Loren Lannister (297 A.C. Ninth Moon)
Winterfell – Grand questhall
Loren walked into the grand guesthall. His siblings, with little Tommen and Myrcella beside Tyrion, were already there, eating.
"Good morning, beloved family," Loren said as he kissed the brows of Tommen and Myrcella.
Jaime and Cersei just looked at him; they had been on edge ever since Brandon Stark had fallen from the tower.
"Three eggs, one fish, and a piece of chicken breast," he ordered the maid.
As he sat down beside Myrcella, Tyrion walked in.
"Give me a plate with some bread, two baked fishes, and a mug of dark beer to wash it down," Tyrion asked the maid as he walked past her. "Also, some pieces of bacon burned black," Tyrion added to another servant. Loren rolled his eyes. What has you in such a good mood?
Then he picked up Tommen and set him to the side so he could sit beside Jaime, smiling. "Little brother."
"My wonderful family," Tyrion replied, grinning.
Myrcella looked up curiously and asked, "Is Bran going to die?" Hmm, that little girl is all Jaime and their mother. Only Cersei's beauty she got from her mother, Loren thought with a smile.
Tyrion smiled at their cousin and replied as he picked up a piece of cheese, "Apparently not."
Loren glanced at his siblings. Both looked at each other with worry.
"What do you mean?" Cersei asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. What has you so interested, sister? Loren wondered.
"The maester says the boy will live," Tyrion replied, picking up his cup. Jaime and Cersei glanced once more at each other.
"Well, I hope the boy comes through, for the parents as well as the child. A shame, the boy had promise, did he not, Tommen?" Loren said.
Tommen smiled and nodded. "Yes, he was good. He told me he wanted to be a member of the Kingsguard. He can't now, not anymore, sadly."
"Well, mayhaps if the boy is smart as well, he'll be able to make something of himself," Loren added, and Tommen gave him a hint of a smile.
"It's no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain," Cersei said, trying to sound saddened.
"Well, it's up to the gods now. All the rest of us can do is pray," Tyrion added, reaching for a piece of his bacon, before adding, "The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you."
"I still can't believe you both are going to the Wall. It's ridiculous for Tyrion, but you, Loren, you are Father's heir," Cersei added with spite.
"Oh, sister, seeing the world would be good for you. The Wall is almost as tall as the Rock, if not longer, and made of ice," Loren replied, and looked toward Tyrion.
"Indeed, sister, where's your sense of wonder? It's probably the greatest structure ever built. The intrepid men of the Night's Watch. The wintry abode of the White Walkers," Tyrion said with a nod, making a face at Tommen, who laughed softly, as did Myrcella.
"Tell me, brothers, that you both aren't thinking of taking the black," Jaime asked with his usual uncaring face and voice.
"Yes, and leave my daughters alone with Father?" Loren added with a laugh, and Tyrion clapped.
"And go celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock," Jaime smiled and looked at Cersei, whose face remained with that icy stare of hers. "No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."
The younger children laughed, and Cersei just continued to glower, while Loren and Jaime shook their heads. "The children don't need to hear your filth," Cersei said as she rose. "Come." She looked at Myrcella and Tommen, who both rose and walked away with their mother, each giving them bright smiles as they left.
As they departed, Jaime began to speak again. "Well, even if the boy lives, he'll be a cripple, a grotesque," Jaime noted.
Loren frowned. Of course, Jaime would say that. Jaime has one thing he's truly good at, and that's mastery of the sword.
Tyrion, on the other hand, looked affronted. "Speak for the grotesques. I have to disagree."
"I agree with Tyrion. I see possibilities, better a rich cripple than a poor one," Loren noted as he took a piece of bread and put a piece of bacon upon it, taking a bite and savoring the flavor. The Starks know how to cook.
"Indeed, Loren!!" Tyrion said with a grin. "Death is so final, whereas life… life is full of possibilities."
As Tyrion took another bite of his fish, he added, "I hope the boy does wake. I'd be very interested in what he has to say."
Loren smiled at him, while Jaime gave their brother a concerned look. Jaime picked up his cup and drank before saying, "My dear brother, I sometimes wonder. I wonder on what side you are on."
"What side, dear brother? What side could there possibly be if he wakes?" Tyrion asked with a small grin.
His brother just stared at him, frowning. "Of course, I'm on our family's side. You know how much I love my family." Tyrion added.
