Loren Lannister (297 A.C. Ninth Moon)
Winterfell
Loren looked with awe at the ancient keep, and it was vast, and for that, the Starks deserved credit. Winterfell stood like an unyielding fortress, perhaps the oldest and strongest of all the castles in the Seven Kingdoms, mayhaps save for the Rock itself. Its walls, ancient and weathered, seemed to rise out of the earth as if they had always been there.
"Well, the Rock is a thing of beauty," Loren remarked to his companion, his green eyes tracing the towering curtain wall, "but Winterfell certainly outmatches the Red Keep and Storm's End. Even Harrenhal, ruin that it is, in its strength. Perhaps a second wall around Castermere wouldn't be such a bad idea either."
Bennard Lefford, riding beside him, gave a small grunt of agreement. His eyes, sharper than most, lingered on the thickness of the gatehouse and the way the towers rose to command every approach. "Indeed, my lord. Though the Golden Tooth has its own advantages. Its chokehold on the River Road is worth ten thousand men, and any host that wishes to march west must bleed for it."
"Yes," Loren conceded with a grin. "The martial advantage of both the Rock and the Golden Tooth is great. But look at this place, walls within walls, hot springs to keep it warm through the fiercest winters, and the town pressed so near to its gates. I doubt either of our seats compares to this in terms of endurance. The Rock is impregnable, true, but Winterfell feels… older." No wonder, with it already standing during the age of heroes. Casterly too, but no one knew exactly when it was built. Only the tower at the top remained from that time.
The King's party rode into Wintertown, greeted by the townsfolk standing proudly as they watched the royal procession pass. Their faces were looking at them with curiosity, but they were not fawning; yet, they did not lack pride.
"Mmm, not as many people as I thought there would be," Bennard observed, studying the clusters of smallfolk who gathered by the roadside, bundled in furs and cloaks.
"Perhaps not now," Loren replied, "but Wintertown fills with people during the winters. A whole army of smallfolk at their gates, waiting for the Stark's hearths to keep them from freezing." He tilted his head slightly, as if considering how it might look under siege.
"A missed opportunity," Bennard mused. His soldier's eye wandered across the expanse of the town, its low wooden homes crouched against the cold. "A settlement in the heart of the North, nestled against a castle larger than the Rock and warmed by hot springs. If it were ours, we would have expanded it thrice over, granaries, armories, barracks. Imagine what could be done here. They could field a larger force than they have now."
Loren chuckled, though his gaze too was thoughtful. "Perhaps. But the Starks and their Northmen have but one thing on their minds."
"Winter is coming," Bennard finished in a playful tone, grinning as they rode on.
Soon, they passed through the first gatehouse of Winterfell, its portcullis heavy with iron, its stone scarred by centuries of weather and war. The clatter of hooves echoed against the high walls as the royal procession advanced deeper into the stronghold.
At last, they emerged into a vast courtyard, broad enough to hold a small host. Smoke from forges curled into the air, mingling with the scents of horse, hay, and the ever-present tang of hot springs that whispered warmth through the chill northern air.
As Loren swung down from his saddle, he turned his gaze toward the King. As he walked toward the kneeling crowd, lord Stark and his family. Damn, the man was so fat. His jowls quivered with each laugh, his belly straining against the fine fabric of his doublet. He may despise my sister, but for once, I pity her. Marrying Robert Baratheon must have been its own kind of torment.
Robert waved them up from their position.
"Your Grace," Lord Stark greeted solemnly.
"You got fat," Robert declared.
For a moment, Eddard Stark simply studied the King, and then both men burst into laughter before Stark was engulfed in a powerful embrace.
"Cat!" Robert grinned at the lady of Winterfell. Hmm, at thirty-three years, the woman was still quite pretty, Loren noted.
"Your Grace," Catelyn replied before she, too, was caught in a hearty embrace.
"Eight years! Where have you been?" Robert exclaimed.
"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours," Lord Stark responded.
Robert moved on to greet the children. The eldest daughter was already eyeing Joffrey. Oh, if she only knew, Loren thought with a sigh. He had heard Robert's plans from his sister when he joined the royal procession at the Twins, betrothing Lord Stark's eldest daughter to Joffrey. The match Robert had always wanted but never got. He had dreamed of marrying the she-wolf, Lyanna Stark, and instead had ended up with a lioness, all claws and spite.
Soon enough, Cersei approached the Starks, offering her hand with her usual air of arrogance. Yet, she is the Queen, Loren thought with a sigh as Lord Stark kissed her hand in greeting.
"What is it, Loren?" Bennard asked, noticing his mood.
