"The scouts are tracking the Starks further down the Fork, as you commanded, Lord," one of his outriders said. Loren nodded, his mail chinking as he drew his fingers over the map.

"Good," he muttered. His father had commanded him to use his scouts to draw the wolves into the jaws of the lion. He had told his father that that was a gross misuse of outriders, he could gather far more information on the Starks, their numbers and composition, if they weren't aware that they were being watched. But the mighty Tywin Lannister would hear nothing of that, his plan would be followed to the letter. But Lord Tywin didn't know everything, and Loren would command his outriders in the way that best took advantage of their abilities. "How far are they from here?"

The scout pointed on the map. "Here, Lord."

He nodded, that was only two days north of here, and he was a day's march away from his father. "Send out riders and bring the furthest scouts back, we'll be giving battle soon, I suspect. Is Ser Addam watching over the Stark advance?"

"Aye, m"lord," the scout said.

Loren nodded and beckoned Tyland over with their horses. He pulled himself up into the saddle. "Call back those scouts," he reminded his man, before putting his spurs to his courser and riding for the approaching Stark host.

()()()

"I haven't seen much out of the ordinary," Ser Addam informed him. They were atop a small hill a few miles from the cloud of dust that indicated the Stark host's presence. "They march, sometimes they stop to rest for a day, then they march again. Though they seem to be picking up the pace more recently."

Loren nodded. "Have you got a count of their numbers?"

"Fewer than our own," Ser Addam confirmed. "Although they have far fewer horse than I would have expected."

"But the wolves are still there?"

Addam nodded. "Always at the head, under the largest Stark banner.

"Both wolves mean both Starks," he said. "But still, this marching order, they truly stop to rest?"

"They do," Addam said. "I was surprised as well. If the father were leading them then I wouldn't be, but they show restraint for boys."

Loren knew that well enough. To have the discipline to halt and rest your troops, prevent them from getting weary and keeping order. It took a skilled commander. "What of Stark's bannermen?" He asked Ser Addam. "Could one of them be advising?"

"I couldn't say that for sure," he said. "But Lord Bolton's banners are first in march behind the Starks."

His father would know more about Lord Bolton to judge, Loren knew only that he had advised Robert to slit Barristan Selmy's throat after the Trident. A cold man it seemed, but what more was there? "Is there anything else?" He asked.

Ser Addam shook his head.

"Then I am ordering the Outriders to pull back," he said. Our duty now is to prevent the Starks from sneaking a march on us, keep their own riders away. I must report to my lord father, I leave it to you to blind the Starks at every opportunity before the battle."

"They'll see nothing," Addam promised.

"Remember," Loren said. "They are outriders, not knights, do not push them too hard, we'll need them for the whole campaign, especially if the Vale comes to aid the Riverlands as well."

"I won't overstep, my lord," he said. "I promise."

Loren nodded and turned his horse. "Then make sure you return to participate in the battle, I need as many knights as possible beside me."

"I look forward to it," Addam said. "I will test my steel beside yours, my lord."

()()()

Lord Tywin Lannister was ready and waiting in his command tent. "The Starks will be here soon, but it doesn't matter. No sword is strong until it has been tempered. The Stark twins no doubt like the sound of warhorns and the sight of fluttering banners, but as soon as they understand what war truly is, they'll run back to Winterfell with their tails between their legs."

Loren spoke up. "I'm not so sure, father," he said. His father in law glanced at him with raised eyebrows; Lord Crakehall and Uncle Kevan both looked surprised that he had spoken up. "The manner of Stark's march on us, the tightness of his formation, it all seems to me that they know what they're doing, or are being advised by someone that is."

"Stark is a child, if he listens to his Bannermen it is only a courtesy, he'll seek to take full control again as soon as battle is met." His father never missed a beat, that much could be said about him.

"I would not say that," Loren replied again. "The march is difficult to maintain, it requires patience. From the layout of their march, I believe that Lord Bolton is heavily advising the Starks."

"Lord Bolton is a cold man, he does not inspire loyalty or love," Kevan pointed out in defence of his lord brother.

Lord Tywin nodded. "He may be advising the march, but the Starks will commit to battle, of that I am certain. And we shall march to face him. What are his numbers?"

