8 Chapter 8

The Lions of Lannister were on the move.

Ser Loren Lannister didn't consider himself a true lion. No, he was more of a domesticated cat, lazy and capable of only so much harm. In truth, even that was a stretch; he'd never harmed a fly, despite his knighthood. One should equate him to a kitten. Yes, a plump, harmless kitten.

Many men would be ashamed of themselves if that was how others—and even they themselves—looked on them. Loren, however, knew it was the truth, and since he was happy in such a life, he saw no shame in fully accepting it.

Tywin Lannister didn't know the first thing about Loren, and the latter was more than okay with that. The Lannister patriarch was cunning and ruthless; Loren was at best an average mind and hated death. Sure, Loren looked the part of Lannister, sporting shaggy blond hair and emerald green eyes in a well sculpted face, but Loren was several stone overweight due to his excessive drinking and gluttony, squandering whatever blessings his prestigious bloodline had granted him.

No, Tywin Lannister wouldn't like him. Best to remain anonymous.

Besides, retaining anonymity wasn't hard for a Lannisport Lannister. There were hundreds of them after all, each one descended from a King. Some claimed to trace their ancestry back to the last King of the Rock, a different, more lion-like Loren. Others claimed it all the way back at Lann the Clever, the first Lannister King.

Loren didn't know where the hell he came from, and he didn't care. His ancestors couldn't buy him a drink.

The army of the West had been camped at Casterly Rock for…well, Loren didn't actually know. He'd been drunk most—all—of the time. They'd abruptly packed up and started marching after… he didn't actually know why they had moved out either. Or how long they had been gone. Or where the hell they were going.

Loren Lannister truly didn't know much.

"Loren Lannister," came the guttural voice of…piss, Loren really didn't know much. The man was a Lannister, at least he knew that, with golden lion heads for shoulder plates. He grew his blond hair long, his face a permanent, scarred scowl. Tall and lean, he looked the part of a warrior.

In other words, he looked the exact opposite of Loren. If he were an envious man he'd be jealous, but of course it took effort to be bitter.

"That's me," Loren replied as he took another swig from his chalice of wine.

The warlike Lannister before him raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"The last time I checked, yes."

War Lannister shook his head, permanent scowl deepening. "Bloody shame. You're expected at the war council."

Well thatwas a surprise. Loren didn't know the first thing about war. Granted, he was a knight, but that had only happened during a particularly long episode of drinking with a few captains of the Lannisport City Watch. A few bought drinks and well placed jokes and next thing Loren knew, he was Ser Loren Lannister of Lannisport. "Me?"

War Lannister snorted. "You."

"Why in the seven hells would I be there?"

"Upon seeing you, I have no idea. I doubt you'll be much good. Politically however it's required you show up. You're the head of one of the Lannisport families."

Oh, that explained it. This was all a mistake. Loren took another swig of wine, much more relaxed with the prospect of actually being expected to contribute to society out of the way. "No, you have the wrong Lannister. That's my uncle Tybolt."

"Tybolt is dead."

"Oh. Well then it'd be my cousin Lann."

"He's dead too. Died just yesterday of a bloody cough."

"Really. Well then, how about Lancel or Luceon or…"

War Lannister cut him off. "Enough. My brother told me to fetch you." Without further ceremony he reached down and seized Loren by the collar of his breastplate, pulling him to his feet before the Drunken Lion could react. Unsure how to respond, Loren did the only thing he knew how to; he brought the chalice to his lips and drank.

War Lannister knocked it away, the goblet bouncing away and spilling all its glorious contents onto the ground. "No more. You're drunk enough; if you come in still drinking my brother will have you walk all the way back to Lannisport. From the look of you you could use it, but my opinion doesn't matter. Grab your sword." Distressed over his wine but even more wary of what this War Lannister might do if he didn't obey, Loren fumbled around for the blade he couldn't ever remember even so much as unsheathing. Without a word War Lannister turned and walked out, Loren following for fear of not.

Tywin Lannister's pavilion was as great as the man himself seemed to be, this temporary structure nicer than half of the permanent homes in Lannisport. A long table, oaken and sturdy, was currently seating twenty war advisors. At the head of it sat the man himself, bald of head with bushy golden side-whiskers just beginning to turn silver, his presence commanding even when he was silent.

Loren took the farthest available seat he could find. If he was going to have to be here, he was damn sure going to make sure he wasn't noticeable. Loren was a drunk and he knew it; he had no intention of firstly offering bad advice and secondly getting killed for it.

Tywin Lannister spoke first; from what Loren had gathered, the man did everything first. "What of the second son?"

A burly man with a rearing purple unicorn on his doublet spoke from a few chairs away. House Brax, Loren remembered, to his own surprise. "Reports place him still in the Stormlands, chasing Robert Baratheon."

