The army crawled northward along the Kingsroad like a sluggish worm.
Joffrey's gaze swept over the miles-long column. Infantry at the front and rear, cavalry guarding the flanks, supply wagons bunched in the middle. It was the classic marching formation, yet somehow these men had turned it into something uniquely theirs—like a very long, very confused mountain snake.
Forget "strike the head and the tail reacts." The vanguard had already disappeared behind distant hills while the rearguard was still breaking camp back at the last site.
And the lords were actually proud of it. Every few miles one of them would ride up beaming.
"Your Grace truly knows how to command an army," they'd say, faces glowing as if they were leading elite troops instead of this half-organized circus.
Joffrey just nodded and smiled, too tired to correct them.
To be fair, the column was much better than when they first set out. Camps were no longer pitched at random. Cookfires rose in orderly rows. Houses marched in proper sequence instead of jostling for position. Stragglers were collected by dedicated riders, and the handful of men who broke discipline were tied behind the wagons—dragged by day, displayed by night.
"Your Grace!"
A familiar wet cough came from up ahead as an old horse trotted back.
"Lord Gyles," Joffrey slowed his mount. "Something the matter?"
"Cough… nothing important." Gyles forced a smile. "Just wondering if Your Grace needs anything today. How is the vanguard holding up?"
"Fine. All in order."
Joffrey kept nodding.
The old man had been hovering around him constantly since the quartermaster incident. Far from avoiding Joffrey after his ward was punished, Gyles had doubled down on the flattery.
He was nervous. Rosby sat too close to King's Landing; Gyles knew exactly how the winds shifted at court. A weak lord like him could easily be crushed between greater powers. After Joffrey had given him the stick, he was now desperate for the carrot.
So Joffrey had handed him the honor of leading the vanguard—an easy, visible role that cost nothing but looked good.
Gyles was about to speak again when noise erupted behind them.
Joffrey glanced back. A group of peddlers pushing handcarts were trying to slip into the middle of the column. Soldiers blocked them. After a quick exchange and something small changing hands, the merchants were waved through.
Joffrey looked away without comment.
He couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. These camp followers had become part of the army whether he liked it or not. That was the difference between levied troops and a standing force. The lords paid their own men's wages and supplied their own gear. Knights brought squires and grooms. Wealthier lords dragged tailors and cooks. Smiths, leatherworkers, carpenters, and fletchers traveled with their families and tools. Teamsters, grooms, laborers—and the inevitable tents offering "special services"—all bloomed like mushrooms the moment the army stopped.
Officially six thousand soldiers. In reality the camp held well over ten thousand souls.
The best Joffrey could do was keep the worst of them on the outer edges.
Some soldiers even proudly claimed the peddler selling trinkets was "my son, just doing a little business on the side." He had neither the time nor the need to investigate.
His strict, wine-banning uncle Stannis had once tried to run a clean army. The soldiers hated him and the smallfolk hated him. Joffrey had no intention of repeating that mistake.
"Your Grace." Barristan rode closer and pointed north. "Two more days and we reach Buckle's Ford. The men from Crackclaw Point are waiting there."
Joffrey frowned.
Crackclaw Point was a poor, backward stretch of swamps, hills, and forests riddled with smuggler caves. Its people were famously insular and always fighting among themselves.
"Have you ever been there, Ser?"
Barristan shook his head. "The locals keep to themselves and feud constantly. No one goes there willingly. Since I joined the Kingsguard I've rarely left King's Landing. When I did ride out it was either to escort the king to a tourney or lead troops in war. The last time I…"
He stopped.
Joffrey didn't press. The old knight often drifted into painful memories.
"They say the people of Crackclaw carry thick First Men blood and are proud of it," Joffrey mused. "After the Conquest they were model Targaryen vassals. So why are they so eager to join us?"
Six minor houses plus a scattering of petty lords had somehow scraped together four thousand men and were already camped at Buckle's Ford waiting for him. The enthusiasm felt excessive. He suspected they had their own agenda.
Barristan had no answer.
The column continued north. Whenever they passed a village the locals lined the road, staring wide-eyed. The marching soldiers straightened their backs and tried to look like real warriors. A few even slipped out of line to exchange quick words with family before jogging back, grinning.
Joffrey rode in silence, letting his thoughts wander.
If you stretched the connections far enough, he and Barristan were practically related. The old knight had once loved Ashara Dayne, who jumped from a tower for Ned Stark. Jon Snow's mother was rumored to be Ashara. Jon was Sansa's half-brother. So Barristan was… the suspected romantic rival of his betrothed's half-brother's suspected mother.
A pair of tragic figures, in a way.
Two days later the walls of Buckle's Ford appeared on the horizon—along with the four thousand Crackclaw levies.
They had plenty of bowmen—half the men carried long or short hunting bows—but almost no arrows. Most wore patched roughspun tunics. A few had shoes, though toes poked through. Many carried fish-spears or old farm tools.
They looked less like soldiers and more like refugees who had decided to go to war.
"What the hell is this?" the Hound muttered.
Even the sloppiest Crownlands levies suddenly stood a little taller, chests puffed with pride.
Joffrey reined in and waited for the leaders to come forward.
Instead the worst possible thing happened.
All four thousand Crackclaw men let out a wild yell and charged straight at them.