Five kingdoms against three.
Everyone at the table felt like the advantage was squarely on their side.
"Then why the hell are Stannis and Renly rebelling?" Eddard scratched his head so hard it looked like he might draw blood. "Where do they get the nerve?"
Varys waggled a soft finger, voice smooth as warm honey.
"My lord, it is exactly as this servant said before—purely a matter of information."
"Lord Stannis believes King Robert is dead."
"And if that shadow magic had succeeded that night, His Grace would be dead too."
"Of course," he added, bowing his head toward Joffrey, "I speak only in theory."
"Lord Renly sees a different picture."
"He knows King Robert is alive but believes His Grace is dead."
"So he doesn't dare call himself king," Eddard finished. "He's only marching on King's Landing to 'avenge' the prince."
"But that's Renly's motive. Why are the Tyrells following him?"
Tyrion had been kicking his short legs idly against the chair. At the question he turned, eyes full of something close to pity.
"Lord Eddard, you sit here enjoying power and still ask why they aren't satisfied with the scraps."
"Look at the Reach." He tapped the map on the table. "Huge population, strong army, filthy rich. And how many of their people do we have at this table?"
"Robert was soft-hearted. After the Rebellion he forgave the latecomers and even the ones who fought for the Targaryens."
Tyrion's mouth curved.
"Stannis is not so forgiving. They say he spent a year trapped in Storm's End eating… questionable meat while the Reach army sat outside."
"So whether it's us or anyone else on the Iron Throne, it makes no difference to them."
He waggled his finger again.
"And Renly is no fool."
"He's flying the 'avenge my nephew' banner. It buys him loyalty without the traitor label."
"That's why the lords of the Reach are willing to roll the dice."
Cersei frowned. "Aren't they afraid Robert will come back?"
Tyrion laughed.
"Dear sister, Renly probably told them Robert is alive and off in Essos."
"But what if?"
"What if Robert comes back too late?"
"Or… what if he never comes back at all?"
He poked Cersei's arm.
"Purely hypothetical, of course."
"If our sweet Joffrey had actually been murdered, what would you do?"
Cersei slapped his hand away and said nothing.
Tyrion turned to Eddard, grin sharpening with mischief.
"There'd be a lot of blood in the Red Keep. At least one Hand of the King definitely wouldn't survive."
"And what would that Hand's eldest son do?"
Eddard looked away.
Tyrion wasn't finished. He ticked points off on his fingers.
"If your big son is smarter than he looks, the best move is to sit tight."
"Or he could march south under his mother's name."
"The Riverlands is Lady Catelyn's home—would Lord Edmure side with his sister? What about the Vale lords? My brother is still Warden of the East; he could call them up. If Joffrey died, the throne would pass to Tommen and the Lannisters would hold real power. Who would listen to the North then…"
"So the only real threats Stannis has to deal with are the Crownlands and the Westerlands. He just needs to storm King's Landing before my father's army arrives, chop off my brother's, my sister's, my nephew's pretty heads—and my ugly one—then stick them on the gates. Game over."
Tyrion made a crisp chopping motion.
His eyes gleamed with almost manic delight, completely lost in his own logic.
"So that's why they dared rise even now."
"How did Stannis come up with this? Brilliant! Someone must have fed him the idea!"
"Spider, look into that for me later—ow!"
Joffrey chucked a cup at him.
"I'm not dead yet! What's the point of analyzing my funeral?"
Tyrion flinched, then sheepishly set the cup back on the table.
He cleared his throat and straightened his face.
"Yes, yes—thank the gods His Grace is wise and invincible and nothing happened."
"Thus foiling these traitors' schemes."
He hopped up on his chair and pointed at the map, suddenly all business.
"My lords, forgive the theatrics. But I still have to pour some cold water on this."
"Even with half of Westeros on our side, the situation is not as rosy as it looks."
"Right now our forces consist of the City Watch and the two thousand-odd men our loyal bannermen have scraped together."
"Massey's Hook and Crackclaw Point haven't sent a single man."
He jabbed the map.
"Our people are here, here, and here."
Purple Crownlands, red Westerlands, blue Riverlands.
He stretched on tiptoe toward the Neck, gave up, and dropped back down.
"The Northern army is still playing in the mud. Our Warden of the East is still here counting ravens."
"While Stannis's fleet sits on Dragonstone, ready to sail at any moment."
Everyone at the table started rubbing their temples.
They all knew exactly how much the City Watch was worth in a real fight.
Joffrey had commanded a hundred of them himself. Great at swinging clubs against crab fishermen. Against real knights, battle-hardened soldiers, or bloodthirsty pirates? Their morale was no better than fresh levies.
And technically the Gold Cloaks answered to the Master of Laws.
After Renly fled, Cersei had cheerfully taken that seat.
Her first order on the night of the assassination attempt had been to replace the commander.
Janos Slynt had let dozens of men slip out during the lockdown—Renly, Loras, and every knight friendly to them.
Cersei's investigation showed the man had been napping at home and half the gate guards had simply wandered off.
She'd thrown the lot of them straight into the Red Keep's dungeons. No food, just walls.
Joffrey had been slowly poisoning the former commander with fine wine, waiting for him to retire on his own.
No need to wait anymore.
"Recruit," Joffrey ordered. "Expand the Gold Cloaks to five thousand."
"That's going to cost a lot of gold dragons," Tyrion pointed out. "The treasury's empty. We're paying with promises right now."
Cersei glared at him.
"Money? Just have Father send some."
"Five thousand is still too few. Take it straight to ten thousand."
Joffrey smiled.
"We won't need money."
"All I need is a few words, and they'll happily march out and die for us."