Three days of stench and flies, of boiling marsh water to make it safe to drink and muzzling the horses so they didn't attempt to drink from the marsh itself and they made it out the other side of the Marrenmarsh. "What a stinking mess," one of Loren's guard said, wiping his mouth as if he could wipe away the stench of the marsh. To Loren all the stinks of an army on the march just faded into one after a while.

"We're out of it now," Loren reminded him with a wry grin. "Just focus on the positives."

The guard laughed darkly. "I would my Lord, if we were free of fresh marsh stench," he pointed at the sky. "Somehow I don't think we will."

He wasn't wrong. The sky was darkening rapidly, and there wouldn't be time to march further away from the marsh before total blackness engulfed them. They would have to camp where they were. Loren gave the order to set up camp, but called five of his riders aside. "You need to rest immediately," he told them. "As soon as dawn comes I need you mounted and riding. My outriders went with Gerold, so you will be my eyes." It was a decision he almost regretted, but managing thirty-one horses in the Marrenmarsh was hard enough, let alone hundreds more.

"Where are we going?" Ser Everett asked. The guide had led them straight through the Marrenmarsh without detours. Loren had given him a gold chain as a reward.

"You are following the marsh north, ser," Loren told him. "I need you to find Gerold and my horsemen, bring them to us as fast as you can. You told him the landmarks to look out for, so you'll best be able to find him. Two of you will range west and two south. Don't stray too far, but I don't want any surprises waiting for me when we march."

He gave the order that the men sleep in near enough a battle formation. Stannis' men may be to the other side of the Marrenmarsh, but he wasn't taking any chances. Sellswords, Stannis;' raiders or even Northmen who refused the order of their king to stay for plunder. All might be found on this side of the Marsh, and even a hundred men could cause devastation if they fell upon his camp unprepared. Until he knew the lay of what he was facing, caution would be his watchword.

But Loren slept badly that night, his bedroll stiff and even wrapping a scarf around his face couldn't ward off the smell. So when dawn was cresting the horizon, Loren and Tyland were already awake.

"Breakfast, my lord?" Tyland asked.

Loren shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He stretched, feeling his muscles pop and his joints crack.

"You should still eat something my lord."

He sighed, Tyland was right. "Porridge then."

The plain oats were flavoured with some honey, but it was warming in the crisp dawn.

"When we reach Highgarden," Loren said to Tyland as they ate together. "I'm sending you home."

Tyland paused, spoon in mouth. He pulled it out slowly. "Home, my lord?"

"To Casterly Rock," Loren clarified.

"Why?" He sounded hurt. "How have I failed you?"

"You haven't," Loren assured him.

"Then why are you sending me back to Casterly Rock?"

"Because I don't want you to see what will come. The next battle against Stannis Baratheon will be the bloodiest day either of us have ever seen, and you have seen enough for your years."

Tyland sat taller and puffed out his chest. "I was at your side in the Golden Company, and the Siege of King's Landing, when we attacked the ironmen and at Bitterbridge."

"I thank you for proving my point," Loren replied.

"I am your squire. So long as you go to battle, I will be at your side!"

"Not if I command otherwise."

"Especially if you command it. That's why I know you'll need me there."

Loren raised an eyebrow. "How did you work that out?"

"If you didn't need me, you wouldn't have to command me to leave."

Loren snorted. The young always believed they knew better than the old. He'd believed it in the past as well. Tyland would likely have a rude awakening one day. Loren wanted to spare him that, while there was a little innocence left in the world.

The sounds of commotion made them both pause and look around. "What was that?" Tyland asked.

"Get your sword," Loren replied, drawing his own and getting to his feet.

"My Lord, your armour!" Tyland hissed.

"No time," Loren replied and followed the sound.

It didn't take him long to find. Ser Ector and ser Leo, the two knights that were supposed to be ranging south were struggling with their mounts, trying to keep it as quiet as possible, but not doing a very good job. Some of the nearby sleepers were grumbling and turning in their bedrolls.

"What are you doing?" Loren demanded in a low voice. "I commanded that you go at dawn, did I not?"

"You did, my lord, but we need some light to see, and the horses don't like it." Loren glanced out to the south. There was more than enough to make a start.

Loren nodded. "So be it. Tyland, fetch my horse."

