Chapter 64: Gathering Armies
Hitting the muddy ground with a thud, Alaric Stark felt all his muscles hurt. They ached, they twinged when he moved them - the various scrapes and scratches stung from the light drizzle that splattered upon his skin. Every part of his body screamed at him to yield… but he refused. Hauling himself to his feet, Alaric grabbed his training sword and assumed his sparring position.
It gratified him how battered and exhausted his brother was, older and more skilled yet one he had been able to face. Aegon, ever the pride of House Stark and new Lord of Winterfell, gazed upon Alaric with a brotherly pride. Nodding at his determination, one they shared.
Not all though. "My Lords," begged the master-at-arms. "You need not exhaust yourselves…"
"Ser Jon, leave it be," dismissed Aegon, his silver hair matting his forehead from the rain and sweat.
Jon Cassel frowned. "You father would not wish me to allow you to hurt yourselves training…"
"Our father isn't here, though?" growled Alaric, his tone bitter and hard. That of a man double his three and ten years. "What sons are we if we aren't ready to avenge him."
He loved his brother, and his brother loved him, but in this moment they represented those that killed their father. Their beloved father - Aegon stood in for those monsters, and for his brother Alaric would do the same.
They threw themselves at each other, movements far more sluggish than at spar's start when nothing but the clash of swords rang out in the muddy sparring court. Boots squelching underneath him, Alaric fought through his fatigue, his pain. A warrior of the North, facade broken as he screamed and bellowed. Trained by the best, his skill hadn't dampened even as he became sloppy. Refined slashes instead hacks and brutal hand-to-hand brawling, matched by Aegon's fury, the two brothers working their grief and thirst for vengeance on each other. The safest sort.
Finally though, Aegon's years won over Alaric's indefatigability. Strength sapped, the youngest son of Brandon and Rhaenys Stark was overwhelmed and shoved to the ground. Sword splatting in the mud and his neck giving guest right to the blunted tip of Aegon's blade. "Yield," his brother panted, lungs heaving. On his last legs himself.
Alaric could barely move his arms, or his head. "Yield," he murmured, suddenly hauled up by the Winterfell guards. "Brother…"
Aegon, himself leaning on the arms of Jon Cassel, shook his head. "You need not say anything, I understand." His face was wet, and there was no doubt that not all of it was from the rain.
A bath washed out the grime and mud from his body, as well as easing the retching pain in his core and the burning of his muscles and joints. Freshly scrubbed down in the scalding hot water, Alaric felt fresh with merely a dull ache that roiled through his body. Each stride through the keep was a short one, his gait slow.
Better hurt now than die in a real war. Even the best of the best could die - like his father. Alaric didn't want to increase the odds.
The innocent counted on him, emphasized for how he entered the nursery.
Alaric's heart clenched at the sight of Ryah Bolton holding little Lyanna, his youngest sibling dozing softly in his friend's arms. In the arms of the woman he cared for. Clearing his throat, Ryah jumped a bit - thankfully not enough to wake Lya. "Alaric… you gave me a fright."
He frowned, kicking himself for disturbing her. "My apologies." He walked to Ralla, laying a hand on her shoulder. The all but betrothed of his brother, but the woman he wanted. Loved since seeing her for the first time. "How is she?"
Ryah gave him a sad smile. "I just settled her down." Many moons old, the babe was growing fast. Grown an extra half since her birth, and while a delicate little thing was plumped out a bit. Alaric loved when she was at ease, but also loved his little sister when she was squalling and stubborn, which she was a lot. A true Stark - gods help anyone when she discovered her dragon temper alongside the wolfish obstinancy.
Gods help whomever she married.
"Has grandmother seen her today?"
The small smile changed to an expression of sorrow. "She's still confined to bed." Alaric's face fell as tears welled in Ryah's eyes. "The Maester says there's nothing physically wrong with her, but Lady Stark still cannot find the strength to rise." Ryah kissed Lyanna's forehead, the ward of House Stark having taken his grandmother's role in caring for his infant sister, showing off her natural maternal instinct that would be so desired towards Alaric's nieces and nephews. Whom he wished would be his children. "I cannot blame her, having lost her only son…"
"My father."