Loren clenched his fist. Could his father not listen to anything he had to say? Ever. If Jaime had said it his lion's ears would perk up at once, but no, because it was Loren the Leaver, Loren the other Lannister, his word meant nothing. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he was back with the Golden Company, where men of value treated his word with the respect it deserved. "Fewer than our own," he repeated Ser Addam's words to his father. He was about to bring up the small number of horsemen with the Northern host. But why should he bother; Lord Tywin would choke it down to ineptitude on the part of the Starks. Loren kept his mouth shut and slumped back into his chair. They would see when battle was joined what these Starks were made of.

The tent flap opened and the dwarf Lannister entered. Tyrion waddled to his seat and sat down. "My Lords," he said. "Apologies for my lateness." Loren gritted his teeth when Tyrion took a cup of wine. Why could his brother act as such? "What news do we have?"

"Your wildlings have been armed," his father in law said with a bite to his sour tone. "I hope they prove worth the steel."

"My ferocious warriors, I believe they'll prove their worth on the battlefield," Tyrion smiled and drank, plucking a sausage from a platter and slapping it into his overlarge mouth.

"They'll get their chance," Lord Tywin replied coolly, "they will be in the vanguard. As will you."

He choked on his own drink. He couldn't have heard correctly. His father was granting command of the vanguard to the imp! "I fear I have no experience of such command, father," Tyrion replied earnestly.

"Command?" Lord Tywin queried. "Ser Gregor will have the command, you will serve under him."

Loren relaxed his grip a little, but still he felt warmth trickling down his hand. He brought his palm to his face and sucked the blood his nails had drawn into his mouth. "And what of I, father?" He asked.

Lord Tywin scrutinised him intently, his green-gold eyes looking into Loren's own. "You shall command the right flank," he said before sitting back.

A command at least, he thought as he sat back, brooding.

He let the conversation wash over him at that point, only interrupting when someone asked it of him.

He was only asked if he would like another glass of wine.

()()()

From then on he rode not in mail, but in his full suit of crimson and gold armour, a force of knights around his person. In the heat of midday sun some four days later, a rider rushed to the head of the column. One of his outriders. He spurred himself forward to join his father. "My Lord," he said, bowing at the waist. "The Stark host is ahead, they are forming up into battle lines." Loren looked ahead, sure enough the dust being kicked up was reminiscent of an army, and he could see what looked to be banners and men rushing about.

"Father," he urged. "Let me take my knights, ride ahead, we can break them before they are ready."

"Or lose our horse," Lord Tywin replied calmly. "No, if the Stark boys want a battle I will not deny them. Kevan, have the drummers beat assembly. Loren, assemble your flank."

Loren bit back a retort and wheeled his horse. "Ser Addam!" He called to the knight who had joined him two days ago. "Bring the banner." As the drums of battle assembly began to sound, Ser Addam, nodded and ordered the banner bearer to bring himself to them and lead the right so the men on the right would know where to gather.

His force assembled far more than the rest. His father may not have given him the vanguard, but he had given him the hard heart of the Lannister strength. Four thousand knights and other heavy horse were to assemble on him to be the mailed right gauntlet of the host. Since he didn't have to deal with partially drilled levies, his flank was lined up and assembled far more quickly than the others.

The battlefield was relatively flat. With the river holding the left flank and only some small hills and shrubs to their rear, a small copse of hedgerows and shrubs covered the Northern left flank, the flank he was facing. He looked to the left. His father's centre was commanded, predictably, by Kevan, most of the army's foot gathered in one place. Pikemen were forming squares in the front line and two wings of archers were calmly stringing their bows behind them, behind them spearmen, swordsmen and more were forming a battle line, all commanded by Ser Kevan, who was surrounded by three hundred knights. Also fluttering around his uncle were the banners of Lord Lefford, Lydden and Serrett, and their sworn retainers would also be there.

His father, as was his want, had gathered the reserve about himself, a huge force, five thousand strong, half mounted half afoot, assembled atop the small hills. From there his father could better oversee the battle, and know where best to deploy his men.

