A rough burst of laughter rolled out of the trees.
"Kids, get over here," the Hound called, sounding darkly amused. "We've got knights having a duel."
Joffrey and Sansa rode forward.
Past a few trunks the view opened up into a small clearing on slightly higher ground, overlooking the sparkling Green Fork and the flat riverbank below.
In the middle of the trampled grass stood a scrawny girl in dirty leather riding gear, gripping a broomstick like a sword and sucking on the knuckles of her left hand.
"Arya?" Sansa gasped, stunned. "Is that you?"
The girl whipped around. Her long, horse-like face went wide-eyed, then flooded with angry tears the second her secret was blown.
"Go away!" she shrieked like a stepped-on wolf pup. "This isn't any of your business!"
Joffrey scanned the clearing.
Besides Arya, a stocky boy hovered by a tree trunk, clearly unsure what to do with his hands or feet.
Joffrey gave him a calm nod. "You her friend?"
"M-my lord… Your Grace, I'm Mycah," the boy stammered, dropping his stick and stumbling forward in a clumsy bow.
Under the Hound's cold stare he was shaking like a leaf.
Arya darted in front of him, arms spread wide. "You're not allowed to bully him!"
The motion pulled up her sleeves and revealed the bruises and scrapes hidden underneath.
"Gods!" Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth. "How did you get beaten up like that?"
Mycah flinched and shuffled two steps sideways as if dodging White Walkers.
"Your Grace, it wasn't me who wanted to fight," he said, voice cracking. "She made me do it… honest, she made me!"
Arya's face flushed crimson to the tips of her ears, proving the boy was telling the truth.
Joffrey swung down from his horse and handed the reins to the Hound, then crouched carefully in front of Arya so he wouldn't spook her.
"You were practicing swordplay with him?"
Arya glanced at Mycah, who had retreated even farther, then gave a small, guilty nod, gray eyes full of confusion and hurt.
"You could have just asked your father," Joffrey said gently. "He could hire you a real swordmaster. Wouldn't that be better than… well, whacking each other with sticks out here?"
"Girls aren't supposed to be knights," Sansa murmured, her blue eyes full of perfect, reasonable disapproval.
"Not necessarily," Joffrey said, turning to her with a small smile. "Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoynar, led ten thousand ships and conquered Dorne."
He had memorized those stories long ago just for moments like this.
Arya's voice shot up, bright with sudden excitement. "You know about her? My wolf is named Nymeria!"
At her call, a small, equally filthy direwolf slipped out of the bushes.
Joffrey watched the animal warily, staying just tense enough in case it decided to take a chunk out of him.
"Didn't I send you that book?" he asked, keeping the smile in place. "It's right at the beginning of the third volume."
"Oh… right," Arya scratched her bird's-nest hair. "I… haven't gotten that far yet."
Sansa spoke again, even more certain. "Father would never allow it. Ladies don't swing swords."
"That's fine," Joffrey said, standing and brushing dirt off his knees. "I'll talk to Father. He can convince Lord Eddard."
Sansa stared at him, her pretty face a giant question mark.
Why are you always sticking up for her?
Joffrey couldn't explain.
He couldn't tell Sansa that behind her sister's wild, untamed face lay the kind of power that could flip the future on its head.
He had no idea whether his meddling would still steer Arya down the lonely road that turned her into the faceless assassin.
But investing early was never a bad bet.
The wariness had left Arya's eyes. Joffrey took the opening and pulled her along.
"Come on. Time to head back."
By the time they reached camp the sky had gone dark.
The hunting party had already returned—empty-handed, mostly.
But the king was in high spirits, roaring with laughter around the bonfire as he told everyone how he'd danced with a bull that afternoon and then mercifully let the beast go.
Joffrey ate quickly, claimed he was tired, and retreated to his tent.
The Hound sat by the entrance, oiling the edge of his greatsword. Firelight stretched his shadow long across the ground.
"You really planning to find that wild girl a trainer?" Sandor asked without looking up, voice muffled.
"Of course," Joffrey said, not breaking stride. "When I make a promise I keep it."
The Hound snorted through his nose and scrubbed the blade harder.
Inside the tent a single tallow candle burned, its weak yellow glow barely pushing back the shadows.
Joffrey sat on the edge of the cot, took a deep breath, and cleared every stray thought from his mind.
[Stargaze] cooldown was finally over.
He closed his eyes, focused, and locked onto the target deep in his consciousness like adjusting a lens.
Catelyn Tully.
The view snapped forward, then stretched and blurred at dizzying speed.
For a heartbeat Joffrey felt himself hurled high into the air, invisible wind howling past.
Below him the Green Fork camp vanished. In its place stretched a vast, gray sea.
He plunged downward. The image sharpened.
He came to a steady stop on the deck of a ship cutting through the waves.
A woman stood at the rail with her back to him, leaning over the side.
She wore plain roughspun and an unremarkable wool cloak—the clothes of an ordinary traveler.
A white-haired old man beside her was retching violently, vomit spattered across his thick beard.
The woman patted his back with her left hand. The motion pulled her cloak aside just enough to reveal the hilt of a dagger tucked at her belt.
Her right hand, hidden beneath the cloak, was wrapped in white linen bandages.
Joffrey pulled back. A faint throb pulsed at his temple.
Just as he feared.
He let out a long breath, trying to push the knot of frustration out of his chest.
The worst had happened.
Catelyn hadn't stayed at Winterfell with her unconscious son. She had slipped south in secret.
And she was carrying the dragonbone-hilted Valyrian steel dagger.
Who was moving the pieces?
The dagger belonged to Littlefinger, but he had lost it to Robert at last year's tourney.
Joffrey had personally seen it packed in the king's personal armory and carried all the way north.
Littlefinger and the Spider were still in King's Landing—half a realm away. Pulling off something this precise from that distance should have been nearly impossible.
Joffrey crossed to the small table, pulled out a sheet of parchment.
His first instinct was to warn Tyrion—tell him to watch his back on the road south and not go looking for trouble.
But the quill hovered above the paper and refused to move.
Tyrion was probably still at the Wall, pissing off the edge into the haunted forest.
After that he'd stop briefly at Winterfell, then head south along the kingsroad with no fixed schedule.
A royal messenger would be too obvious. Ravens weren't reliable enough.
Sending word wasn't safe. It might light the fuse early.
After a long moment Joffrey lifted the tent flap.
Outside the night was thick. Robert's booming laugh rolled across the bonfire gathering.
It can't be…
Joffrey began silently tallying every card he still held.
The end of the road south.
That was where the next storm would break.