Ryah looked at him and wept silently for the dour Alaric, too stoic to truly cry. A gentle arm swatted at him, trying to grab his hand. It was Lyanna, having just awoken and staring at him with grey, Stark Eyes. Alaric kissed his sister's forehead, drawing her and Ryah into an embrace.
She melted into the hug, mayhaps too close for comfort but Alaric was too desperate to balm his soul to care about propriety.
The door opening drew their attention to Saera, his elder sister's lips pressed in a tight line. "Good, you two are in the same chamber." She strode forward and took Lyanna underneath her arms, the babe laughing with a drooly smile. One of the few in Winterfell who wasn't affected by the gloom and grief. Alaric envied her for her blissful ignorance - and was determined to shield her from it all. "Aegon and I are leaving for the south atop Vermax and Tessarion."
Alaric blinked. "What?! When did this happen?!" He kept his voice as low as his anger allowed, not to disturb Lyanna.
"Muna requests it, all the dragons our House can muster."
"Why? Why must you go and fight?" Ryah asked with concern.
"It's our cousin! Aegon is rebelling against our cousin and uncle." Alaric balled his fists. "I'm coming with you. I can't ride a dragon but have a direwolf."
Saera frowned. "You're staying."
"You can't stop me."
"Muna can, and she ordered us to keep you here. To protect Winterfell." Alaric fumed, but Ryah placed her hand on his shoulder, pleading with his eyes. He could not deny her, angry as he was. "Be safe, brother."
He swallowed, nodding. "You as well." When would House Stark's nightmare end?
Your Holiness,
While the Sealord and I are sympathetic to your cause and have approved your latest request for a third loan of gold and silver bullion, it is regrettable that we cannot spare naval support or direct land forces to Westeros. Pirate activity near Ibben is becoming a nuisance and the growing threat of Volantis and the Three Daughters means whatever force projection we have must be allocated to Pentos. Once again we offer our regret…
Hugor muttered the vilest obscenities under his breath as he crumpled the letter in his hands. Tossing it into the fire crackling in the hearth, allowing himself a satisfying moment of catharsis at the burning paper before reality once again stoked his rage.
"Damn you, Iron Bank, damn you to the Seven Hells." Smart enough not to bother with the Sealord of Braavos, Hugor had endured the ignominy of begging for aid from the Iron Bank. It wasn't ever explicit but unlike the past missifs that secured two large loans to fund the massive armies put into the field, beneath the diplomatic language and grandiose bombast resided the truth. The Holy Dominion was on its last legs. What started as an inexorable onward march was now close to imploding after merely two moons.
He looked upon the map posted to the wall of his office in the Starry Sept, Oldtown abuzz through the window as if nothing was wrong or had happened. "Fools," he muttered. They were mollified by the fiery sermons and continued prosperity of the southern Reach, but he knew the truth. "Dorne left us." That was the most crushing of all, undoubtedly why Braavos - knowing the Targaryen dealings with their rival Volantis - erred on the side of caution to not upset the dragons too much. Without Dorne, none of their ships could reach Oldtown anyway.
Dorne hadn't just left the war, they had switched sides with Wyl and Mors' death. Princess Nymeria Martell - legitimized by an act of Dragon Queen Rhaena - had sealed the alliance by marrying Victor Velaryon, cousin of the Queen herself. Rumor had it she was already pregnant by him, the whore. Already Dornish forces were marching for the Marcher fortresses, requiring garrisons for those on the Reach side. Commitments they didn't need nor could afford.
"Why?" Hugor asked, turing to the statues of the Seven who watched over him every day, built into the wall of the solar. "Have I not been dutiful? Have I not sacrificed my life for your glory?" He fell to his knees, a penitent servant of the Seven who were One first and foremost. "When will the time come for our victories? The victories of your armies and nation?"
They didn't answer. They never did.
He didn't know how long he prayed and supplicated himself when his guard knocked on the door. "Your Holiness, Archsepton Barth and Grand Captain Joffrey ask to speak with you."
Rising, Hugor smoothened out his robes with a frown. Since when did Barth need to ask permission to enter? Mayhaps it was because Joffrey Doggett was there, the one who succeeded in saving as much of the army at Tumbleton he could - one he didn't ever wish to purge, while the two Hightowers were too influential for him to get rid of as he wanted - but still. Likely he wished to discuss something serious.
