It was a nice change, wishing his window was facing the other way so that he could see what was going on. Certainly better than wishing he could crush a certain few skulls underfoot. But no, his window faced away from the city, so he couldn't see anything about the siege, and the servants who brought his reduced rations were notably tight-lipped. Still, he didn't need anyone to explain the premise. He hadn't expected this to be Gerold's reaction, he'd thought, or maybe just hoped that he would spread the word, the army would refuse to march and possibly demand he be released and the council would quietly give in. Maybe if he had done so, this would all be over. But the council couldn't allow themselves to be seen meekly giving in under the threat of armed force from their own armies. A bigger part of him was impressed that Gerold had been able to rally so many to support him in so little time. He didn't know when or how Daenerys or Sansa had given him the message, but even if it was the very next day he had given it to them, he gathered loyal soldiers quickly and quietly. It was remarkable that none had sold him out to Varys for a bag of silver coins. But it left him exposed, exposed at a binary. He would either be released, or he would be killed, the time of judgement had come, the coin was spinning in the air, and all he could do now was wait and see which side it landed on. A Targaryen Birth if ever there was one.

He tightened his fingers on the candlestick in his right hand. If it was death, whoever they sent wouldn't find him meekly awaiting his fate.

He stopped himself from going down that line of thinking. How had it come to this? Only months ago everything was going their way, then he had gone and it had all fallen apart. No, it had fallen apart when he had been gone, not because of it. He couldn't think like that, it would lead him to defeat one day, and they didn't have any more defeats to give their enemies.

A rap at the door signalled his fate. Beyond it lay his killer or his liberator. "Enter," he said.

"Lord Loren."

He turned, candlestick still in hand. "Lady Margaery," he said, forcing a smile. She was unlikely to be the one they sent to kill him, but maybe… She wore a billowing dress that could hide a weapon, and carried a piece of paper in her hand, one that could have his fate written on it.

Her eyes flicked to the candlestick. He put it back on the desk, still within arm's reach. "A precaution," he said, "how can I help you?"

Margaery closed the door with a firm click. She turned and stared at him, anger, desperation, hope, all of it waged a battle behind her eyes. "My Lord," she said stiffly. He waited. "I am here, on behalf of the council to offer you back your position as King's Marshall, with a full release to lead the army."

He sat down, giving her the height advantage. "And my indiscretion?"

Margaery sat down opposite, levelling the playing field. Interesting. She slid the paper across to him. "A full pardon for the threats made against the King's Life."

He unfolded the letter, sealed by both his father and the king. It was true, genuine. Of course to accept it would be to accept that he had been wrong. But they were on the ropes, they couldn't quibble about such things while Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon carved up the rest of the Seven Kingdoms between them.

He frowned. Were they still his side? Of course they were, whatever they had done for him, Joffrey was still the king, he couldn't put that aside just because he disliked the boy, his family and the council. A usurper would expunge all hints of the old regime, including him, and likely his children to. "And what would my restrictions be?"

The relief was evident in the slackening of her facial muscles, a softening of her eyes. "You would have the authority to lead the army in the field as you see fit. Where you go must be agreed with the council, but how you do it, is for you to decide."

"Supplies, resources?"

"Whatever we can provide you with, it's yours."

"And where would you have me march first?"

Margaery froze. "Where would you seek to go?"

He smiled. Good. "I don't know the scale of the defeat in the bay, but I believe that Stannis' home islands are out of reach. Storm's End is too tough a nut to crack in too long a time."

"Highgarden then, or the Riverlands?"

"Highgarden," Loren confirmed. "We need those supplies."

"I suppose I should thank you."

"Only if you wish it, and even then, only do so if and when I succeed."

"If?"

He nodded. "If, I have agreed to nothing just yet."

"What do you want?" The stiffness was back, the anger.

"The question I want to know is what do you want of me. At the head of an army in the field, what do you expect me to achieve in Joffrey's name?"

Margaery frowned. "To restore the Seven Kingdoms, bring them back under his control."

Loren placed his hands on the table, palms flat. He stared at the empty space of wood between them. He had thought of this often in his imprisonment, in the arrogant assumption that one day he would be put back in command. He went through the numbers of men, the supplies they had, the money, the morale, the state of the lands and positions of their enemies. "Then I will refuse, you ask the impossible."

"What?"

He looked up at Margaery, straight into the soft brown eyes that hid a fierce strength. "I can't defeat both Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon. Not any more. If I attack one, the other attacks us, and our house is creaking, one more good blow could see it tumbling down."

"So we've lost."

"We have." He sat back. To win utterly, he would have to face both Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark in the field, both men who were likely his equal if nothing more, both with skilled, and likely dedicated armies. He would have to subdue castles across the Stormlands, the Reach and the Riverlands, possibly even attempt to conquer the North.

He doubted he was the first person in the Red Keep to suggest it, but probably the first in a meaningful discussion. "Now it's just a case of deciding what we have lost."