It had been a long time since Loren had scouted in person, not since the start of the war maybe, or perhaps before that, all the way back to his time in the Company a world away. So long, and so much, but it was all blurring into one swell of violence.

Riding in the crisp morning air was a relief. The cold wind blasted away his thoughts and he found himself thinking of the land. He tracked the lines of hills, noted the movements of birds over the trees, looking for the glow of morning fires, moving from hilltop to hilltop, with Ector and Leo following him closely. Very quickly into their scouting they established a framework. Loren would do the scouting, he knew what to look for, while the knights would keep watch for more immediate threats. Tyland had wanted them to wait so that Loren could be armoured, but Loren waved it away. He wouldn't be going far and his horse could move faster in a pinch if he was unarmoured. If he was set upon by fifty riders, all the armour in the world wouldn't save him. So he rode in his gambeson, the air rushing up the sleeves and down the collar in cold relief. How he'd missed this. Though another part of him feared that he may never be able to simply enjoy riding again, would he ever be on the lookout for armies and advantageous terrain?

He paused atop a small hillock staring out to the south. A figure on a horse stood sillouetted on a hill not far from them. "A rider," Loren warned.

"What do we do?" Leo asked.

"Approach, slowly and from low, don't let the sun reflect off your mail."

They moved off the hillock down and around to the flank before scaling the hill on a gentle slope. They came up to the side of the rider who hadn't noticed their approach. He turned when they neared the crest. "You have a rep-" he began.

Loren and the rider both froze. The rider seeing Loren's red gambeson, and he seeing the black stag stitched onto the rider's surcoat. "Lannister!?" The rider gasped, clearly alarmed out of his wits.

"Kill him, now!" Loren ordered. Leo and Ector charged, the rider went for his sword, then abandoned it and turned his horse. He escaped the slash of Leo's sword by a hair's breadth and took off down the hill. Loren reached the top as Ector and Leo made to follow him. "Stop!" Loren commanded.

"My lord?" Ector asked, yanking hard on his horse's reins.

Loren raised a finger and pointed to the south. To the south, the ground was moving, indistinct darkness moving against shadow. But every moment it became lighter Loren could make out more of it. He didn't need to see the banners to know what it was. An army. A large army. Battalions of infantry, squadrons of horsement, marching north in a column.

"Lord Stannis," Leo breathed.

"He must have stolen a night march to go around the Marrenmarsh to the south."

"Does he know where we are?"

"He will soon," Loren nodded at the barely visible shape of the rider they had surprised. "That scout seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see him." He turned his horse. "Back to the army, now!"

Loren led them straight back at a hard canter, no waiting no diversions. As straight as they could to a raven's flight, only diverting around a broken mill and hills too tall to maintain their speed.

He was surprised coming the other way by two more riders in Baratheon colours. Outriders in leather and mail. Both reined up hard, both panting, his knights put their hands to their swords. Loren raised a hand to stop them. Now was not the time to risk battle. He was sure his knights could take the outriders, but they could lead him on a merry chase, and time was of the essence. "Tell Lord Stannis Loren Lannister wishes him full fortune." He kicked his horse back into action. He glanced behind him as they sped past the riders.

"Did they see our army?" Leo asked.

"There's no other reason for them to move that quickly," Loren growled.

They sped back into the camp, Leo and Ector calling for the alarm to be sounded as Loren raced down the gaps in the lines of sleeping men to his own bedroll.

Tyland was already preparing his armour.

All around men were scrambling to their feet, pulling on armour and buckling belts. A few hopeful soldiers were boiling water for oats, most grabbed hunks of dried bread and salted meats.

As Tyland buckled his armour, Loren shouted out orders. Spearmen moved to the front with tower shields, archers strung their bows behind. They formed up into a crescent, each end of it anchored against the Marrenmarsh.

Banners unfurled and flapped in the wind. Prayers were muttered in the dawn and drums hammered out an assembly.

Loren downed half a water skin, passing the rest back to Tyland.

Riders appeared on the horizon and disappeared again.

The sun continued to rise behind then and Loren gave thanks for the one blessing they had so far.

His battalions marched into formation. The ground shook. His army halted in formation. The ground still shook.

He mounted his horse.

His army waited.

Stannis' army came into view to the south.

