Daemon Blackwater - Perhaps, we'll see when we get there. Of course, depending on what happened at Highgarden, Tristan may or may not be the best person to send, but that'll depend on if Robb ever learns what happened.


It had taken some time, but now Loren felt confident that his outriders had created a thorough net with which to catch sight of any threat to his father's host. Not that there was much of a threat for his overlapping lines of scouts to catch, every time they came across a small group of knights and levied men, they broke away and fled, or were caught by Lord Tywin's host and annihilated. In the olden days, before Aegon the Dragon had untied the realms into one, the Lannisters would have met fierce resistance from the Riverlords and their overlords from Storm's End or the Iron Islands, but now they were marching with abandon, and it concerned Loren deeply. How long would King Robert permit such a march, the man may be a drunk, but he was still a warrior, the Greyjoys had learned that, and so would they if they kept provoking the Iron Throne by attacking villages under the King's Protection. Lord Tywin seemed confident that Cersei's influence would keep them safe from royal reprisal and, once Tyrion had been returned, they would return home and all would be well.

If that was the case, then Cersei was of more use than Loren had ever given her credit for. King Robert had little attachment to his wife, and even less to her father, and if there was an excuse for battle... Loren did not fancy the Lannister chances against all the armies Robert Baratheon could bring to bear.

"Lord Loren," he turned, Ser Addam, his second, was riding towards him from the east.

"You have news?"

Ser Addam nodded. "Lady Whent has surrendered Harrenhal for lack of men to defend it, I have installed men there, but it won't be enough, and I would like them back on the scout before long."

"As would I," Loren replied. His outriders were not meant to hold fixed positions, but Harrenhal was not a prize that could be refused. "Send riders to my father, tell him to send a force to claim Harrenhal for us. In the meantime," he continued, closing his eyes to picture the map of the Riverlands, "I doubt we will face resistance from Maidenpool, but the Northmen are related to the Tully's by marriage, begin sending scouts across the Ruby Ford and up the Green Fork."

"Will that work?" Ser Addam asked.

Loren nodded. "Yes, House Whent and Mooton are the last major houses sworn to the Tullys in the south that block the way, with House When gone it is just House Mooton, and they can't act against us alone," unless King's Landing comes north with it's might behind it. "But should the Starks come we could face strong opposition from the North, Lord Frey is unlikely to open his gate to them, so they'll have to march down the Fork, and I would rather have some warning than be caught unawares." Ser Addam nodded and set to it, seeing that his orders were carried out.

Before they had left Jaime had scorned him for trying to memorise a map of the Riverlands, but Jaime knew next to nothing about Outriding, so Loren had expected it of him. He scoffed and put his spurs to his horse, he had a duty, a duty to his house, a duty to his father, and he would do it, who knew, perhaps his father would notice it this time.

()()()

His father noted the efficiency of his outriders briefly, then despatched Kevan with nearly a thousand men to make Harrenhal secure and free Loren's men to return to scouting. He'd told Loren that he was moving the host to the Inn at the Crossroads, where Tyrion was taken, and an ideal place to be ready to move in any direction. The only possible distraction from his father's lack of interest was that one of his riders told him they had encountered a force of men coming from the Vale of Arryn. Armed men. Had Lysa Arryn stirred from the Eyrie? Perhaps Lord Royce, an old friend of the Starks and Jon Arryn was leading a host of Valemen to retake the Riverlands. Or perhaps it was a merchant caravan travelling with paid protection from the Mountain clansmen; strange that they would walk rather than take the sea-route, but it was possible. Either way, this could be serious. His men would scale back slowly, keeping track of the enemy while he gathered a force of men, fifty knights and squires and a hundred mounted serjeants, to go and investigate in person.

Like feathers in the wind they swept east, the lion banner over their head, to meet with the newcomers.

They were a ragged bunch, mounted, all of them as far as he could tell, but no wagons, so they weren't traders, perhaps sellswords looking for work, perhaps raiders looking to take advantage of the conflict for loot. If so they were hardly moving stealthily, they were marching directly along the road from the Bloody Gate to the Inn at the Crossroads. "What do you think, my lord?" Ser Gerold asked him. A knight of solid stock and skill, and loyalty to boot.

"I think we need to know more," Loren said, and spurred his horse onwards to meet the group as they came along the road. His knights and serjeants fell in behind him, weapons ready as they approached the group, which had stopped as soon as they caught sight of him. "Steady," he said, holding out his hand to prevent any impetuous mistake costing him men.

He couldn't stop his jaw dropping when he caught sight of who was leading them. "Tyrion?" His brother looked out of place at the best of times, if he didn't then you were in a very strange place; but here, surrounded by axe wielding barbarians on scruffy horses with furs and horns, he looked more out of place than ever. He cast his eyes over Tyrion's companions. One of them had possibly the largest, roughest axe Loren had ever seen and a cascade of rough brown hair and beard. Another one was a youth of fewer than twenty years. At his waist was a steel sword, clean and sharp, clearly made for a knight, clearly not made for this man. Despite his youth, he was the clearest leader of the group, the men behind him were more silent, more collected, but Loren could still see the hidden anger and rage behind their eyes. Another leader was a woman, just about, she was flat as a boy and wouldn't be considered pretty by the most forgiving of souls, but around her neck were three great strings of... ears.