"Send them in."
Barth was a quiet sort of fellow, while Joffrey Doggett was downright dour - indefatigable but dour, his only emotion seeming to be sour. However, both seemed optimistic, wearing confidence on their faces. "Your Holiness," Barth started. "You look upset."
Hugor grumbled. He trusted them, but saying it outloud made it real. "Braavos won't send reinforcements."
"We do not need them," Barth announced confidently. "We have an army, an undefeated army prepared in the Westerlands."
A nod. "Yes, I know of Lord Tyrion's army. But they are outnumbered, even if we send the remnants of our grand army to the Westerlands." He assumed that was why Doggett was here.
Barth shook his head. "You misunderstand… you are aware that Prince Aegon has claimed the crown."
"He won't gain support, not with Rhaena and Maegor having been victorious in battle."
His aide laughed. "Forgive me, your Holiness, but you are wrong." He pointed at the Stormlands, and the Riverlands. "My spy tells me that both Lord Rogar Baratheon and Lucas Harroway are behind him, drawing in much of the Riverlands and all of the Stormlands."
Hugor's eyes widened. "Truly?"
"Absolutely, to which I had Ser Joffrey prepare a strategy."
Doggett clears his throat. "They will need to attack each other, locking the dragons and their armies into combat. Reinforce Lord Tyrion's army and with luck and concealment we can surprise them when they engage each other…"
Hearing the plan, Hugor grew more and more hopeful. A gamble, but what did they have left. "Go with the gods, my friends," he acceded, once again praying for success.
Pulling victory from the jaws of defeat.
He enjoyed sneaking around.
Sometimes his conscience pricked at him, but Maegor shoved it down with youthful arrogance. He was a Prince, and this was fun… He loved her, so why shouldn't they enjoy themselves? Aenys was sweet but with the consistency of a limp carrot. So eager to please and indecisive. Maegor would hear people quip that if it weren't for Quicksilver, they'd doubt he was even Rhaenys' son.
Not necessarily wrong, though he'd never speak them out loud.
Evading the servants was easy, though Maegor knew not if it was due to his own skills at spycraft or his love's cunning. Arrogant though he was, he'd never deny his love her due. Manipulating the servants and knowing their various schedules… they wouldn't be bothered, this place of the Aegonfort utterly deserted.
No one went into the various caves that carved into the High Hill. His kepa considered it unsafe, while the more superstitious of the servants whispered of it being cursed. A dragon didn't bother itself with such superstition, and unsafe? Maegor knew he could put it to good use, and when he was Hand to his brother, he would.
Drifting through the darkness, ahead a gentle glow of orange light called to him. Like a beacon, promising the greatest of joy. Sure enough, as the cave reached a bit of a creche… there was no one. A pair of flickering candles, some wine, and a spread out trio of quilts but Maegor was alone.
Or so he thought, for out of the darkness came a soft pair of arms to wrap around his waist. "And who is this criminal that I have caught?"
Grinning, he turned and grabbed her. Hearing a gasp. "One wanted all over the Realm for seducing beautiful women and giving them the greatest pleasure."
Sea-green eyes sparkling with lust, Alyssa ran her hands up and down his arms. Looking like the goddess she was. "And am I to be his latest conquest?"
"His last conquest." With that he brought their lips together, kissing passionately as they made their way towards the quilts.
"Regardless of the defeat in the skirmish," Myles Smallwood said, moving the markers representing their combined armies across the map table - not as detailed or formidable as the Painted Table but it served its purpose, "Princess Rhaenys did manage to contain the rebellion south of the Trident. At most, the lands of House Harroway are the northernmost point declaring for Prince Aegon."
"The lands of the traitor, you mean," Tyanna hissed. "They will be attained and given away at the leisure of the Crown."
Ser Myles nodded, conceding the point. "We outnumber them, her Grace's northern army combined with our army having marched back from Tumbleton." Maegor watched the Tyrell and Tarly markers move up. Thank the gods they had remained loyal - Aegon had courted them hard.
