The Kingsroad stretched north like a river of steel.
Dozens of banners bearing the crowned stag snapped loudly in the wind.
Armor gleamed under the gray sky, horses snorted, wheels creaked, and the entire procession moved like a slow, metallic tide pushing toward the North.
But no matter how impressive the knights looked, nothing drew more attention than the queen's double-decked wheelhouse.
It wasn't just a carriage. It was a palace on wheels.
Forty-two horses pulled it in two massive rows, six across and seven deep.
Four drivers handled the reins while another man walked between the teams, adjusting tension and shouting orders.
Even getting the thing to move in a straight line required constant effort.
Robert had been cursing nonstop since they left King's Landing.
"Seven hells!"
"At this pace we won't reach Winterfell before next year!"
Joffrey rode beside him, ears ringing. Every shout from his father came wrapped in the heavy scent of ale.
To be fair, the slow pace wasn't entirely the wheelhouse's fault.
Before departure, Robert had sent ravens across the Crownlands and the Stormlands, inviting any idle bannermen to join his grand northern journey.
And they had come.
Every knight who joined brought two sworn swords or freeriders behind him, along with five or six squires and servants.
Robert accepted all of them as long as they shouted "Long live the king."
Cersei, on the other hand, inspected them with a cold gaze.
If someone looked sloppy or displeased her in any way, Lannister guards would quietly move them to the rear of the procession.
By the time the additions and removals balanced out, the traveling party had swelled past two hundred.
And that was only the southern lords.
More nobles were waiting along the Kingsroad farther north, ready to merge with the royal host once it passed by.
The entire thing felt like a snowball rolling downhill, collecting weeds and debris as it went.
The people in the procession were a mixed bunch.
Young knights eager to show off before the king rode in shining armor that had never seen real combat.
Clever minor lords carried gifts and marriageable daughters, their eyes constantly scanning the sons of greater houses.
And there were plenty who simply came for the free food and the chance to complain about border disputes, smiling too widely and bowing too deeply.
Joffrey quietly memorized faces.
Which ones would support House Baratheon in the future. Which ones would lean toward House Lannister.
Which ones would kneel the moment a Targaryen dragon appeared.
He tried matching them with fragments of memory from his past life. But those memories were broken and unreliable.
Too many names. Too many similar sigils. Too many repeated titles.
It was exhausting.
On the seventh day after leaving King's Landing, the queen's glorious wheelhouse suffered its first humiliation.
They had just left the smoothest stretch of the Kingsroad and entered the Riverlands.
A shallow mud pit lay in the road. A hundred riders had passed it without trouble.
Then the massive wheelhouse rolled forward.
Squish.
One side of the enormous wheel sank deep into the mud.
The drivers cracked their whips until the air whistled. The horses strained, foam gathering at their mouths. The wheels didn't move an inch.
"I knew it!" Robert roared from horseback. "This cursed land is haunted!"
His voice carried across half the column.
Cersei, however, remained inside the swaying structure, refusing to step down. In her view, setting foot in mud would be undignified.
As the wheel sank deeper, Joffrey nudged his horse forward and found Tyrion squatting by the roadside, muttering.
"What if we build a wooden ramp," Joffrey suggested calmly. "Like when they move siege towers."
Tyrion looked up.
"Brilliant!"
He sprang to his feet, rolled up his sleeves, and started barking orders. Planks were torn from supply carts. Ropes were brought forward.
Dozens of men pushed and pulled until, with a wet sucking sound, the wheelhouse was dragged free.
That evening, after camp was set, Tyrion slipped into Joffrey's tent carrying a jug of wine.
"After all these years, the family finally produces someone who thinks," he said, dropping onto a stool.
"Next time, though, perhaps help me shout? I nearly lost my voice convincing those proud knights to do manual labor."
Joffrey simply poured him wine, cutting off further complaints.
The farther north they traveled, the gloomier the sky became.
The warm breezes of King's Landing were replaced by damp Riverlands air. Fields grew muddier. Campsites became contested ground.
The royal household had steady supplies, but the lesser nobles squabbled constantly over dry patches of earth.
Three days later, they crossed the Trident and flooded into the Inn at the Crossroads.
The white stone building was large, three stories tall. The innkeeper, a red-toothed woman, forced a wide smile and brought out honey cakes.
Her smile looked strained.
The inn could barely hold a hundred guests, and half the rooms were already occupied.
But when the words "The king has arrived" spread, previous guests quickly vacated their rooms.
Even so, space was limited.
Two knights—one from the Crownlands, one from the Stormlands—began arguing over who deserved to lodge in the same inn as the king.
Shouting turned into shoving.
Shoving nearly turned into a duel.
When news reached Robert, he grinned.
He marked out a space in the courtyard immediately. "Fight! Let me see what you've got!"
The two men were pushed into the circle.
They had been loud and bold while arguing, but once steel met steel, both became cautious. Neither wanted to suffer a serious wound.
Robert lost interest within minutes. He finished his drink, slammed the cup down, and told them to get out of his sight.
That night, Joffrey lay on a narrow inn bed, reading by candlelight.
The book in his hands was A Treatise on the Herbs of Westeros.
The genealogy book had already been altered and returned to Pycelle. Only this one remained with him for the journey.
He had other books in his trunk—romantic tales adapted from songs.
Stories of Florian and Jonquil. Of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.
He had studied them thoroughly in the past, purely for strategic purposes. Now, just seeing those titles made him feel mildly ill.
Since the wheelhouse incident, Cersei's mood had visibly darkened.
She rarely emerged. She ate, slept, and remained inside her carriage.
Joffrey didn't provoke her.
She had already begun suspecting he was slipping beyond her control.
The day he collected the sword in King's Landing, she had confronted him about it. When she heard it was a gift for a Stark boy, she nearly exploded.
But Joffrey had prepared for that.
"I saw a black-haired apprentice at Tobho Mott's forge," he had said lightly. "Blue eyes. He looks remarkably like Father."
The words worked like magic.
Cersei's attention shifted instantly.
She gave Joffrey a long look, said nothing, and left.
Whatever happened after that no longer concerned him.
After crossing the Green Fork, the procession continued its slow crawl northward.
To the west flowed the great river. To the east rose the dangerous Mountains of the Moon.
The Kingsroad ran between them, stretching toward the Neck.
A detachment from Winterfell was already waiting ahead—twenty mounted guards led by the captain of Lord Eddard Stark's household guard.
Efficient. Respectful.
Eddard Stark clearly took this visit seriously.
Robert, on the other hand, had only remembered to notify him halfway through the journey. He had written a hurried letter at some roadside castle and sent it by raven.
By this point, the queen's massive wheelhouse had become more burden than pride.
The accompanying craftsmen spent half a day dismantling it. The pieces were loaded onto supply wagons.
Cersei transferred silently to a smaller carriage and drew the curtains tightly shut.
Joffrey looked ahead at the endless road and groaned.
"We're only halfway?"
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