From a military perspective, Summerhall was far from ideal for gathering a large army. The Dornish borderlands had far better-suited towns to serve as a rally point. But King Joffrey had insisted on Summerhall.
Naturally, his choice wasn't due to any personal interest in viewing the ruins of the Targaryen family's summer palace. Summerhall was, in a way, a "lucky place" for House Baratheon. At the onset of Robert's Rebellion, Robert Baratheon won three consecutive victories here, a perfect beginning to his campaign. Joffrey's decision to gather here was likely an attempt to borrow from his father's fortune.
Unfortunately, the foolish young king would soon pay for his careless choice.
Summerhall lay surrounded by mountains and rugged terrain, making logistics difficult—a challenge that was far from the worst of its problems. The biggest issue was the water supply.
While there was a lake near Summerhall, it was nowhere near large enough to meet the needs of an army this size.
By the time the Reach army arrived, nearly a hundred thousand troops were already gathered at Summerhall: forty thousand from the Reach, ten thousand from the Crownlands, thirty thousand from the Westerlands, and twenty thousand from the Stormlands.
And armies from the North, Riverlands, and Vale were still en route. Once they arrived, the gathered forces could easily exceed one hundred fifty thousand.
Such a massive force far exceeded the capacity of the lake. What had been a pristine, azure lake had turned into a stagnant pool, filled with filth and emitting a nauseating stench. The once-lovely lakeside landscape had vanished, replaced by piles of waste and manure.
"Whose brilliant idea was it to choose Summerhall as the rallying point?" roared an angry voice from within a tent flying the banner of the roaring lion.
The speaker was Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. This fifty-something-year-old lord remained sharp and vigorous. His hair was golden, his sideburns were golden, and even his pale green eyes seemed touched with flecks of gold.
Once, a foolish jester had joked that even Tywin's waste was made of gold—and had spent the rest of his days in the dungeons beneath Casterly Rock for the remark.
"It was my idea—" Joffrey began to speak, but Queen Regent Cersei cut in, saying quickly, "Father, it was a decision made in council."
"Idiocy!" Tywin barked without mercy. "Has the Small Council been reduced to a group of simpletons? What about Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King? He's fought in the Rebellion; how could he agree to such a choice?"
"Lord Stark opposed the decision," chimed in Tyrion Lannister, the Master of Coin, with a hint of amusement. "But our wise king and queen regent overruled him, so…"
"Be silent, Tyrion!" Cersei snapped, flustered, glaring at her younger brother.
Understanding the situation, Tywin turned to his eldest son, Jaime. "Did you at least try to dissuade them?"
The Kingslayer shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm not even on the Small Council."
"Father, I am—and I did argue against it, if you care to know," Tyrion added.
Predictably, Tywin ignored his youngest son.
"Grandfather!" Joffrey, no longer able to contain his anger, burst out. "What's wrong with choosing Summerhall?"
"What's wrong?" Tywin narrowed his gaze at the boy. "An army needs a clean water source nearby! If you don't understand that, go down to that cesspit you call a lake and see for yourself!"
"That's only because they're dumping garbage and relieving themselves everywhere!" Joffrey shouted, his face flushed. "I'll order them to stop polluting the lake and to stay away from its banks!"
"Oh, so that'll fix it, will it?" Tywin's lips curled in disdain.
"Why not?" Joffrey asked, bewildered.
"We might as well forbid the soldiers from drinking water or relieving themselves altogether; that'll have the lake back to its pristine blue in no time," Tyrion suggested dryly.
Tywin ignored his son's sarcasm and looked pointedly at Cersei. "When you know nothing about war, it might be wise to listen to those who do."
"Who says I know nothing?" Joffrey exploded. "I'm the king! I'll decide where my army gathers, and they'll gather where I command!"
"Then why not order them to gather at Sunspear?" Tyrion suggested mockingly. "Imagine how quickly Doran Martell would rush to your side to kiss your feet and beg your forgiveness if he saw an army of a hundred thousand outside his door."
"Shut up!" Joffrey turned on his uncle. "You twisted little freak! Speak again, and I'll have your tongue ripped out!"
"The last king who made a habit of threatening people that way was Aerys Targaryen," Tywin said icily. "They called him 'the Mad King.' Shall I tell you what happened to him?"
"You have no right to lecture me!" Joffrey shouted at Tywin. "I'm the king! I'm the king! This is where my father triumphed over the Stormlords! He was the true hero! While he fought and won battles, you hid at Casterly Rock, watching!"
A stunned silence fell over the tent.
Oh, there's a show worth watching! Tyrion thought gleefully.
Tywin fixed his grandson with a long, cold stare, his pale green eyes glinting.
"Joffrey," Cersei said, taking her son's shoulder. For once, her face betrayed fear. "Apologize to your grandfather."
"Why should I apologize?" Joffrey demanded, clueless as ever. "The king doesn't apologize to anyone!"
