As soon as he'd broken his fast, he left his solar. His father had wasted no time in claiming the Tower of the Hand, turning him and his household out to some rooms on the far side of Maegor's holdfast. Most of his soldiers had to return to the army outside the city, only Ser Gerold remaining to him in the Keep. His new rooms were pitiful in comparison, everything good about the Tower of the Hand was perverted in these Spartan chambers. His bed was smaller and simpler, and something about the mattress dug into his back if he slept in the wrong place. No doubt father put it there, just waiting for the day I have to go and ask for another. His solar was small, with one wooden desk and a chair by it, the window looking out over the rest of the keep, not one glance at anything worth looking at. The badge of King's Marshall lay on his desk, the crown and sword gathering dust. Why bother pinning it on, there was nothing worthwhile about it. He had been hand of the king, then he'd been collared and reduced to a damn dog, not to be commanded but held back, a showpiece for the world while his father directed the war effort. In return he got to sit on the small council, nod his head, shake it, agree with one person, disagree with another and be politely ignored.

"My Lord", Gerold greeted him. His ever faithful knight was waiting for him outside, with a smile on his face and a new gold chain around his neck, courtesy of a captive taken on the walls. "Where to today?" The knight had made a point of coming with him everywhere. He had served under Loren since the war began, so was his man before his father's.

"My beloved father", he replied with venom. He'd been summoned, not requested, or informed of a meeting, but summoned. "We shouldn't keep the illustrious saviour of King's Landing waiting."

It had once been his tower, he noted as he entered past the still-as-statues Lannister guardsmen at the base of it, who let him through without a nod of the head. I will one day be your lord, or would he? If his father had his way, Jaime would be the heir, and with the precedent of removing white cloaks...

The tower seemed taller with its new lord in house. He'd made the trek at least daily when he had been the Hand, but it was longer, more tiresome, more wearisome when his father was at the end instead of a comfortable bed and sleep. Gerold was behind him, meaning he had some other company other than the dozens of golden lions hanging still and silent on the walls. So many damn bloody lions.

He was not met by his father at the top of the stairs, not even by his chamberlain, no, Loren Lannister would be met by a lifeless wooden door. He tried the heavy iron handle, but it was locked. Curling his fingers into a fist he hammered on the wood. After an infuriating wait, the door was politely opened. "Lord Loren", his father's thin faced chamberlain said with a bow. "Lord Tywin will see you now."

He pushed past them and marched for the rooms where his father would be working, where he had worked before the Blackwater...

As he approached the room, the door opened and out marched a familiar sight. "Lord Jacelyn", he said, bowing smiling in greeting. Who knew there'd be someone here I'm happy to see.

"Lord Loren", he replied. His iron hand was gone, replaced by a silver appendage that glittered in the gloomy tower. "How have you been?"

"Well enough", he lied. "And you, how has the watch faired since the battle?"

"I can't say I know for certain, Lord", Bywater replied, smiling. "I am no longer a member of the watch. Your father has given me a stipend to live off until I can claim Castle Darry. He's given command of the Gold Cloaks to one of his Westermen, Ser Addam Marbrand".

So you already have the watch father. The gold cloaks disliked command from the outside, but Addam was the sort of man men wished to follow, he would serve, and he was his father's man. "I see", he said, nodding. "Well I hope to see you some time, you should join me for supper some day."

"It would be an honour, my lord", he replied, heading for the door Loren had just come from. I wonder how many watchmen would rather follow Jacelyn than Marbrand? He mused, before entering his father's rooms.

Lord Tywin Lannister was seated beneath the window, the light from the sun catching the desk and allowing him to work. Even when writing he was tall and proud. He glanced over when the door opened. "Loren," he set his quill aside.

"My lord", he replied, bowing his head. He turned to Ser Gerold. "Please, may I have the room with father, Ser Gerold?" Ser Gerold bowed once to him and once to Lord Tywin before departing, closing the door behind him. His father's lips thinned. Yes father, I gave an order in your presence, strike me down.

