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CaveLeather
King Joffrey arrived at his loyal Bitterbridge.
Wherever the allied army went, the smallfolk became ghosts. They didn't lift a finger to defend their land. Instead, they threw open the gates and welcomed the royal forces like they were long-lost heroes.
The kindhearted Lord Loren Caswell and his men played a short game with the attackers.
The rules were simple.
The attackers launched a few flaming pots over the walls, set one tower on fire, and pushed a battering ram up to the gate.
The defenders poked their heads over the battlements, took one look at the sea of troops outside—denser than fish in the Mander—and immediately lowered the yellow half-horse banner.
Lord Loren changed into a clean robe and stood at the gate to greet his new master.
"Your Grace, House Caswell swears fealty to you," he said, bowing so low his sweat dripped onto the stones.
Joffrey looked down at the spindly young man and smiled.
"Believe I'm the real Joffrey now?"
The lord bent even lower.
Inside the castle hall, long tables had been pushed together into several rows. Supplies from the storerooms had been turned into steaming dishes. The smell of ale mixed with roasting meat hung heavy in the air.
"My lords fought bravely, and the soldiers gave their all. Truly worthy vassals of the Iron Throne," Joffrey said, raising his cup.
Lord Gyles immediately jumped in, coughing forgotten. "Your Grace commands like Aegon reborn!"
The other familiar faces weren't about to be outdone. Praise flew thick and fast, like crows fighting over corn. They were ready to crown him the greatest king since the Conquest.
Joffrey accepted every word with a pleasant smile.
Too much false modesty just makes you look weak.
Too bad the actual battle had been a joke. The garrison left behind was barely three or four hundred old men and boys. Most were villagers pulled from nearby farms—either gray-haired or bald on top. Anyone who could actually fight had already been pulled away by Renly.
This Lord Loren had zero sense. When the army showed up, he still insisted Joffrey was some distant Lannister cousin in disguise and refused to surrender.
Not surprising. Wild rumors were flying all over the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone had their own version of the truth.
Joffrey also hadn't gotten what he wanted.
From King's Landing until now, the soldiers had either been fighting or marching nonstop. They weren't perfectly disciplined yet, but at least they weren't scattering or falling behind.
Morale was high. They didn't break at the sight of the enemy.
That's why Joffrey had planned to leave the King's Landing shock troops and the Crownlands soldiers here to hold Bitterbridge, in case any Stormlands forces tried to cross the river and cut his supply line. It would also give him time to keep drilling them.
But Eddard moved too fast.
Way too fast. It completely wrecked Joffrey's timetable.
He glanced around the hall. The nobles and knights looked like their noses were about to touch the ceiling. The soldiers outside were the same way.
After all, they'd been winning the whole way. Under the command of the invincible Emperor Joffrey, every enemy was just cannon fodder that crumbled at a touch.
All of it thanks to the competition.
The only real fight had been against Stannis, and even then they had the walls, had flipped two enemy groups, and had worn the other side down first.
Still, everyone was convinced they were just that good.
It made Joffrey hesitate to leave.
He was worried Bitterbridge wouldn't hold. There wasn't a single competent commander here.
But he couldn't stay either. The scouts had reported that all enemy forces west of Goldengrove had pulled back. Renly seemed to have abandoned the western Reach line and was rushing back to defend Highgarden.
A small force was still camped outside Bitterbridge, though.
Eddard was asking for reinforcements.
Joffrey rubbed his temples for a long moment.
"Lord Edmure will take command in my place."
"You will follow his orders. Watch the far bank closely for any enemy crossing. Hold Bitterbridge at all costs."
The hall went quiet for a beat.
Every pair of eyes said the same thing: Your Grace, don't leave us.
Joffrey had no choice. He truly had no one else left.
He gave Edmure clear, simple orders: do nothing aggressive. Just hold the position.
That should keep him from doing anything stupid, right?
As for Jaime, he split off part of his cavalry to reinforce Casterly Rock. The rest would link up with Eddard, surround Highgarden without attacking, then force a river crossing to lift the siege of Bitterbridge.
Connect the North with the territories they already held. Cut Renly off completely.
Plan approved.
The feast continued.
The lord of the castle sat in the corner looking like he had no appetite at all. His plate hadn't been touched.
But House Caswell's ancestors had never been as shrewd as the Freys, so who could he blame?
The stone bridge spanning the Mander was strategically vital, yet the castle wasn't even built at the bridgehead. They couldn't collect much in tolls.
The Crownlands lords were already eyeing the castle for themselves.
How to get one of their sons or nephews to marry Lord Loren's daughter and secure the inheritance, for example.
Joffrey had no intention of handing out land so casually.
The winner could certainly confiscate a traitor's holdings and strip their titles.
But a king couldn't keep everything in his own hands forever. There had to be legal justification.
In plain terms:
If he hoarded too many titles, the people below would get jealous.
Besides, land given away was like water poured out. Getting it back would take enormous effort.
Joffrey had kept Littlefinger alive this long hoping to use his connection to Lysa to carve out a slice of the Vale.
He'd gotten military control back, but he couldn't get his hands on the Eyrie itself.
On top of that, Westeros's environment had never been suited for centralization.
Only nobles and maesters were literate. To govern conquered land, he had to grant it to them.
If he didn't reward people after they risked their lives, no one would believe his promises anymore.
And these men didn't just want gold and silver. They wanted land—land they could pass down to their children and grandchildren.
So Joffrey planned to run a pilot program in the northern Reach, heading straight toward the final destination of everything.
Administrative rule.
Of course, he only intended to take the parts that benefited him.
He would use the excuse of suppressing rebellion to carve a piece out of the Reach and annex it directly to the Crownlands.
Then break the land into smaller pieces and grant it to loyal nobles—mostly second sons with no inheritance.
They would receive the tax revenue from their holdings for life. They could command the peasants, maintain order, and pay a fixed portion of taxes to the crown.
But the land would not be hereditary.
This was still just an idea, of course.
Westeros had used primogeniture and hereditary land for thousands of years. Changing that wouldn't be easy.
But Joffrey had to try.
He'd become king right at the start. He'd already skipped a decade of struggle. If he didn't actually do something, he'd be wasting the position.
Besides, if it failed, he could always go back to the old system. The Iron Throne was already fractured enough. How much worse could it get?
And Joffrey understood the value of moving slowly.
The positions of steward, castellan, and acting lord already existed in Westeros as the first steps toward feudal bureaucracy.
They collected taxes for their lords, enforced laws, and defended castles.
Serving a noble or serving the king—same work.
He would use the wartime excuse to test this system first.
As for what came next?
He'd leave that to wiser men who came after him.