A thick pall of smoke hung over the southern sky of King's Landing.
Black ash blotted out the sun and swallowed the red comet that had been streaking across the heavens.
Joffrey tilted his head back and stared at the ugly gray curtain. He coughed twice; the back of his throat tasted like scorched wood.
Why did everything the Lannisters touched turn into a flaming disaster?
It had started with the crumbling shanties jammed against the Mud Gate. The ramshackle huts of rotten planks and rags made perfect ladders for any army that wanted to storm the walls.
Kind-hearted Queen Cersei had given the residents a full day to gather their belongings. She even paid them to tear down each other's houses, settling the bill with whatever they could carry away.
Anyone who refused got a visit from Jaime and a torch.
Tyrion hadn't exactly been a model of restraint either.
Every merchant in the city had started calling him "the deformed little shit-monkey who eats but never shits."
As the brand-new Master of Coin, the Imp had issued a flood of decrees the moment he took the job: this forbidden, that forbidden. He fired a dozen guild factors, seized every ship in the harbor, sank them, and stacked the hulls along the riverbank like cordwood.
All paid for with more IOUs.
And when Renly's scouts appeared on the edge of the Kingswood, Tyrion didn't hesitate—he copied his sister and set the forest on fire. For good measure he'd begged a few jars of "fruit" from the Alchemists' Guild and tossed them in for testing.
"Lord Renly's going to be training his horses to eat ashes," Tyrion had announced cheerfully.
The three Lannister siblings had gathered to admire their handiwork, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
The very next morning Cersei stormed in.
"Joffrey! Arrest your uncle right now!"
"He's trying to sell your brother to the Dornish!"
Joffrey sighed and fiddled with the ornate Myrish crossbow in his hands. Triple-shot mechanism, exotic scrollwork, beautiful.
"I'm thinking of calling it the 'Joffrey Repeating Crossbow,'" Tyrion said with a grin. He'd been the one who'd had it delivered yesterday.
Joffrey simply raised the weapon, aimed at nothing in particular, and started dry-firing.
Click. Click. Click.
Each mechanical snap made Tyrion's eyelid twitch.
"Uncle," Joffrey said at last, "we're family. We're supposed to love each other. Can we stop trying to murder one another for five minutes?"
Tommen was fat, soft, and still a boy. The little doe he kept had already been promised—by Joffrey—to Joffrey's own huge white stag. But he was still his little brother.
Sending Tommen to Dorne would be like dropping a lamb into a nest of vipers.
Tyrion was just being a defeatist again. The situation wasn't that desperate yet.
Joffrey picked up three quarrels and pretended to load them.
"What else don't I know?"
Tyrion kicked his short legs nervously against the chair. His big face ran through several expressions before it finally collapsed into defeat. He started gesturing wildly as he explained.
Littlefinger, it turned out, was still everywhere—even dead. The royal treasurers, the weigh-masters, the mint officials, the harbormaster, the tax farmers, the guild factors—every single money-related post in King's Landing had been filled by one of his people.
In just a few years the man had quietly replaced the entire financial backbone of the realm.
"Judging by the hundred thousand gold dragons he casually promised away at the Eyrie," Tyrion said, blinking his mismatched eyes, "I'd bet at least half the crown's debt went straight into his own pockets."
"So?" Joffrey's voice carried a trace of impatience. "We're at war. Why are you wasting time on this? Your job as Master of Coin is to move every copper we have toward the fighting. Stop dodging and tell me what's got you so spooked."
"We only need to hold for twenty more days. Once Lord Tywin arrives—"
"My father isn't coming," Tyrion cut in.
Joffrey nearly choked.
"Not coming?!"
Tywin was the one piece they couldn't do without. His arrival would give the city garrison real spine and finally force the fence-sitters to pick a side.
Joffrey's voice rose. "Grandfather wrote that he'd already entered the Reach!"
Tyrion tilted his head back, looking utterly exhausted.
"Exactly. When our raven reached him, he decided pushing straight up the Goldroad through the Reach was too risky. Renly and the Tyrells could trap him between them."
"Turning around and taking the River Road would take too long."
A bitter little smile tugged at Tyrion's mouth.
"So Father took the army south instead. He's marching straight on Highgarden."
Joffrey went very still.
It seemed the whole family had inherited the same talent for doing whatever the hell they felt like.
Cersei liked to call herself the "Queen Tywin of King's Landing." Looking at this, Joffrey could see exactly where she got it from.
"I will rule this land, or I will burn it to the ground."
Tywin might not have said those exact words, but he was more than capable of living up to them.
The attack on Highgarden was probably just a feint. Left to their own devices, the Westerlands soldiers would act like ironborn on land—burn, loot, rape, the whole menu.
With three stags fighting for the crown and everyone telling a different story, the realm was fracturing fast.
Eddard could snap his fingers and march the entire North south in perfect order.
But Robb's army still hadn't even cleared the Neck.
The Vale knights were still dragging their feet.
The only reliable help left was the scattered Riverlands lords.
When old Hoster and the Blackfish were in charge, House Tully still carried some weight. Now Hoster was bedridden, the Blackfish had volunteered for the Wall, and Edmure was in charge.
The Blackwoods and Brackens had been killing each other for centuries—one came, the other stayed home.
Walder Frey was famous for always being late.
The houses closest to King's Landing—Mooton of Maidenpool and Darry—were loud Targaryen loyalists.
Even House Roote at Harrenhal was staying strictly neutral.
These lords made Joffrey pay cash for every wagon of grain. Asking them to send troops was like pulling teeth.
Gods. Rely on Edmure to bring them together?
Joffrey would rather trust himself.
"How many men did House Martell promise you?" he asked before he could stop himself, then shook his head. "No. Never mind. Stannis's fleet is sitting on Dragonstone. The land route is blocked by the Stormlands. And Tommen's still a child. It would be murder."
Tyrion slid off his chair, walked to the sideboard, and poured himself another cup.
"Little Tommen is worth twenty thousand spears, and Prince Doran only offered to station them on the border. If you want them to actually attack, you'd have to hand over the Mountain. And Father would have to publicly admit what he did to Princess Elia and the children."
Joffrey rolled his eyes. "Then the marriage is useless. Why even suggest it?"
"I was grasping at straws," Tyrion said, knocking back the wine. "This was Cersei's idea, wasn't it?"
He looked at his nephew with something close to affection.
"Sweet nephew, at this point I won't lie to you anymore."
"You've been too good to me."
"So your mother wants me dead."