The pain. Oh, gods the pain. "Stop," he grunted, "too much."

"We're sorry, Lord Marshall, but if we don't do this now, it will get worse." Loren barely heard them. His right arm was as stiff as a wooden board, and with every push and pull it grated against his shoulder with juddering pain.

"No, don't, just stop it I can manage I-" CRACK! "Argh! Oh, gods!" He rotated his arm gently, a series of smaller cracks came from his shoulder, wrist and elbow, but with every crack, it became easier to move his arm.

"My lord?" Gerold said, stepping up to him. Loren's loyal knight hadn't come out of the battle unscathed. A bandage wrapped around his head, holding a poultice to his left eye socket, staving away infection. It had been taken by an arrow that breached his visor. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes, just let me… rest a moment." He used his arm to push himself up and rolled over to his side.

He breathed through the pain, the stiffness. His right arm might now be able to move, but all his limbs and his back still felt like tree trunks. "I can move now, so once you get my legs done, I can lead again."

"That's not necessary," Gerold told him. "Our surviving outriders confirm that neither Stannis Baratheon nor Robb Stark pursued us over Bitterbridge. We haven't crossed to see what's happening, but they don't seem to be pursuing us."

It was all fuzzy to Loren, all had been since he'd woken up only hours before. "And when did we cross Bitterbridge?"

"The battle there ended two days ago. You were the last man across the river, my lord."

"Was I?" Hadn't there been men behind him? A teamster, a crossbowman. He was about to ask about them when the wagon went over a deep rut in the road, and he cried out in pain as his wooden body was battered. "Oh fuck," he groaned as he fell back against the rough straw mattress laid out beneath him.

"We should crack your other joints, Lord Marshall," the surgeon said. "Are you ready?"

Loren nodded and lifted his left arm. Three days and nights in his armour, another day lying awkwardly on roughly stacked crates. The surgeon had nearly had a fit when he'd seen him.

"Can't this wait, we'll be at ser Garlan's camp this afternoon."

"No, the longer we wait, the harder it will be to fix. He should have been treated days ago. Now hold him," the surgeon said. Gerold, Tyland and two more soldiers held Loren down as the surgeon began slowly rotating the limb.

"Gerold," he grunted, trying to take his mind off the feeling of pins shooting through his arm. "Tell me numbers from the battle."

He nodded, clutching Loren's functioning arm tightly. "Do you want good ones or bad ones, my lord?"

"I want-" CRACK "FUCK- good ones, give me good ones. Oh, fuck."

"We only lost around a quarter of the supplies. Most of them got through, months of them."

Loren still groaned as the cracking sound went down his arm. "And the bad?"

Gerold swallowed. "While we only lost a quarter of our supplies, we lost three quarters of the escort force."

"How much-ow!"

The surgeon gently released his arm. "Okay, now rotate that, slowly, by yourself."

He nodded, slowly rotating his shoulder, elbow and wrist. "Three quarters?"

"Yes, lord," Gerold said. "Some units suffered worse than others. Ser Talbert's force was able to evacuate with about half his men, but of your nine hundred ironmen, there are one hundred and sixteen left. I don't know for most of the army but…"

"Just get it to me before King's Landing," he said, settling back. He would know all the numbers before they got to the capital, so he knew who had suffered to maintain Joffrey and his father. Three quarters of his men. Three quarters of his men lost so that three quarters of the supplies could get through to feed Joffrey's failed regime. When he got to King's Landing, they would have a lot to answer for. His newly freed fingers curled into tight fists. "But first," he looked at the surgeon. "My legs."

The surgeon nodded. "Hold him down."

When the carriage rolled to a halt in ser Garlan's camp, Gerold helped Loren down tentatively. Every felt like it would buckle him. He'd been worried that he would present a pathetic image to his men, in only his red aketon, rough trousers, boots, and leather gloves. But his men were in no better shape. Ser Garlan had been good enough to lay out bedrolls for them, and they were pulling off dented helms, dropping shields and spears in the mud and collapsing. Their armour was marred with dried blood and mud and they dropped it aside as soon as it was removed. The under armour beneath was stained with dark sweat patches and was fraying at the seams. Their boots and shoes were falling apart as they walked. Had these men not been through enough.

