King's Landing.
From a high vantage point, the sprawling city resembled an uneven square, enclosed by walls punctuated with seven large gates. Its population once reached nearly half a million, bustling with merchants, servants, soldiers, and nobility alike. Within the city, three structures dominated the skyline: the Dragonpit, now a blackened ruin from fire long past; Baelor's Great Sept, gleaming white and majestic under the sun; and the Red Keep, perched on the highest hill, a symbol of power and authority.
It was within the Red Keep that the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men was supposed to convene his council. Only, thirteen-year-old Joffrey Baratheon was not present.
"All in all, Davos informs us that Lannisport is in danger!" Tyrion Lannister's voice cut through the quiet chamber. He held the letter carefully, though his sharp green and black eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement, perhaps at the thought of Joffrey and his recent obsession with the crossbow.
Cersei, her pale green eyes wide with disbelief, looked up. "You're saying Robb Stark has stationed at least twenty thousand troops outside Lannisport and will attack within the fortnight? This… this is absurd!"
Her gaze shifted to her younger, short-statured brother, as if she expected reassurance. "You will say it is false… or a jest?"
But the truth was sobering. If Lannisport were threatened, her father, Tywin Lannister, would certainly abandon Harrenhal to save it. And if he left, King's Landing would be nearly defenseless, protected only by a few thousand Golden Cloaks. Stannis Baratheon and Renly, who had already declared kingship, could exploit the vulnerability with ease.
"I may be short," Tyrion said, wiggling on his chair as his feet dangled uncomfortably above the floor, "but I am clever and rarely err. Any woman who's ever taken coin from my hand can attest to that."
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, remained calm, his smooth, egg-like face revealing no hint of anxiety. "This is unusual," he said. "From my knowledge, when Robb Stark departed from Karin Bay, his army numbered fewer than twenty thousand."
Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, glanced at his fingernails, smirking. "True, the North alone cannot field twenty thousand, but the Riverlands contribute. Though their vassals may not be wholly loyal to House Tully, Ser Gregor's reputation for cruelty and strategic prowess would rally them. The Riverlords would unite, however begrudgingly."
Cersei's lips curled in annoyance. "Are you criticizing my father's planning, Lord Petyr?"
"Not at all," Littlefinger replied with a faint smile. "Merely providing context. My respect for Lord Tywin is undiminished. You may rest assured, Your Grace."
Cersei's soft "hmph" betrayed her disapproval, though she turned her gaze away. Tyrion slammed the letter on the table for emphasis. "Regardless, I trust Davos' judgment."
"On what grounds?" Cersei demanded, her voice sharp. "Just because his father lost ten thousand men overnight?"
"Sister," Tyrion said evenly, "Ser Stafford gave his life for the glory of House Lannister. You would do well to honor him; your father would not forgive disrespect."
Cersei fell silent at the mention of Tywin. Tyrion continued, "Ser Davos commands troops with skill exceeding even his father's, and he is a man of unflinching honesty. He would not lie lightly. This threat is likely real."
His gaze swept over the Small Council: the Master of Whisperers, the Master of Coin, the Queen Regent, the Archmaester, the Kingsguard, and the Commander of the City Watch. Every face reflected concern.
Cersei muttered, "May that wolf pup be struck down by the gods," but Tyrion shook his head. If curses could slay men, she would be the first victim. Petyr stared at the ceiling, lost in thought, while Varys remained silent, contemplative. Archmaester Pycelle, half-awake, mumbled, "Then… then Lord Hand, what do you wish us to do?"
Tyrion's black-and-green eyes narrowed. "Archmaester, I require you to expedite these letters to Sunspear. One to send, one as backup." Pycelle took the letters shakily, muttering, "Very well, very well."
Littlefinger's curiosity sparked. "Lord Hand, do you intend to seek Dorne's support?"
"Why not?" Tyrion replied. "Dorne has longstanding grievances with the Reach and Stormlands. With House Tyrell backing Renly, Dorne is likely to side with the Iron Throne."
Cersei's lips tightened. "And the price?" she demanded. "How do we make Prince Doran forget the murder of Princess Elia?"
Tyrion outlined his plan: betroth Myrcella to Trystane Martell, invite Prince Doran to King's Landing with a seat on the Small Council, and provide a fair trial for Elia's killer. He had intended to use this maneuver for subterfuge, but urgency now overrode subtlety.
Cersei shrieked. "You would sell my only daughter like livestock!"
"Old sister," Tyrion said dryly, "if you refuse Myrcella, you must also forfeit Joffrey, Tommen, Jaime, Father, me, and all who serve the Iron Throne. Should Stannis or Renly breach our gates, every head will decorate the Red Keep walls—justice, in the Seven Kingdoms' eyes."
Cersei's anger burned, but Jacelyn Bywater, Commander of the City Watch, stepped forward, holding her back. "Your Majesty, please maintain the dignity of a Queen Regent."
Tyrion's grin did little to calm Cersei's fury. Meryn Trant added, "Lord Hand's strategy is sound. Prince Martell is unlikely to harm Princess Myrcella, and he will probably visit King's Landing. I volunteer as envoy to Dorne."
Littlefinger's eyes glimmered, but Tyrion declined. Instead, he asked Petyr to prepare for the prince's reception and later arranged matters concerning the Vale. Petyr demurred, citing political obstacles. Tyrion accepted the refusal and turned to Varys. "Ensure a safe route for Myrcella to reach Sunspear." Varys nodded, his duty understood.
Finally, Tyrion descended from his chair. "If there is nothing more, I shall take my leave. Matters remain for me to attend."
"What matters?" Cersei asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.
"That is none of your business, sister," Tyrion replied. "I prepare a gift for Joffrey, potentially useful in upcoming battles. Consider it a surprise."
Cersei eyed him warily but did not press further. The Hand of the King bowed and left, his legs unsteady but determined.
---
Outside Lannisport, Eddard Karstark observed from a safe distance, sipping a bowl of broth as his archers supervised captured Westerlands commoners digging trenches. He did not intend to attack the port city, but appearances were crucial.
A week prior, Robb Stark had ordered the construction of a massive camp southeast of Lannisport, capable of housing twenty thousand men. Banners of various Houses were pre-positioned in the forest. Eight thousand cavalry escorted nearly three thousand captives to the camp, creating an impressive spectacle.
Under cover of night, two thousand cavalry led by Ser Brynden stealthily moved into the forest. At dawn, they revealed pre-prepared banners of the North and Riverlands: Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, Hornwood, Melister, Piper, Frey, and Blackwood.
To Ser Davos and the Lannisport defenders, the forces seemed greater than twenty thousand, a bluff meticulously executed. Eight thousand cavalry, nearly three thousand captives, and careful display of banners created the illusion of a massive Northern army.
From the walls, Ser Davos Lannister's eyes blazed with disbelief and fury. He did not believe tales of wolves. He saw only strategy, deception, and the threat of a siege he could not ignore.
The game had begun.
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