Brandon Snow, looking old and feeble for the first time in his life much to Maegor's sorrow, shook his head. "Not near enough. Southern Riverlands and Stormlands. Veterans all. The defender needs not as many men as the attacker, especially since the avenue of advance is so limited."
Ceryse cleared her throat - at both Maegor and Rhaena's insistence, she had been invited to all sessions of the Small Council. Even when it was more a war planning session than anything else. "Mayhaps an invasion of the Stormlands? Cut off Lord Rogar's home completely. It could break the morale of his men."
"Forgive me, your Grace," Lord Commander Gawen interjected. "But the Stormlands don't matter. Only Lord Rogar and his army does. Defeat them and the Stormlands will surrender without a fight."
Maegor made himself known for the first time that meeting. "My mother indicates that Lady Argella will give up Storm's End, but cannot risk it while Rogar is free. He is their lord, not her." Even if Argella had more experience and sense.
"It doesn't matter." The reigning Queen, Rhaena had the final word. "We will march and confront my brother. Hopefully he will see reason and back down, for my offer of pardon still stands."
"Mayhaps we should change that," Tyanna offered. "They've rejected our offers several times, so by declaring Prince Aegon an outlaw and then unleashing Balerion and Dreamfyre against Quicksilver we can…"
"No. I will not be known as a kinslayer!" Rhaena glared at the pregnant Tyanna, wives and lovers standing off against the other.
Taking action before this got worse, Maegor stood. "This meeting is concluded. Leave us." The order for all but his brides, and they hastened to comply. Once the doors swung shut, Maegor shifted his gaze to Rhaena and Tyanna. "I shall not have you two fighting."
"We must have victory," Tyanna growled, crossing her arms.
"And I will not kill my brother," Rhaena replied. "He's being manipulated, which she'd see if she weren't so sadistic…"
"Stop!" Ceryse's shout stunned them, while Maegor smiled without thinking. "Please, just stop." Their eyes had widened, but then softened. "We've already shattered House Targaryen with this war, don't destroy it completely."
Her earlier vitriol shaken, Tyanna's voice was quiet. "I know this is distasteful and with no good options, but we cannot lose this war. Aegon is fine on his own, but he won't rule. Lucas Harroway and Rogar Baratheon would be the puppetmasters, especially since the latter has seduced the Queen Mother…"
"Muna…" murmured Rhaena.
Rising, Maegor knew what he had to do. "The three of you needn't worry about this. I will handle it." He looked at all of them. "Alone."
As he expected, outrage was the order of the day. "No!" Ceryse cried.
"Absolutely fucking not!" Tyanna hissed.
"I will not let you go alone!" That was Rhaena, approaching him. "I will go with you."
Maegor had made up his mind. "You will not." She had come to him, and he grabbed her hands with his own. "I will not be alone, Rhaenys will be there with Arrax."
"You need me," Rhaena begged. "Perhaps I can convince Aegon…"
"It is not Aegon that needs to be convinced, it is Alyssa."
"Rhaena could still…"
"No, Ceryse. That is my burden to bear." Memories of Alyssa, his first love, played through his mind. Wonderful memories that soured with time, and it was his fault. "It must be me that approaches her." Only Jaehaerys knew for certain. Rhaena and Tyanna both were confused as to his point, thinking it the mere dislike between them. Ceryse, biting her lip, merely nodded. Mayhaps he could put two and two together? "Rhaena… please, just let me handle this."
His niece said nothing, merely throwing herself at him. Hugging him close. Maegor hugged her back, only to be joined in quick succession by Tyanna and Ceryse in that order. Each of his wives poured their love for him into their hugs and he accepted it. Drew strength from it.
He would need it to face his former lover.
To face his son.
"Hello, handsome." Spreading his legs, Rogar was nothing but inviting to the smiling Lysene maiden who proceeded to climb atop his lap. Sensually grinding on his crotch while she pressed her scantilly-clad teats into his face. "Mmmm… such a virile stag you are."
He grinned. "You picked the proper cock to take your maidenhead."
"Oh, kessa. I could imagine no one better for myself." Was she only saying that because she was paid handsomely by him, or that she actually desired it?