"Thank you for the reminder, Your Grace." Tywin's voice held enough chill to freeze everyone in the tent. "Jaime, the king appears exhausted. Take him back to his tent, and have the maester prepare a draught of poppy milk to help him sleep."
"I'm not tired!" Joffrey protested.
But Tywin was done listening.
Jaime firmly took hold of Joffrey's arm and dragged the still-protesting king from the tent.
"I apologize, Father," Cersei said hurriedly once they were gone. "Joffrey is young, and a little… headstrong."
"Is he headstrong, or simply foolish? Are you unable to tell the difference?" Tywin's scowl deepened. "What exactly have you taught this boy?"
Leading by example, Tyrion thought, unable to resist.
"It's not my fault!" Cersei protested. "Blame Robert!"
"Oh yes, blame the dead man." Tyrion's tone dripped with mockery. "He can't argue with you, so just lay everything at his feet, why don't you?"
"Enough!" Tywin cut in. "No matter who is to blame, he is still your responsibility, Cersei. I do not wish to see Robert the Second."
"He's not Robert the Second," Tyrion remarked. "He's Aerys the Second."
"Shut up, Tyrion!" Cersei shouted, then turned back to her father. "Don't worry, Father. I'll teach him well. He's only thirteen; he'll learn."
"For all our sakes, I hope you're right. During this campaign, I expect him to issue no orders whatsoever. Cersei, can you guarantee that? If not, take him back to King's Landing. This army doesn't need a meddling king."
"It would be best to send him back to the capital, lest he cause real trouble," Tyrion advised.
Cersei shot her brother a deadly glare. "Father, if we send Joffrey back now, it would ruin his reputation and destroy morale. The soldiers would feel abandoned by their king."
Tywin studied his daughter's face. "Can you keep him from interfering?"
"Yes, Father, I'll manage him," Cersei promised hastily.
"Very well." Tywin gave a short nod, ending the matter. "At dawn, we'll march south to gather at Blackhaven. If we remain here, the risk of plague will grow."
"Yes, Father," Cersei replied meekly.
But she bristled like an angry cat at his next words.
"Also, your marriage should be plan."
"Marriage?" she exclaimed. "No! I will not!"
She had only just begun to taste the sweetness of power; how could she give it up now?
"Oh, my dear sister!" Tyrion crowed, swinging his short legs gleefully from his seat. "You're still young, beautiful, and full of life. You can't possibly stay alone forever."
"Father!" Cersei was trembling. "I'm the Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, not some broodmare! I won't marry again!"
"You'll step down as Regent when the time comes; I'll take over that role. It's not a woman's place to meddle in the affairs of state." Tywin's tone was dismissive. "Your duty is to secure alliances through marriage. I've picked two options for you; consider them and give me an answer once the war ends."
"Oh, which two lucky gentlemen are worthy of marrying our beautiful 'Light of the West'?" Tyrion was beside himself with delight.
"Balon Greyjoy and Willas Tyrell," Tywin announced calmly.
"No! I don't want either!" Cersei's face went white.
A stinking old squid or a crippled rose, thought Tyrion with glee. Oh, Father, you are far too kind! He took a long, satisfied sip of his wine and, with mock seriousness, offered his opinion:
"I think Captain Balon is the better match. He's recently widowed, and so are you, dear sister. What a perfect pairing! Plus, it would end all future trouble from the Iron Islands."
The thought of his sister exiled to the windswept rocks of Pyke brought Tyrion an almost childlike joy. He wondered how Jaime would react to the news; would he ride to the Iron Islands, sword in hand?
"I agree," Tywin said, coolly nodding. "After all, Mace Tyrell might not want his heir married to a widow."
"hahahahahahahaha"
Tyrion's laughter erupted uncontrollably, but it was soon interrupted by a loud slap.
"Smack!"
"Cersei, you—!" Tyrion's hand shot up to his cheek, where her fingers had left a red mark. Though furious, he wisely held his tongue.
Only brave enough to slap your dwarf brother, aren't you? he thought bitterly. Would you dare strike Father like that?
"Enough, Cersei," Tywin said sharply. "Compose yourself, and we'll discuss this when you're calm. Your duty to the family isn't something you can ignore."
"Yes, Father." Her voice was hard as iron, and without another word, she turned and stormed from the tent.
Finally, Tywin turned to Tyrion, his gaze as stern as ever. "What are you doing here instead of at King's Landing? The Master of Coin has no need to join the front lines."
"Because you're only here, Father," Tyrion replied, spreading his hands. "Do you have any idea of the mess Littlefinger left behind? The treasury is a rat's nest, the accounts are a maze, and there's six million dragons of debt—"
"I'm not interested in hearing excuses," Tywin cut in coldly. "You wanted a chance to prove yourself, and I've given you one. If you fail, I'll take it back."
"Well then, I suppose I'll just have to work some magic." Tyrion tried to laugh it off.
But his father had already turned his back.
"Well, I'll prove it to you, father," Tyrion shouted, leaping from his chair.
If it weren't for his short stature and the red palm print on his face, he would have been almost imposing.
(End of this chapter)