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Joffrey had always believed one simple truth.
Handle the logistics right and the rest was just pushing forward.
War came down to the economy. Whoever fielded better armor and replaced losses faster won. Everything else was just clever tricks.
Right now he could only afford the tricks.
"The first batch of armor arrived. Why isn't anyone buying it?"
Joffrey flipped through the ledger, brows tightening with every page.
Jaime leaned over his shoulder, glanced at the numbers, and smirked.
"Little Joff, do you even know what a decent set of armor costs?" His voice dripped with mockery. "These men can't afford it."
In Duncan the Tall's day a full mail harness with gorget and closed helm ran eight hundred silver stags—four gold dragons. But that Kingsguard had the Seven's blessing and a body forged by years of training. He could take a dozen tourney blows in mail and walk away. Most men couldn't survive one.
Good gear gave real peace of mind.
Decades later, after Robert and Littlefinger had their fun, prices had climbed even if the craftsmanship hadn't changed much. In low-productivity Westeros, money was just a number. Four gold dragons bought one harness. Four hundred bought a hundred. Forty thousand still bought only a hundred. Resources were scarce, hands were few, and even gold couldn't conjure more steel out of thin air.
Joffrey had no gold to spare anyway.
Outfitting these five thousand standing troops had already stretched King's Landing's supply lines to the breaking point. He'd emptied every armory and still couldn't equip everyone properly.
To keep the men fighting, he paid better wages than any sellsword company and issued standard weapons and padded jacks. It was a cut above raw levies, but nowhere near real professional troops. If they wanted upgrades, they had to buy them themselves.
Joffrey struck a deal with the camp merchants and backed it with the Iron Throne's seal. Tyrion placed orders with the blacksmiths in King's Landing. The merchants hauled the gear south and sold it inside the army. Soldiers paid with their wages. Gold dragons simply moved from one hand to another. In the end the crown only spent what it would have issued anyway, and the armored rate climbed.
A perfect little cycle.
"You're Harren the Black reborn," Jaime said, eyes wide.
Joffrey shrugged. He'd borrowed the idea from a future he remembered. He even offered credit so men could draw next month's pay early and arm themselves. And he wasn't wasting time on fancy plate or time-consuming mail. He had the smiths rivet iron plates and rings onto heavy fabric—simple brigandine and ringmail that looked more like padded armor than anything noble. Good ore was scarce and time was short, so the plates stayed small. Price was rock-bottom. With battlefield loot thrown in, any soldier could afford a set.
"But you forgot about human nature," Jaime said, clapping his shoulder. "War is life or death. Give these men a little coin and they'll spend it on the first thing that feels good—extra food, a hot bath, a girl or two. I guarantee they'll be broke by month's end no matter how much you pay them."
"You make them fold blankets every morning, but half of them don't even own one."
The words hit Joffrey like a slap.
He'd been blind. Daily necessities—extra clothes, bedding, blankets—were all on the soldier's own tab. Unpaid levies had always paid out of pocket to fight for their lords. Most men simply never bought blankets. The weather was warm enough, and a little night chill could be handled by huddling together on straw mats or sharing one ragged blanket.
Joffrey stood in silence for a long moment, filing the lesson away.
Changing that live-for-today mindset had to become a priority too.
He stepped outside the tent and looked across the river at Highgarden. The white castle still stood untouched. It wasn't as tall as Winterfell or Storm's End, but three concentric rings of walls made it a nightmare to storm. Siege engines couldn't even reach the base. It was only the Tyrell family seat, so the defenders had fewer weak points than King's Landing. Greatjon reported a man posted every step along the battlements—half of them probably townsfolk pulled in from the outer settlement. The town itself was packed with Reach troops, and Greatjon didn't dare probe too close.
Lord Mace had crammed the granaries full. Scorpions and trebuchets lined the walls. Any bombardment would favor the defenders.
Joffrey hated dragging the siege out, but a quick assault would cost too much blood. He made his decision.
Lannisport could burn. He was done chasing it.
Two miles outside the city, golden banners snapped in the wind. Hammers, spears, and swords flashed under the bright sun. To the dull blare of war horns, soldiers shoved freshly built siege engines forward toward Lannisport's walls.
Renly sat his horse in deep green plate that drank the sunlight. Gold light danced across buckles and ornaments. A heavy cloak woven with gold thread draped his warhorse's hindquarters, a black-jade crowned stag embroidered on the fabric. The whole rig had cost more than a hundred gold dragons; he'd stopped counting.
He tightened his grip on the warhammer.
Everyone knew a warhammer wasn't really a hammer. Two arms long, one end a serrated head, the other an armor-piercing beak, a long spike on top. Robert had loved the thing. Renly had never mastered it.
But Margaery said weapons like this would remind the men of King Robert and lift their spirits. Margaery's words were really Olenna's.
The Tyrells had worked wonders with marriages alone. Lord Mace's mother was Redwyne, his wife was Hightower, and his daughter was now Renly's queen. In three generations they'd bound the two strongest bannermen and a great house to their cause.
Horns exploded. The charge began.
Renly remembered Randyll Tarly's cold, precise orders.
"We must win fast—take Lannisport before Eddard can reinforce, and loot every coin we can carry. Then we buy Balon Greyjoy. Send the ironborn to raid the Riverlands and tear up Eddard's rear. They got nothing in the North. They won't refuse."
"Calling him Balon the Great King costs us nothing. Once the Iron Throne is ours we can deal with him later."
"Our only goal is victory. No price is too high."