The southbound column crossed the Neck and stopped again near the Trident.
This time the delay wasn't the queen's fault—her creaking monster of a wheelhouse had been fully reassembled and now sat parked high on the riverbank like a golden barge.
The real hold-up was the king.
He'd heard there were wild bulls in the area, so at first light he dragged Lord Eddard and a couple dozen men into the western woods, leaving the entire royal party cooling its heels.
As for why he didn't drag Joffrey along this time—
"You've got more important things to do," Robert said with a wink right before he swung into the saddle.
The meaning was impossible to miss.
The moment Joffrey rode back to the riverbank he walked straight into the chaos.
A crowd had formed a tight circle, everyone pointing and muttering.
"It's a wolf." "Seven hells, an actual direwolf…"
The Hound shoved through roughly. "What the hell's all the noise about?"
The muttering stopped.
The Hound stepped aside and Joffrey moved forward. The crowd parted for him instantly.
In the center, Sandor had one big hand on Sansa Stark's shoulder. Her face was paper-white, fingers clenched in her skirt. At her feet, Lady had her fur bristled and was growling low at everyone around them.
"Dog, you're scaring her," Joffrey said.
Sandor shrugged, gently pushed Sansa toward him, gave a quick bow, and melted back into the crowd.
"Lady Sansa, please forgive him," Joffrey kept a polite distance and spoke softly. "The Hound looks frightening, but he's actually a very kind man."
At least when it came to children—especially little girls.
Sansa lifted her wide blue eyes and shook her head. "Your Grace, it isn't Ser Sandor."
"I'm afraid of the other one."
She tilted her head slightly, gaze sliding past Joffrey's shoulder.
The queen stood at the very top of the wooden steps leading into her wheelhouse, smiling down at the riverbank like a gracious hostess.
On the open stretch of grass below, three men who had ridden hard from King's Landing to meet the returning royal party waited.
Joffrey narrowed his eyes and picked out the faces.
The mute wore a plain iron-gray mail coat over boiled leather, pockmarked cheeks sunken, the last few long strands of hair on his otherwise bald head hanging down like rat tails.
The old man was in pristine white enameled scale armor with the white cloak of the Kingsguard, straight-backed as a pine, silver hair combed neatly, every inch the shining knight.
The last man carried himself like he owned the place—shoulder-length black hair that looked freshly washed at least three times, and a full suit of forest-green steel plate that had obviously been finished only days earlier and was now being shown off.
The two well-dressed knights glanced at each other and immediately threw the blame onto the one who couldn't talk back.
"My lady, Ser Ilyn does look rather intimidating," the white-haired elder said gently, the way a grandfather might soothe a frightened granddaughter. "Even I feel a chill sometimes."
"As he should," the queen said, stepping down from the wheelhouse. "The King's Justice is meant to make wicked men afraid."
Sansa drew a steadying breath and regained her composure. She smoothed the grass flecks from her skirt and answered with flawless courtesy. "Then you have clearly chosen the right man, Your Grace."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Well said, little sister. You truly are Lord Eddard's jewel," the old knight told her with a respectful nod. "I am—"
"I know who you are," Sansa replied gracefully. "You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Even in the distant North, the singers still praise the great deeds of 'the Bold' Barristan Selmy."
Seeing the two of them trading compliments endlessly, the knight in green armor cut in.
"Little wolf girl, don't lay it on too thick." His tone was playful. "Can you guess who I am?"
Joffrey cleared his throat. "Mind your manners."
He knew the man meant no real harm. Handsome as he was, his tastes ran elsewhere—and he had long ago paired off with the only other man in King's Landing who could rival Joffrey in looks.
Sansa's answer was clever—polite without groveling. "My lord, the golden stag antlers on your helm are the royal sigil, and you are so young and gallant. You can only be the Lord of Storm's End and a great lord of the realm—Renly Baratheon. Am I correct?"
"Not quite," Ser Barristan said, his silver beard trembling with amusement. "He's so young he can only be a mischievous boy who still hasn't grown up."
Renly burst out laughing and the rest of the crowd joined in. The tension melted away.
The forgotten man in question pushed his way out of the circle.
Sansa pressed her lips together, then spoke softly. "Ser Ilyn, if I offended you, I am truly sorry."
The mute, of course, could not reply.
Seeing Sansa's pleading glance, Joffrey explained quietly.
"He used to be my grandfather's captain of the guard."
"They ripped out his tongue with hot pincers simply because he said something the Mad King didn't like in private."
Sansa's eyes widened with pity and a touch of fear.
Joffrey decided not to mention exactly what had been said.
The queen swept forward, all smiles.
"Sansa, I'm afraid your riding plans with Myrcella will have to wait. Today I must meet with these lords on matters of state."
"Would you mind if Joffrey kept you company instead?"
The moment the words left her mouth, the clever poise on Sansa's face vanished. She was once again the dreamy, romantic girl from the songs.
"Let's go riding," Joffrey said, leading her out of the crowd.
"Oh yes! I love riding more than anything!"
Joffrey called for the Hound. Sansa called for her wolf.
Safety first.
Three riders and one direwolf set off west along the north bank of the Trident.
They chased shadowcats through the hills, caught fat trout in the shallows, and when hunger hit they followed the smell of woodsmoke to a modest country farmstead.
The farmer and his wife nearly fainted when they opened the door and saw the Hound. Joffrey had to reassure them the man wasn't some demon—they were simply travelers looking for a hot meal.
Naturally, he paid anyway.
One silver stag landed on the wooden table. The farmer beamed. "Serving Your Grace is honor enough. I couldn't possibly take your coin."
After they had eaten their fill they wandered the countryside on horseback, singing at the top of their lungs.
Even the Hound, loosened by wine, growled out a couple of bawdy barracks songs.
Laughter floated between the hoofbeats.
Suddenly the Hound yanked his reins hard.
"Quiet. I hear something."
Ahead in the trees came the distinct clack of wood on wood.
Sandor drew his longsword and nudged his horse forward cautiously. "Stay here. I'll check it out."
Sansa instinctively moved closer. Joffrey drew Lion's Tooth from his belt.
The sword had already been named by the time it reached his hands; there was no changing it now.
Joffrey scanned the surroundings, trying to figure out exactly where they were.
His heart suddenly clenched like a fist had closed around it.
Fifteen years ago, right here on this ground, Robert had smashed Prince Rhaegar with his warhammer and won the Battle of the Trident—the clash that ended the Targaryen dynasty.
It was also the place where Arya and the butcher's boy had practiced swordplay.
Even though he had come here on purpose to test something, the moment it actually happened Joffrey still felt ice flood his veins.
He had deliberately steered clear of this spot earlier.
But he had let his guard down for one careless moment and allowed the horses to wander where they pleased.
After all the circling, they had still ended up exactly here.
Was there truly no escaping some fixed points in fate?