After pushing through the rotting stench of the Neck for nearly two weeks, the royal procession finally reached the true entrance to the North.
Surrounded by bogs and treacherous quicksand, three black basalt towers rose from the marsh like jagged teeth.
They guarded the only causeway that led northward.
"Siege towers can't even stand in this mud," said Jory Cassel, captain of Stark's household guard, who had been sent to receive them.
He stood straight-backed, pride clear in his voice.
"If anyone wants to attack, they must charge the gate head-on or climb ladders under a rain of arrows."
He pointed toward the slick, moss-covered walls.
"And even if they make it up, one push with a pole and they'll fall right back into the swamp. If they're short enough, they might sink without a trace."
He finished speaking and quickly covered his mouth, realizing what he had just implied.
Robert sat astride his horse beneath the gate, squinting upward.
For once, he didn't roar or curse. He merely grunted.
"Good place for a last stand."
Joffrey nodded politely. "Indeed. Moat Cailin truly deserves its reputation as the North's greatest stronghold."
Tyrion, however, never let an opportunity pass.
"I've heard that in ancient times there were twenty towers here," he said as he shuffled toward the wall.
He scraped at a crack between stones, pried off a weathered fragment, and tossed it lightly in his palm.
"What happened? Did the North's stonemasons decide to carve ice sculptures instead?"
"Or did House Stark run short on coin for repairs?"
Jory opened his mouth to reply.
Joffrey cut in smoothly. "Uncle, the realm has enjoyed years of peace and good harvests.
Would it not be wiser to spend gold on homes and feasts for the people rather than pouring it into a swamp that may never see war again?"
He scratched at his neck.
Twelve days through the Neck had left him sticky and uncomfortable. All he wanted was to get inside and sit somewhere dry.
Even with Joffrey smoothing things over, the pride on Jory's face stiffened.
He glanced at Robert, who showed no clear reaction, then at the massive host waiting behind them.
In the end, he bowed stiffly.
"Your Grace, rooms are prepared. The air here is damp and cold. Please rest early."
He turned and led the way, his back looking slightly less confident than before.
Inside the courtyard of Moat Cailin, Joffrey could still sense traces of former glory.
Even in its ruined state, with only three towers remaining and a garrison of a hundred northern soldiers, it could barely accommodate the king's three hundred attendants.
Some would have to sleep in the great hall.
Once inside his chamber, Joffrey found a dry corner and wrapped himself in a thick cloak while servants prepared the bedding.
He was sharing the room with Tyrion. It was practical. The dwarf did not take up much space.
Moisture seeped through the stone walls. The dust of centuries carried a faint moldy scent.
Tyrion didn't seem bothered at all. He wandered around the room, touching this and that, before stopping beside the servant Morris.
From a bulging pack, he pulled out a suspiciously colored slab of dried meat.
He sniffed it, then uncorked a small silver vial and sprinkled pepper over it before tearing into it with enthusiasm.
"Care for some?" he asked through loud chewing.
Joffrey frowned and looked away. "You really have the stomach for that."
The previous day, a knight from the Riverlands had somehow managed to capture a lizard-lion.
He had proudly presented it to Robert.
The king had laughed heartily, tossed him a gold dragon, and promptly had the beast thrown into a carriage without another glance.
By coincidence or perhaps fate, that carriage happened to contain the queen's belongings.
The creature's sharp teeth had been pointed directly toward the door.
In the chaos and screaming that followed, Tyrion had calmly retrieved it.
He had it skinned, roasted it himself until the meat turned nearly black, and declared it edible.
"When in the North, eat like the North," Tyrion said, mouth full. "The crannogmen eat this."
"They also eat frogs," Joffrey replied dryly. He had always been cautious about food. "Why not try that too?"
"Frogs?" Tyrion's eyes lit up. He looked around theatrically. "Where? I don't hear any croaking."
He glanced toward Sandor Clegane, who was resting near the door, and edged closer to the fireplace.
"Or did some hungry hound get to them first?"
Sandor didn't even open his eyes. His crossed arms merely tightened slightly.
Joffrey didn't bother engaging further.
Seeing no reaction, Tyrion grew bored and tossed the remaining lizard-lion meat out the window.
The room soon fell silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of damp firewood and the endless murmuring sounds rising from the marsh outside in the dark.
After leaving Moat Cailin and continuing north, the weather didn't improve. Heavy clouds hung low, threatening snow at any moment.
On both sides of the road stretched wide fields dotted with ancient burial mounds. This was the Barrowlands, after all.
Three days from Winterfell, the procession halted once more.
They had to wait for the queen's creaking monstrosity to be reassembled.
Only Robert dared call it that.
When Winterfell finally appeared on the horizon, Joffrey let out a long breath.
At last.
This visit had to succeed. Either he secured the Starks as allies, or he gained nothing from this exhausting journey.
As they approached the walls, Joffrey finally saw the heart of the North up close.
It was nothing like the splendor of King's Landing.
No sprawling city, no glittering marble. Just an immense castle of ancient gray stone, built to house its lord and his household.
Even including the winter town outside the walls, the permanent population likely did not exceed twenty thousand.
The vastness and emptiness of the North were obvious.
Beneath the direwolf banners, the iron portcullis rose slowly. Robert rode in first, flanked by two members of the Kingsguard.
He dismounted in one swift motion and pulled Eddard Stark into a crushing embrace.
"Ned!"
The king laughed loudly, calling him by his old nickname.
"You haven't changed at all."
Eddard stepped back and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace. Winterfell stands ready at your command."
Cersei entered on foot with Joffrey's younger siblings behind her. The wheelhouse, of course, could not pass through the gate.
After the adults exchanged formal greetings, it was time for introductions among the children.
Eddard was tall and stern, with brown hair and gray eyes.
Threads of white were already visible in his neatly trimmed beard, making him appear older than his thirty-five years.
But when Joffrey looked at the Stark children, a thought quietly formed in his mind.
There was opportunity here.
Four of them had red hair.
For a brief moment, Joffrey found himself thinking—
Interesting...
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