The thought was fleeting. Who cared? The nameless pleasure girl procured for him who looked exactly like Valyrian royalty was getting a handsome reward, and better him than some oily, fat merchant in Lys. Rogar was giving her a service.
He slapped her arse and nipped the top of her breast, making her giggle. Either she liked it or was a damn fine actress.
"You sure we should be here?" he heard his brother Orryn remark. While a stunning redhead was kissing his neck, he still eyed Rogar with concern. "You're getting married in two days."
Rogar rolled his eyes. "Enjoy yourself, you idiot." He pointed off into the distance, frustrated that he was stuck talking to his brother rather than enjoying all his lady for the evening had to offer. "Take a look, Ronnal, Garon, and Borys don't have their head up their arses." Surely enough they were merry with their ladies, Garon even fallen into his seat while a buxom blonde whore serviced his cock. "Or was my youthful self right and should I have gotten you a fresh-faced lad?"
Orryn flushed red, resting his hands on his whore's arse. "You know what I mean… Alyssa has to be a better lay than any whore."
"Ah, but she's not a maiden." He bit the Lysene's neck, causing her to moan. "Aenys knew her before me, and that bastard Maegor too… damned if I will be cucked by that cunt."
His brother's voice was low. "You sure we should speak on it?"
A shrug. "Who cares?" Lifting up the squealing maiden in his arms, he made off to a private chamber. Intending to have the best bachelor's night he could imagine.
Gathered in the massive Hall of a Hundred Hearths, Rogar - dressed in light armor that nevertheless was resplendent in the light that drifted into Harren the Black's glorious creation - had to peer to spot Queen Alyssa as she entered the chamber in the arms of her son, the King. A ghost of a smirk crossed his face at how it had taken them both an entire day to convince her son to approve the union.
It hadn't been that hard, though. Less of a hassle than guiding her to accept his proposal, though that was a lot more fun - and she hadn't been unwilling, just convinced she could. Oh, Maegor, you stupid cunt. Left her well primed for me after decades of that weakling brother of yours.
Approaching closer to the set up altar, presided over by a loyal Septon - there were some, in that the victory of Maegor in the Trial of Seven actually useful, ironically enough - Rogar ignored the crowd of over a hundred dignitaries in the crowd and focused on no one but Alyssa. For a Queen with undoubtedly vast experience at court, her blue-green eyes shone with love for him. Certainly he enjoyed her. Orryn was right, an amazing lay, and quite utterly beautiful with ethereal Valyrian looks.
He'd have preferred Rhaenys, or Rhaena… he'd even take Alysanne since she was surely a maiden, but Alyssa was plenty good enough. He as the King's stepfather and Lucas Harroway as his goodfather - they'd be the true Kings, not Aegon.
All he'd ever wanted.
Finally the pair reached the altar, Aegon removing the veil to reveal Alyssa's joy and unfiltered beauty to the world. Her eyes were only for Rogar, glittering. Rogar smiled back. You wishing for Maegor, not I? Didn't matter. Rogar took great pleasure in conquering one of Maegor's women. Mayhaps I should take the others after he is dead. Mother and daughter both was a… rather lecherous thought, perfect for him.
Clearing his throat, the old septon looked upon each of them. "Who comes before the gods tonight?"
"Alyssa of House Velaryon," Aegon began. "Queen Mother of the Seven Kingdoms. A woman of age and true of birth."
"Who gives her away?"
"Aegon of House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Long may he reign!" shouted the crowd, an agreed upon acknowledgement of his authority during the ceremony.
"Who prepares to claim her?"
Rogar cleared his throat. "Rogar of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End." Reaching out his hand, Rogar felt pride surge through him as Alyssa went from her son to him. Eagerness in her expression.
"You may now cloak the bride," he heard the Septon drone, "And bring her under your protection."
Dressed in a sea-green cloak emblazoned with the Velaryon seahorse rather than one with the Targaryen dragon - drawing his mild curiosity - Alyssa shivered as Rogar removed it, exposing her bare shoulders. Resisting the urge to latch on and leave his mark on her, Rogar handed the cloak to his squire while grabbing the yellow-black cloak of the Baratheons… and Durrandons before them. Alyssa looked even more desirable with it on.
