A river of steel poured northward along the King's Road.
Dozens of banners embroidered with crowned stags snapped in the wind.
But the most eye-catching thing in the entire column was still Queen Cersei's massive double-decker wheelhouse.
It took a full forty-two horses to pull it—six columns of seven, split into two teams, driven by four coachmen with a fifth man in the center constantly adjusting the reins.
Getting the damn thing to move smoothly was no small feat.
The king had been cursing nonstop. Joffrey rode beside him, feeling like his ears were about to go deaf.
"Seven hells!"
"At this rate we won't reach Winterfell until next year!"
Robert roared like an angry boar, every word thick with the stench of wine.
Not that he was entirely wrong—he'd caused plenty of his own delays.
Before they left, the king had sent a flock of ravens to the crownlands and the Stormlands, summoning every idle lord and knight to swell the procession and make it look impressive.
So every knight who showed up brought two sworn swords or freeriders, plus five or six squires.
Robert welcomed them all with open arms. As long as they shouted "Long live the king," they were in.
Cersei, on the other hand, found fault with everyone. The slightest slip in manners or appearance and she'd send Lannister guards to shove them straight to the rear.
After all the additions and subtractions, the column had grown to over two hundred.
And that was only the ones close enough to join quickly or the ones who had already hurried to King's Landing from the south to show loyalty.
Half the northern lords were still waiting along the King's Road, ready to fall in as the royal party passed.
The whole thing was like a snowball rolling downhill, picking up weeds of every shape and size.
The mix of people in the column was just as varied.
Young knights eager to show off in front of the king, wearing armor polished to a mirror shine that had never seen real battle.
Shrewd minor lords with gifts and daughters of marriageable age, their eyes darting over the noble youths.
And plenty of smooth operators who were just there for the free food and drink, ready to complain about some local land dispute, their faces plastered with overly friendly smiles.
Joffrey quietly memorized every face.
Which ones would later support the Baratheons, which would side with the Lannisters, and which would bend the knee the moment the Targaryens landed on Dragonstone.
He tried matching them to the fragments in his memory, but the details kept flickering in and out.
Sorry, he really couldn't remember most of their names.
Too many, too long, and way too many duplicates. It was a pain in the ass.
On the seventh day after leaving King's Landing, the wheeled palace's majesty took its first real hit.
They had just left the crownlands, finished the smoothest stretch of the King's Road, and entered the lands of Lady Whent.
Then they hit an unremarkable mud pit that a hundred riders had already passed without issue.
With a wet squelch, one of the huge wheels sank deep.
The coachmen cracked their whips until they blurred. The draft horses foamed at the mouth. The palace didn't budge.
"I knew it! Harrenhal is cursed!" Robert bellowed from his horse, loud enough to be heard halfway down the column.
The queen remained enthroned like a statue inside her swaying palace, refusing to leave.
Stepping into the mud would be beneath her dignity.
When it became clear the thing was only sinking deeper, Joffrey rode forward and found Tyrion squatting by the roadside muttering.
"Maybe we could build a ramp like they do when moving siege towers—lay down planks to make a path."
Tyrion looked up.
"Smart!"
He jumped to his feet, rolled up his sleeves, and started barking orders, yelling for men to bring planks and ropes.
Dozens of people pushed and pulled until they finally dragged the wheeled palace out of the mud.
That night, after camp was set, Tyrion slipped into Joffrey's tent with a wineskin.
"After all these years, the family finally has someone who uses his head." He found a stool and sat down.
"But next time could you pitch in too? I nearly lost my voice getting those knightly lords to do actual work."
Joffrey just poured him a cup, cutting off the rest.
The farther north they went, the darker the sky grew.
Instead of King's Landing's warm breezes, they now had the damp air of the riverlands.
The fields beside the road grew muddier by the day.
The royal party had its own supplies, but the lesser lords trailing behind weren't so lucky. Arguments kept breaking out over dry camping spots.
Three days later they crossed the Trident and everyone poured into the Crossroads Inn.
The three-story white-stone building was impressive. The innkeeper's wife grinned with a mouth full of red teeth and served honeyed sweet cakes.
Her smile was strained—the place only held a hundred people and half the rooms were already taken.
But the words "the king is here" worked wonders.
As soon as they were spoken, the current guests gladly gave up their rooms.
Still, only a few could stay inside. Two knights—one from the crownlands, one from the Stormlands—started arguing over who deserved to share the inn with the king.
The shoving escalated until they were ready to draw steel for an honor duel.
When the news reached Robert, his first reaction was a big grin.
He immediately marked out a space in the courtyard.
"Get on with it! Let me see what you've got!"
The two were shoved into the ring.
They had shouted loud enough during the insults, but once the real blades came out they fought like cowards, terrified of actually hurting each other or getting hurt.
Robert lost interest fast. He drained his cup, smashed it on the ground, and told them both to piss off.
Late that night, Joffrey lay on the narrow inn bed, flipping through A Herbal of Westeros by candlelight.
He had already finished forging the genealogy book and returned it to Pycelle along with the other volumes.
This one he kept for the road.
His trunks held other books too, but they were all Florian and Jonquil romances or the kind of flowery tales about Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys—stuff he'd forced himself to read so he could charm girls later.
Now just looking at that garbage made him physically sick.
After the wheeled-palace incident, the queen's mood had visibly soured.
She barely showed her face these days, eating, sleeping, and traveling all inside it.
Joffrey hadn't dared poke the bear. Cersei had already started suspecting he was slipping out of her control.
The day he picked up the sword in King's Landing she had asked what it was for.
When she heard it was a gift for the little Stark boy, she had exploded.
But Joffrey had planned for that. He casually dropped the news about the boy he'd seen.
"I saw an apprentice at Master Tobho's forge—black hair, blue eyes, looked just like Father."
The words landed lightly. Cersei's attention shifted instantly.
She gave him one sharp look, said nothing, and left.
Whatever happened after that, Joffrey stopped caring.
After crossing the Green Fork, the column continued its slow crawl northward.
To the west flowed the great river. To the east rose the treacherous Mountains of the Moon. The King's Road ran between them, stretching all the way to the Neck.
Lord Eddard Stark's captain of the guard was already waiting there with twenty honored escorts.
They had moved quickly—clear proof of how seriously Ned took this visit.
Robert had taken several days to even remember to send word. He'd scribbled a hasty letter while passing some castle and borrowed a raven.
By this point, the queen's wheelhouse had become nothing but dead weight.
The accompanying craftsmen spent half a day taking it apart and loading the pieces onto several wagons.
Cersei silently switched to a lighter carriage and kept the curtains tightly drawn.
"We're only halfway there," Joffrey groaned.