Clifford
Clifford stood to attention, determined not to move a muscle without his king's leave.
He had seen Daemon Blackfyre in a temper, he had seen him when the wrath of battle was on him, he had seen the man weep over fallen friends and comrades, but he had never seen Daemon in such a state as he was in now.
The bodies of Ser Quentyn Ball and Ser Laswell Hill were laid out on a makeshift bier on the camp's eastern border. Daemon Blackfyre himself stood vigil, standing over Quentyn's corpse. Tears ran unashamedly down his cheeks. His twin sons were at his side, frightened by the state of their father into a subdued silence. Aegor Rivers stood close to Daemon; he was dry-eyed, but his scowl had never been deeper, his face had never been more baleful.
Clifford stood with them all, wearing his new suit of armour and holding his new sword. His surcoat was a bold red colour, upon which the three-headed black dragon flew proudly. He was on one side of Daemon, whilst Harrold stood on the other.
Thousands were streaming past to get a look at the mighty knight, highborn and commoner alike. Several men wept, such as Eustace Osgrey, Agramore Jayn, and Buford Bulwer. Others shouted angrily for vengeance. None doubted that he had been the mightiest of Daemon's supporters. Songs were already being sung of how he had attacked the army sent to apprehend Daemon, allowing the Black Dragon to escape. Those songs also evoked his spectacular victories in the Reach and the Westerlands.
For his part, Clifford was devastated. Not for Quentyn himself; Clifford had always found the Fireball too intimidating. But any man would be desperate to have Quentyn Ball fighting for him. His death was an evil sign, particularly on the eve of battle.
There had been other bad signs. News of Quickfinger's capture and execution had reached the Blackfyres whilst they marched from the God's Eye. There had also been no word that Lord Bracken had succeeded in finding mercenaries in Essos; or if he had, there was no word that they were sailing back to Westeros. Daemon had waved away such concerns, putting on a brave face. But now he had lost his mentor, the man who had trained him, and the man who would have put the crown on his head.
Riders patrolling the camp's perimeter had come upon the bodies at dawn. No man knew who had slain Quentyn. His corpse had not even been looted. The archer, whoever he was, had slain the knights whilst they'd stopped for water.
Clifford and Harrold had been on duty outside Daemon's tent when word reached them. The king had insisted that all men sleep well before the battle began, doubling the guards so that the shifts were shorter for everyone. He had postponed the war council until sunrise, and when Quentyn did not appear, he had been deeply shaken. The discovery of his body, and the circumstances in which he'd been found, had broken Daemon's heart.
"Cowards," Daemon had raged. "Cowards killed a great man under cover of darkness! Gods be damned! What sort of death is that for one such as Quentyn Ball?"
Nobody had a good answer for him, and he did not insist on one.
Aegor had spat in fury. "This is how the red dragons fight. How far they have fallen from the Conqueror's standard!"
"Indeed," Redtusk chimed in. "We'll make them pay heavily for the Fireball today!"
"Aye, that we will," Daemon affirmed in a grim tone. "Assemble the troops, and have them march by Quentyn's body. I will not have his death go unnoticed."
It had been arranged with all haste, as had their order of battle. Ser Aegor Rivers, the mighty knight known as Bittersteel, was given command of the right flank in Quentyn's stead. The left flank was to be commanded by Lord Gormon Peake, while Daemon would personally lead the centre. Lord Hugo Strickland was given command of the reserve, while the highly coveted van was awarded to Lord Tudur Buckwell, in gratitude for his early assistance in the war.
Much to Clifford's relief, the Swanns were assigned to the left flank with Lord Peake, along with the rest of the marcher lords and their bannermen.
Lord Shawney had raised his doubts about that choice during the council. "Is that wise, Your Grace? You have always worked wonders on the right flank. Would it not be best to place your best warriors where they can win the battle for you?"
"I wish to place my best warriors where they will be most needed," Daemon had replied. "My goodbrother will not need the marchers to work miracles." He and Aegor exchanged a nod.
