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Lord Gyles was still standing in the same spot, coughing and rambling about the prince's martial glory.
Joffrey ignored him, wheeled his horse, and rode straight into the heart of the camp.
"Your Grace?" The old man shuffled after him, hacking. "Cough-cough… where are you…?"
Red Cloaks and Gold Cloaks rode in two neat columns behind Joffrey, iron-shod hooves thudding dully on the dirt.
Gyles's soldiers scrambled out of the way.
Farther back, the levies who had been sunning themselves jumped up in panic. Half-naked men clutching half-eaten loaves of black bread poured out of tents, pointing and whispering.
"Who's that?"
"Idiot, look at that golden hair—has to be a Lannister."
"But the banner's a stag. Where's the lion?"
"Shh! That's the royal banner. It really is the prince come to lead us!"
The murmur spread through the camp like wildfire.
Word that the prince had arrived reached every lord's tent within minutes.
Joffrey rode a slow circuit, growing more displeased with every yard.
Tents were pitched wherever each house felt like it—some near water, some in the shade, some planted square in the middle of the only decent road.
He drew a slow breath and swallowed the words rising in his throat.
Barristan nudged his horse closer and spoke quietly.
"Your Grace, there is something you should understand."
"By law the lords' armies fall under the king's command in wartime."
"But His Grace's order to you was only…"
He left the rest unsaid, but the meaning was clear.
Joffrey had been told to bring the crownlands lords to the Bloody Gate, not to command them in battle.
The difference mattered.
In the broad sense he was the temporary supreme commander.
In the narrow sense he was little more than a guide, responsible for delivering ten thousand men to the right place on time.
How the men marched was still each lord's business.
Worse, the chain of command had already hardened during the muster. Knights led their dozen retainers to a baron, barons gathered a hundred men and reported to a count, and each count brought his own thousand-strong band.
Lord Gyles commanded only Rosby's men. Lady Tanda's steward commanded only Stokeworth's. Everyone else did the same.
Now those separate little armies had been dumped into Joffrey's lap.
He could assign campsites, coordinate supply, and issue marching orders—if the lords felt like cooperating.
He could not reach past a lord and give orders directly to any knight, let alone discipline a levyman.
Every soldier belonged to his lord.
Even the king could not casually step on that authority.
Only the Targaryens with their dragons had ever forced total obedience.
In all of Westeros history, only Tywin Lannister had ever cowed an entire region with one song—"The Rains of Castamere."
And that was Tywin's personal terror. If Jaime or any other Lannister tried the same, the lords would simply smile, nod, and do as they pleased.
Joffrey looked at the army spread before him.
The Blackwater Bay levies had managed to combine the North's numbers, the Iron Islands' discipline, and Dorne's armor ratio.
Their speed of muster rivaled the Vale, their arrogance matched the Westerlands and Stormlands, and their morale and unity were almost equal to the Riverlands and Reach.
"Ser," Joffrey said, "if I want them to break camp together, march together, and move as one army—how do I do it?"
Barristan gave a small, rueful smile.
"Your Grace, you should stop expecting that from them."
"I have heard the Unsullied and the Golden Company can do such things."
"As for our own men… you need only summon the lords, hold a council, and tell them when to march."
Joffrey was silent.
That would get the army to the Bloody Gate—eventually, strung out for miles, arriving in dribs and drabs over days.
That was not the same as arriving together.
The sun stood directly overhead, shrinking his shadow to almost nothing.
Joffrey turned to his squire.
"Invite the lords. I have words for them."
Barristan said nothing.
The old knight had his own orders. As long as Joffrey made no catastrophic mistake, the Lord Commander would not interfere.
But everything Joffrey did on this journey would almost certainly find its way back to Robert.
An hour later Lord Gyles's tent was packed shoulder to shoulder.
"Cough… it is my great honor to host this council for His Grace," the old man wheezed like a broken bellows.
Every lord had come in person. No one had dared send a mere captain.
That was good.
It was also going to be trouble.
Each of them was used to being the sole voice of command on his own lands.
"I am grateful you have all answered the king's call," Joffrey began once the tent fell quiet. "Today marks an unprecedented gathering of the crownlands nobility."
The lords jumped in at once.
"Even the royal court in King's Landing has never seen so many heroes in one place!"
"That Tully woman will piss herself when she hears we are assembled!"
"With our banners marching, taking the Eyrie and dragging Lysa out will be easier than picking an apple!"
Laughter rolled through the tent.
Joffrey laughed along for a moment, then let his tone sharpen.
"Eight lords standing here means more than half the fighting strength of the crownlands is already under our feet."
He paused.
"Since this is my first day among you, I have three questions."
"First—how many days of food and fodder has each house brought?"
"Two months." "Twenty days." "Enough to reach the Bloody Gate!" "We brought our own, no need for Your Grace to worry…"
The answers came in a ragged chorus—some confident, some evasive.
Joffrey motioned for his squire to note them down.
"Second—have all your men arrived?"
The laughter died.
Lord Gyles coughed twice. "All present… cough… every man from Rosby is here."
The others shot him dirty looks. His lands were right next door; of course he was the first and fullest.
After a moment all eyes turned to Lord Rykker of Duskendale.
The middle-aged lord stepped forward reluctantly.
"Your Grace, my household guard has arrived, but the levied men are still on the road. My son is bringing them with all haste. They will be here in… three days? Five at the most."
Joffrey looked at him steadily.
"Five days at the most," he repeated.
Rykker swallowed. "Yes, Your Grace. They will not delay us."
Joffrey gave a single nod and moved on.
"Third." He pointed outside the tent toward the chaotic camp. "While riding through I noticed several tents blocking the main roads."
"Would someone care to explain why?"