"Indeed, one big happy family," Loren added with a small grin.
Courtyard – Winterfell
He had left the Westerlands two moons ago. His daughters had wept when he kissed them goodbye, and he'd almost turned back that very night. But something restless had stirred in his bones, something he thought long dead. So when the king's party rode north, Loren had joined them, meeting them near the Twins. Tyrion, curious as ever, had come too.
Across the yard, he spied Jaime, golden-haired and sharp-tongued, trading words with Stark's bastard. The boy was dark of hair and grim of face, one of the few true sons in Stark's likeness. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. Whatever Jaime had said had cut him deep.
Loren drew nearer. Jaime gave him a nod and strode off, leaving the boy rooted where he stood.
"You're Jon Snow, aren't you?" Loren asked.
The lad turned, startled. "You are Lord Loren Lannister, Lord of Castamere, and heir to Casterly Rock."
"Call me Loren," he said with a faint smile. "I've had my fill of courtesies in the south."
"Very well, Loren," Jon answered, stiffly polite.
"What troubles you, Jon?"
The boy's eyes flicked with doubt. He hesitated, then said, "Your brother spoke about some things."
"I imagine they weren't kind." Loren glanced after Jaime. "He has a gift for truth, though he wields it like a sword, cutting deep, and in the worst of ways."
Jon shrugged, but his eyes stayed guarded.
"Still," Loren said, his voice softer now, "what you've chosen, it's honorable."
Jon blinked. "My uncle Benjen tried to turn me from it, and your brother mocked the order."
"Let them mock," Loren said sharply. "The Night's Watch may be filled with poachers, thieves, and men who chose the Wall over a noose, but that does not change its purpose. The Watch stands the line. It defends the realm of men. Tell me, Jon Snow, what is more honorable than giving your life so that your family, or your people, may sleep safely in their beds? I don't know what I would do for my daughters."
Jon faltered, no answer on his lips.
"I fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion," Loren went on, his voice hardening. "I bled on the shores of Pyke, alongside your master at arms. I fought for my house, my lands, my people. That was duty enough for me, but the duty to the Wall is a bigger sacrifice for those who choose the Wall. Do not let any man make you feel small for the choice you've made."
He shifted, unseath the blade, which came free with a hiss, its rippled steel catching the pale northern light.
"This is Red Rain," Loren said, holding it out so Jon might see. "Forged of Valyrian steel, once borne by House Drumm. I won it in single combat against Ralf Drumm himself, upon the deck of his longship, which I sailed with the royal fleet alongside Stannis to break the Ironborn's strength. He thought me soft, another gilded lion who had never seen true war. He learned his folly with his life."
Jon's eyes widened at the sight of the dark, gleaming blade.
"I carry this not for pride," Loren said, sheathing it once more, "but as a reminder of my duty to my people, and it carries a warning to those who wish to harm my kin.
Jon lowered his gaze, then slowly raised it again, voice quiet. "Why do you care?"
"I once did nothing," Loren said. "And when at last I acted, it was too late. I forgot my duty. I don't want people to be mocked for doing their duty. Yours will be to defend the Wall when you say your vows." His eyes burned at the memory of Thysa, and the terrified child she had become.
"So when you take your vows, swear them for yourself, Jon Snow. Not for your father, nor your uncle, nor my brother's approval. For yourself, and hold your head high when you do it." He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, giving him a warm smile.
Jon's mouth worked soundlessly for a heartbeat before he found the words. "Thank you, Loren."
"No thanks needed. I'd hope to know Jon Snow better." Loren laid a hand on his shoulder, a knight's touch made gentle. "Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two, to keep you breathing north of the Wall."
Then he turned and left him there, with only the wind and his own thoughts for company.
King's Road up North
The North went on forever, or so it seemed. By the fourth day upon the King's Road, Loren thought it vaster than any future he could imagine. By the seventh, the holdfasts were sparse, the farms fewer still. Yet the woods thickened, and the rolling hills were dotted with shaggy-haired cattle, a species of elk, grey-and-white goats, and other beasts that did not exist anywhere in Westeros. Then again, the North was vast indeed—the largest of all the kingdoms. If the tales were true, all the rest of the Seven Kingdoms could fit inside it, especially if one counted the lands beyond the Wall.