Another arrow slammed into his breastplate and held fast. "Tyland!" He yelled, waving his squire down. The young man hurried over, a shield held over his head to protect from the hail of arrows and bolts. He'd been carrying water down the line, like the other non combatants, but responded immediately to Loren's call.

"Hold my shield, my lord!" Loren held the shield up and Tyland got to work. He loosened Loren's breastplate, sliding a hand carefully under it until he grasped the arrowhead. With his other hand he drew a dagger and sliced off the shaft until it was no more than a finger's length long. Finally, he pulled the arrowhead through the armour and out.

Loren took the arrow and examined it as Tyland refastened his breastplate. The head had been completely blunted. He dropped it down with the other two arrows he had already had to pull from his armour so far.

Stannis' arrow storm had been unrelenting so far. His army had emerged over the hills to the south, and Loren had feared an immediate attack, while his troops were still groggy with sleep. But instead Stannis had unfurled his army like a banner until they matched his crescent formation. Even then he hadn't advanced and instead sent forward his archers.

Loren had known that to meet Stannis in battle would mean facing the Marcher longbowmen at some point. But he'd thought he'd have some advantage. Perhaps it would be raining, or the wind would be against the enemy arrows, or he'd at least have horsemen he could drive them off with. But the day was dry, the wind was against them and his knights were nowhere to be seen. So all his men could do was hold fast. His men in the front had the thickest armour and broadest shields in his army. His archers had pulled all the way back to the Marrenmarsh to stay out of range of the falling enemy shafts, and Loren had ordered the horses be taken back with them. But the arrows landed thick and fast. Loren only had to glance around to see armour dented or with arrows sticking out of it. Some were on the ground moaning in pain, others deathly silent.

Perhaps one in a hundred arrows was striking true and deadly. But Stannis' army was shooting thousands of them.

There were moments in a battle where events could swing, a charge that could doom or define the course of the day. But there was no opening. The advantage lay with Stannis right now, so long as he had arrows to spare and the wind kept blowing. And so he kept shooting, and Loren's army had to duck down and hold out.

"Another sortie, lock shields!" Loren ordered.

The front line of his army locked their shields once more. Fresh pikes and spears were moved to the front ranks, broken spears and sundered shields were moved back and cast on the ground behind the battalions, the wounded and they dying we brought back to lie with those who had been hurt in the earlier arrow storm and now littered the ground around him. Those in his army trained in medicine were doing what they could, but as many were dying as getting back to their feet, and those that were were being rushed back to the front line to plug gaps left by more recent casualties.

Loren half wanted to dismount, to rush to the front lines where his armour, the best gold could buy, would protect him better than his men. But he had trained with these men for months. He knew they would hold, and he needed them to know he was still with them, and that if they looked back they would see him, on his horse, commanding them, and believe they still had a chance, that he might find the perfect order to alter the course of the battle.

But there was no order to give. None of the blessings that had come upon them in this battle were by his design. Stannis' storm of arrows had stopped because he had run out of arrows. Hundreds had been killed by them, thousands wounded in only minutes of shooting. The brief respite between the arrow storm and the first infantry assault had been so that Stannis' men weren't marching into the dawn sun.

All he could do was sit here and wait, thank their blessings as they came. The blessing of the clouds parting that morning. The blessing of the arrows killing fewer of his men than expected. The blessing that he was fighting the cautious Stannis who lined his men up to fight rather than the daring Robert who would have overrun him with ferocity by now.

Not for the first time, Loren's gaze was drawn to the Royal Baratheon banner flying above the enemy army. He couldn't help but note that Stannis' banner flew high and proud, shining in the light, while their own, protected from the immediate wind by the swamp growth, hung limp, like it was embarrassed to show it's colours.

His eyes snapped to Stannis' army. Even though he was safely back on his horse, he sucked in a breath as the two front lines smashed together.

The combat was viscious. Stabs and thrusts and spurts of red for several minutes of gore and death before the lines pulled apart, the survivors panting and pulling down mail coifs and bevor plates to suck in more air. Again they came, and again, and again, before Stannis army pulled back further, unwilling to sustain greater casualties than necessary. Another difference between Stannis and his brother. Robert would have suffered greater casualties among his own army if it meant shattering Loren's front line. Stannis knew he had time and could wear Loren's army down through repeated smaller attacks at fewer losses. LOren had fewer men, they couldn't rotate as easily as Stannis' troops to bring fresh men to the fore.