"It's good you've come", his father said, standing up from his desk. "Come", he led him over to a map table.

"Has news arrived father?" He asked. The Blackwater had been such a rush and confusion for all sides that they'd spent the last weeks trying to learn everything they could. Am I about to be given a marching order?

His father nodded and leant over the map table. "Lord Stannis' flight to the south has driven him back to Storm's End. He's gathered around there with his host, but woodsmen and rangers are screening the Kingswood, preventing us from learning too much about what happens, while his fleet sits at Dragonstone, immobile and passive. Varys has heard that Lyonel Baratheon has taken ill and is on the verge of death." Lord Redwyne has sent word back to prepare his ships to sail. Until then, we have Stannis contained in the south, he suffered many casualties on the Blackwater and it will take time for him to ready himself again."

"What news of Robb Stark?"

"His men have fled the Westerlands to Riverrun, where he gathers more men to him, from the Trident and the Northmen. Harrenhall's guard grows stronger every day. He seems to be like the tortoise, huddling inside his shell, wondering where to go next. The Greyjoy's are being driven from the north as we speak, that doomed invasion ready to fail. He may be waiting for more men from the north to join him. But that will take time."

The Young Wolf, waiting. You say fled father, in reality the wolf's belly was full on our fat and he's returning home to defend his pack. It didn't sit right with him that Robb Stark was waiting. If he was waiting he was planning, and if they didn't counter that plan... "The boom towers are being repaired and reinforced, and we hold the Rush", he said. "We could march against Stark now, while Stannis licks his wounds. Or we could let Stark wait and push south to crush Stannis' mainland host while it rests. This is our chance, while they are both immobile".

"No", his father said coldly. "You will wait here, we hold the capital. With the approaching wedding of Joffrey to the Tyrell girl, we cannot let the Tyrell host outnumber us here, nor will the Tyrells let the city fall completely to us. The wedding must happen first."

"We have a betrothal", Loren pointed out.

"At the cost of another, Sansa Stark had a betrothal as well. The Tyrells can't turn to Stannis now they've helped bloody him, and to declare themselves Kings of the Reach would turn half their lords against them to gain Highgarden. They need the legitimacy of the marriage, and until then, they will not act in great force."

Damn bloody politics, Loren cursed. In the company, this wouldn't have been a problem, they'd be ranging south at this very moment to smash Stannis' weakened force, but no, here blood must come on the marriage bed before an army can march. He would later wish that he'd excused himself then, but something made him speak. "I could compel the army to march, father. I am the King's Marshall."

Lord Tywin's bald head turned to him. "King's Marshall", he mused. "No. You will compel no one to go anywhere. This wedding is of import. Until then, we wait and determine what we must do from there."

"Nothing", Loren asked, incredulous. "You truly suggest that we do nothing?"

"Not nothing", he said. "I've sent Lord Tarly and Ser Gregor north. They will establish themselves at Duskendale and hold the north against any assault and to force Stark to maintain at least a token force at Harrenhal." So his father wasn't completely squandering his abilities. "You have other ideas?"

He nodded. He'd had little else to think about in the past weeks but how to progress the war. "We should send a force to secure the rafts that took you and Lord Tyrell to the city", he said. A small force already guarded most of them, and some had been brought down to the city for ease of ferrying the Tyrell army across the Rush. However Lord Tywin had seen fit to keep most of it away. He said it was so the Rush didn't get clogged up with rafts, but Loren had to wonder how much he wanted the Tyrell host kept, for the most part, on the other side of the Rush. "I know some have gone already, but I'd propose more. When the war begins in earnest we can use them to push north into the God's Eye and land a host between Harrenhal and Riverrun, dividing the two hosts of the Young Wolf. Then we trap the one in Harrenhal and could destroy half Stark's host."

His father regarded him coldly. Why do those eyes never give anything away? "Not a poor suggestion. I will select one thousand Lannister men and two thousand Tyrell men and dispatch them to the rafts."