Next to them, ser Garlan's army looked the pinnacle of pristine, with shining breastplates and fluttering banners. "Where were you?" He hissed to himself.

"What was that, lord?"

"Nothing," he replied.

Someone seemed to have heard Gerold's question. "Lord Loren! It's lord Loren!"

Immediately, the energy of his army was filled to the brim as they came rushing over. He found himself surrounded by soldiers desperate to clap eyes on him. "What is it?" He asked.

"Are you alright, my lord?"

"Are you still injured?"

"Will you be alright?"

"Lord Loren still leads us!"

He looked them in the eye as they came up to him. They didn't seem to care that he was dishevelled and needed help to walk. He took their grasping hands and squeezed as firmly as he could. "I'm here," he assured them all. "I'm still alive, and I'm not dying until I've gotten to King's Landing and made sure you get the recognition you deserve for saving all of their lives. You have my oath on that."

It seemed like Loren had clasped hands with all the survivors of his host before he was finally able to get some fresh air and make his way over to where casks of water had been left for his men. He and Gerold each took a cup, Loren draining two of them before filling it for the third time, and headed over to the edge of the camp to stare out at the fields beyond.

Gerold helped him to sit down, and they sat in silence, sipping and staring. "Will it be worth it?" Gerold asked him.

"What?"

Gerold glanced around before continuing in a hushed voice. "Joffrey. Will all of this be worth it?"

Loren also glanced around. "Careful," he whispered. "Joffrey is the king, he is half a Lannister and," he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, "about to be married to a Tyrell."

"I'm not the only one asking this," Gerold replied. "Plenty of the survivors are asking, and their lords aren't stopping them."

"Is it bad?"

"Anger and resentment, but they can easily become hatred."

That was true, and it worried Loren. An army which was angry at its commanders might still obey them with the right prodding. Resentment was easily managed, he could placate that. But hatred was a whole other beast. If they ended up genuinely hating Joffrey, they would never fight to defend him. In fact, they'd be more likely to fight against him. "Will they still fight, for now at least?"

"If you lead them, then yes, I believe they will. But I feel they'd refuse any other commander."

That was bad. If they refused to fight for his father, he'd have their kneecaps shattered or worse. He had to protect them from that. But how could he do that when what they were asking the most basic question, a question he'd been wondering about for a long time?

Joffrey may be rightful. But was he right? Had he done as the Mad King had, and forsaken his obligations, and therefore protections, of kingship? And if so, who should remove him? It was treasonous, but Loren had seen that Tommen would be a better king. Joffrey would soon be freed from the bounds of his regents. His mother's meddling would become politicking, not politics and Lord Tywin would become a counsellor, not a controller. Then who would hold Joffrey back. Probably him, just as he was being left to fix every other problem with this regime. "Just let the men know I will protect them, and I will ensure that they are not thrown to the wolves for Joffrey or my father's satisfaction. When we get to King's Landing," he looked around again, "I intend to make changes."

"Changes?"

Loren nodded. "Yes. I won't wait for them to make another mistake. When I get there, I will use my authority as King's Marshall to take command of the war. The next time we go to battle there won't be any of this nonsense."

Gerold smiled grimly. "After these past defeats, I think the men will welcome that."

"I hope so," he said, returning his gaze to the vast open country between them and King's Landing.

Gerold got to his feet. "I'll leave you to your thoughts for a little while, help get the men settled."

"Thank you, and please send Tyland with my sword if you see him."

"Yes, my lord."

Gerold walked away, and Loren pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. But very quickly he realised he'd made a mistake sending Gerold away. The voices came to him in the silence. The dead, the fallen, whispering of betrayal and failure, smelling of burned flesh and bubbling blood. "Not now," he whispered. "Not yet, please." He squeezed his eyes shut and hummed softly, hoping to drown out the sounds. Perhaps they heard him. The voices faded, and he was left alone with the wind, the grass and the cold afternoon.

