A young man standing beside Lord Gyles was shoved forward.
"Your Grace may not know," he said, shooting an annoyed glance behind him before clearing his throat. "Before you arrived, the lords had already agreed on where each house would camp. We left the roads clear. No one is blocked."
Joffrey looked at the sigil on the man's doublet.
House Harford.
He couldn't remember which Harford this was—the lord of Harford was still a suckling babe.
"It is not only a question of blocking roads," Joffrey said. His voice was quiet, but it carried to every ear in the tent. "It is a question of order and efficiency."
"Your tent blocks the road, so others must go around it. One detour leads to another, and the whole camp falls into chaos."
The young man leaned forward slightly. "Your Grace, we are not ignorant of how to pitch camp for war. This is how it has always been done…"
Under Joffrey's steady gaze his voice trailed off.
"My apologies, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn."
Joffrey shifted his eyes across every face in the tent.
"You are all lords of the crownlands, sworn directly to the Iron Throne. I know your experience far exceeds mine."
He paused, then raised the royal banner.
"But I have been named commander by the king himself, so I must understand the condition of this army."
The tent fell quiet for a moment.
Lord Gyles coughed. "Your Grace need only say what you require. We will obey."
Joffrey looked at him.
"Good. Before supper, every tent that is out of place will be moved."
The young Harford opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"By noon tomorrow, each house will report its exact numbers—present and still on the road. Write down every man still missing."
Lord Rykker nodded.
"And one more thing." Joffrey finally dropped the idea he had been turning over since he first saw the camp. "We will build a central storehouse in the middle of the camp. All grain and supplies will be turned over and managed together."
"Every soldier will draw rations on the same scale."
"Your Grace!" someone blurted.
He was immediately yanked back down by the man beside him.
Joffrey looked in that direction and saw several faces hurriedly lowered.
Those boots look very familiar.
"Any objections?"
No one answered.
Wind gusted into the tent and made the candles flicker.
"I know what you are thinking," Joffrey said, breaking the silence. "The food is yours. Why hand it over?"
"But let me ask you this. Once the army marches, what happens if some companies eat full meals while others tighten their belts? What will the hungry men do?"
"Steal? Rob?"
He answered for them.
"Of course, each lord may buy supplies along the way or have more sent from his own lands. But the army will not stop for one or two slow units."
Joffrey studied their faces.
Some frowned. Some looked down. Some drummed their fingers nervously on their knees.
"Besides, living off the enemy is impossible on this campaign. We are marching against the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie, not the entire Vale. The Mountains of the Moon hold nothing but wildlings and rocks."
Still no one spoke.
"I am not asking you to give the food for free," Joffrey softened his tone. "Every bushel of barley, every side of salt beef, every cask of wine will be recorded exactly."
"I also know some of you have a different plan. Eat your own supplies and wait for the crown to take from the richer lords and give to you."
Joffrey glanced at the lord who had brought barely two weeks' worth and smiled.
"But what if the richer lords refuse to share?"
"What will you eat then?"
A few low chuckles rippled through the tent.
"Yes, yes—what will you eat!"
The lord in question flushed crimson and tried to sink into his collar.
Lord Gyles's eyes darted. "Your Grace, some brought more and some brought less. Turning everything over to be shared hardly seems fair. My own stores are prime salted beef, while certain others have nothing but barley and black bread."
As he spoke he shot a meaningful look toward one of his colleagues.
Joffrey had prepared for this.
"Every contribution will be converted into gold dragons and counted as merit for this campaign. When the time comes for spoils or ransom, those who gave more will have first claim."
"Does Your Grace's word stand?" someone asked.
"The commander appointed by the king does not speak lightly. After the war His Grace will reward you, and I will report every man's contribution exactly as it is."
Joffrey answered without hesitation.
Robert would be the one footing the bill anyway.
Another stretch of silence.
The lord who had been yanked down shook off his companion's hand and spoke, neck stiff.
"Your Grace, it is not that we doubt you. But if… after the war…"
"If I renege? Or if we lose?" Joffrey finished for him.
The man shrank back.
"Then take your grain and go home right now," Joffrey leaned back in his chair. "We will see whether the king allows you to return to your lands in one piece."
"Lords, understand this clearly. Serving the king is your duty."
"Central management ensures every man has rations until the fighting is done. Post-war compensation ensures those who gave more are not cheated."
"If that still does not satisfy you, we can do it the old way—each house feeds its own, fights its own. When half your men are too hungry to march, do not blame the rest for not sharing their bread."
"I have no reason to care what you eat every day. That has always been your own affair."
The silence grew heavier.
Candlelight flickered across faces that were no longer smiling.
"Of course, you need not fear that my word is worthless," Joffrey added. "I cannot run away. Think of my name."
The lords lowered their eyes.
Joffrey realized his mistake at once. Robert was famous for never paying his debts. Citing him carried zero weight.
"Think of my mother's name," he corrected quickly.
The lords exchanged glances.
"Lannister," someone said.
"And the next line?" Joffrey gave him an encouraging smile.
"A Lannister always pays his debts!" they answered in chorus.
The response was far louder than anything before.
Joffrey waved a hand.
"Tomorrow when you report your numbers, include the full list of supplies you are turning over. Ser Barristan will witness everything as impartial observer."
"Dismissed."
The lords filed out.
Barristan drifted over to Lord Gyles, his expression unreadable.
"My lord, might I borrow your tent a little longer? I have a private matter to discuss with His Grace."
The tent's owner and Joffrey's attendants were ushered out. Only three people remained.
The Hound glanced at Joffrey, silently asking if he should leave too.
"You may stay," Barristan said casually. "You won't understand any of it anyway."
The Hound bared his teeth.
"Ser, did I do something wrong?" Joffrey asked carefully. He had not consulted Barristan beforehand about naming him witness.
"Not at all." Barristan smiled. "Your methods do not seem like those of a boy commanding an army for the first time."
"However…"
He tapped the table lightly, expression turning serious.
"If Your Grace wishes to imitate Lord Tywin, you will first need to build the same kind of authority."