The Hound's rough laughter echoed from the woods.
"Children, come take a look," he shouted, his voice filled with crude amusement. "There's a pair of knights having a duel here."
Joffrey and Sansa urged their horses forward.
After passing between a few trees, the forest suddenly opened into a clearing.
It was a small rise within the woods, high enough to overlook the shimmering waters of the Green Fork and the flat riverbank below.
In the center of the trampled grass stood a thin, ragged girl.
She was covered in dust, wearing a dirty leather riding outfit. In her right hand she gripped a broomstick, while her left knuckles were stuffed into her mouth.
"Arya? Is that you?" Sansa cried in disbelief.
The girl spun around.
Her long horse-like face froze for a moment as her gray eyes widened.
Then embarrassment and anger flooded her expression when she realized she had been discovered.
"Go away!" she shouted sharply, like a small wolf with its tail stepped on. "Leave us alone!"
Joffrey swept his gaze across the clearing.
Besides Arya, there was a sturdy boy standing awkwardly beside a tree, clearly unsure what to do with his hands or feet.
Joffrey nodded toward him calmly.
"You're her companion?"
"M-my lord… Your Highness. My name is Mycah," the boy stammered. He dropped the stick in his hands and hurried forward to bow clumsily.
Under the Hound's cold stare, he trembled visibly.
Arya immediately rushed forward, spreading her arms to block him.
"You're not allowed to bully him!"
As she raised her arms, the bruises and scratches hidden beneath her sleeves became visible in the sunlight.
"Oh my!" Sansa gasped, covering her mouth. "How did you get hurt like that?"
The boy shuddered again and instinctively stepped away, as if fleeing a White Walker.
"Your Highness, I didn't want to fight her," he said desperately, almost crying. "She forced me to do it… she really did!"
Arya's face instantly flushed red to the tips of her ears, confirming the boy's claim.
Joffrey slowly dismounted and handed the reins to the Hound.
Then he crouched carefully in front of Arya, moving gently as if not to startle her.
"Were you practicing sword fighting with him?"
Arya glanced toward Mycah, who had retreated even farther away. Confusion and frustration flickered in her gray eyes.
She bit her lip and nodded.
"You could tell your father," Joffrey said patiently. "Ask him to hire a proper sword instructor. That would be much better than sparring here with a broomstick."
"Girls can't be knights," Sansa objected softly, her blue eyes full of firm certainty.
"That's not necessarily true," Joffrey replied with a faint smile.
"The warrior queen Nymeria of the Rhoynar led ten thousand ships and conquered Dorne."
He had memorized these stories long ago, just in case he needed them.
Arya's voice suddenly rose with excitement. "You know about her too? My wolf is named Nymeria!"
At her call, a scruffy little direwolf suddenly darted out of the bushes.
Joffrey watched it carefully, his body instinctively tense. He was ready in case the animal suddenly decided to bite him.
"Didn't the book I gave you mention her?" he said with a calm smile. "She appears at the beginning of the third volume."
"Oh… right." Arya scratched her messy hair. "I… I haven't reached that part yet."
Sansa spoke again, her tone more certain this time. "Father will never allow it. A lady shouldn't play with swords."
"That's fine," Joffrey said as he stood up, brushing dust from his knees.
"I'll speak with my father later. He can convince Lord Eddard."
Sansa stared at him in confusion.
Her beautiful face clearly asked a single question. Why are you always defending her?
Joffrey could not explain.
He could not tell Sansa that beneath Arya's wild appearance lay the potential to overturn the future.
Nor could he know whether his interference would prevent her from walking the lonely path that once turned her into a deadly Faceless assassin.
But no matter what happened, investing early always paid off.
The suspicion in Arya's eyes had already faded.
Joffrey seized the moment and gently pulled her along. "Come on. We should head back."
By the time they returned to camp, the sky had grown dark.
The hunting party had already come back, their success rather unimpressive.
But Robert's enthusiasm remained high.
He sat beside the campfire loudly describing how he had wrestled with a wild bull earlier that afternoon before mercifully letting it escape into the forest.
Joffrey ate quickly and then excused himself, claiming fatigue.
He returned to his tent.
The Hound sat outside, wiping the blade of his massive two-handed sword with an oiled cloth. The distant firelight cast his shadow long across the ground.
"You really planning to find a sword teacher for that wild girl?" Sandor asked without looking up.
"Of course," Joffrey replied as he walked past. "Have I ever lied about something I promised?"
The Hound snorted and continued polishing the blade more forcefully.
Inside the tent, a small tallow candle had already been lit. Its dim yellow light barely illuminated the cramped space.
Joffrey sat on the edge of his bed and took a slow breath. Then he cleared every distraction from his mind.
The cooldown for Stargazing had ended.
Closing his eyes, he focused his thoughts like adjusting the lens of a telescope.
Deep within his consciousness, he locked onto a single target.
Catelyn Tully.
The view shifted suddenly.
The world blurred as his perspective stretched violently.
For a moment, Joffrey felt as if he had been thrown high into the sky. Invisible winds roared around him.
Below him was no longer the camp by the Green Fork.
Instead, an endless sea stretched into the distance.
He plunged downward rapidly as the scenery sharpened. At last, his vision settled on the deck of a ship cutting through the waves.
A woman stood with her back toward him, leaning against the railing.
She wore simple coarse clothing and a plain wool cloak, dressed like any ordinary traveler.
Beside her, an old man with white hair leaned over the railing, vomiting violently. His thick beard was stained with the mess.
The woman gently patted his back with her left hand. As she moved, the hilt of a dagger briefly appeared at her waist.
Hidden beneath the cloak, her right hand was wrapped in white linen bandages.
Joffrey withdrew his sight.
A dull pressure throbbed at his temples.
As expected.
He slowly exhaled, as if trying to release the tension in his chest.
The worst possibility had come true.
Catelyn had not remained in Winterfell to watch over Bran. She had already left in secret and was traveling south.
And she had taken the Valyrian steel dagger with the dragonbone hilt.
Who had pushed this event forward?
The dagger originally belonged to Littlefinger, but he had lost it to Robert during the tourney the previous year.
Joffrey himself had confirmed that it rested in the king's traveling armory when the royal party came north.
Littlefinger and Varys were both in King's Landing, separated from Winterfell by thousands of miles.
Manipulating this situation from so far away would have been extremely difficult.
Joffrey walked to the table and pulled out a sheet of parchment.
His first instinct was to warn Tyrion.
The dwarf needed to be careful on his journey south and avoid unnecessary trouble.
But the quill hovered above the paper without touching it.
Tyrion was probably still at Castle Black, standing atop the Wall and relieving himself toward the lands beyond.
Soon he would briefly return to Winterfell before traveling south along the Kingsroad, his movements unpredictable.
Royal messengers would attract too much attention.
Ravens were unreliable.
Sending a letter might expose the situation too early.
After thinking it through, Joffrey lifted a corner of the tent flap.
Outside, the night was deep. Robert's booming laughter carried from the campfire gathering.
Could it be…
Joffrey began quietly counting the pieces on his board.
The road south would soon reach its destination. And that destination was the beginning of another storm.
__________
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