Meanwhile the left flank was another flank of horsemen. He saw Clegane's banner and Clegane himself gathering this force around him. But where the men Loren had under him were a mailed fist, The Mountain's force was made of the dregs of the west, sellswords, freeriders and a few less scrupulous knights, and of course, Tyrion's clansmen.

He looked to the Stark host. A thick line of infantrymen, under the banners of axes, moose, suns and mermen gathered. He also saw the twin towers of Frey, so much for his father's prediction that Lord Frey would not commit to the battle. He wondered what his father was thinking atop his hill, for he had certainly seen those banners. Everywhere along the line, the grey Stark Direwolf flapped in the breeze. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the front, trying to eye the actual wolves amongst the banners, but he couldn't see them. He spotted flayed men banners twisting in a macarbre dance behind the Stark main line. He saw a few horsemen in the rear, when arrayed amongst their footmen, they seemed even fewer in number.

He waited for the advance. He knew his part. Clegane would charge, break, and rout, the Starks would pour in and father would turn them and crush them against the river. At least that was his father's plan. But based on their march, he wondered if the Starks would risk it. They didn't seem to be advancing, which went against his father's predictions.

Then he heard the drum beat. It wasn't the drum beat signalling for the advance to begin. It was a heavy drum beat, deeper and louder than any drum could carry. The Stark foot were beating it out, shields and spear buts slamming into the ground in concert. He smirked. They weren't moving, they were standing their ground, daring the Lannisters to come to them. Well they would meet that challenge. Sure enough, the drums sounded and the Lannister line began to advance.

His men kept in line with the centre, their horses snorting, the hardened destriers eager to charge the enemy. The sounding of trumpets made him look left to see Clegane's vanguard tear forwards and smash into the line northern infantry, which shuddered, bent, and held. As Clegane's vanguard was bogged down and began to turn and rout, the first arrows fired at the northern foot who held.

But despite this, the northern line didn't charge the broke left, or break under the arrow fire. They were showing more discipline than his father expected, and more indecision than he had intended.

But Ser Kevan wouldn't be stopped. He simply ordered his own advance. If the northerners wouldn't follow Lord Tywin's plan, then they would be smashed where they stood. He held his own men back. He wouldn't make Clegane's mistake. He would wait for the right moment before charging a solid infantry line. The sounds of battle met him as the pikes met the northern shield and the infantry lines began hacking at each other. He held up his hand to halt his men entirely. Something was wrong here. What was Stark's plan? Hold until he was slowly hacked apart.

Then he saw his chance. The northern left was engaged, and he ordered the advance. His men would charge, circle the line in the flank and roll it up against the river. He drew his sword and led the charge. His horse pounded between his legs, and time seemed to slow. Then screams made him look to his right and his blood ran cold. Northern horsemen charged from the bushes and hedgerows and were closing on his right flank. Over their head a great Stark banner fluttered in the breeze. "Turn, he screamed into the din of battle and war. He spun his sword over his head, and his men, seeing this, began to wheel their horses to face the Stark charge.

But they were too slow. Northern lances lowered as they entered the last ten metres. But they didn't stop lowering and, with the force of a hammer blow, the northern lances took his knights in their mounts. Horses screamed as they fell dead, their riders scrabbling to not get crushed by them. Lances punched through bridle and saddles and barding to slay the beast beneath it. Pulling on his reign he was able to avoid the lance of one knight that came charging at him. He smashed his sword on their head as they passed, but it didn't stop the knight. Then he saw the beasts.

Bounding amidst the dead and scattered horses were the two great wolves. Knights pulled their mounts out of the way of their powerful, snapping jaws and those that didn't were carried away as the mounts underneath them feared the beasts too much, at least one of his men was thrown as the wolf snarled beneath his horse.

Another knight came at him, this one in the livery of Frey. He raised his sword and they sparked of each other. This was never his forte, and he struggled to defend against the rain of ferocious attacks being dealt against him. But in a flash it was over. Another lance appeared out of nowhere and took the northerner in the breastplate, smashing him off his horse, and more knights of Lannister swarmed them to claim the capture. The knight who had saved him rode up to him and raised his visor. It was Ser Addam. More knights were piling in now, and the Lannister numbers were beginning to tell, he saw other northerners falling under blows of southron knights. The northmen seemed to recognise this as well. They peeled off and broke, riding back for the hedgerows.