He was broken from his reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching. He turned and saw ser Garlan coming, flanked by two knights. Far from the pristine knight who had entered King's Landing, his armour was battered, and a thin white scar was cut across the back of his hand. He barely took this in before anger swept over him.

"Lord Loren," Garlan said, bowing his head in respect as Loren clambered to his feet. "If I may, I-"

"You fuck!" Loren snarled, striding over, his fury keeping him weak legs from falling. "Where the fuck were you!" He seized Garlan by the front of his tabard. Before he could react, one of Garlan's knights grabbed his arm and shoved him away. He stumbled to the ground, crying as pain shot through his still stiff body. "I came because your sister asked me to come and you leave me to fight two armies so that the food I'm bringing for your army can get through safely? Where. Were. You?"

"I was coming, Lord Loren," Garlan said, moving his knights aside so that he could speak directly. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get there sooner, but my men-"

"Poor shepherds blame their flocks, ser Garlan, you had the command of them."

"You're right, Lord Marshall, the responsibility was mine. I accept that. I sent you what I could, the soldiers still willing to fight, but it wasn't enough."

Loren nodded at him, breathing heavily as he squared up to Garlan and his knights. "You admit to your failing? That makes you better than my father at least." He took several deep breaths. "What do you want with me?"

"I only wanted to know what we could do for you, Lord Marshall. Will you be going to the capital with the supplies, or will you take command here?"

A fair question. "I have to go to the capital, there are matters I must see to there, as well as distributing the supplies."

"What matters?"

"My authority if nothing else," Loren told him. "I may be the King's Marshall, but the regents only gave me the command to defeat the ironmen. I need their full authority to command the war against Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon as I deem necessary."

"I'll be happy to provide you an escort, Lord Marshall," Garlan said, gesturing back at the camp. "Your men look exhausted, they could use the rest. And hearing of their exploits directly will boost the morale of the men here."

"No," Loren said flatly.

"But my lord I-"

"Let me make one thing very clear, ser Garlan. Those men have fought through hell so that people they have never met and do not care for, people who will send them to their deaths without a second's thought, may eat another day. No one. Not you, not my father, not King Joffrey not the gods themselves, will deprive them of the glory and honour of that triumph. Do I make myself very clear?" He nodded. "Good. I intend to return shortly with command of the full army. When I do, we will march against our enemies and I will want you when we do. Until then, gather your men and drill them, marching, fighting and holding formation, day in and day out. When I return, I want an army that is ready to fight, not a rabble ready to run at the mere mention of the Young Wolf."

Garlan bowed. "It will be done, my lord."

A small voice spoke up. "My lord." They turned to see Tyland approaching, sword under one arm. "You wanted your sword."

"Yes, I did. Was there anything else, ser Garlan?"

"No lord, I'll leave you now and have some food sent."

Loren bowed his head. "That would be most appreciated."

As they left, Loren held out his hands and took his sword from Tyland. He ran his hands over the chipped wood. One of the sapphires had been knocked from it in the battle with Robb Stark, and much of the dark lacquer had been sliced off. "This sword has been with me through thick and thin," he muttered, running his hand over it.

"My lord, is there anything else?"

Loren patted the ground beside him. "Come and sit," he said. "You've been working very hard ever since Bitterbridge. Relax for now. We're safe here."

"I know, lord."

Loren nodded. "Just take a moment to relish it. We're going somewhere just as dangerous as the battlefield. You'll need to have your wits about you in the capital."

"It was dangerous before."

"But before we didn't have to deal with my father," Loren pointed out. "This time, it's his nest. You're going to have to be careful."

Tyland looked at him, eyebrow raised. "Just me, my lord."

Loren nodded. "When we enter the city, you'll be by my side. But once the procession is done, I want you to ride with ser Gerold while I go and speak to the council."

"I'm your squire, my lord, my place is at your side."

"Not this time," Loren told him firmly.

"Why?" Tyland demanded.

"Because I am going to confront the council and make them give me command of the war." He fixed his gaze east, towards King's Landing. "And I am not going to be careful."