Author's Note: Hello kiddos. This chapter gave me a considerable pause (though I didn't realize that pause was literally half a year, my bad). If I were to redo the entire story as a whole new entity, this would have been one that changed, though the bones of the move itself would remain. Like I said in the introduction back in chapter 1, though, this is a cleanup, not a new fic, so onwards we roll. I hopefully made it a bit more smooth/enjoyable of a read, even though I don't love the revision of this chapter half as much as I have the others.

Next chapter though? I'm very much looking forward to that one. ;)

Thanks for the support! You guys rock.

Chapter 8

Original Word Count: 1939

Revision Word Count: 2463

A heavyset man jerked awake, cursing the horrific cot beneath him with his first thought and reaching for the chalice of wine next to it with his first move. He'd already taken three long gulps by the time he shifted from the uncomfortable cot to the uncomfortable chair in his small tent, eager for the relief of his headache he knew he could find at the bottom of the chalice.

That headache, for now, was being compounded by the rattles and thumps of an army rising with the sun. Men in crimson and gold and purple and a dozen other colors were already dashing about, shadows and sounds outside the open flap of his tent at much too early of an hour for anyone sane.

Loren Lannister supposed this was life on a military campaign. He hated it.

Sighing, he took another long drink before, finding he lacked the strength—or buzz—to start tearing his tent down and prepping for the days move. He didn't know where they were or where they were going—drunken ignorance was his favorite state of mind—but he knew beyond doubt that there would be a move, and that he would hate every second of it. His only reliefs he had were drinking and perfecting the game he made of being as completely unnoticeable as he could to all others on campaign. It was human to find joy in the things one was good at, and Loren Lannister was very good at both of those things.

Retaining anonymity wasn't hard for a Lannisport Lannister. There were hundreds of them after all, each one descended from a King. Some claimed to trace their ancestry back to the last King of the Rock, a different, more lion-like Loren. Others claimed it all the way back at Lann the Clever, the first Lannister King.

Loren didn't know where the hell his branch came from, and he didn't really care all that much either. Loren looked the part of a Lannister, sporting shaggy blond hair and green eyes in a well sculpted face, and he ahd more money that he knew what do with thanks to the business of his long-dead father, but that was where his Lannister-ness ended. Loren was several stone overweight due to his excessive drinking and gluttony, squandering whatever blessings his prestigious bloodline had granted him, and he didn't possess a penchant for cunning or ambition either. He was along due to his name and nothing else, a sad, hard task only made bearable by copious amounts of wine.

He was on his second bottle, ever closer to rising and beginning the arduous task of work, when a guttural voice had the gall to interrupt his self-pity. "Loren Lannister? Lives in a manor house by the docks?" The speaker was a Lannister himself, with golden lion heads for shoulder plates. He grew his blond hair long, his face a permanent, scarred scowl. Tall and lean, he looked the part of a warrior.

In other words, he looked the exact opposite of Loren. If he were an envious man he'd be jealous, but it took such effort to be bitter.

"That's me," Loren replied as he took another swig from his chalice of wine. This distant cousin of his was in full armor, a fact that worried Loren momentarily. Why would a man wear the uncomfortable plate and mail so far from the battlefield? We are far from the battlefield, yes? Cold anxiety filled his stomach. He took another drink of wine to wamr it.

The warlike Lannister before him raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"The last time I checked, yes."

War Lannister, as Loren now thought of him, shook his head, his permanent scowl deepening. "Bloody shame." He glared at Loren for another long moment before shrugging. "You're expected at the war council."

Well that was a surprise, as Loren didn't know the first thing about war. He was a knight, but that had only happened during a particularly long episode of drinking with a few captains of the Lannisport City Watch. A few bought drinks and well-placed jokes and next thing Loren knew, he was Ser Loren Lannister of Lannisport. "Me?"

War Lannister snorted at the incredulity in Loren's tone, clearly agreeing with it. "You."

"Why in the seven hells would I be there?"

The other man shrugged again, jaw clenching as he reigned back his irritation. He gave Loren a once over before speaking. "Upon seeing you, I have no idea. I doubt you'll be much good. But you're the head of one of the Lannisport families, and that means you come to the council whether you're worth a damn or not."

