Author's Note: This chapter ended up changing even more than I thought it would. Hopefully anybody re-reading likes the change.

I hope you enjoy and review this update.

Chapter 13

Original Word Count: 1,757*

Revision Word Count: 3,914

Loren Lannister hated sieges. It had only taken an hour to realize that, and Loren had been in the Siege of the Sept for three days.

He thought it was three days at least. Truth be told everything had been blurring together.

Seven hundred men of the Westerlands were holed up in the home of the High Septon, trading arrows with Targaryen loyalists at the foot of the hill. A score of septons and half again as many septas had been in the Sept of Baelor when Lannister men had stormed up the hill, but only a handful of the former had been allowed to remain, tending to the wounded. One was being used as an envoy between the two sides, though House Targaryen was rebuffing all attempts at parlay. The rest had been forced out immediately, having fled towards the south of the city where the High Septon had been before the attack. Less mouths to feed.

Loren didn't have to attend the councils to know it was a hopeless situation, no matter how many mouths they expelled. The dragons weren't talking because they didn't have to; the lions had nowhere to go.

But not a word of surrender had been spoken aloud, nor was it likely one would. Tywin was utterly calm, unflappable despite the fierce turn things had taken, keeping his council and the men focused. They built calvary spikes out of pews. They collected and reused fired arrows from the stone courtyard or the bodies that they struck.

There weren't enough tasks to keep all the seven hundred busy, but it kept enough of the beleaguered men occupied to avoid a complete breakdown of discipline.

Except in me. I was never disciplined to begin with, and then they went and tried to make me sober. I haven't been sober in nearly thirty years.

A guard of twenty was kept in the northeast tower, which had been turned into a supply depot. Though they had taken much from the city, Tywin had immediately instilled a strict ration of food and wine. Loren didn't really care much about the food, though he loved it as much as any other man; it was the limited wine that was killing him.

His head was misery, his stomach terror. His body stank with sweat and trembled with chills. Other soldiers avoided or openly mocked him, but Loren paid them no mind, in too much suffering to worry over slights from walking dead men. More than one had openly asked Loren how someone like him could have survived to rally to the Sept while so many other, stronger, better men had died.

It was a fair question. Loren didn't know the answer any more than they did.

He'd been helping himself to wine on the Street of…Sugar? Honey? Some such frilly name. Another Lannister, one of his numerous cousins of Lannisport, had slit the baker's throat and begun raping the man's daughter, but Loren had been much more invested in helping himself to the wealthy merchant's generous stores of Arbor Gold. But mere moments into either activity, a big knight in Banefort grey had burst in barking orders, loading Loren down with the wine he'd been drinking and forcing him to haul it up a hill filled with terrified smallfolk dead or dying.

His cousin had killed the girl. In between bouts of puking his guts out, Loren kept seeing her empty eyes as Gerold violated her, then the blood on his cousin's dagger after he'd slit her throat. It brought back long suppressed memories, ones of muffled screams that, while certainly only in his head, seemed to quake the ground around Castamere. He'd done nothing then. He'd done nothing for the girl, either.

All Loren wanted was to drink. He'd used that these last thirty years to drive away the demons of what they'd done at Castamere, and he needed it now for the demons of what they'd done three days ago. So many drinks that he could pass out and not wake up until this war was long over and he was back in his branch of the family's mansion in Lannisport, surrounded by Arbor Gold that he could kill the hangover with.

He'd taken to stumbling around the darkened corners and rooms of the lowest level, where there were fewer men to break the silence. The tombs of dead monarchs and important figures of their reigns were here; Kings Daeron the Good and Aegon the Unworthy, among others. There were also vaults of great treasures, or so he'd heard. These were guarded much as the rations had been, Tywin keeping his men from plundering them for reasons Loren didn't know nor care about. Other chambers held much more mundane items; stores of parchments, of medicines, of clothing, or work rooms for sewing or repair.

He had stumbled into a small private shrine, a large, heavily robed statue of the Stranger in its midst. There were, as one might expect, seven such rooms, one for each of the patrons of the Faith. He'd been in three beforehand, small shrines for the septons and septas to use away from the smallfolk and lords and ladies above. The candles at each shrine were burned low with no septons there to replace them, leaving everything only a few blinks from darkness. Loren turned to leave this one—he was no one to trifle with Death, nor were the septons by how little the room looked to be used—when a fierce hemorrhage hit his stomach, dropping him to his knees hard.

Loren supposed it was particularly bad to curse in a sept, but curse Loren did, loudly and repeatedly, crawling away from his own spew and into the corner of the room, where he lay on the floor hating Tywin and Aerys and life and himself most of all.