But such a tactic brought two more blessings. First, as Stannis' army retreated, Loren's archers stepped forwards and bombarded the retreating formations with hails of death, and thanks to Stannis' attack earlier, there was no danger of running low on arrows. The second was perhaps more a hope than a blessing, and that was that Stannis was wrong. He didn't have time.

Loren reformed his line. The men stepped back and closed ranks in the gaps left by the dead and dying. This was the second time it had happened. Two lines of dead men, dressed in the colours of both sides curved like crescent moons from the previous retreats. How many men had he lost?

He had retreated once more by the time the sun had started to dip in front of him, and give Stannis the advantage that he had held when the battle began.

Stannis' attacks were still coming, smashing his own line again and again. Sometimes he would attack in a broad front, sometimes he would focus on individual sections. Clearly his archers had not used all of their arrows, or maybe they had retrieved the ones Loren had sent his way. Despite the constant fighting, the constant need to keep his men organised or to appear behind the line where it was in danger of breaking, the thought made him smile. How many times were arrows being shot back and forth by the two armies? Regardless, small hails of arrows targeted sections of Loren's line, often just before or after an infantry assault. Twice, Stannis had send knights to try and break the line, both times failing, barely.

It was a brilliant sequence of attacks, constantly switching pressure, moving one way then another. Only the stubbornness of Loren's army had held him at bay. But stubborness had limits, men couldn't fight half asleep, bruised and battered by arrows and swords. Loren could only pray their stubbornness held until darkness fell at this stage.

But that was unlikely, the attacks were constant now. Always and forever, a part of his line was under attack, even if just a light attack to keep him on his toes, and prevent his men from taking a few moment's of rest.

If he was to be defeated, then he would feel no shame to lose to such a man. For all his thoughts that Robert could have beaten him, his shame would be that Robert Baratheon's bloodline would be usurped by Stannis, and that all future generations would know him as the man who had fought to defend Cersei's incestuous spawn.

The thought empowered him. He sent runners, shifting formations enough to allow a small counterattack on the left. HIs archers pummeled the enemy footmen as they clambered over the third line of dead men, and five of his mounted guards scattered them in a cavalry charge before returning to the line. They lost one of their number. Ser Leo, was dragged from his horse and fell under a barage of rapidly reddening weapons.

"Lord Marshall, to the north!" A voice cried. He didn't know who.

He looked to the north, the most precarious part of his battleline. The Nightingales of House Caron and the Apples of Fossoway were leading the most ferocious assault on his line.

But behind them there was something. Four somethings in fact.

Columns of riders came down upon their battle lines from the north. Stannis had positioned two lines of infantry to delay them, but the four lines of armoured knights were not stopped by such a paltry defence. The knights reined up, dismounted, clambered on fresh horses, and charged at full tilt, shattering the two lines in four places, leaving what was left a broken mess. Loren watched as Stannis' knights met the westernmost column and checked it, but the other three brushed off the feeble attemts to halt them and drove into the formations of Baratheon infantry that were still locked against Loren's front line.

They struck like lightning and it was like the energy of it had reinvigorated his entire army. Thousands of hoarse voices ripped out battle cheers of triumph and relief. Exhausted limbs raised weapons high, unwavering with new strength.

Now he had moves to play.

He began issuing orders. The infantry folded from lines into squares, the archers moving out ahead of them, the knights reformed beneath the huge banners, whirling and twisting into lances of riders spaced between his infantry, a well practiced formation.

Lore looked out for Gerold, but couldn't find him. There was no time now, the day was fading, he would find his knight later.

"Sound the advance!" Drummers beat out the familiar rhythm and the army advanced. They slowed as they crossed the four lines of dead men.

He was hoping that his men would advance in lockstep, as they had been drilled to do. But the exhaustion of a day of fighting was showing. Some men stumbled, other's staggered, but to their credit, not a one fell. The horsemen were in better shape, but not by much. How hard had they ridden to get here. Even unencumbered horses tired after a day of riding.

Stannis' men were advancing against him, both sides looking to make one last push. He matched Loren man to man, horse to horse, and when they came within charging distance, the trumpets of both armies sang out as one as they smashed together.