"Regroup!" He roared. "Form up again. We must finish our charge!" The knights without horses saw to the prisoners taken on the field. Those with gathered to him again. The northern foot and his uncles men were locked together, men dying on both sides and the northern right, having routed the vanguard, were curling around them; one of Kevan's squares of pikemen was broken, with northern axemen and swordsmen under a moose banner hacked them apart. Where was his father? He should have brought the reserve up to plug that gap. A glance back saw coiling smoke, twisting like serpents in the air and his father absent from the hill, the few men he could see on it in confusion and chaos.

He cursed, with the reserve gone or busy this was going to be harder; the northern foot, having shattered one of the squares of pikemen could do what they'd wanted and roll up the line. A sudden pain jarred his chest, slamming into him like a fist. The arrow fluttered to the ground but another hit him on the shoulder. "Archers, get back out of range!" His men wheeled and pulled back until the arrows slammed into dirt instead of metal and flesh. His father still wasn't here. "Addam!" His subordinate came over. "Take half the men, seal our left, since father hasn't deigned to join us, we can't let them roll up the line."

The Northmen were still pulling back, one square was in disarray, but the other two were driving back the northern shield wall.

"My Lord!" He turned and saw Ser Gerold racing over. "My Lord, you have to halt the advance!"

"What?" He demanded as the Lannister men swarmed forwards. Men dragged forward a prisoner in the livery of a Frey.

"Tell my lord what you told me!" Gerold demanded, his dirk a the knight's throat.

The Frey knight spat a gob of blood on the ground, more blood leaking from a cut across the forehead. "Lord Robb isn't here. He never was."

Loren took a moment to realise what had just been said. "But... what do you mean!"

The knight laughed at him. "He sent Lord Tristan and Lord Bolton to get you to watch our pretty performance of a march, but Lord Robb crossed the Trident at the twins, and has been riding hard for Riverrun, with ten times the horse you saw here today."

"Fuck!" He roared. "Gerold, go to my uncle, tell him to stop pressing the northmen so hard, I must go see father."

Still the lines fought, Addam's knights met the disorganised northern left and drove them into a heavy retreat, saving his uncle, who sent footmen in to support and seal up the gap. The northmen were pulling back now, reforming around the flayed man of Bolton and fighting a retreat north, their horse screening their left flank, their right anchored to the river and a hail of arrows dissuading others from following.

A glance back told him that their own reserve appeared to be forming atop the hill, as though it had only just awakened to the fact that there was a battle. "Ser Gerold, hold our right but do not advance on the Stark lines." He put his spurs to his horse and raced to the hills being left further and further behind by the battle. "Father," he called, as he and his retinue raced up to his father's position. "Father!"

Lord Twin looked dark and brooding in his helm. Loren saw trails of smoke rising above them from behind, from the camp. The reserve was rushing back into position atop the hill and, the injured being lain down to recover; yet more seemed to be fighting another battle with flames amidst the camp. "What happened?" He asked his father.

"Stark sent a force with rafts across the river. They snuck back across when battle was joined and attacked the baggage train with arrows and fire. I drove them across the river before they did too much damage, but still, it was a minor blow. The matter is dealt with, how goes the battle?"

"Well father, we have the northmen falling back, but we must call a halt."

His father looked just as irked by this as he was by every suggestion that Loren ever gave. "Why?"

"Father, we've been played for fools, we have captured enemy knights and lordlings, and they soon told us the northern ploy. Robb Stark was not here. He sent his brother, advised by Roose Bolton," he paused to see if his father remembered he had hinted at such a thing. But he didn't seem to react. "In the meantime he crossed the Trident at the Twins and now rides, with most of his horse behind him, for Riverrun."

Tyrion arrived at that moment, battered and wounded from the battle, his sellsword alongside him. He recanted what he had just told his father to his brother. Tywin looking as stone as many said his heart was.

He looked out at the battlefield. The Lannisters had stopped their advance and the northmen were still retreating. But they had done their task. They had been delayed, and every hour they had watched this Stark host descend from the Twins was another hour in which the heart of Stark strength was descending on his unsuspecting brother.

He couldn't help but laugh.