It was sometime later that he noticed it.

There, at the base of the statue of the Stranger, just barely visible for the thick cloak draped over his stone shoulders. A flaw in the stone.

Loren didn't know why he was investigated. He didn't know why he cared. Later he would wonder if it was the Stranger himself that prompted him to do it, but in the moment Loren didn't know what made him crawl over to the image of death itself.

He—carefully—moved the thick, heavy robe aside. The flaw was a handhold, that Loren eventually found moved. But it wasn't the statue moving—no, it was the stone of the base, the sides of the thick pedestal rotating with a scraping sound while the Stranger himself and the platform he stood on remained in place.

In for a copper, in for a dragon. Panting, cursing, sweating, he rotated the stone around. When he got to the back, with only a few feet between the wall and figure, it revealed an opening in the true stone of the base, a breeze of air bursting out to buffer against him. He pulled and pulled until the opening stopped widening and began to shrink again.

It stared at him, black and dark. Reaching in tentatively, Loren could feel an opening in the floor beneath the statue just wide enough he could probably squeeze his weight into it. He stretched his arm down but could feel no bottom.

Loren stopped thinking, really. At this point he was sober, sick, and ready to be done, so into the darkness Loren Lannister crawled.

Grabbing a candle and its holder off the shrine, he took extra care to not extinguish it as he bellied under the statue. Panting and shaking even more than he had been previously, he extended the flickering light down into the void.

It was only about as deep as he was tall, four evenly spaced ladder rungs easing the drop to a wood planked floor. Cobwebs and dust were everywhere.

One handed, down Loren climbed.

The tunnel was long and straight and filthy, about four feet wide, his head barely clearing the top as he had imagined it would. He glanced above him, at the dark maw beneath the statue of the Stranger. Going back was a tempting option, and certainly the smart one. But this tunnel had to come out somewhere, and Loren was so desperate for something to stop the shakes and aches that he'd have fought through the Seven Hells themselves for a full horn of ale. Whatever this tunnel was, wherever it ended, he doubted it could be as bad as where he came from.

Stumbling, falling to the planks thrice and accidentally extinguishing his candle on the second of those, Loren hugged the wall, breaking through more spider webs and filth than he'd ever been through in his life. Whoever knew of this tunnel, if anyone alive even did, clearly hadn't used it in a long while. Loren fought on despite the dangers that carried, mainly because he didn't know of anything else to do.

I'm going somewhere there is wine, be it in this life or the next.

How long he spent in that dark tunnel Loren couldn't say, nor could he say how far his sore and shaking legs took him. He finally collided with another opening face first, hand scrabbling against the wall and latching onto another rung. Reaching above his head, working by feel, he found himself below a door of some kind.

After a few failed attempts to open it, he realized something was on top of the hatch, and it took him several more tries with his shoulder, working from the second rung of the ladder, to jar it free. But when he finally did work it off and threw the hatch open, letting in a few small streams of light and a rush of other senses, Loren had no doubt where he was. While the smells of incense and what they tried to cover could be found elsewhere, the muffled sounds greeting his ears most certainly could not.

Loren Lannister was in a brothel.

It took his eyes a long while to adjust to the dim light after being in the complete dark for so long, but Loren finally managed to gather his surroundings as a storeroom. Foods, from sacks of potatoes to sides of dried beef, were neatly ordered in the room alongside…

Bless the Seven, could it be?

Wine, the love of his life, had been what was keeping Loren in the darkness. He forgave it instantly, scrambling from the tunnel as quickly as he could and pulling a bottle from a case. Uncorking it with the ease of years of practice, he titled his head back and brought the wine to his lips in a smooth motion, letting the alcohol pour down his parched throat.

Bliss. Utter and complete bliss. He fell back against the rough wall, sliding down it to sit with one arm slung around the crate.

Loren barely noticed the door to the storeroom open and let light fully flood in, barely even heard the scream or saw the exposed flesh of the naked Summer Island girl as she reeled back at the sight of him. Truth be told he almost missed the sharp point of a steel sword pressing against his belly, held by a burly, shirtless man the girl brought back a few moments later.

"Go tell Waters I found a lion," the gruff voice came, the man throwing his hand out in an impatient motion when the girl remained cowering behind his broad back. The hairy, well-muscled soldier spoke in the flat accent of the Crownland shores. "Go, girl." The young woman ran to obey, leaving the two men in the small room.

Loren would have been content to sit there drinking wine with his new friend until the end of time, but the big man had other ideas. Stepping into the doorway, he pushed the tip of the blade hard enough into Loren's stomach that it made the Lannister understand that alcohol, however blessed it made him feel, shouldn't be his focus right now.