Benjen Stark was much like his brother Eddard—moody, honorable, perhaps even more crude and harsh. Yet the Watch was a harsh place for hard men, and Benjen was one of the few Loren had known who had chosen it of his own accord. When he learned Loren and Tyrion meant to ride with him, Benjen warned them he would be setting a hard pace. If they could not keep up, they would be left behind.
Loren had always been a strong rider, long used to ranging out with outriders to hunt down reavers and bandits in the Westerlands. Tyrion, though, struggled more—though his brother would never admit it.
Jon Snow had proven far more pleasant company than his uncle. The boy had been eager to learn, and when Loren offered him sparring lessons, he accepted eagerly. The lad had talent, and it reminded Loren of himself and of Jaime. Yet Jon fought more like Loren. Where Jaime loved to show off, turning combat into bravado, Loren had always preferred a solemn, practical style.
It was on the ninth day that they met Yoren. Yoren was all in black, from his hair to his eyes, and even his mood seemed so. He smelled of long roads and unwashed nights. A wandering crow, roaming the kingdoms for willing recruits, or condemned men eager to save a limb or their lives. Of the seven he brought north with him, three shuffled in chains.
"Rapers," Yoren said simply.
Vile ones indeed. Loren's stomach turned. He had seen too much of their work before, the devastation of the Ironborn raid upon Lannisport, and worse still, the ruin left in Thysa's eyes after her own torment.
On the tenth day, Loren sparred once more with Jon. This time, he tried something different. He had been waiting for the right moment, wanting first to see the boy's raw skill. Jon was skillful, yes, but too bound by honor. Fighting honorably was foolish. Loren had learned otherwise against bandits and Ironborn.
With a quick flick of the hand, he drew a knife. As Jon blocked one of his strikes, Loren brought the pommel of the knife down hard against the boy's knuckles. Jon cried out and dropped his blade. In an instant, Loren pressed both knife and Red Rain to the boy's throat.
"You cheated! You pulled out a knife!" Jon exclaimed.
Loren smiled, an understandable reaction, and let out a low chuckle. "Oh, did I? In the heat of battle, lad, it is kill or be killed. Do you think a wildling will spare you? Or whatever else lies beyond the Wall?"
The boy's face paled.
"He isn't wrong, Jon," Benjen Stark said from where he stood watching. "Lord Lannister is correct. North of the Wall, it is kill or be killed."
Jon bent to snatch up his fallen sword, his jaw tight. "Then I'll learn," he muttered, though pride and hurt mingled in his tone.
"That's the spirit," Loren said, sliding Red Rain back into its sheath. He flipped the knife once in his hand before tucking it away. "Better to learn tricks in the yard than to be slain in the snow."
Jon looked up, eyes burning. "My father taught me honor. He said a man's word is his bond, and that no victory is worth winning if won without honor."
Benjen's face softened, though his voice was low. "Your father is the most honorable man I know, Jon. But honor alone will not keep you breathing North of the Wall."
Loren chuckled dryly. "Eddard Stark is known for his honor, aye. So honorable, he brought home a bastard from war. That bastard is you, isn't it? You tell me, lad, does that sound like honor?"
Jon stiffened, his hand tightening around the grip of his sword. His face burned hot, but he said nothing.
Loren crouched low, meeting the boy's eyes. His voice was quieter now. "The world does not care for honor, Jon Snow. Wildlings won't. Ironborn won't. Many Southerners don't. Not even your brothers in black will always care. Do not mistake me, I value honor, I see honor in doing onces duty, but honor without thought is a song sung over a grave."
Jon drew a slow breath. The sting in his hand still throbbed, yet the sting in his pride burned worse. He looked from his uncle to Loren. "So… what you're saying is that honor matters. But it isn't enough. You have to be willing to fight, and fight to win."
Benjen gave a single nod. "Aye."
"And sometimes you must fight without honor," Loren added. "But remember this, if you live, you may yet choose how to carry yourself the next day. Dead men have no choices."
For a long moment, Jon was silent. Then at last he nodded. "I understand."
Loren's mouth curled into the faintest of smiles. Good, the lad will learn by the end if he is stubborn. As are all damn Starks.
Benjen clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Enough for today. Come, let's eat the rabid's stew should be done."
Jon sheathed his sword and followed after his uncle.
As they passed into the night, Loren watched as Jon looked into the flames, deep in thought.
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