Oh, that explains it. This was all a mistake. Loren took another swig of wine, much more relaxed now that the prospect of being expected to contribute was out of the way. "I am afraid you have the wrong Lannister. You're looking for my uncle Tybolt."

"Tybolt is dead. Died just yesterday of a bloody cough."

Loren supposed he should be sad, but he and Tybolt had never gotten on. "Oh. Well then it'd be my cousin Lann. Tall fellow, skinner than me but not as handsome."

The attempt at humour did not land, as the scowl did not change. "Cough took him too, a few hours after his father."

"Really." Lannister were dropping like flies, and they hadn't seen the first enemy. "Well then, how about Lancel or Luceon or…"

War Lannister cut him off. "Enough. My brother told me to fetch you." Without further ceremony he reached down and seized Loren by the collar of his nightshirt, pulling him to his feet before the Drunken Lion could react. Unsure how to respond, Loren did the only thing he knew how to; he brought the chalice to his lips and began to drink.

War Lannister knocked it from Loren's hand, the goblet bouncing away and spilling all its glorious contents onto the ground. "No more. You're drunk enough; if you come in still drinking my brother will have you walk all the way back to Lannisport. I think you could use it, but my opinion doesn't matter. Put on a presentable shirt and grab your sword." Distressed over his wine but even more wary of what this War Lannister might do if he didn't obey, Loren fumbled into a clean shirt and dug into his chest for the blade he couldn't ever remember even so much as unsheathing. Once he was dressed and armed, War Lannister turned and walked out without a word. Loren followed simply for fear of not.

Tywin Lannister's pavilion was as glamorous as Casterly Rock, this temporary structure nicer than half of the permanent homes in Lannisport. A long table, oaken and sturdy, dominated the center, twenty men in a variety of colors seated around it. At its head sat the man himself, bald of head with bushy golden side-whiskers just beginning to turn silver. Loren had had little interaction with the patriarch of the main family, completely intentionally; Tywin's presence was commanding even when he was silent, and he did not suffer fools. Loren wasn't a fool, at least not completely, but he was a self-admitted drunk, and to a man like Tywin that was the same thing.

Loren took the farthest available seat he could find, reminding himself that he had perfected being anonymous. It was going to be much more difficult here, amidst the power of the Westerlander forces, but he had confidence in himself so long as he kept his mouth shut. The only thing Loren was better at than drinking was staying alive; he had no intention of firstly offering bad advice and secondly getting killed for it.

Tywin Lannister spoke as soon as Loren and War Lannister were seated, the others immediately quieting their already soundless existence. He did not waste time on preamble. "What of the second son?"

A burly man with a rearing purple unicorn on his doublet spoke from a few chairs away. House Brax, Loren remembered. His son's tent had been staked near his own a week ago, and the camp follower the younger Brax had entertained that night had kept Loren awake with her incessant noise. "Reports place him still in the Stormlands, chasing Robert Baratheon."

Another lord, this one with a peacock and a name that escaped Loren, took the narrative. "Prince Rhaegar still hasn't been seen. Aerys has pulled the Crownland lords not with Aelor into the capital."

Brax finished. "No more than two or three thousand."

Tywin Lannister's nod was so miniscule Loren thought he might have imagined it. "And of the Reach and Dorne?"

War Lannister spoke up then. "Still trying to help Aelor trap Baratheon." Tygett. The name sprung unbidden to Loren's mind, and suddenly he realized that War Lannister was none other than one of Tywin's younger brothers, the more martial of the three. Good thing I obeyed. Word is he's as dangerous a swordsman as Aemon the Dragonknight.

Another Lannister, probably Kevan, the second eldest of the sons of Tytos Lannister, sat at his brother's right hand. "The Vale, North and Riverlands are all amassing at Riverrun. It won't be much longer before they march."

Tywin Lannister's baritone could silence a mounted charge—not that Loren knew anything about those personally. "We must reach King's Landing before they do." Ah, we're going to reinforce the capital. Good on us! "The Targaryen dynasty was once great enough to bring the Lion Kings of old to their knees, but no longer. Aerys has spat upon the Lannister name too many times." Oh. We're going to attackthe capital.

