Following the Mander southwest, Joffrey finally saw the Unnamed River flowing in from the north.
But the first thing that caught his eye was the sprawling camp stretching for miles along the riverbank.
Wooden palisades ran like jagged teeth. Watchtowers rose every hundred paces. Cookfires sent thin columns of smoke into the evening mist, wrapping the entire camp in a gray veil.
A horn blared. A troop of cavalry charged out of the gate.
The man in the lead wore a coat of mail beneath a gray-and-white wool cloak. He swung down from his horse.
"Your Grace." Jorah Mormont dropped to one knee and launched into the greeting Joffrey had already heard a hundred and eighty times.
"By the Hand of the King and the Regent—"
Joffrey waved him off. "Enough. Save the formalities."
"What's Lord Eddard up to?"
Jorah stood and grinned. "The Hand is in council with the lords, Your Grace. You've arrived at the perfect time."
He waved a hand. The soldiers at the gate immediately dragged the barricades aside and cleared a path for the army.
Hooves thudded over packed earth.
The camp was laid out with real discipline—far better than anything Joffrey had managed to organize.
The northerners' tents were mostly plain gray wool. The Riverlands lords had far more variety, and they'd arranged their camps according to old family alliances and grudges.
The Boltons' flayed-man banner and the Freys' twin towers, for example, had been pitched right next to each other.
Joffrey handed his troops over to the officers and walked with Jorah toward the main command tent.
"Any fighting these past few days?" Joffrey asked.
"Lord Mace won't come out no matter how much we curse him," Jorah said with a shrug. "Looks like we'll be holding the harvest feast right here on the riverbank this year."
Joffrey smiled. "At least that saves us from shipping northern grain south."
The words came easily, but his heart felt heavy.
War had landed right in the middle of harvest season. All along the march he'd seen fields stripped bare by foraging parties.
The Riverlands and the Reach—two of the richest breadbaskets in the realm—could only save one of them in the end.
Moments later the main tent appeared.
It was larger than the others but just as plain as any second-rate Riverlands lord's pavilion. Robert's tent could have held a hundred of these.
After the guards announced him, Eddard himself lifted the flap and stepped out.
"Your Grace. You've had a hard journey."
Joffrey pulled off his gloves. "You're the one who's been working hard, my lord Hand—still in council this late."
He stepped inside. The smell of sweat hit him like a wall.
"This kid's twelve?"
A booming voice exploded right next to his ear. "Everyone said the king was handsome, but nobody mentioned he was this tall!"
"Pity he hasn't got a beard. Doesn't look fierce at all."
Joffrey looked up. A massive, fierce-looking man was staring down at him, eyes wide as copper coins.
He was taller than the Hound and built like the stableboy Hodor back at Winterfell—only twice as thick.
Greatjon Umber.
Of course it was this loudmouth who started trouble first.
Too bad Joffrey hadn't brought Grey Wind along to bite the man's fingers off.
Before he could answer, a short, powerfully built woman shoved her way forward.
"Shut your mouth, you big oaf! No beard is better! Look at that pretty face—who wants to look like a wildling the way your lot does?"
Greatjon simply stuck his rear out and bumped her aside.
"Get lost, she-bear. He's already betrothed to Eddard's girl. Stop drooling. Go find a bear for your own daughter. My boy's still looking for a wife, though."
"Bullshit! Your son's a wildling just like you—whoever marries him is the unlucky one!"
Joffrey could only smile helplessly and nod politely to Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island.
She returned the gesture with perfect courtesy, then grabbed Greatjon by the sleeve and dragged him to the side. Whether they were arguing or negotiating was anyone's guess.
What followed was a long round of formal greetings.
Bolton, Karstark, Manderly.
Bracken, Piper, Mallister.
Joffrey patiently told every lord how hard they had worked and how grateful he was.
He had no way to skip the scene.
After what felt like forever, he finally took the seat Eddard had saved for him.
"My lords, let us begin."
"How do we take Highgarden?"
Eddard cleared his throat. "Your Grace, we are currently stalemated along the river."
"Lord Mace has at least three thousand men inside the castle and another seven thousand outside it. Highgarden sits on the far bank of the Mander, so for now we're stuck on this side."
The roles of attacker and defender had reversed.
Now it was Joffrey's turn to figure out how to get across.
Unlike Riverrun, which was crammed into the angle where two rivers met, Highgarden had sacrificed natural defenses for sheer size.
It sat atop a hill, protected by three concentric rings of white stone walls, each higher than the last. The outermost wall enclosed the entire base of the hill. Between the first and second rings lay a hedge maze.
In peacetime the maze was for pleasure. In war it was a killing ground. Strangers who entered would wander into dead ends and be cut down by hidden traps.
"These southerners really do have too much time on their hands," Greatjon bellowed.
"I thought they were joking when they said the castle was built like a garden. Turns out there's actually a damn garden inside!"
Rivet Frey suggested, "Why not just burn it?"
"We set up catapults on this side of the river and lob wildfire pots over the walls."
The tent fell silent.
A voice spoke from the corner.
"My lord, that would be unwise."
Mathis Rowan rose from his seat and stepped to the table. "The Gardener kings already prepared for this centuries ago. The maze has many pools, and the plants are all water-rich varieties. They simply won't burn."
After confirming that Mathis had truly switched sides, Joffrey and Eddard had quietly restored his rank and returned his men and equipment—repaired and replaced where necessary—treating them as loyal allies.
Most of Mathis's people never noticed anything strange. A few might have sensed something, but everyone understood the situation and said nothing.
"What about wildfire?" Rivet asked again. "Will that burn it?"
Another silence.
Eddard shook his head gently. "My lord, that substance is too cruel. We should avoid it unless there is no other choice."
Most of the lords had only heard legends of wildfire. Seeing the Hand oppose it, they quickly nodded in agreement.
They held the advantage. Victory was certain. Why resort to such dirty tricks?
Just roll straight over them.
They began competing to lead the assault, faces flushed, voices rising, each man louder than the last.
Joffrey looked at their confident faces and felt the weight in his chest grow heavier.
After so many easy victories, the entire army—from top to bottom—had grown arrogant. They all believed Renly was finished and Highgarden would fall at the first push.
Tywin's earlier "we are the victims" act had run its course. Now it was their turn to play the overconfident fools.
Joffrey wanted this war over quickly. He didn't want to waste more time and lives in a grinding siege.
Wildfire would be so clean.
But if they charged in blindly and something went wrong…
No. He needed to pick one house that was already disliked and make an example of them. Knock some sense back into these cocky commanders.
Suddenly a shout came from outside the tent.
"Report!"
A messenger hurried inside.
Joffrey took the parchment, glanced at it, then handed it to Stevron Frey.
"Frey. Your son and grandson have been captured."