"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." The septon slowly took the ribbon, tying it around their joined hands. "Let it be known that Rogar of House Baratheon and Alyssa of House Velaryon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Rogar squeezed Alyssa's hand, and she melted before him. Quite the power trip. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."
Almost there…
"Look upon each other and say the words."
Rogar and Alyssa spoke simultaneously. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."
"I am hers…"
"I am his…"
"And she is mine…"
"And he is mine…"
"From this day, until the end of my days."
Taking a step forward, Rogar cupped her face with his unbound hand. "With this kiss, I pledge my love." He leaned down and subsumed her. She opened her mouth, letting him in, their first kiss heralded by the cheers of the dignitaries.
The feast was an elegant affair, fit for the Queen Mother's remarriage, though the grand celebration that Rogar had wished for was curtailed at the King's orders. They were in the midst of war, after all. He understood - the veteran of two grand battles against the Faith understood it greatly and raised no fuss, his pride not hurt.
There would be time for the proper festivities, and the one he truly wished for was soon to come. As such, he called for the bedding.
Rogar thoroughly enjoyed the pawing attention of the various ladies, knowing that his brothers would make sure his bride wasn't fondled too much - she was his woman now, and Rogar didn't share… with men at least. As such, when the doors were closed to their new chambers, he regarded the still mostly clothed Alyssa. Rumpled, but preserved for him to unwrap. "Wife," he stated, walking to a table where he poured wine for each of them.
"Husband." Alyssa took the goblet and sipped at it, rather happy. "This, I never expected."
"What? Your son as King?"
A sigh. "I hoped that he and Rhaena would marry and share the throne… no I meant the two of us. That I would find love again."
Poor, naive woman. He smiled though - she would be happy with him, Rogar was sure. There was no woman realistically available that was more worthy for him than the Velaryon Queen. "You deserve happiness." Rogar kissed her forehead. "It is fitting, considering your son is now King and that Dorne will be ruled by your cousin."
Alyssa frowned sadly. "Daemon and his brood still follow Maegor."
"They're separated from us, that is expected… I presume they'll defect easily once we win."
"I don't wish for a war." Alyssa shook her head. Bloodshed between the dragons scares me… if only we could arrange for them to abdicate in exchange for Daemon marrying the child in Alys' belly."
"Think it's a girl?"
"I am sure. Don't ask me how I know."
He held up his hands. "Would never doubt a woman's intuition." Rogar was not so stupid to believe the fragility and naivete of women extended to all. Alyssa was smarter than most, even if he was able to manipulate her. "We shall see. I promise to make sure all options are extinguished." She beamed at him, to which he laughed inwardly. Clever, but still naive. "Now, enough of that, come here." Alyssa obeyed readily, and as they joined their bodies Rogar was reminded just why he enthusiastically chose her to be his bride.
With the roar of fifty mounted knights trailing behind him, only fronted by two standard bearers with the Lannister lion fluttering from their poles, Tyrion Lannister passed through the gatehouse of Casterly Rock. Built against the side of the mountain, it was only added by the Kings of the Rock centuries after the Andal invasions, expanding the already significant fortifications carved into the Rock. It was home, and Tyrion loved it.
He had passed the camped forces of the Faith. Reachmen all, alongside the Faith Militant both Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows. That only meant one thing.
"Ser Joffrey." He dismounted his horse, sidling up to the blonde giant and his drooping mustache. "Forgive me for not being around to give you a proper welcome."
"No need," Doggett replied, a man of few words. "Your father gave me an audience, a short one, in which I explained the plan."
"Has he approved the reinforcements?" Tyrion had been in favor of the gamble, and it required every single man under arms the Westerlands could provide. The garrison of Lannisport and the many costal keeps were another five thousand men - the Greyjoys had demonstrated and raided small settlements but nothing else.
He was counting on that to succeed.
But Ser Joffrey shook his head. "No."
"No?"
"Lord Loren hasn't given any authorization."
Tyrion turned to the master-at-arms. "Is this true?"
"My Lord," replied the man, a Lannister cousin of his. "Lord Loren instructed me to bring you to him as soon as you arrived. Only then would he make war orders."