"What… you mean we have to…"

He nodded. "We do. Open negotiations, good faith negotiations with Robb Stark. Get a truce with him to negotiate in. Perhaps give him his father's sword as a sign of good faith. Once the truce is agreed, I will march against Stannis Baratheon. Five out of Seven Kingdoms is the best I can offer Joffrey at this point. It's that or nothing."

"And if we don't accept this? If we demand you fight Robb Stark as well."

"Then I remain here, and I imagine that this is all decided by the army outside."

"You're willing to die?"

"If I must," he replied. He would have liked to have seen his family again. Little Tion, Joanna, Myrielle, Lelia. Alysanne. He wasn't supposed to die this way. But if he had to die to give them a peaceful world to grow up in. And the army. The men who had bled and died for, with and under him. They wanted to go home. They wanted to go back to their families, and lives that would never be chronicled or storied, but mattered in every way. This was the way that the greatest number of them would survive.

"Well I am not," Margaery said, softly. "I intend to live and be the queen." She stood up and fixed him with a glare. "Or perhaps a queen. I will inform the council of your conditions."

Without a backward glance, she left him alone.

He stayed sat there, waiting, thinking. This was it then. At best he would save half of Robert's Kingdom for his son. Whatever else, that was something, wasn't it? Something Joffrey would never thank him for, he would never come to King's Landing once the war was over, he would be back at Casterly Rock for the rest of his days, while Margaery and Joffrey set up their new order. No one was ever thanked for half victories. But unless Robb Stark made a play for the Iron Throne, that was all he could offer them now. No matter how tempting it was to scream, to rage, to fight, sometimes, you lost. If he was going to command, he must accept that.

He got up and returned to the window, staring out to the horizon.

He didn't know how long he was standing there, but he was still there when Margaery returned. They stared at each other for the longest moment, before she reached up, holding a badge to pin to his chest, a crown pierced with a sword. "Your terms are agreed, Lord Marshall Loren Lannister."

He stood before the drawbridge in all the finery of war, his armour gleaming, his cloak billowing and burning in the setting sun. His skin and hair were washed and he had a good meal inside him. This was it, the mantle of responsibility for this war was his. He nodded his readiness and the bridge rattled down.

Alone he cross the chasm of spikes, the gaze of the court on his back, the army ahead staring. He walked slowly, each step ringing off the wood. Step, step, step, his cloak swished at his feet and his armour chinked with his movements.

When armoured boot rang on cobbled stone he stopped. The soldiers were looking at him, awe and relief and disbelief all jumbled together. He scanned his eyes slowly across the front ranks of the soldiers, who stared back, the wind rustling between them, the stink of the city rising all around them. Not a word was spoken. He reached across and drew his sword, the metal hissing against the scabbard, and raised it high into the air. "The night is not yet here. There is yet light in the sky. I am returned, who will stand with me against the dark?"

The screams of joy and relief would have shaken the sky. Soldiers fell to their knees, weeping, while others drove their weapons into the ground in a resounding drumbeat. Men of the west, the reach, the crownlands, even goldcloaks applauded and cheered as he stood there, as still as a statue, letting his men soak in the sight of him.

Not just soldiers, but citizens too, men and women from rooftops and windows, boys on their father's shoulders, daughters in their mother's arms, peddlers and inkeeps and blacksmiths called his name. He stood still, sword in the air, ignoring any aches in his arm. He had stood, he still stood, and he would continue to stand.

"I didn't expect such an extreme action from you, Gerold," he said in the comfort of his tent. "Taking the city, threatening the King's council. Half of me is impressed, the other half wants to punch you for being so stupid."

Gerold shrugged, his one eye smiling. "I'm not going to apologise, lord. I'm a soldier, I couldn't think of another way to get you out faster than that."

"I don't expect you to apologise, if I did, I would have asked you to." He looked his knight up and down. He seemed to be well, disregarding his missing eye. That would take some time for him to get used to, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to live with it. "Thank you, for getting me out."

"It was my honour."

"How did you even get in? The gates are shut and locked at night, and you clearly didn't use a battering ram?"

"We would have done, if it had come to that, but the goldcloaks remember how you saved the city last time, in particular the newer recruits who weren't bought in to any corruption scheme. They were more than happy to assist, and the rest fell in line when we were through the gates."

"They believed you when you said I was imprisoned?"

"There are a lot of people ready to believe the worst of the council. They also remember the Tyrells and your father's men claiming the victory of the Blackwater, despite arriving after it was done. They remember the promises of food that failed to come until you brought it to them. They remembered, my lord. People remembered."

Loren nodded. "And I will not forget. We have to fight this war as much for them as for the King, and we have a lot of work to do."

"I'm ready, my lord, we all are."

"Good, first of all I'm going to need a list of all commanders that are alive and ready to serve, numbers of soldiers and weapons, an update on the morale of the men. From there I can start working on my plan to bring battle to Stannis Baratheon."

"It will take time, lord."

"Time is what we lack the most. Get to work immediately."

Gerold bowed. "At once, Lord Marshall, by your command."