"Father I could-"

"No", he said. "I must make sure this order is followed, which means it comes from the Hand of the King." And then you claim my invasion plan too, is that how this works father?

"I see", he said. "Well, unless there was anything more you need, father..."

"Nothing", he said. "There are affairs of state to see to." And the King's Marshall is no longer needed.

He buried his anger, turned, and left the Tower of the Hand.

"My lord?"

He turned. "Sorry Gerold," he said, shaking his head at himself, he'd stormed right past his knight without noticing.

Gerold shrugged. "Don't worry my lord, where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here," he said, storming off down the stairs.

"Could you be more specific my lord?" Gerold asked.

At the base of the stairs he stopped and thought, waiting for Gerold to catch up. "Have my horse saddled, we're going into the city."

"Lord Loren!" He turned to see the Lord of Highgarden waddling over, his badge of office as Master of Ships proud on his chest. He clasped Loren's hand without invitation.

"Lord Tyrell," he replied. He turned his head to Gerold. "See to it, I'll join you shortly." As Gerold left he fixed a smile on his face and turned back to Mace Tyrell. "How can I help you, my lord?"

"I was simply wondering how your duties were going, you are the very first King's Marshall, no doubt the best choice for the job since my own attentions are focussed on the navy."

"And the upcoming royal nuptials surely?"

Lord Mace laughed. "Yes of course," he said, "we plan to have the ceremony on the first day of the new year, the new century even, a century of lion, stag and rose, leading Westeros to a brighter future."

That's months away you bastard! "Yes, a brighter future for all, where we may call war a thing of the past."

"Oh it won't be long now my lord, soon enough we'll be marching against our enemies. I await only your direction, I will take to the field against Stannis Baratheon or the Young Wolf and bring victory for the king."

"And when the time comes I will wish you all the fortune the gods can spare," you'll need it.

"Ha, keep your fortune my lord, I'd rather have victory."

"I'm sure you would my lord, if it please you, I have duties to attend to."

As he turned to leave, Lord Tyrell did speak up. "There was one other thing, my lord."

He turned to Mace, eyebrow raised. "My daughter will be arriving at the capital soon. The entrance of the new Queen requires the finest honour guard imaginable. I can think of no finer than you, the man who held the city long enough for reinforcements to arrive. His grace has agreed to release Ser Balon of the Kingsguard to go, but it would be a greater sign of our unity if the heir to Casterly Rock were to accompany the brightest flower of Highgarden."

Part of him was tempted, sorely tempted, to leave his father's shadow for a while. But the risk was too great, after all, who was to say what father would do with what little he had left in King's Landing while he was gone. No he had to stay to protect that meagre lot and deny his father another victory over him in this endless war of shame. "I'm sorry Lord Mace, while it would be my ultimate pleasure to ride alongside your daughter, my duties require me to stay here."

"Are you sure my lord, you seem in need of some air."

"You are correct on that count my lord, I'm off to get some now. Do pass my apologies on to the Lady Margaery, and I wish her all the best for her journey," even more for her wedding.

He pulled the heavy yellow cloak tighter around his body, hoping to obscure the lion on his breast as they wound down the Street of Sisters. The people moved to get out of their way, but other than that, they paid him no heed, unable to see his face beneath his hood. No, they were too busy rushing over to the great cart at one side, ringed by a dozen Tyrell soldiers, spears held tight as more of them stood on and around the cart, passing food out to the people. "Our Lady Margaery, your future queen, sends you this food to sustain you," a crier called out to the gathering crowd. "She is on her way now, with food and comfort for more of you, your new queen will see you fed and warmed, no soul will be beneath her heart, accept this first gift from Lady Margaery, the first of a great many!"

Loren shook his head and nudged his horse onwards. "Thanks to us they have people to woo," Gerold muttered, moving alongside him, his own cloak of deep blue fastened at the collar. He kept his hood down, his shaven head less likely to attract attention than Loren's golden curls. "These Tyrells..."