There was little in the way of strategy. The infantry fought until the man in front of them was dead and then moved onto the next until exhaustion or death took them, and they were replaced. The knights charged, whirled and charged again, lances shattering on shields and breastplates. Loren stayed back, under the royal banner, committing the last reserves, including his archers who by now had spent most of their arrows, to plug gaps here, or exploit them there. The armies, two huge, muscled bears, red with exhaustion, slamming at each other, were reaching the last of their strength.

One last opportunity presented itself to Loren. A small gap where his knights were pushing through Stannis' own. Rallying his personal guard and the royal banner bearers, they charged.

Loren and his guard were perhaps the most rested force on the field, and they were joined by the last infantry and horsemen reserves he had. They drove into the gap, like one last dagger hidden beneath a cloak. They pushed through. Loren's sword rose and fell as they fought their way through the infantry piling into the gap to stop them. Another of his guard was killed, then another, but they burst out the back of Stannis' line, only to find another force bearing down on them, under another royal banner. Stannis' last reserves.

They clashed and fought. Loren circled one knight, exchanging blows until he found an opening, driving his sword up under the knight's arm. Blood spurted out of the holes in his visor and he toppled from his horse. As the knight fell, Loren saw behind him the two bannerbearers were matched, both had discarded their blades and were clutching the banners, the two fields of gold fluttering, the stags on them seeming to rut and batter. Did the bannermen even know which one was theirs and which was the enemy's?

In the end, it was too much. Loren's sword arm was giving, the bruises he had received in the melee and from the arrows earlier were swelling and hurting. He heard a trumpeteer sound the retreat. In truth he didn't know if it was one of his or one of theirs. No one could know, but whoever had sounded was a hero to both sides in that moment and both took it as their own, staggering back from the other side, using the last of their strength to keep their shields up against any sign of treachery. But as the sun dipped towards the horizon, and the last ochre light of day spotted the fields from behind dark clouds, both sides fell back to where they had began.

Loren staggered across the ground. He had pulled off his helm at first opportunity. The sweat on his back was cold, but his feet were burning in their boots.

Footmen and knights walked all around him back to the camp, no one spoke.

"My lord!" A voice. A rumble of hooves. He turned.

Ser Addam was bearing down on him. Blood was sheeting the front of his armour and his horse's mane. Loren only nodded for Addam to speak.

"It's Ser Gerold, my lord, you must come quickly."

They found his knight lying on the ground to the north, propped upp in the lap of his squire. He was shaking and choking. Blood welled up from between hips lips which he spat down his chin and more leaked from a hole in his armour, just below his rib line. A broke lance tip lay discarded on the ground beside him.

"Gerold!" Loren cried, shoving the surrounding knights aside and falling to his knees beside his knigh. "Gerold look at me."

Gerold's eyes watered and quivered, but focussed on Loren when he saw him. He immediately scrabbled at Loren's armour, his attempts at speech drowned in blood.

"Someone do something!"

Everyone looked around hopelessly.

Gerold's fingers found Loren's hand and seized it. He tried to squeeze back, but Gerold wasn't looking for comfort, he was prising Loren's fingers open. With the last of his effor, he slapped his other hand into Loren's palm. He coughed up one last gout of blood, then fell back against his squire. As his hand slid from Loren's, he left behind the blood smeared badge of the Lord Marshall.

Loren stared at the twisted gold pin. "Gerold I-" He looked up at his knight's face and his voice caught.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, but finally, slowly, he got to his feet. "Have him prepared for the return journey to Casterly Rock. His name will be etched into that mountain for all the days that remain of my house." He turned and walked away.

"My Lord," ser Addam came after him, leading his horse afoot.

"Ser Addam, you will have command of the horse tomorrow, when battle resumes." He had to focus on that one fact, the battle will resume tomorrow.

"My Lord," ser Addam, said more firmly. Loren paused and turned. "I just wanted you to know, my lord, we never would have made it without Ser Gerold. When we met your messenger, he commanded us to ride hardest, pushed us all, never let us relent. We'd have been hours later if not for him."

Loren smiled. And so Gerold saved him again. And he had failed to save Gerold even once. "Thank you, ser Addam. Now I must rest." He needed to be in command of his mind the next day.

