A golden rose bloomed on the green fields, but atop the tallest white marble tower the crowned stag banner flew.
"Lord Mace is truly loyal," Joffrey said with a smirk. "He even let our house banner fly above his own."
Eddard didn't bother answering with what little humor he possessed.
"Your Grace," he said, shaking his head. "That's Renly's banner, not yours."
Highgarden hadn't fallen yet, of course.
Both sides still claimed to be the rightful king, so both flew the exact same banners.
Good thing Stannis had switched to the red heart. Otherwise the Blackwater battle would've left even more soldiers running in circles.
When the Stormlands army retreated, a dozen of Joffrey's men got confused and crossed the river with them. They were halfway across before they realized the rafts were full of enemies and dove into the water to swim back.
Renly's side was even worse.
Some soldier got separated from his lord, couldn't tell who'd won or lost, saw nothing but Baratheon banners on the walls, and followed the men of Griffin's Roost straight into King's Landing.
It wasn't even Red Rolland who caught them. The idiots got drunk and exposed themselves.
They drank for two straight days celebrating victory, then started asking when Renly was going to be crowned.
They woke up in the dungeons.
The candle flame flickered as Joffrey broke the seal on a letter.
A raven had arrived from Lannisport. The sea battle hadn't gone well.
The handwriting was plain and precise, no flourishes, like it had been printed.
"To His Grace King Joffrey Baratheon:
The Redwyne fleet arrived off Lannisport three days ago. Thanks to Your Grace's warning the harbor was prepared, but the enemy ships were too many. We could not hold.
The enemy split their forces. One column of roughly twenty thousand landed south of the port and is now building siege works.
Scouts report that the so-called Nameless Brotherhood operating between the Westerlands and the Reach is actually a disguise for Loras Tyrell.
The second column of twenty thousand assaulted the harbor from the sea. They were driven back, but the outer walls suffered heavy damage.
Casterly Rock cannot shelter so many people. I have already moved the new levies and the city's civilians to the town of Ketown on the western peninsula.
Lannisport's garrison is too small. If the enemy presses the attack the port will not hold long.
Your Grace, this is urgent. Send help at once.
—Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock"
Joffrey handed the letter to Eddard.
"Grandfather finally swallowed his pride. I was starting to wonder when he'd come begging."
Eddard read it with no expression, only the steady tap of his fingers on the table.
"Is Your Grace truly willing to abandon Lannisport?" he asked carefully. "Would Ser Jaime agree?"
"That's why I sent him away," Joffrey said, leaning back in his chair and rocking it. "So that hothead wouldn't drag half the army west and get them all killed."
Eddard just watched him.
Joffrey sighed. "My lord, it's not that I'm heartless. We don't have the strength to save it."
"Same as when we faced Stannis. They sail, we march. Renly is deliberately pulling us in every direction."
Eddard shook his head.
"That's not what I meant. This is rational to the point of cruelty—never mind."
Never mind what? Was he starting to scold me now?
Tywin had lived like a king his whole life. Time he tasted a little war. Selling him out didn't cost Joffrey a single night's sleep. Why was Eddard getting sentimental?
"There's something else," Joffrey said, pulling out another document.
"The northern Reach is temporarily under the Iron Throne's control. I've ordered the property and titles of every enemy who still resists stripped away.
Farmers who return can keep working their land. They'll get new lords later. Unclaimed land goes to the crown.
I already sent ravens to King's Landing. Tyrion is posting notices to recruit the idle poor from the city to come farm here."
Eddard looked unhappy even though Joffrey had warned him.
"Your Grace, that is a dangerous banner to fly."
Dividing noble lands was dangerous. As the biggest feudal lord in Westeros, Joffrey knew going too far meant cutting his own throat.
He didn't feel like arguing with Eddard—the man was stubborn as a mule—so he changed the subject.
"Go check how the King's Landing Assault Force is training."
The camp sat at the angle where the Mander and the Unnamed River met.
Besides the reserves left behind, the five thousand men raised in King's Landing made up the main force here.
They were citizen soldiers, not regular levies, so there were no traditional ranks from sergeant to knight to baron.
Joffrey didn't have to worry about taking those powers back later, so he slipped in his own changes.
Ten-man squads with squad leaders. Hundred-man companies with company captains. Thousand-man regiments with regimental commanders.
Every officer was appointed personally by Joffrey. Title didn't matter. Only ability.
When people asked he said he'd learned it from the Golden Company across the Narrow Sea.
Most of them still had some noble connections, but their real command experience stopped at street brawls and raw courage.
They were bolder than peasant levies and far harder to discipline.
Even Eddard, with only half the men, couldn't get them marching in step.
Discipline was what needed work.
Joffrey appointed two regimental commanders—one black, one white.
The Hound and Balon Swann.
The rest he kept in his own hands for now.
The Hound was a pure brawler. Good for leading a charge, bad at leading men. His presence alone kept the troops in line through fear.
Balon was brave, courteous, ambitious, and had earned real respect in the last battles.
Add in the extra food and gear Joffrey occasionally "borrowed" from the treasury, plus the occasional rousing speech, and the men had accepted the training.
The drills themselves were simple—marching, formations, left and right. Westeros already had systems for a few hundred men, but nothing for five thousand.
The Unsullied could do it perfectly, of course. They just had to pay with their balls.
Joffrey's greatest achievement so far was getting these men to understand which foot to step with first.
The price was that every single one of them now owned only one shoe.
The opposite bank of the Mander looked completely different. It had turned into a roaring construction site.
Shirtless carpenters climbed up and down the half-built siege tower, hammers ringing. The structure already stood nearly thirty feet high, covered in fresh cowhide. Men hauled buckets of water to soak it so fire arrows wouldn't turn it into a torch.
Greatjon had somehow dragged in a massive oak log thick as two men's arms.
For him and his son it was nothing. For normal men it would take three or four strong hands to even lift.
The top had been sharpened to a point and drilled with holes. Craftsmen were fitting a deer-shaped ram head onto it.
Nearby sat a six-wheeled siege engine, its thick plank roof also covered in hides and a heavy layer of wet mud.
Fifteen thousand men camped east of Highgarden. Joffrey had ordered them not to attack on their own. They were to wait for reinforcements and protect the siege engines from any enemies coming from the west.
A horn sounded from the south.