallen, Your Grace," the man explained. "Prince Maekar and Bloodraven invaded it several days ago. They put your home to the flames, and all your smallfolk to the sword! Even the babes at their mothers' breasts!"
Clifford shuddered, both at the bloodthirstiness of the attack, but also at Daemon's reaction. The Black Dragon said nothing, but a terrible fury was stamped on every facet of his countenance.
However, it was Aegor Rivers who spoke next. His face was creased in a suspicious frown. "If that is true, how did you survive?"
The man turned to look at Bittersteel. "It was Bloodraven's men, milord. They hanged me for sport and cut me down when they thought I was dead. But I still lived. I waited until nightfall, then I cut myself free and fled. I heard my king was at the God's Eye, and I thought of no other man who could help me. I lost all my pigs, all my kinsfolk…" He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.
Wroth though he was, Daemon Blackfyre's hands were steady, even gentle, as he leaned down and lifted the shaking man to his feet. "I can only ask for your forgiveness, Arron. You and your kin put your faith in me, and I failed you. The gods will punish me for that someday, and rightly so. But I swear to you, I will not let this insult go unanswered!" Even the bravest men quailed at the way his voice became a feral snarl.
Bittersteel was still frowning. "Your Grace, what do you mean to do?"
"What else can I do?" Daemon drew Blackfyre and held it over his head. "I mean to march on King's Landing and punish those who razed the Aegonfort!"
"If such is your wish, then you need not go to King's Landing, Your Grace. That army is still camped at your home," Arron suddenly interjected. "They were setting up a camp when I escaped! I overheard them saying that they meant to face you on your way to the capital."
"How many men?" Robb Reyne from the Westerlands demanded.
Arron shrugged helplessly. "Thousands, milord. I did not see them all."
Men resumed murmuring amongst themselves, but Clifford raised his voice above them all. "Did you see their camp? When you fled, did you look back and see their camp?"
The hog farmer turned to look at Clifford. His eyes were wide with surprise at the question, and he quickly looked away from Clifford in deference. "I did, milord, aye."
"And you saw the size of our camp too, no? So which camp was larger?"
Arron thought about it, then gave a shrug. "Your camp is larger, milord. Maybe twice as much."
Men were encouraged by that, until Aegor Rivers shouted for them to stop.
"Wait! Wait! There is something strange at work here."
"You doubt this man's story?" Daemon pointed to Arron's neck. "What do you make of that?"
"I do not doubt this man, brother" Aegor argued, "but I doubt that Brynden would march out like this with only half our force behind his back."
For his part, Clifford agreed with Bittersteel that something did not seem right, but not for the same reasons. When he and Arron had looked at one another, for the briefest of moments, a feeling of unease had descended upon Clifford, one which he could not explain. He stared at Arron, trying to make sense of it. But the feeling did not come again. The only strange part of Arron's appearance was an inexplicably elaborate brooch which he wore on his half-cloak. It was a gemstone of some sort, pale and opaque as the moon.
It was not long before he abandoned his suspicion, however. The others had carried on speaking, and their debate broke through his thoughts once more.
"It is a last act of desperation," Lord Strickland declared. "They wish to spare the city from a siege."
"Then why not march on the city while they wait for us?" Bittersteel kept his eyes on the king.
"Because then they will harass us whilst we try to lay a siege," Robb Reyne objected.
Aegor ignored the westerman, addressing his words to Daemon. "Do not give them what they want, Your Grace. They are baiting you for some wicked purpose."
"Wicked?" Daemon's wrath had not cooled. "What could be more wicked than such a massacre as that?"
"Your Grace is a good man with a kind heart." Any other man might have sounded soothing to say such words, but the Fireball could only sound gruff, it seemed. "But mayhaps Bittersteel is correct. We ought not to give our foes what they seek."
"And what is it that they seek?" Now it was Lord Harriman Tarly's turn to object. "What could they possibly have planned for us? Why not crush this last host to break the will of House Targaryen?"
"Silence!"
All men heeded the Black Dragon's sudden roar.
"We need no more talk of prudence. We need no more talk of caution. I care nothing for intrigue and deceit. Maekar and Brynden await us whilst standing on the corpses of my people, and I will not abide that. And whatever they have in store, they will surely block our path to King's Landing. We shall go overland to the Aegonfort! We shall crush the last Targaryen host! And we shall march in triumph to King's Landing!"
The king had spoken, and his subjects did not hesitate to voice their support. Bittersteel alone did not cheer, but nor did he object either.
For his part, Clifford hailed his king. Time and time again, he had doubted Daemon's chances in this war, and every time, Daemon had defied those doubts. He is the Black Dragon. He will lead us to victory.