By the time Joffrey and his escort arrived, the situation was seconds from exploding.
The Crackclaw Point men had blocked the road and were screaming at Gyles Rosby's soldiers.
"Where's the food?"
"You promised us rations!"
"We marched for two damn weeks! We're starving!"
Over a thousand voices roared together until the demand boiled down to one raw shout:
We want food!
"What food? Nobody promised you shit!" Gyles's men shouted back.
The Crackclaw levies didn't back down an inch.
"Our lords said there'd be food when we got here!"
"Get your lord out here and talk!"
"We're not leaving without grain!"
The two groups shoved closer. Fists were already flying.
The disciplined Crownlands troops—now used to Joffrey's rules—snapped into formation, drew steel, and stared the rabble down. For once, they looked almost proud.
"We get our shares straight from the prince's central stores," one soldier yelled, chin high. "If you want any, hand over your own first!"
The Crackclaw men didn't understand—or didn't care. They just kept pushing forward, still chanting for food.
Then the gates of Buckle's Ford creaked open.
Several hundred local soldiers poured out and formed up in front of their own walls.
A dozen knights rode around the mob and reined in beside Joffrey.
The lead knight glanced at the crowned stag banner, then swung down and dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace!" His voice shook with fury. "These animals trampled my fields the moment they arrived! They ripped up every stalk of young wheat—nothing is left!"
He looked up, eyes bloodshot. "And now they have the nerve to demand grain?"
Joffrey recognized the antler sigil on his surcoat. House Buckwell—lords of Buckle's Ford.
"I understand," Joffrey said calmly. "You'll have justice."
On the other side the Crackclaw men refused to yield.
Someone in the mob bellowed, "The Targaryens always fed their soldiers!"
"Why won't the new king?"
"Is the king too busy to care about us?"
A dull thud. A scream.
Then the brawl erupted.
Fists, clubs, fish-spears, and stones flew in every direction. Shouts, curses, and howls blended into chaos.
Joffrey's gaze flicked to the edge of the fighting. A handful of better-dressed men stood watching from a safe distance. Not one of them moved to control their troops.
He looked away.
"Ser Barristan."
"Here, Your Grace."
"Bring every lord and their men forward."
Barristan met his eyes for a split second, then wheeled his horse and galloped back down the column.
Joffrey turned to Lord Buckwell. "Lord Buckwell, form your men into line and cut off any retreat."
Buckwell blinked, then a hard light flashed in his eyes. He vaulted back into the saddle and raced toward his troops without another word.
The few hundred Buckwell soldiers leveled spears, locked shields, and began advancing in tight formation.
The Crackclaw men felt the pressure at their backs. The shoving slowed. Uneasy murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Joffrey looked at the Hound. "Dog. Break them up. Try not to kill anyone."
Sandor grinned, teeth flashing. "About damn time."
He slammed his snarling dog helm down, raised one mailed fist, and waved the Gold Cloaks forward.
Dozens of mounted Gold Cloaks kicked their horses into motion, iron-shod clubs raised high.
They slammed into the densest part of the mob like a hammer.
Clubs cracked against shoulders, skulls, and backs. The crowd split down the middle as if sliced by a blade. Men in the front ranks were knocked flat, howling and clutching broken arms.
The fighting died in seconds.
Dozens of bodies lay sprawled—most of them Crackclaw men.
"Fight! There's a fight!"
The ones still standing finally realized what was happening and tried to surround the Gold Cloaks with spears and clubs.
The Hound pulled his men out before they could be trapped.
That was when thunderous hoofbeats rolled up from behind.
Lord Rykker arrived first with two hundred cavalry. He swung wide and formed a line on the Crackclaw right flank.
House Rosby's troops followed, then Stokeworth, Harford, and the rest.
More than two thousand disciplined soldiers spread out on both sides of the mob, creating a glittering wall of steel and spearpoints.
Sunlight flashed off armor and lance tips, blinding.
The front ranks of the Crackclaw men finally panicked and tried to fall back—only to collide with their own people still shoving forward, still screaming for food.
"Stop! Stop!"
A shrill voice cut through the noise.
Tattered banners rose from the center of the mob.
The well-dressed onlookers finally rode forward, waving their arms and shouting.
"Your Grace! They're our own men!"
"Don't attack!"
Joffrey ignored them.
He simply raised his arm and swept it forward.
"Take those men."
The Gold Cloaks charged in. The Crackclaw levies scattered. The shouting lords were dragged off their horses and hauled before Joffrey.
"Your Grace, we are—"
"Lords? Barons?" Joffrey looked down from the saddle, voice flat.
They exchanged uneasy glances.
A bald man finally lifted his head, expression somewhere between fear and defiance. "I am Lord Brune of Brownhollow."
"Are these your people?" Joffrey asked.
"Some of them."
"Then where were you while they tore up Lord Buckwell's fields and started a riot in my army?"
"Riot?" The bald lord looked genuinely outraged. "Your Grace, how can you call this a riot? These men marched for days to serve the king. They're hungry. They only want the food they were promised."
Joffrey stared at him coldly.
"There are rules for issuing supplies. I sent ravens two days ago ordering Lord Buckwell to inform you. All grain is centrally managed and will be distributed according to regulation."
He turned to Buckwell. "My lord, did you deliver the message?"
"I sent riders at once," Buckwell answered quickly. "Whether they listened is another matter."
Joffrey nodded and looked back at the bald lord.
"You have broken three laws: allowing your men to pillage, inciting disorder within the army, and lying to your commander."
The bald lord's face went white.
"Your Grace, we never—"
Joffrey didn't let him finish.
He turned to Barristan.
"Ser."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Convene a military tribunal immediately."