"They've been bringing food in by the wagon load," Gerold told him. "Every day, food is sent to the poor in the name of Queen Margaery, she'll get quite the welcome when she arrives I don't doubt."

"Just so long as they don't use those spears as forks, I need them battle ready for when father finally allows us to march."

"If you spend your time waiting for your father, you'll get nothing done, if we need to act, why don't we just act."

"I'd love nothing more," Loren replied. "But he is still my father, the head of House Lannister, and the Hand of the King, those all mean something." He shook his head, "I didn't come here to think of my father. I came to forget him and the whole bloody lot of them. Here, this will do." They'd arrived outside a small alehouse, two storeys, it couldn't even truly be called an inn, but it was more than enough for what he wanted.

"Are you sure, my lord?"

He nodded, swinging down from his horse. Gerold raised sceptical eyebrows, but followed him in tying his horse up outside and slipping into the alehouse.

It was a dank place, the tables half full despite being midday, and at each table was at least one man in a green shirt with a little golden rose sewn on the breast, a Tyrell man, regaling the people around him with tales of the Reach and victory. He nodded over to a side table and took a seat there while Gerold went to get them a couple of ales.

"And that was when I saw the banner of the Swanns of the traitor Stannis, and rode hard towards it..." he caught from a particularly well groomed man of the reach at the next table. He frowned. The Swanns?

Gerold returned with two mugs in hand. He took one and drank the deep amber liquid, it was cheap, poor quality and yet tasted far more true than wine these days. "What do you think?" He asked his knight. "Let's say the gods intervene and father lets us march tomorrow, who should we go against first, Lord Stannis, or King Robb?"

"Tough to say," Gerold replied, taking a swig and smacking his lips together. "Neither of them are moving, I'd expect that of Stannis given his defeat, but Robb Stark, he's been like a hare since the beginning, darting this way and that, seems odd. I'd wait for more information first."

"A mistake I think, we've waited long enough," Loren replied. "We've waited too long already, we should push one way or the other. Lord Stannis is weakened, perhaps as weak as he ever will be. He's also the closest, we can get to Storm's End far more quickly than we can get to Riverrun. But as you say, Robb Stark is quick, if we go to Storm's End, who can say how quickly he can be where we least expect him. But go to Riverrun, what will Stannis do with the time we give him?" He shook his head. This was something the Company never had to deal with, war on a continent wide scale.

"So what would you do, if you had to march tomorrow?"

"Stannis," he said a thought. "Robb Stark will take another year or more of campaigning to deal a blow against, but we have this opportunity to cripple Stannis now, I'd leave half of the army here, take the rest and march on Storm's End. But it's all scholarly of course, my father won't allow it."

"Another drink then?" Gerold asked.

"Another drink."

As Gerold went for more ale, Loren sat back and listened to the man of the reach regale all his listeners with his exploits in the battle.

"I have a thought, my lord," Gerold said, slipping back into the seat opposite. "Who says we need the army, you accomplished a great deal with those archers we sent after the Baratheons."

"They never did come back to claim their reward, did they?" Gerold shook his head. "Probably killed, caught by Stannis' men, or caught up in the battle and died there. Pity, I could have had two more lords loyal to me."

"Only one new lord, they only got one brother," Gerold pointed out, grinning.

"True," Loren took another swig of the ale that was fast growing on him. "But that one was good enough to leave us his army."

"Don't you have your brother to thank for that?"

"Urgh, don't remind me, he already does that enough."

Gerold laughed.

"Is something funny sers?"

They looked over at the man of the reach who looked annoyed at having been interrupted mid tale.

"Plenty," Loren replied, raising his mug. "Like the fact that you say you killed a dozen knights."

"I did," the man protested, puffing his chest out. He was no more than twenty years, lanky, with a mop of pale hair, and carried himself as a knight, but he didn't seem to have his own colours. "I was knighted for my achievements in the battle of the Blackwater."

"You came with the Tyrell army?"

He nodded. "I had the honour of riding in the van."

