Everyone understood that those who would play the role of the king and his retinue were exposing themselves to a monstrous risk. For that reason, only volunteers were taken for the part, though the reward promised them was no less great. If the dragon took the bait, the knights would be granted lordly titles and small castles. Common soldiers were promised knighthood, generous plots of land, and substantial rewards.
There were plenty of volunteers. After all, many people see risk in war as an unavoidable evil—and war itself as an opportunity to improve their fortunes. Yes, the chance of dying had increased—but who said it was inevitable? Truth be told, it's in human nature to believe that any danger will happen to someone else, not to you.
The night before the battle was restless. The dragons harried us, but we extinguished all fires except those around which we had prepared ambushes. Daenerys flew in, burned empty wagons and tents, then withdrew under a hail of arrows.
More than three hundred men were still injured, but we did not consider it the worst thing in the world.
Few managed to sleep that night… Even the boldest could not help but think on the dragons, and on how the day ahead might turn.
By dawn, men had steadied somewhat. Here and there came laughter and crude jests.
Together with the Holy Order, I rode through the host, seeking to hearten the men and show them that their king shared their danger and had no intention of abandoning them. It seemed to raise many spirits.
***
"As we expected, the Martells have put all the horse-fuckers on our left," Jaime said.
Just before the battle, we had climbed a low hill to study the enemy lines as best we could. Now he pointed toward the dark mass of Dothraki forming up in the distance. From here, far off as they were, they seemed almost unstoppable.
Qyburn's little birds and Orm's men had not failed us, and we knew the enemy's numbers with fair certainty. Altogether, their host numbered some forty-seven thousand, of whom twenty-three thousand were Dothraki. Naturally, they had been placed on the flank with the most open ground, where horse could run wild.
Not long ago, at one meeting of the Small Council, Tyrion had jokingly called the Dothraki "horse-fuckers." Before that they had been called all manner of things—nomads, savages, herdsmen, a horde… but never horse-fuckers. The name had pleased the men and stuck fast. Now the insult had spread far and wide, and throughout our host the Dothraki were called by no other name.
The enemy center was held by the Unsullied—twelve thousand strong—supported by four thousand Dornish infantry. Their ranks, as precise as if drawn with a ruler, inspired serious concern. The morning sun glinted off the tips of their raised spears.
Opposite our right flank stood the Dornish cavalry. Before Tarly was gathered the flower of Dorne, and the wind lazily played with their banners—the sun of the Martells, the lattice of House Yronwood, the crowned skull of Manwoody, the three scorpions of Qorgyle, the hand of Allyrion, the black vulture of Blackmont, and the blue hawk of Fowler.
Beneath them rippled a forest of lesser banners and pennons. All could see that Dorne had come to Clover Field in all its strength.
Looking at the Dornish—their discipline, equipment, and resolve—many judged that they were in no way inferior to the famed cavalry of the West. They numbered around eight thousand lances, and fortunately for us, more than half were light cavalry, while the rest were heavily armored knights.
It was power. It was strength. Our right flank would have an incredibly hard time.
Jaime, too, would have to sweat—the Dothraki greatly outnumbered him, though neither we nor the horse-fuckers themselves could be certain how they would fare against heavily armored riders.
Somewhere behind the Dornish, two dragons circled in the sky, and everyone understood that Daenerys had more surprises in store for us. Men shuddered and muttered prayers as they watched the deadly silhouettes.
"That is enough. I ride for my flank now. We act as agreed," Tarly said, turning his horse and leading his small retinue off to the right. Clods of turf flew from beneath their hooves.
"Hold fast, Joff," Jaime said, clapping a hand against my shoulder before riding left with his hundred knights, squires, and messengers.
"You may count on me," Edmure Tully said with a nod, before spurring off toward his reserve.
We rode back down to the host and took our place a little behind the main line, somewhat to the left. For a moment, an almost perfect silence fell across the field. Only the horses whinnied now and again, and the wind snapped at the banners.
Then horns began to sing from the enemy lines, and their cavalry stirred, advancing slowly as they gathered strength for the charge. At the same moment, two dragons turned toward our position.
The Battle of Clover Field had begun.
(End of Chapter)
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