Lord Buckwell had raised another concern when Daemon laid out his plans for the battle. "Your Grace, are you sure that a slow advance will be the best strategy?"
"Brynden expects me to charge heedlessly, full of fury and vengeance," Daemon replied. "I see it as clear as this summer day. The slaughter of my people, the murder of Quentyn. This is all his intention, if not his own doing. Well, I will not give him what he wants."
The great man, taller than anyone who stood by him, looked each man in the eye as he delivered a new proclamation.
"He has shown us all what sort of man he is, and what he will do to win this war. I will show the realm what sort of man I am, what sort of king I will be. Quarter will be given to any man that surrenders. If I find out that any man behaves dishonourably, I will personally see that he answers for it. Noble, knight, common, or baseborn, it is of no consequence, they will suffer my punishment."
Only Aegor Rivers had been brave enough to break the silence which met Daemon's command. "Does that include Brynden Rivers?"
"It does," Daemon had insisted. "I want him alive most of all. This foul creature of darkness will be brought to the light, revealed for what he is, and then put to death as he richly deserves! Let the crowds cheer his end!"
Many men had quailed or flinched at this wroth promise, but not Bittersteel. Instead, he had humbly nodded his head and spoken again. "Well said, Your Grace. And since such is your desire, I would request a small boon."
"No doubt, no doubt," Daemon had replied wryly. Not since before Quentyn's death had he sounded so amused and light-hearted. "And rest assured, brother. When the time comes, you shall be the one to deliver Brynden to the Stranger."
And Bittersteel, only for the second time since Clifford had known him, had smiled.
"*"* "*" *"* "*""""*"* ****"*"* ""*"*" *"*"*"* "**" ""*"* "*"*" *"*"* "*"*" *"* "*"*"
Addam Osgrey had helped Clifford dress for battle after he was finished with his brother. So consumed was Clifford by the developments of that morning that he only noticed how miserable Addam looked when he was armoured. "What ails you?"
"I cannot go out with you," Addam admitted. "Lemmy was supposed to repair my armour, but he didn't finish in time."
Clifford was about to say that he should count himself lucky, but he knew that Addam would never consider that a blessing if he was left behind. Aegon and Aemond will be riding with their father. I would want to ride out with my kinsmen too if I were his age.
Harrold had already departed to be at Daemon's side. Clifford was set to follow him, but then he paused and looked back at Addam. After all he's done for me, how can I abandon him now?
"Come with me, Addam, and hurry."
He led the lad through the camp to the nearest armoury. None noticed them as they prepared for war. Even the armourer and his assistants had departed, blind to one knight and his lover's squire.
Unfortunately, the armoury had already been emptied. Only the scantiest of equipment had been left behind. The only mail hauberk in Addam's size had rusted rings along one shoulder.
"I will be on horseback," Addam pleaded when he saw Clifford's dismay. "It will not matter."
This did not assuage Clifford's doubts, but he owed too much to Addam to prevent him from following his father and brothers into battle. Thus was Addam garbed in the hauberk, supplemented by leather gloves and a leather jerkin which Clifford stole from other tents. They could not find a spare helm, however, and not even Addam was stupid enough to go bare-headed.
An idea struck Clifford, and he led Addam back to their tent. He took his old helm, gifted by his father, and placed it on Addam's head. "How does this fit?"
"Well enough," Addam replied eagerly. He shook his head in all directions, but the helm did not slip over his eyes. "Thank you!"
Clifford sighed as he gave Addam a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't thank me yet, Addam. Not till after we win."
As Addam grinned, Clifford's eyes were drawn to the little bronze scythe. It reminded him that there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Mayhaps Young Daemon was wrong about my fate. Mayhaps I did something which avoided it. Or mayhaps my death will come much later than I thought.
He pondered his own death as he hastened to the battlefield with Addam in tow. I will live. I must live. I did not come this far, do so much, just to give up.