"My wonderful sister, walking around as if this place is beneath her," he muttered.
Bennard smirked. "Well, she is the Queen."
"Take me to your crypts. I wish to pay my respects," Robert said to Lord Stark.
Cersei's face stiffened at once. Oh, she is furious. No doubt she'll be bedding Jaime soon enough, Loren mused. He had been enraged when he first discovered the truth, but what could he do? Nothing. Cersei would never listen to him, and Jaime had been drowning in self-pity ever since Aerys fell. Then there were the children. Loren had been a fool not to see it sooner. Not a trace of Robert in any of them. Cersei had only one duty, yet her spite outweighed all reason.
"We've been riding for two months, my love. Surely the dead can wait," Cersei said, her voice sharp.
Loren rolled his eyes. As if her words would sway Robert. Fool.
Robert frowned. "Ned." And with that, both men disappeared into the crypts.
"Where's the Imp?" a young girl's voice piped up, the youngest Stark daughter. Bold and curious, but no malice in her words.
"Where is our littlest brother? Find the little beast," Cersei ordered Jaime.
Loren smirked. Funny, coming from her.
"Brother, help me find our little brother," Jaime said, catching Loren's eye.
"Very well. I have no doubt where he is," Loren replied with a grin as he dismounted. "See you later, Bennard."
Jaime and Loren walked back out of Winterfell.
"So, what do you think of the Starks?" Loren asked.
"Lord Stark was as serious and honorable as ever, as seemed the rest of the group. But the King is fond of them. That girl seemed taken with Joffrey, too," Jaime replied.
"Hmm. If only she knew what kind of boy your son is," Loren murmured under his breath.
Jaime stiffened but said nothing as they walked on.
"Sometimes, I wonder where he gets his behavior from. Likely the brashness of the King, the cruelty of our sister." Jaime muttered softly.
"It isn't entirely your fault. A Kingsguard protects but does not raise a child. Still, that boy could have stood to hear 'no' once or twice," Loren remarked.
Jaime sighed as they arrived at the brothel.
"Miss, we're here for our little brother. Half my height, quite the connoisseur of your women," Loren said with a smirk to the madam.
"He's here, my lords," the madam replied. "Ordered the whole lot."
"Well, White Knight, go save our brother," Loren grinned, clapping Jaime on the back.
Jaime sighed and stepped inside. Loren only chuckled.
Evening Feast
The feast was a far more boisterous affair than those held in the South. The Northerners were loud, laughing heartily as they drank and spoke among themselves. The great hall of Winterfell echoed with the sounds of clinking cups, the deep timbre of songs being sung, and the occasional roar of laughter from a group of men well into their cups.
From where he sat, Loren Lannister took in the scene, his keen green eyes drifting toward the upper table where the main table stood. His gaze found his lovely sister utterly miserable, her face frozen in silent rage, her dark eyes fixed upon her husband.
Damn, the woman looks as though she'd rather be anywhere else, Loren thought, taking a sip of his ale. She glares at him as if she wishes to set him aflame with her eyes alone.
Across the hall, King Robert Baratheon was already half-drunk, his booming laughter filling the chamber as he toyed with a buxom serving maid, pulling her onto his lap and planting a sloppy kiss upon her lips. The girl giggled, leaning into the King's affections as he took another hearty swig from his ale.
Loren turned his attention away from the King's antics when a voice spoke beside him.
"Lord Lannister, how do you find the feast?"
Loren glanced up to find Ser Rodrik Cassel standing near his table. A smile tugged at his lips as he set down his cup.
"Ser Rodrik, it has been some time since we last fought together on Pyke. Please, call me Loren."
Rodrik nodded, the lines on his weathered face softening. "Aye, it has been some years. You saved my life that day, Loren. My daughter still has a father because of you. I will always be in your debt."
Loren waved a hand dismissively, though he appreciated the sentiment. "Think nothing of it, my friend. We all fought like brothers that day." He leaned forward, his voice taking on a more thoughtful tone. "Speaking of your daughter, I would be honored to meet her. My own daughter could use some company. I have twins of an age to yours, but perhaps they would get along."
Rodrik stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A fine idea, Loren. I will speak to her about it. She has been quite upset about parting ways with Lady Sansa and Jeyne Poole, as they might be leaving for King's Landing. Having a new friend might ease her spirits."
"Well, there's time to arrange it," Loren noted, leaning back in his seat. "My younger brother and I will be traveling north once the King's party departs. He has always wanted to see the Wall, and so fat Winterfell itself is a sight to behold. It does not disappoint."
