From high up, King's Landing looks like a sprawling, messy square of orange-tiled roofs and crowded alleys, all hemmed in by massive stone walls and seven giant gates. It's home to half a million people, but only three buildings really matter.
There's the Dragonpit, a blackened ruin that smells like old death. There's the Great Sept of Baelor, gleaming white and holy in the sun. And then there's the Red Keep, perched on the highest hill like a predator. The King lives there, and so do the people who actually run the world.
Inside the Small Council chamber, the air was as cold as a basement. The heavy hitters of the realm were all gathered around the table, except for the King himself. Joffrey was thirteen and apparently busy playing with a new crossbow, leaving the "boring stuff" to the adults.
"Look, the bottom line is this, Davos says Lannisport is in deep trouble."
Tyrion Lannister tapped a letter against the table. He looked exhausted. He was too short for the chair, so his feet dangled, and he looked uncomfortable no matter how he sat.
Cersei's green eyes were wide with total disbelief. "You're telling me Robb Stark has twenty thousand men sitting outside Lannisport? And he's going to attack in two weeks? That's insane."
She looked at her brother, clearly hoping he'd tell her it was a prank. If Lannisport fell, the Lannisters were finished. It was their bank, their port, and their pride. But if Tywin led his army away from Harrenhal to save it, King's Landing would be wide open. With only a few thousand "Gold Cloak" city guards, they couldn't stop Stannis or Renly.
"Look, I know I'm not much to look at," Tyrion said with a sharp grin, "but I'm pretty damn smart. And Davos isn't the type to hallucinate an army. If he says they're there, they're there."
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, sat with his hands tucked into his sleeves, his face as smooth and unreadable as an egg. "It is a bit weird, though. When Robb Stark left the North, he didn't even have twenty thousand men total."
Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish was busy inspecting his fingernails. He let out a dry chuckle. "The North might not have the numbers, but the Riverlands do. Your dad's 'mad dog,' Gregor Clegane, has been doing some pretty horrific things out there. Turns out, nothing unites a bunch of bickering lords faster than a giant psycho burning their homes and murdering their families."
Cersei glared at him. "Are you criticizing my father's strategy, Lord Baelish?"
"Not at all," Littlefinger smiled. "Just explaining why the Riverlords are suddenly happy to march under a Stark flag."
"Regardless," Tyrion cut in, slamming the letter down. "I trust Davos's call. He's a better commander than his father was, and he's not the type to cry wolf."
Tyrion looked around the room, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the "A-team" of schemers. He could see the blade was already at their necks, but everyone was busy with their own drama. Cersei was muttering curses about "wolf pups," Littlefinger was staring at the ceiling, and Varys was acting like he was meditating.
Finally, Grand Maester Pycelle, who looked like he was about to fall asleep spoke up. "So... Lord Hand... what's the move?"
Tyrion looked at the old man with pure disgust. Pycelle acted like he was half-senile, but Tyrion knew the old creep could spend all night in a brothel and still be up for a meeting. He was a survivor.
"Pycelle, if you can keep your eyes open for five minutes, I need you to send a letter to Sunspear. Actually, send two. One for the messenger, and a backup."
Littlefinger's eyes narrowed. "Dorne? You're looking for help from the Martells?"
"Why not?" Tyrion said. "Dorne hates the Tyrells and the Baratheons. If the Tyrells are backing Renly, Dorne will jump at the chance to screw them over."
Cersei leaned in, her voice low and dangerous. "And what's the price? What are you selling to get Doran Martell to forget that we killed his sister?"
Everyone in the room knew the story. Gregor Clegane had raped and murdered Elia Martell during the last war. It was a blood feud that hadn't cooled in fifteen years.
"My plan?" Tyrion said, checking his own notes. "We betroth Myrcella to Trystane Martell. We give Doran a seat on this council. And we finally hand over the guy who killed Elia for a 'fair' trial."
Cersei shrieked and stood up so fast her chair almost flipped. "You disgusting little freak! You abomination! You're insane!"
"She's nine years old, Tyrion! She's my only daughter! I am not selling her off like a cow!"
Tyrion just grinned at her. "Sister, if you can't give up Myrcella, then you'd better get ready to give up Joffrey, Tommen, Jaime, Dad, and everyone else in this room. Because when Stannis or Renly breaks down those gates, our heads are going on spikes right where Ned Stark's used to be. And they'll call it 'justice.'"
"I don't care!" Cersei was screaming now, looking like a total wreck. "Think of something else! You're supposed to be smart! Kill them! Don't you dare touch my daughter!"
Cersei had been sold off to Robert Baratheon in a political marriage she hated, and she wasn't about to let it happen to Myrcella. But Tyrion just spread his hands. "I've got nothing else, Cersei. We're out of ingredients."
Cersei lunged at him, her long nails ready to gouge his eyes out, but Jacelyn Bywater, the head of the City Watch, stepped in and held her back.
"Your Majesty, please," Bywater said, his voice like iron. "Try to keep some dignity."
Cersei sat back down, tears of pure rage streaming down her face. She knew that if Tywin heard the plan, he'd sign off on it in a heartbeat.
Littlefinger's eyes were gleaming with a thirst for a new job. "If the Hand is looking for an envoy to Dorne, I'd be happy to take the trip."
"No thanks, Petyr," Tyrion said. "I need you here to prep for Doran's arrival. Make it look grand. Expensive. I want him to think we actually like him."
Tyrion hopped down from his chair. "Alright, if we're done here, I've got things to do."
"What things?" Cersei hissed.
"None of your business, sister. I'm prepping a 'surprise' for the defense of the city. Consider it a gift for Joffrey."
Tyrion waddled out of the room, his uneven legs making him sway like a drunk.
Meanwhile, outside Lannisport, I was finishing a bowl of hot broth and watching the show.
I was staying at a safe distance, supervising a crew of Lannister prisoners who were busy digging a massive trench system under the city walls. I had no intention of actually attacking the city, that would be a suicide run but Davos Lannister didn't know that.
A week ago, Robb had ordered the army to build a camp big enough for twenty thousand men. We made sure it was visible from the walls. Then, I pulled the old "rotating banner" trick.
Every night, two thousand of our riders would slip out of the camp under black cloaks. They'd circle back through the woods and "arrive" the next morning with a bunch of new flags we'd prepped.
One day it was the Umber giant. The next, the Karstark sunburst, the Manderly merman, the Mormont bear. Then we started rotating the Riverlands flags - Mallister eagles, Blackwood ravens, Frey towers.
To the guys on the wall, it looked like a never-ending stream of reinforcements was pouring out of the forest. They thought the entire North and half the Riverlands had found a secret mountain pass and were settling in for a long, bloody siege.
In reality, it was just eight thousand guys and three thousand prisoners putting on a very convincing play. And according to the panic I could see on the walls, they were buying every bit of it.