More than forty thousand men had begun to assemble on the field beside the Blackfyre camp. The slow process had also been delayed by the death of Quentyn Ball, and so it was not until after midday that the army was fully assembled. By then, the Targaryen army had also organised itself into its own battle lines.
Clifford rode his warhorse to rejoin Harrold and the Black Dragon. Vermithor snorted restlessly, but his gait was noticeably slower. Clifford felt a pang of pity for his loyal horse. Victory or defeat, this will be your last battle, old friend. You can spend the rest of your days eating hay and enjoying the sun. You have more than earned that. He patted his horse's neck affectionately.
When all was ready, Daemon gave the signal. Two trumpeters lifted their silver instruments to their lips. The clear notes rang clear and high, joined by other trumpets and horns across the Blackfyre line.
"The Black Dragon!"
Clifford heard Harrold's shout. Addam soon joined him, his voice breaking as he echoed his brother's words.
"The Black Dragon!"
More men joined the cry, until it seemed to Clifford that those three words were being uttered by every single man in Daemon's mighty army. Such was the fervour and volume that he could scarcely hear his own contributions.
Daemon Blackfyre sat on his horse, barely ten metres from Clifford. When he looked to his king, he saw that Daemon had not yet put on his helm. His twin heirs were shouting with the others, but Daemon was silent. Clifford saw that he was weeping again, but why he wept was a mystery to Clifford.
Finally, the mighty warrior took his helm from young Aegon's hands, put it on his head, and drew his sword. Sunlight glinted off of him so fiercely that Clifford had to look away.
As one, the army advanced. They took measured steps, deliberate rather than cautious.
It was the longest march of Clifford's life. His journey from the Riverlands to Horn Hill seemed more akin to a stroll across Blackhaven's courtyard compared to this slow advance towards the enemy.
Archers and skirmishes ran ahead of the main battle lines, engaging with loyalist forces who did the same. Arrows, slings, and javelins flew through the air. It was not long before Clifford heard the screams of injured men. Missiles rained down amongst the Blackfyre ranks, clattering against metal or sinking into flesh. He lowered his visor and patted Vermithor's neck.
The world became two narrow slits. His armour had grown hot beneath the summer sun. The worst of it has passed. The sun is in decline.
Despite his hampered vision, Clifford could glean the largest banners flown by the enemy army. As he expected, the red dragon on black was abundant, but he could also see the blue falcon of House Arryn. Other banners there were, in plenty; it was a myriad of colour which left Clifford slightly dizzy. Imagine how our banners must look to them. Marchers and other stormlanders, rivermen, westermen, crownlanders, men of the Reach, even valemen. They march against their liege lord today.
Then he saw, with dismay, that he was fighting his own liege lords. Once again, he beheld the purple lightning on black cloth which defined House Dondarrion. Can I never escape them?
He wondered fervently who stood beneath the Dondarrion sigil. Branston? Baldric? Titus? He had often wondered where Titus was, what would happen if they ever crossed swords. Could I kill him? Could he kill me? What about Branston? I cannot become a kinslayer. Would he have the same restraint? The old terror returned to torment him. His mind and his heart were being torn in several directions at once, even as his body sat passively on the horse which continued to lumber forward in a straight line.
Suddenly, an arrow whistled close to his head. He gave a cry of alarm at the noise, and another when he heard the scream of agony.
Turning, he saw Culver Tork's horse rear up and lash out with its hooves. The arrow had sunk deep into its neck. Culver fell from his horse with a terrible crash of metal. He did not stir.
Gods help me, Clifford thought feverishly. When he turned back to face the enemy, he saw that Buckwell's vanguard had ordered the skirmishers to fall back. Hundreds of lightly-armed men ran towards the army's flanks, or else jostled through the infantry ranks to safety.
The rest of Buckwell's van suddenly threw themselves upon the enemy's centre, where the Targaryen dragon and Arryn eagle flew proudest.
"Charge!"
Daemon had raised his visor to shout the order; his voice seemed to ring out above everything else.
As you command. Digging his spurs into Vermithor's sides, Clifford gave a war-cry as he hefted his lance.