While Loren had been more than willing to die for just one more bottle mere minutes ago, the refreshing taste of the one he'd just downed gave him a new outlook on life. Pointedly, it made him realize he wanted to keep his.

Gruff, as Loren had privately named the big man, smiled almost humorously as he took in the heavyset drunk in filthy crimson, sitting with an empty bottle of wine in his hand. "You been here this whole time, Lannister?"

Loren held his hands up, though he didn't relinquish his grip on the neck of the bottle and didn't move to stand. Already the shakes were receding. "If I'd had been here that long, my friend, I wouldn't be able to talk to you. And I'd have a hell of a need to piss."

Gruff snorted in amusement, though the press of steel didn't leave Loren's stomach. The bearlike man eyed the still open hatch, and though he had the appearance of a simple brute he made the logical assumptions quickly. His smile became a knowing one as he gestured towards the hatch with a bearded chin. "That lead where I think it does?"

Yes, it does. It led to a sept, surrounded by men Gruff would call companions, and filled with men Loren was supposed to. Many of them were members of his family, the rest sworn to it, and all of them hadn't liked him. Considering what they'd done, both at Castamere and here in this city, Loren wasn't overly fond of them either.

Despite that, he was still a Lannister, and that meant being loyal to the family above all. "The name lives on", or so his father had always claimed. He'd heard the same from Tywin. No, he'd have to find a way out of this lest Gruff lead an army into the heart of the sept and ruin his house.

Ah yes, my house. Golden hair, black deeds. Reynes and empty halls.

Those muffled screams returned, rumbling the stone beneath him, and the eyes of the poor baker's daughter came into view, empty long before Gerold slit her throat.

The decision didn't take all that long in the end. The fact that there was nothing he could truly do to stop them from exploring the tunnel helped.

"Let me have another bottle of wine," Loren said, "and I'll tell you exactly where it leads."

The prideful side of Aelor liked being taller and broader than most of his contemporaries, but it very nearly proved his downfall in that cursed tunnel.

Too tall to stand upright, he'd had to hunch down for the entire distance, an awkward and uncomfortable stance that had his back aching before he'd even killed a man. The escape point, a small hole supposedly in the heart of the sept, allowed him to finally stand upright but took some twisting to get his shoulders through. He'd foregone most of his armor for stealth, wearing only greaves, vambraces and a studded leather cuirass, and it proved fortunate as he wouldn't have been able to force his way out of there in full armor.

It was an even tighter squeeze out from under the statue of the Stranger. Aelor was blessedly not one of those stricken dumb with fear by small confines, but even he had a moment of panic when he nearly became stuck with only one shoulder and his head out. But hands reached down and helped pull him free and to his feet, the prince breathing easier as he did so.

"Thank you," he said quietly to the smaller, blonde-haired man who had helped him free. "Renfred is next, and he'll have it even harder. After that it should go smoothly." Ser Balman Byrch, one of the three men of slighter build Aelor had sent ahead of him, nodded, then turned towards the quiet curses coming from Renfred beneath the statue.

Aelor retied his sheathed sword around his waist as he quietly stepped towards the door, having carried it in his hand in the confines of the tunnel. Desmond Langward stood there, door to the shrine cracked open slightly, watching. "What do we have?"

"Waiting on Ser Alester, my prince." After a few moments, the youth opened the door more. "He's returning now." Alester Turnbuckle, though taller than even Renfred, was smaller of shoulder and hip than either Ren or Aelor. That, paired with his ability with the blade on his hip and the surcoat of his adopted sigil of golden buckle on red field, had prompted Aelor to send him down the tunnel first, despite his conspicuous height.

"Lannister had it right," Turnbuckle said once the door was closed behind him. "Wide halls with several chambers down here, two of them under guard of a dozen each. Other than that, there isn't anyone present, at least not in the halls. Some stairs leading to higher levels are to our right, with only a handful in the way. Left is more shrines and an eventual dead end. I didn't find anybody that way."

Aelor stared at him incredulously as Ren, still cursing under his breath, stepped up to join them. "How much scouting did you do?"

Alester shrugged and didn't answer. "They have candles burning in the halls, but they've let them burn down. It's dim down here, lots of shadow. Not much discipline in the men either; walked right by two of them and they only nodded at me. I couldn't see that much detail about them, and they couldn't about me either."