"Really, and did I hear you say that you fought Ser Donnel Swann?" Ser Donnel was the brother of Ser Balon, and after the death of Renly he had gone over to King Stannis. Loren had heard nothing of him falling in the battle.

"Fought and killed."

Loren shook his head beneath his cloak. This wouldn't do, not here, where he'd come to escape this very thing from his father. "What is your name, ser?"

"Ser Martyn Lockmead, sworn sword to House Tyrell." He had the pride that only a newly made knight could bear in his voice.

"Well Ser Martyn, I regret to inform you that the Swann banners had left the field long before your van arrived on it."

The room fell quiet as other looked between Ser Martyn and this hooded man who dared speak against a knight.

"Are you questioning my victory ser?"

"Questioning?" Loren asked. "I'm denying it."

Ser Martyn glared at him and stalked over, hand drifting to his sword.

Loren gestured for Gerold to stay seated and rose to meet him.

"Take that back, and I may decide not to run you through." He drew his sword of straight, cold steel.

"Not in here!" The alehouse owner, a large bellied man cried out.

"Show your face, you who would challenge me!" Martyn demanded, ignoring the alehouse owner's plea.

"Gladly." He reached up and pulled down his hood, throwing the cloak back off his shoulders to reveal his scarlet doublet and the lions woven into it.

"It's Lord Loren!" One of the patrons gasped in awe.

"It's our saviour!" Cried another one.

But Loren only had eyes for Martyn who had just frozen in place, looking at his doublet with wide eyes. "Come Ser Martyn, out your sword away, let us clarify this disagreement outside, shall we?" Martyn nodded dumbly and fumbled with his sheath. "Maybe take your drink with you," Loren suggested, before leading the man outside, into the street.

"My lord, I nev-" Martyn said when the door had shut, but never had time to finish before Loren had seized him by the shirt and rammed him into a post.

"My father," he snarled in Martyn's face, "is the head of my house and Hand of the King. That gives him the position and authority to lie about his role in my victory. You, on the other hand, are an upjumped squire who thinks that cutting down a few levied men in retreat makes you a soldier. Lie about your role in my victory in my hearing again and I'll have you gelded and sent to join the choir boys. You understand?" Martyn nodded, shaking."Now give me your drink." Martyn handed the half filled mug to him and Loren through it over his stomach, staining his shirt and the top of his breeches.

"What?" Martyn said dumbly.

"I'm doing you a favour with that smell. Now you can say to your friends that you spilled your drink rather than pissed yourself. Now run away little man." Martyn ran away.

Loren re-entered the alehouse to find the keeper by their table, counting coins onto it. "What's going on?" He asked.

"M'lord Loren," the keeper bowed his head. "I was just paying you back for the ale you had m'lord."

"Why?"

"You saved us, I can't accept money from you."

Loren shook his head. "You can and will, I insist, keep your money, and I'll have another one as well," he tossed a silver coin on the pile."

"My lord I-"

"Take my father's money, good man." He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "And please, another ale for me and my friend here."

The keeper, his face bewildered with awe, walked away.

Before Loren could sit down a brown fuzz slammed into him. It was a young woman, who had caught him in a hug so tight she was going to leave marks. "I never thought I'd meet our saviour in person!" She cried. "Thank you lord, thank you."

Then they all came, giving him their thanks all at once and leaving the Tyrell men alone to their lies. One thanked him for saving her beloved who served in the city watch. A couple, the woman in the later months of pregnancy asked permission to name their child after him if it was a boy. Three young men asked him to get them into the city watch, one boy, no older than five, had the gall to ask him to take him on as a squire. Before he knew it he was sharing drinks with the entire alehouse, listening, speaking and most importantly, smiling. Here were people who knew who won the battle, who knew what he had done, and appreciated the efforts he had made. In the corner of his eye he saw the Tyrell men file out, shooting him dark looks. He went back to speaking with the patrons and owner of the alehouse. That man would be ending the day with a nice hefty bag of silver, and more than one of the patrons took a coin for good luck as well. Never before had spending his father's money felt so good.