A few more days of marching brought them to the Trident.
The moment the river came into view, so did the sea of tents stretching across both banks.
Joffrey reined in his horse and narrowed his eyes, studying the two very different camps.
On the east bank everything was neat and orderly—rows of tents arranged in perfect squares, cookfires rising from fixed spots, even the horse lines laid out in straight lines. Sentries patrolled the perimeter, and roaring lion banners flew at regular intervals. Just looking at it from a distance gave off a heavy, silent pressure.
The west bank was also tidy—certainly far more organized than the Crownlands army Joffrey had brought—but next to the Lannister camp it still looked loose. Banners of every kind fluttered everywhere: the Freys' twin towers, the Mootons' red salmon, the Blackwoods' bat, and more than a dozen others. The Tully silver trout flew highest, yet it couldn't quite dominate the colorful chaos.
"Westerlands and Riverlands," Renly said, riding up beside him. "See the difference? That's what happens when you have Tywin… and when you don't."
Joffrey gave the reins a small shake. "Let's go. My father's probably getting impatient."
Renly had moved faster than expected. Three days out from the crossroads his vanguard had caught up from behind. The Stormlord had simply left his main army in the rear, ridden ahead with a small escort, found Joffrey, mocked the Crownlands troops for a while, and then decided to stay with them the rest of the way.
"Still…" Renly glanced around at the marching soldiers and winked. "If old Barristan really stayed out of it, you've got some real talent, nephew. How'd you manage it? Tell your uncle."
"Carrot and stick," Joffrey said, shooting him a sideways look. "Why? Trying to steal your nephew's tricks?"
"Just curious," Renly shrugged, grinning wider. "I know exactly what kind of men these are. Truth is, I couldn't have made them behave this well."
"And old Gyles—is he still sucking up to you every day? Hasn't coughed himself to death yet?"
After the army was settled, Joffrey and Renly rode through the checkpoint at the bridge and headed for the heart of the camp.
The royal pavilion stood dead center, three times larger than any other tent. Two lines of fully armed guards stood outside. When they saw the prince they straightened at once.
A herald bellowed, "Prince Joffrey, commanding ten thousand Crownlands troops, has arrived to join the host!"
Inside, the usual scene greeted them: everyone was drinking.
Robert sprawled in the center seat, his face even rounder than it had been in King's Landing but far more energetic. His doublet hung open, thick arms bare, laughing as he clinked cups with a red-haired young man—Edmure Tully, most likely.
"Little Joff!" Robert roared the moment he spotted him. "You finally made it!"
He shot a deliberate glance at Tywin, then crooked a finger at Joffrey and launched into one of his old jokes.
"We've all been waiting with our tongues hanging out."
Tywin didn't react. His face remained calm as still water, as if he hadn't heard a word.
Some of the lords didn't catch the jab. The ones who did didn't dare laugh.
Robert didn't care. He kept going.
"Come on, everyone, let me introduce you." He pulled Joffrey close. "This is the commander of the Crownlands army—Joffrey Baratheon."
The Riverlands and Crownlands lords raised their cups in greeting. Joffrey nodded to each in turn.
"As for the rest of you…" Robert blinked. "You can introduce yourselves. I'm sure I'll remember eventually."
The formalities were unavoidable. Edmure came forward first. After a few cups his carefully maintained dignity slipped and his real personality showed through.
"Your Grace is so young to command an army," he said with an eager smile. "Word of your march has spread eight hundred miles in every direction."
"That's right!" Robert cut him off with a booming laugh and slapped Joffrey on the shoulder. "But you took your sweet time getting here. We've been waiting days."
He drained his cup and wiped his mouth. "If you'd been any later I was going to leave you behind and start the war without you."
"Your Grace, you can't do that," Renly said, squeezing in beside him with a grin. "I brought an army too. Aren't you going to ask about me?"
Robert gave him a withering look. "You? You got here fast enough, but where's your army?"
"Still coming," Renly answered cheerfully, pouring himself wine. "The Evenstar's bringing them along nice and slow. I was worried you'd be lonely, so I came ahead to keep you company."
"Slippery bastard," Robert laughed, but he still clinked cups with his brother.
After another round of toasts and introductions, Joffrey finally caught a breath. He noticed Barristan lean in and whisper something in Robert's ear. With so many people around, he couldn't make out the words.
"Enough of that," Robert waved impatiently. "Just tell me the result."
Barristan nodded, then shook his head, lips moving. Robert's expression shifted several times before he finally gave a short nod.
"Fine. I understand."
He stood up, drawing every eye in the tent.
"The Stark pup is still on the road. He won't reach us for at least another ten days."
"We're not waiting for him."
"Tomorrow we march straight for the Bloody Gate."
A ragged chorus of agreement rose from the lords.
Robert turned to Joffrey. "You arrived late, so I won't waste time repeating the war council. I'll have a scribe copy the orders for you. If you have questions, ask Edmure."
Joffrey hesitated. "Father, what about the Crownlands army…"
Robert cut him off with another lazy wave. "You still command it."
He spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"You brought them this far. I'm not handing them off to someone else now."
Joffrey was silent for a beat, then nodded. "Yes, Father."
He felt eyes on him from every direction—curious, appraising, thoughtful.
From King's Landing to the Trident, he had taken a mob and turned it into something that at least resembled an army. From silent doubt to open royal approval.
He had learned a great deal on the march—and done even more.
Yet as he stepped out of the pavilion and looked east toward the Vale, a quiet unease settled in his chest.
The Bloody Gate had never feared blood or fire. No outside army had ever broken it.
Robert was determined to be the first man in history to do so.
And that was exactly what worried Joffrey most.