The day was full of surprises it seemed.

But, Loren thought. At least he thought he thought it, until he found the entire table, Tywin Lannister included, was suddenly staring at him. Fuck. Loren dare not look at the emerald green eyes of Tywin boring into him when he blundered on, completing his thought process verbally. "But who will be king?"

War Lannister—Tygett—spoke over the angry ramblings of the rest of the room. "He is Tybolt's nephew, brother. New to the council." The defense of Loren's ignorance surprised the heavy man; it was obvious Tygett didn't care a whit for him.

When Loren finally managed to look at Tywin, he could tell the man wasn't impressed either. That was fine; Tywin and the other head Lannisters could despise him all they wanted to. All Loren cared about was making sure they didn't kill him. "Robert Baratheon has the best claim through his grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. I intend to turn King's Landing and the bodies of Aerys and his family over to him with the suggestion he marry my daughter."

But Baratheon is betrothed to the Stark girl, Loren remembered, though Tywin had turned away from him in clear dismissal. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, knowing better than to ask the question on his mind anyway.

"We have to consider," Brax began, Loren fascinated by how much the man's moustache moved when he did so, "the possibility that Baratheon doesn't escape the Stormlands."

Lord Peacock nodded. Those two certainly like to talk. I prefer wine myself. "He is surrounded by four armies, and the Targaryen Prince is no fool."

A new lord, this one with a red bull on a chest as big as one, made his voice heard. "Targaryen is a boy."

Peacock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, a boy who hasn't lost a battle."

"He's only fought two and a handful of skirmishes, Lord Serrett, and he's outnumbered the enemy two to one in them all."

Brax came to Serrett's defense. "That may be, Lord Prester, but he rides with Barristan Selmy, and Randyll Tarly is in command of one of the Reach armies. One is an unmatched warrior, the other a renowned tactician."

Lord Peacock, a name Loren much preferred to Lord Serrett, had an arrogant voice. The more Loren heard it, the more he wished to drown it out in alcohol. "And reports claim Aelor has killed more men with his own hand than any man in his army."

Tygett Lannister snorted in derision, something he seemed to do quite regularly. "So what if the whelp is good with a blade? That makes him a killer, not a strategist."

Brax nodded in deference to the point before speaking again. Men seemed to tread lightly around Tygett, and Loren realized he may have been very lucky to escape their earlier interaction with no more injury than the spilled wine. "Men rally to a warrior, ser Tygett. If he continues to route his enemies—"

"Enough." While it wasn't quite the mounted charge Loren had imagined earlier, Lord Lannister's voice certainly stopped his vassal's cold. "Our sack of King's Landing will draw the Targaryen lad north, into the jaws of the other rebellious lords. If Baratheon has any wits about him, he'll use that opportunity to escape. If he doesn't, we will react accordingly." Meaning we'll find someone else to crown king.

It went on and on, discussions of scouts and contingencies and strategy going on for the better part of an hour as the camp was torn down outside, most of it going over Loren's head. When Tywin finally stood and dismissed them, Loren didn't need to be told twice.

As he bumbled his way back towards his tent, Loren thought on the task that apparently lay before them. He'd been blissfully unaware of it mere hours earlier, and with the help of the copious quantities of wine in his tent he'd soon be ignorant of it again. But during the agonizingly long trip to his beloved wine stores, the idea that he was marching to commit treason ran through his mind unhindered.

Tywin had claimed he was going to present Baratheon with the bodies of Aerys and his family all. Didn't that family consist of a child or two? Maybe it was three; he vaguely remembered some talk of a new prince, Aelon or Aegor or some other such Targaryen name. Surely the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands didn't intend to slaughter mere babes, did he?

The Rains of Castamere suddenly began playing in his head, as well as memories of the day the story it spoke of came to pass, back when he had been a seven-year-old page. It had been decades, but he'd been drowning those memories with wine ever since.

Yes, Tywin does intend to slaughter babes. He—we—have done it before.

Feelings he'd long ago killed tried to come back, but Loren swatted them away determinedly. He blamed their presence on his level of sobriety and quickened his pace towards his tent to remedy that very thing.

Gods did he need a drink.