He woke from a fretful and broken sleep at dawn to Tyland shaking him. "Lord Marshall, you must awaken."

"What is it?" He mumbled through a desert-dry throat.

"Come quickly," he said, Tyland tugging him up. He was still in his armour, fearing a night attack by Stannis' men, he had refused to let his men sleep out of it. Tyland dragged him to the edge of the camp to look out over the former battlefield, littered with dead and irretievable wounded to the centre. Two figures stood in the middle of the field, their horses held by two others a hundred paces back. One had the bearing of command, and the other held a white banner high.

"What do we do, my lord?" Lord Florent asked. The man who had held his left wing throughout all of the previous day now sported a deep scar in his cheek from an arrow. The arrowhead that had caused it was in a small pouch around his neck.

"Ask for terms?" Ser Addam asked. Loren remembered him scoffing at the suggestion of terms with Robb Stark after the Battle of the Camps.

"I will speak with him at least," Loren said. "Tyland, fetch our own banner of truce. The rest of you, make ready, for anything."

Tyland kept the banner of truce from their baggage. He kept it so that he might negotiate the surrender of castles held by Stannis' men, he didn't think he would be using it to negotiate with the man himself. As he mounted Tyland called out "wait, my lord."

"What is it?"

Tyland held out his hand, in it sat the still blood smeared badge of his office. "Put that way," he commanded.

"My lord, you must wear it."

"He's right, my lord," Addam said, "you cannot diminish your own rank before a man calling himself king."

Loren snatched it up and fixed it to his chest without looking down.

They rode out, stopped a hundred paces away and continued afoot. As they approached, Loren frowned.

As they came to halt a few feet from the others, he said, "you are not Stannis Baratheon."

Lord Bryce Caron shook his head. "No I am not."

"Could he not come and speak with me himself?"

"He could, but he has not," Bryce replied. "The last time King Stannis met a foe under a banner of truce, hidden archers tried to murder him. I remember, I was there." Stannis' good brother tapped his chest, where another badge glinted, unsullied by blood. "By as his Hand I speak with King Stannis' voice at this meeting."

Loren reached for his own badge, but lowered his hand when it started shaking. "As King's Marshall I do not speak with King Joffrey's voice, but I do command his armies, and I will speak with that authority."

Stannis' Hand considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Then may I take your name, Lord Marshall?"

"I am Loren of House Lannister."

Bryce nodded. "We thought it might be you."

"Lord Caron, did you wish to speak terms?" Loren cut him off. In another time that statement might have thrilled him, now he wanted this meeting done.

He nodded. "Lord Loren, a lot of men died and were wounded yesterday, they remain on the field."

Loren nodded, he had heard them.

"I propose that we allow each other time to collect our wounded. A truce to gather them and the dead up, not leave them to rot here."

"A truce?" Loren asked, surprised that Lord Caron wasn't even trying to push for surrender. Perhaps he had hurt Stannis more than he had thought. He nodded. "I accept."

"Three days?"

Loren looked around, remembering the cries and moans and shuffles of the wounded on his way here, and he was only part way across the field. "Four."

"Agreed. Weapons?"

"None beyond the boundaries of our camps."

"Except our outriders."

Loren supposed that was reasonable. "Very well. Hostages as guarantors?"

Bryce glanced at the bodies around them. "Really?"

"I need assurances that Stannis will not betray the word you have given."

"I am his voice, and King Stannis has never broken his word."

Loren wanted to cite Stannis' disloyalty to Robert's son. But bit the words back before they left his mouth. It would serve no purpose. "And after the four days, does battle resume?"

Bryce barked out a harsh, inhuman laugh, devoid of humour. "After four days," he said, looking over Loren's shoulder. "You can have this Marrenmarsh."

Back at the camp, Loren dismounted and told his lords what had happened. "After four days, Stannis will march his army to the south. For two days we will not follow them." It suited his plans anyway, he could move on to Highgarden for safety and supply.

"My lord, is this wise?" Lord Florent asked. "Do you think we haved more wounded to collect than Stannis, I fear this will strengthen his army before it does our own."

Loren waved away the complaint. "Just go and get our wounded, no weapons, as agreed. Addam, see to it."

"At once, Lord Marshall."

"Tyland." he gesuted at the straps on his armour. "Get this off me."