Grumbling all the way up the Rock to where the residential quarters were, Tyrion knew not why his father was delaying. Lord Loren Lannister was a shrewd man who hated the Targaryens. Why not give the order? Why summon him from the Golden Tooth? Was it to yell at him over the escape of Prince Aegon? That had turned out to be a blessing in disguise for allowing Targaryen infighting.
In the end, Tyrion had some sense why. His father was confined to bed. Awake, but clearly weak. "My son. You've returned," he croaked out.
"Yes, father." Tyrion approached but was stopped by an outstretched hand. "I am ready to launch the planned offensive."
"There will be no attack." Loren swung his legs out of the bed, slowing rising with a groan. "The war is over. We have lost."
Tyrion's brow rose. "We have not lost. There is still plenty of options."
"Options that will end in failure, and I shall not risk our house to the consequences of that." Leaning on his walking stick, Loren rose from his bed. He shook as he hobbled towards his son. "Tyrion… I raised you from the moment you could walk to be strong. To be a gallant warrior undefeated in battle who could bring glory to House Lannister." Slowly, he raised his hand until it rested on Tyrion's chest. "But I did not teach you good sense. To think as a King rather than a knight, and that is my fault."
"Father?" Tyrion stepped back as if struck. "Why are you saying this? I have brought victory! I have brought glory to our cause that the Reach and Riverlands and Vale failed to do. That no one since the dragons set their filthy beasts on our shores have done."
"And what was that victory, my son?" Loren's voice was biting as he leveled a bony finger at Tyrion. "Capturing an army without a fight, since their Lord knew it was better to save his men than let them all die? And what did you do? But murder their lords, humiliate and mutilate their men, and then torture to death Brandon Stark?" He coughed and lowered his head. "We lost the war the minute your knife touched his skin."
Tyrion stared at his father with narrowed eyes, shock quickly turning to a seething rage. Once, Loren Lannister was tall and proud, a warrior that had ridden into battle atop his steed at the Field of Fire - now though, he was old and wrinkled. Liver spots dotting his skin and a scraggly ice-white beard and hair on his head. "I looked up to you my entire life, father. Saw you as the man that I wished to emulate." Far from that man, Loren instead looked like a corpse, so shriveled and shrunken that he appeared as tall as Tyrion would if bending the knee. "But now I see the truth."
Loren raised his brow with a slight sneer. "And what, by the Seven, do you see? Son?" The latter almost spat out, the still shrewd mind knowing where Tyrion was going.
"A cowardly, pathetic little old man. One who dreamed of glory but who lost his chance and is now too afraid to be bold. To be a true knight and Lord." Tyrion spat at his father's feet. "A fucking coward, not worthy of being my father." He smirked. "Perhaps it is time that I take full title over the Westerlands, so you can live what remains of your wretched life without worries."
Old he may be, but Loren's temper was that of a mighty lion still. "You little cunt!" He advanced on Tyrian and whacked him with his stick. "Disowned! Disowned, you are!" Another wheeze, but he stood straight. "Begone from Casterly Rock and Lannisport with only a single horse and a squire by morning or I will have you thrown in the dungeons!"
"And what?" Tyrion crossed his arms. "Will you lead the army, old man?"
Green eyes blazing like wildfire, he slammed his cane on the stone floor. "Doggett can hang! Hugor can hang! I don't care if I have to beg and plead before Visenya once again, but I will seek peace with the Targaryens even if they demand my hide for your idiotic brutality!" Lord turned to stare out the window. "Now, begone before I have you thrown in the dungeons now."
Sighing, Tyrion knew what he had to do. "Goodbye, father."
"Aye, goodbye son…" Loren was cut off as Tyrion grabbed him by the scruff of his nightgown. "What is the meaning…?"
"Goodbye forever!" With a cry, Tyrion hurled his father out of the window, only a fading scream echoing over the wind before the wrinkled wretch was gone. Plunging to his death hundreds of feet below where the waves met the base of the rock.
Tyrion felt nothing.
He waited but a second before adopting terror and shouting. "Guards! Guards!" They burst in not five seconds later. "My father, he has fallen out the window!" The alarm sounded, as the guards hurried out, now the smirk curled on his lips. "Lord Tyrion of Casterly Rock," he murmured.
Damned if that didn't sound good.