Westeros didn't do fancy titles. Everyone was just called "lord." Smallfolk usually added a little flavor and called them "m'lord."
Joffrey, though, had quietly built his own mental ranking system so he could keep track of who actually mattered.
Rulers of the great kingdoms—Eddard, Tywin, that sort—were dukes in his head. Dorne played by its own rules, so the Martells stayed princes. Their direct bannermen were earls. Inside that tier, the ones with big armies, fat purses, and real muscle—like the Freys at the Twins, the Hightowers of Oldtown, or the now-extinct Tarbecks and Reynes—got bumped up to marquess. A single castle and a handful of villages that could barely scrape together a few hundred spears? Baron. Everything below that was just landed knights. They had no right of pit and gallows and weren't really lords anymore—just "ser."
House Connington had slid all the way from earl down to the bottom.
"My uncle Jon Connington backed the wrong side and brought shame on the family," Red Ronnet said, voice low and steady. "During the Battle of the Bells he tore the city apart looking for King Robert, lost the people's trust, and still got crushed. The Mad King stripped our titles in a rage."
"After my father became head of the house, he cut ties with my uncle immediately and swore fealty to King Robert. Once the war ended, the king gave us Griffin's Roost back."
That thick red beard made Edmure's look like a boy's, Joffrey thought.
"Ever since I was small, my father taught me one thing: always know who is truly worth your loyalty," Red Ronnet went on, laying it on thick. "When the traitors rose, I had no chance to prove myself. Then Lord Varys's visitor opened our eyes."
"So I hid my men among the Stormlands lords, stirred up trouble when the moment came, and did what little I could for you."
"Your Grace, House Connington offers you its swords."
Joffrey nodded.
Red Ronnet knelt and began the long, flowery oath. When he finished, Joffrey pulled him up—and made sure the man's hands stayed well away from any hidden blades. You never knew.
"Rise. You'll get the justice your house deserves."
All they really wanted was land. Fine. They could have it.
For lords who came over willingly, Joffrey made examples on the spot. He restored the Conningtons' earldom right there and then tossed in a pile of empty promises—starting with Davos Seaworth's castle. It sat close to Griffin's Roost, a little Dragonstone enclave in the Stormlands that Robert had granted the Onion Knight after the siege of Storm's End.
As for the rest of the territory, Joffrey left it alone for now. Those lands had been handed out by Robert after the Rebellion to families loyal to House Baratheon.
Loyal to the other Baratheons, unfortunately.
So he simply declared the disputed holdings part of Connington's new domain and let Red Ronnet sort it out himself. The war wasn't over; the actual ground still belonged to someone else. If they wanted it, they'd have to earn it with blood.
Same logic applied to Crackclaw Point.
Every lord there—big or small—had old scores and new ones. Joffrey planned to strip every single title. No exceptions.
But the place was poor, rugged, and the locals hated outsiders. No decent man wanted to go there. Only landless younger sons or ambitious hedge knights desperate for a shot at glory volunteered.
So Joffrey dumped the whole mess on Celtigar and didn't care if the Red Crab choked on it.
Of course the crab lords weren't going to hand over their lands quietly, and the crackclaw folk wouldn't accept new masters. That was why Joffrey had already lined up the perfect enforcers.
"Letters of marque?" Tyrion squinted with his mismatched eyes. "The treasury's empty, but we still have to hand out rewards."
The sellswords had been hired in Cersei's name, so Casterly Rock was supposed to foot the bill. But Tywin was busy dealing with Renly's surprise attack on his rear; now wasn't the time to beg for gold. Still, you couldn't stiff mercenaries. Push them too far and they flipped sides—and Joffrey still needed them later. Refusing to pay was a last resort.
He was, however, perfectly happy to stiff the Tyrells.
And the Lannisters too, for that matter. A few extra "Grandfather" compliments would smooth that over.
So he'd come up with the perfect "kill with a borrowed knife" scheme.
The sellswords wanted money? Give them a chance to earn it. Celtigar wanted land? Give him muscle.
A small down payment of gold dragons showed good faith. Then the letters of marque went out, sending them to Crackclaw Point to help the Red Crab "clean house." Anything they took belonged to them.
Would innocents get hurt? Obviously.
Joffrey didn't bother pretending otherwise. The crabmen had backed the Targaryens once and Stannis now—they were rebels. This was dirty work, plain and simple.
But it was also the cheapest way he'd found to keep both sides happy.
Eddard was handling the regular troops.
Under the fine old feudal system, smallfolk owed the king their service for free and considered it an honor. Most of them only expected loot after the battle. Eddard would divide the spoils; Joffrey would show up later, hand out a few coins, and take the credit.
He wanted to go further.
The war wasn't over. The new levies couldn't be sent home while their blood was still hot. He reorganized them on the spot into a permanent second force for King's Landing.
The Gold Cloaks who guarded the city became the City Watch.
These men—who had followed him out the gates—would be the City Assault Force.
Whatever their reasons, they had marched out with him. They deserved proper recognition, and the last bit of gold in the treasury would go to them.
Gold.
Gold, gold, gold.
That deadbeat father of his had sailed off with a fat purse of it, leaving behind nothing but a scrap of paper.
If Renly hadn't known Robert was still alive and therefore hadn't dared call himself king, even more of the Stormlands and Reach would have flocked to him.
Sigh. More borrowing.
Or selling offices.
Joffrey had a sudden idea and grabbed another uncle.
"Ser Edmure, how would you like to be Master of Ships?"
The heir of Riverrun, almost thirty, stared with his mouth open. "Huh?"
"Huh!"
Then he nodded so hard it looked like his head might fall off.
The Small Council would still have to approve it, but no one was likely to object. The two Lannisters in the room never agreed on anything and spent most of their time blocking more Lannisters from gaining power; a young pup like Edmure wouldn't threaten them. The two old men never spoke, and the bald one preferred not to. The Hand was family. Edmure's blood was good enough.
Besides, King's Landing's fleet was gone. Joffrey had no plans to rebuild it anytime soon. The post was pure ceremony—perfect for squeezing out money and political support.
Of the six Small Council seats, Joffrey gave the domestic ones to people who could actually do the work—Eddard, Tyrion. Military posts went to the useful idiots. They barely understood what their titles even meant.
Right now, in wartime, he used Eddard to keep tight control of the army. No troops moved without his say-so.
Too bad the Blackfish had gone to the Wall. With him holding Riverrun, Joffrey wouldn't have to worry about Edmure being away and his bannermen causing trouble in the Riverlands.
Then again, even if Edmure were at Riverrun it probably wouldn't help. The army marching south was commanded by Robb—a boy half his age.
Edmure didn't seem to find that strange at all.
And just as Joffrey thought of him, Robb arrived.
"The Iron Islands have risen again," he said without preamble.
Not surprising.
"Theon Greyjoy sent the raven."
Now that was surprising.