Another lord, this one with a peacock and a name that escaped Loren, took the narrative. "Prince Rhaegar still hasn't been seen. Aerys has pulled the Crownland lords not with Aelor into the capital."

Brax finished. "No more than two or three thousand."

Tywin Lannister's nod was so miniscule Loren was fairly certain he had imagined it. "And of the Reach and Dorne?"

War Lannister spoke up then. "Still trying to help Aelor trap Baratheon." Tygett. The name sprung unbidden to Loren's mind, and suddenly he realized that War Lannister was none other than one of Tywin's younger brothers, the more martial of the three. Good thing I obeyed. Word is he's as dangerous a swordsman as Aemon the Dragonknight.

Another Lannister, probably Kevan, the second eldest of the sons of Tytos Lannister, sat at his brother's right hand. "The Vale, North and Riverlands are all amassing at Riverrun. It won't be much longer before they march."

Tywin Lannister's baritone could silence a mounted charge. Not that Loren knew anything about those really; it just seemed to stand to reason that they would be loud. Personally he hoped he would never find out. "We must reach King's Landing before they do." Ah, we're going to reinforce the capital. Good on us! "The Targaryen dynasty was once great enough to bring the Lion Kings of old to their knees, but no longer. Aerys has spat upon the Lannister name too many times." Oh. We're going to attack the capital.

The day was full of surprises it seemed.

But, Loren thought. At least he thought he thought it, until he found the entire table, Tywin Lannister included, was suddenly staring at him. Well shit. There went my disappearing act. Loren dare not look at the emerald green eyes of Tywin boring into him when he blundered on, completing his thought process verbally. "But who will be king?"

War Lannister—Tygett—spoke over the angry ramblings. "He is Lann's cousin, brother. New to the council." Despite his defense of Loren, it was obvious Tygett didn't care a whit for him.

When Loren finally managed to look at Tywin, he could tell the man wasn't impressed either. That was fine; the chief Lannisters could despise him all they wanted to. All Loren cared about was making sure they didn't kill him. "Robert Baratheon has the best claim through his grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. I intend to turn King's Landing and the bodies of Aerys and his family over to him with the suggestion he marry my daughter."

But Baratheon is betrothed to the Stark girl, Loren remembered, though Tywin had turned away from him in clear dismissal. That was fine. Loren hadn't dared ask the question on his mind anyway.

"We have to consider," Brax began, Loren fascinated by how much the man's moustache moved when he did so, "the possibility that Baratheon doesn't escape the Stormlands."

Lord Peacock nodded. Those two certainly like to talk. I prefer wine myself. "He is surrounded by four armies, and the Targaryen Prince is no fool."

A new lord, this one with a red bull on his chest, made his voice heard. "Targaryen is a boy."

"Yes, a boy who hasn't lost a battle."

"He's only fought two and a handful of skirmishs, Lord Serrett, and he's outnumbered the enemy two to one in them all."

Brax came to Serrett's defense. "That may be, Lord Prester, but he rides with Barristan Selmy, and Randyll Tarly is in command of one of the Reach armies."

Lord Peacock, a name Loren much preferred to Lord Serrett, had an arrogant voice. The more Loren heard it, the more he wished to drown it out in alcohol. "And reports claim he has killed more men with his own hand than any man in his army."

Tygett Lannister snorted in derision, something he seemed to do quite regularly. "So what if the whelp is good with a blade? That makes him a killer, not a strategist."

"Men rally to a warrior. If he continues to route his enemies—"

"Enough." While it wasn't quite a mounted charge, Lord Lannister's voice certainly stopped his vassal's cold. "Our sack of King's Landing will draw the Targaryen lad north, into the jaws of the other rebellious lords. If Baratheon has any wits about him he'll use the opportunity to escape. If he doesn't we will react accordingly. Now out. All of you."

Loren didn't need to be told twice.

As he rambled his way back towards his tent, Loren thought on the task that apparently lay before them. He'd been blissfully unaware of it mere hours earlier; with the help of the copious quantities of wine in his tent, he'd soon be ignorant of it again. But during the agonizingly long trip to his beloved wine stores, the idea that he was marching to commit treason ran through his mind unhindered.

Tywin had claimed he was going to present Baratheon with the bodies of both Aerys and his family. Didn't that family consist of a child or two? Maybe it was three; he vaguely remembered some talk of a new prince, Aelon or Aegor or some other such Targaryen name. Surely the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands didn't intend to slaughter mere babes, did he?

The Rains of Castamere suddenly began playing in his head, and Loren realized that yes, yes he did.

That seemed particularly unknightly. Granted everything Loren did was unknightly, but he'd never once considered the murder of children. The idea that he was marching forward to do just that didn't settle well with him.

For the first time since he didn't know when, Loren felt something very close to a moral conscience.

He blamed it on his level of sobriety. Gods did he need a drink.