More and more men were climbing from the tunnel. Aelor had chosen his personal retinue, still sixty-seven men strong despite his losses in the war, to accompany him in this, rousing them in the middle of the night to meet at the nondescript whorehouse. The brothelkeeper had been rather offput when a Lannister man was dragged out of her place of business, then become irate when soldiers arrived to drive the remaining patrons away and force her girls to gather in a handful of rooms. The elderly Volantene had stopped complaining, though, when a Targaryen prince with stitches for a face appeared to question her.

The shaft hadn't been used in twenty years she claimed. She didn't know when it was built, having come with the place when she bought it three decades prior. She did know where it went, but she couldn't say exactly where it came out once there.

Loren Lannister had proven moderately helpful in that. Though shaking—an ailment that faded the more wine he drank, something Aelor had allowed him to continue doing—he gave a decent account of what to expect. He'd openly admitted he hadn't been paying much attention, 'too busy being miserable', but he recounted what he could. A pair of displaced septons had been found to fill in the details based off the Lion's testimony, though they seemed genuinely shocked and aggrieved to learn of the shaft and what it entailed. Those feelings grew when they realized Aelor intended to turn the sept into a battleground.

Aelor glanced back at the statue of death. You'll be pleased I suppose. There are plenty of men about to come see you. He glanced around the room and at the building overhead, shaking his head slightly. This is only a building where men gather, not part of the Seven themselves. Still…I hope they forgive me.

Aelor waited until the room started to become overfull. "Is anyone close to this room now, Alester?"

The tall man quietly stuck his head out the door, then retracted it. "No one in eyesight."

The prince nodded. "Take Wyllis and scout to the left again, make sure we're still clear. We'll start forming up in a battle line to make room for the others to leave the tunnel."

It took an agonizingly long time, men shuffling out of the tunnel and into the hall one at a time. Aelor paced at the head of the forming column, eyes always down the gloomy avenue to the right, waiting for someone to appear and disrupt the entire thing before the signal could be given. By luck of the Seven—or likely only the Stranger—that man never came.

It was the middle of the night, when most of the Lannister men were trying to sleep in the commandeered barracks of the septons and septas, but he was still surprised when all his men were clear, Balman appearing from the dark shadow his retinue had become to nod confirmation. "I sent the runner back, my prince. The king will hear the signal and attack any time now."

Nodding, Aelor turned to look at the column they had formed. He could make out few features, but the prince didn't need to see them to feel their apprehension. They weren't scared of battle itself, at least not any more than was healthy—they'd all experienced plenty of that by now, and Aelor had only chosen men of valor when forming his household. But many of his retinue were pious, honorable knights, fine with the who but struggling with the where of the blood they would soon spill.

Aelor understood, but it did not stop him. Nor would it them when the time come, for he had chosen well.

The Dragon of Duskendale spoke clearly. He knew the Westermen farther down the hall could also hear, but by now it was too late for them. "The Warrior is one the Seven. Harden your hearts, and let's go honor him."

He met his brother in the main hall of the Sept of Baelor, their blades bloody.

"You raised quite a ruckus," the King said as he pulled his dragon-wing helm off his head, long silvery hair a stark contrast to the black of the armor. Ser Barristan, his own cloak bloodstained, stood beside the king. "The men outside didn't seem to know which direction to fight. Several ended up killing one another in the confusion."

The younger of the Targaryens clasped his brother's arm. "That was the idea." It had been a shadowed, bloody dream even for Aelor, who had known it was coming. The prince couldn't imagine what it was like for the Westermen who hadn't, waking to shouts and screams and death or turning from their guard positions to find their enemy already amongst them. "How many men did we lose?"

"More than any of us would have liked, but less than we would have had we stormed it outright."

"Tywin?" Aelor asked, his bloodlust ebbing. I don't see how the man could have escaped, but if this passage is here, there is bound to be more.

"Captured without bloodshed, along with his chief lords," Rhaegar confirmed. The king chuckled briefly. "And still acting as if he is in complete control."

Aelor snorted. "I'd expect nothing less." The prince glanced around at the various altars and the corpses stacked around them. Even now, amidst the gore and dead and wounded, some men were kneeling to pray for forgiveness for bloodying hallowed ground. "We'd best rush the cleanup. I imagine the High Septon will be quite angry at all this blood."

"Aye, he will," came a new voice, flowing like a song as the lean owner stepped into view, a smirk on his olive face. "Though the blood of Lannisters is a good thing, no?"

Aelor grinned widely. The Dornish had arrived.

A/N: The tunnel battle from the original was really fun to write for me back then, but as I rewrote the setup it became more and more clear that it would need to go down differently to flow better.

More new content in the next chapter, as it's looking like it'll get a heft chunk rewritten as well. Thanks again for reading!