The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 8

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?"