"Loren," Tyrion replied with a genial smile. "I'd heard you were coming back. I wish we'd caught up sooner."

"And I heard you were a prisoner. Instead you're wondering the Riverlands with some... reputable company."

"Oh we aren't wondering, brother, in fact, we are looking for father. Given that you appear to be armoured for war, I assume that you are with him."

He ground his teeth. Why did Tyrion assume he was with father? Could he not be out here alone? Was he just father's lapdog? "Not at this very moment, but I am commanding the outriders of his host. But before I take you back to him, I should really ask... who are they, what the bloody hell are you doing with them?"

Tyrino gestured to his fellows. "These are my new friends. This is Shagga, son of Dolf, of the Stone Crows," he gestured to the axeman. "This is Timett son of Timett, of the Burned Men," the lithe warrior with the trophy sword, "and this fair maiden is Chella, daughter of Cheyk, of the Black Ears. And this is my good friend Bronn." Loren hadn"t even noticed the man at Tyrion's shoulder. He wasn't armoured in horns and rusted mail, instead he had a mail shirt, a rough and worn longsword at his waist and wiry black hair atop his head, his stubble was that of a man on the road.

"Just Bronn?" He asked. He had the look of a sellsword, not a nobleman"s choice, but he could be an impoverished knight Tyrion had taken a fancy to.

"Just Bronn," Bronn confirmed.

"I see," he said, looking over the men. "So, Shagga, son of Dolf, Timett son of Timett and Chella daughter of Cheyk." When coming across a party armed in such a way, it was never wise to provoke them by forgetting names so quickly. "Well, are they coming with us?"

"They are," Tyrion nodded. "I have made them certain promises, and-

"If the halfman doesn't deliver what he has promised, then Shagga, son of Dolf, shall cut off his manhood-"

"- and feet it to the goats, yes, thank you Shagga." Tyrion looked grossly uncomfortable, and Loren couldn't help but let his lip curl up a little.

"Well then," he said. "We had best get you to father. Gerold, he turned to his knight. "Tell the outriders to resume as usual, we've dealt with the incursion."

Gerold nodded. "At once my lord."

"Incursion, brother?" Tyrion asked as Gerold handed the banner to another before riding off to spread the word amongst his outriders. "You wound me, besides, how did you see us, we didn't see your men."

"You weren't meant to," Loren replied. "And yes, until I say otherwise, whenever an armed force is seen by my eyes approaching our host, it's an incursion."

()()()

He'd left Tyrion and his father to discuss whatever promises Tyrion had made to his clansmen, he had other things to be doing than being ignored by others.

He claimed one of the rooms at the Inn, one of the smaller ones, out of the from most and far away from his father's. Inside he looked over his map of the Riverlands, the south was theirs, and Jaime was keeping the west contained with Riverrun under siege and Ser Edmure captured. The biggest concern as of this moment were the harrying parties. Some of the gatherings they'd shattered so far were gathering and learning, they weren't coming for the hard host of twenty thousand men, but hacking at the supply lines. His father had unleashed Gregor Clegane to hunt them down, and their sellswords and Amory Lorch as well, his pet dogs; but still, it didn't bode well that these men were still battling the Lannister host. But that wasn't his duty, he was the eyes of the army.

There was a knocking at his door. "Enter," he called.

Ser Gerold opened the door. "My Lord," he bowed at the waist, your outriders are back on their duties, though this came down from the north." He held out a red ribbon. Loren took it.

"I see," red ribbon, which was that one. He opened his logbook, tracing his finger along it. It was either two and a half weeks ago, or five days. Given the relay system he'd put in, it would have to be five days. "I must go and see father."

"Of course, my lord," Gerold replied, not questioning him.

His father and Tyrion were still together, not that it surprised him, what did is that both of them, even lord Tywin, looked cheerful. "Why the cheer?" He asked, passing over any form of greeting for the two of them.

"Why not, brother, we've just added hundreds of warriors to the army and there is now no king to stop our march."

Our march? You"ve only just joined it you self obsessed bastard! "What do you mean, no king?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," Lord Tywin said simply. "We heard the news while you were out retrieving your brother. Now Joffrey rules in King's Landing." That changes things. That changes a lot. "Now we no longer have to worry about your feared retribution from King Robert, Cersei won't let Joffrey act against us even if he wanted to, and Lord Stark is, as you know, in a prison cell."

That may well secure their southern flank, still, father was lucky, this whole invasion was ill conceived and illegal. Had Robert not died, they could well have faced his retribution. Did Cersei have a hand in that? Did father? He shook his head. "It may be that we don't face danger from King's Landing any more, father, but we face a new threat." He held up his ribbon."

"A ribbon?" Tyrion asked. "Did you lose your heart in the east, brother?"

He lashed out with his foot, kicking the leg of Tyrion's chair and scattering his imp of a brother to the floor.

Tyrion cried out in pain as his wine spilled over the stone floor. He tried to get up but he planted his foot on Tyrion's back and forced him to the ground again. "This is a message from my scouts, little man," he snarled before looking at his father, who observed the two brother's passively. "Five days ago a Stark host crossed the Neck."