Joffrey sometimes forgot one very important fact because of who Cersei was to him.
His mother was a woman with an iron grip on control.
Proud, willful, ambitious, and utterly convinced she had a natural gift for ruling. In her mind the only thing standing between her and real power was the simple fact that she lacked a cock.
Just as her smothering love for Joffrey was impossible to shake, Joffrey had no easy way to rein her in right now. She refused to leave King's Landing. What was he supposed to do—drag her out by the hair?
So he gave her the idle title of Master of Laws and let her play at it.
Technically she could still command the Gold Cloaks. But this was wartime. Every soldier in the city now answered to Hand and Regent Eddard Stark, with Jaime and Barristan Selmy at his side. Three men with that much respect and fear behind them meant Cersei couldn't stir up real trouble.
Of course Joffrey could overrule her if he wanted. He just didn't think he was any better at it, and with enemies at the gates he preferred to leave the actual army to people who knew what they were doing.
Varys's earlier advice had been right: by law a king didn't take full power until his sixteenth nameday. Eddard didn't care about the letter of the law. He'd started bringing Robb into council meetings back at Winterfell and saw no reason to change that habit in King's Landing. Joffrey's obvious maturity only made Eddard listen to him more.
Tywin Lannister would have been a completely different story. That man's need for control made Cersei look relaxed.
Right now King's Landing was still mostly filled with thick-skulled fighters. The handful who liked to think were too busy scheming against each other. So every clever idea Joffrey had ended up dumped in Tyrion's lap to make real.
As the saying went, the more patients a healer killed, the better he got. The more Tyrion actually delivered, the more work Joffrey piled on him.
Little by little the Imp's real power as Master of Coin had grown far beyond the title. He now sat at the center of every major decision.
And that, of course, stabbed straight into Cersei's sorest spot.
Her son no longer needed Mommy. He spent his days running to the most annoying uncle alive instead.
Her jealousy had been simmering for weeks.
Add in the prophecy that had haunted her for years—"Valonqar will wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you"—and it was no surprise she kept making little moves against Tyrion that no one else noticed.
As for Tyrion himself?
Back at Casterly Rock no one had ever needed him except Jaime. Deep down he had always craved being useful, being wanted. Joffrey's interference had locked him in the Eyrie for two miserable months before the rescue. After that he'd simply followed the army back to King's Landing.
So right now he had no mountain clans, no Shae, and no Podrick Payne. Only Bronn, who followed him everywhere demanding money and trading insults.
When Joffrey named him Master of Coin, Tyrion had grabbed the job with both hands. He worked past midnight, took the blame for half of Joffrey's unpopular orders, and never complained.
"I'm short," he said quietly one night, voice rough. "Most people look down on me. But they still have to call me 'my lord' now—thanks to you. Because they know the whole Lannister family stands behind me."
Tyrion sighed, exhausted.
"But if you turn against me… all I've got left is a crooked back and short legs."
Joffrey went still.
Shit.
He'd pushed the man too hard. The pressure had finally cracked.
Cersei had clearly been working on him behind the scenes. The whole Tommen-to-Dorne nonsense had probably been Tyrion testing the waters. He was too proud to say anything outright, so Joffrey had missed every sign.
He thought back to what he'd just done—dry-firing the beautiful crossbow Tyrion had given him, scaring the Imp half to death.
Joffrey wanted to slap himself.
He stood, poured a cup of wine himself, and set it in front of his uncle.
"Uncle, I was wrong just now."
"We're family. There's no such thing as 'against me.' It's 'with us.'"
"As for Mother…" Joffrey scratched the back of his head. "How about you move into Maegor's Holdfast? From now on we eat together, sleep in the same tower—everything."
Tyrion opened his mouth, closed it, then drained the cup in one swallow.
"Sweet nephew, that won't work."
He took a deep breath and the old smirk slid back onto his face.
"I'd steal your chambers. Sansa would be furious. Her wolf's locked in the kennels howling all day. What if she orders it to bite me during exercise time?"
Joffrey blinked. "Lady is the sweet one. Nymeria's the one that howls."
"Doesn't matter—any wolf that looks at me makes my balls crawl," Tyrion said, waving a hand. "And that giant white stag of yours isn't much better. It stares at me like it's sizing up lunch…"
He kept rambling—mostly nonsense—voice still a little hoarse but the grin firmly back in place.
Finally, half-drunk and cheerful again, he announced, "Well, I didn't eat much but I definitely drank enough. If there's nothing else I'll head back."
He hopped off the chair and limped toward the door.
At the threshold he stopped, back still turned.
"Don't worry. I really am fine."
"We've still got a war to win."
He yanked the door open with a firm pull and strode out—straight into the Hound's armored ass.
"You two take forever to eat," Sandor growled, turning. "Stannis is here."
…
"Stannis is attacking me?" Lord Rykker flung himself at the base of the Iron Throne. "Hand, this is exactly what I feared!"
"His Grace pulled every soldier into King's Landing, and Stannis just sat on Dragonstone waiting. Now he's striking while our castles are empty and can't support each other—he's marching straight on Duskendale!"
"Please, send help at once!"
Eddard raised a hand, calm. "Easy."
"Duskendale has a thousand men, strong walls, and full granaries. Even if Stannis throws everything at it, he won't take the town quickly."
"Besides, the Crackclaw lords have already mustered at Rook's Rest and are marching south. They'll see what's happening and turn to relieve Duskendale."
Lord Rykker's face eased a fraction, but worry still lingered. "But… what if they don't?"
"They will," Eddard said, voice leaving no room for doubt. "We've assembled a thousand veteran cavalry right here in King's Landing for exactly this. I've already sent riders to the Crackclaw lords ordering them to coordinate. Two forces hitting Stannis from both sides—he'll be caught between hammer and anvil and driven back to the sea."
Lord Rykker finally exhaled, relief flooding his face. "Thank you, Hand… my lord…"
From the shadows came a voice like warm honey.
"Your hopes may be disappointed, my lord Hand."
Varys stepped forward, hands tucked into his sleeves, giggling softly.
"My little birds have brought fresh news."
"Correspondence between Crackclaw Point and Dragonstone has been… remarkably frequent these past few days."