Rodrik Cassel's chest swelled with pride as he nodded. "Indeed, House Cassel has been in service to the Starks for a thousand years. Winterfell itself is just as ancient."
Loren chuckled. "Yes, I can see that. The Rock, my home, is just as grand, though perhaps a bit more colorful."
Rodrik let out a hearty laugh at that. "Aye, I imagine so. This far north, our stone is gray, our skies the same. The South seemed like another world. When I came down,"
Loren raised his cup in a toast. "A different world, indeed. But for now, I drink to Winterfell."
Rodrik clinked his cup against Loren's. "And I to friendship." They both drank deeply.
"I need some air, Rodrik," Loren said, setting his cup down. "In the coming days, let's cross swords."
"Great idea," Rodrik replied, giving him a friendly slap on the back. Loren flashed him a grin before turning toward the door.
As he passed through the bustling hall, something caught his eye. A young boy, who looked remarkably like Lord Stark, appeared to be on the verge of tears. At his heels, a small white direwolf. The boy walked quickly past the maidservant who was picking up a flagon of spilled wine.
Loren continued toward the door. Once outside, the cool night air hit him, and he paused for a moment to breathe it in. But before he could get too comfortable, he heard his brother's voice behind him.
"Your uncle is in the Night's Watch," Tyrion said, addressing a Northern-looking lad standing nearby.
Loren's eyes narrowed. Ah, Lord Stark's bastard. That's why the lad looks like him. He bears more of the Stark resemblance than even Ned's trueborns. The eldest looks a bit like Edmure, if younger, he thought, eyeing the boy.
"What are you doing out here?" the bastard asked, his voice strained as he glanced toward his brother.
"Preparing to continue the night with your family. Also, the damn hall is far too hot. You seem to need the same, considering what happened," Tyrion replied dryly, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Loren couldn't help but smirk as he watched the exchange.
The bastard's eyes flicked toward Tyrion. "You're Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's brother, and twin to Loren Lannister."
"My two greatest accomplishments," Tyrion quipped with his signature dry wit. "And you are Ned Stark's bastard."
The boy frowned, clearly uncomfortable and angry. He turned without another word and began to walk away.
"Sorry if I offended you," Tyrion muttered, then added, almost as an afterthought, "But you're the bastard, aren't you? With quite a particular wolf." Tyrion gestured toward the wolf pup.
"Lord Eddard Stark is my father," the bastard replied stiffly. What was the lad's name again? He only remembered Sansa, and she was probably betrothed to his terrible nephew by now.
"And Lady Stark is not your mother. Making you a bastard," Tyrion noted. "Is he always so still? He hasn't made a peep since I arrived," Tyrion added as he looked toward the wolf pup.
"Ghost is quiet, doesn't make any sounds really. Unless he has to," the bastard replied.
"I can touch him? You don't get a chance every day to touch a direwolf," Tyrion asked.
"Ghost, come here. Come on, sit," the bastard commanded. The wolf pup went to sit down beside him. "You can touch him now."
"Oh, that one is soft. Truly significant," Tyrion noted. "Let me give you some advice in return, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your armor, and it will never be used to hurt you."
Tyrion… that goes for many things, Loren noted.
"What do you know about being a bastard?" the boy replied. Had the boy seen my brother? Damn, he has been treated like a bastard by most, Loren thought, and shook his head.
"All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes."
"You are your mother's trueborn son of Lannister."
"Am I? Only my two brothers treat me like an equal. Even my uncles and aunts take pity on me, and most children find me scary. As for my father, well, tell him I'm trueborn. My mother died birthing me and my brother, and he has never been sure because of it," Tyrion replied. Yes, Father blames us both, although Tyrion more so.
"I don't even know who my mother was," the bastard replied. Hmm, that's peculiar. I always thought it was Ashara Dayne, Loren thought, surprised.
"Some woman, no doubt," Tyrion said, shrugging. "Most of them are."
Loren chuckled softly.
Tyrion glanced back at the boy one last time. "Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs." With that, he turned and strode back toward the hall.
"Ah, beloved sibling," Tyrion greeted him with a smirk as he saw him.
"Interesting conversation you had," Loren noted. "Do you think the bastard will join the Watch? What's his name, by the way?"
"Most likely," Tyrion mused. "With Lord Stark bound for the capital, I doubt Lady Stark will want him lingering in Winterfell. As for his name, it's Jon, I think. Likely after our late Lord Hand." Loren nodded.
"Now come, brother," Tyrion continued, rubbing his hands together. "I'd like to drink the ache from my limbs."
Loren chuckled. "Lead the charge."