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"Your Grace," the prisoner said.
"You're not dead after all."
"You're still alive?"
Joffrey turned slowly, eyes sharp as Valyrian steel as he studied the middle-aged man kneeling below the dais.
Mathis Rowan was built like a bull—broad shoulders, strong jaw, long nose—but his chin jutted forward and his nose was covered in ugly lumps.
"Why are you treating our guest so roughly?" Joffrey snapped at the guards, voice dripping fake outrage. "Release him at once!"
He ordered a chair brought forward and personally helped the man sit.
"Lord Mathis," Joffrey said, tone warm and friendly. "You were supposed to be guarding Goldengrove. What brings you all the way to Bitterbridge?"
Mathis looked left, looked right, blinking in terror. His eyes darted around the tent like a cornered rat. After a moment he seemed to collect himself and gave Joffrey a long, calculating stare.
"Your Grace… Your Grace…"
"Spare me! I surrender!"
Then came the tearful story.
"By law I owed loyalty to the Iron Throne, but I am a vassal of the Reach. When the situation was unclear, I had no choice but to follow my liege lord."
"Lord Renly told everyone you had been murdered. He said the boy on the Iron Throne was your brother Tommen—a puppet. The real power lay with Queen Cersei and Lord Eddard."
"That's why I marched under Lord Mace's orders to fight you!"
Mathis poured out his regrets in a trembling voice. Mace Tyrell was a fool, Renly was all flash and no substance, and poor Mathis had been caught in the middle, forced to obey their tyranny.
Now the rightful king had arrived like a god from the sky. He would gladly write to his son and hand over Goldengrove. He would even lead the way himself and help crush the rebellion.
Joffrey smiled on the outside while laughing coldly inside.
Sure you would.
He had sent dozens of ravens into the Reach. Not one lord had answered. And according to the late Spider's old files, Mathis Rowan was cautious to a fault—well-liked by his people but stiff and careful. Mace trusted him completely. The feint that took Deep Den had been under his command.
A man like that suddenly weeping and offering to betray everything? Bullshit. Fake surrender.
"How wonderful!" Joffrey's smile widened. He stepped forward and took Mathis by the sleeve. "The Reach has always been known for its loyalty."
"Years ago my father won three battles in one day at Summerhall and captured Lords Grandison and Cafferen. On the field they were enemies. Off the field they drank together under the banners, hunted together the next morning."
Joffrey let the words hang for a second, then added meaningfully, "Yet my uncle Stannis said they should have been thrown in the dungeons."
"I would never do that," he said, voice bright. "My father is my example. Friend or foe, every noble will be treated with honor in my camp."
"Bring Lord Mathis clean clothes," he ordered. "And four servants to attend him day and night."
He turned to the messenger. "Lord Mathis's soldiers are now friends. Release them at once. They've marched hard—let the bathhouse girls scrub them down, wash their clothes, and find them a place to camp."
Mathis looked ready to cry with gratitude.
"Your Grace is merciful! Truly merciful!"
"I'll write a letter right now. My son will open Goldengrove's gates. I will lead my men as your vanguard!"
Still trying to get inside our lines, Joffrey thought.
"No need to rush, my lord," he said gently. "You've had a long, dusty road."
That night the command tent blazed with lanterns.
"Lord Mathis, you are a man of true honor. I salute you." Joffrey raised his cup. "Drink!"
Mathis drained the Dornish strongwine in one gulp, face already flushed.
Lord Ryger, Lord Buckwell, and the other Crownlands lords took turns toasting him. Even the Hound had been given quiet orders. He stepped forward with a flat voice.
"I drink to you. You take one cup, I'll take three."
Mathis was already swaying, but the Hound's reputation made him gulp it down anyway.
"Good man!" Ser Balon praised.
By the time the feast ended, Joffrey knew every detail of Goldengrove's defenses—the tower positions, troop numbers, granary locations.
The next morning Mathis arrived with two rolled parchments, still half-drunk.
"Your Grace, as you asked, I wrote two copies."
Joffrey examined both letters. They were perfect—pleading, logical, full of a father's authority. If there was a hidden code, he couldn't spot it.
"Send one by raven to Goldengrove. Give the other to Lord Eddard."
"Shall I leave at once?" Mathis asked eagerly. "I fear Lord Eddard may already be storming the walls."
Joffrey took his hand. "I understand your worry, my lord. But the road passes through the battlefield—there could be danger."
"Here is what we'll do. I'll send Ser Balon with a troop of knights to escort you. He's careful and can handle any trouble. Your own men have marched hard and many are wounded. Let them rest here for now. The main army will move south soon to join Lord Eddard. They can travel with us and return to Goldengrove together."
Mathis's eyes brimmed with tears. "Your Grace thinks of everything! House Rowan will serve you forever!"
Joffrey patted his shoulder, then turned to Balon.
"Ser, look after Lord Mathis well. If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible."
Balon gave a small nod. "As you command."
Once Mathis and his escort disappeared over the horizon, Joffrey's face went cold.
"New orders," he said. "Keep Mathis's old troops under close guard. Move them to the rear baggage train. Disarm them completely and confiscate every weapon and piece of armor. Build siege engines immediately. We march east and lay siege to Bitterbridge."
---
Eddard stood on the riverbank, staring across at the endless line of enemy campfires. His brow was furrowed.
Renly's army had reached the far bank. Thousands of fires painted the night sky blood-red.
Small probes and raids never stopped. Both sides raced to build landing stages and destroy the other's makeshift bridges.
Eddard was racing the clock. He had to take Goldengrove before Renly could capture Rosby and threaten Casterly Rock. He needed a foothold in the Reach.
But Goldengrove was no easy nut. It sat on high ground beside the river, walls rooted in solid rock, more than thirty feet thick. Towers bristled with scorpions that could rake the approach road.
He was still weighing the cost of a direct assault when a rider galloped up.
"Lord Hand! A sealed letter from His Grace!"
Eddard broke the seal. His eyes widened as he read.
Inside was a detailed map of Goldengrove—tower placements, troop positions, granary locations, everything.
At the bottom was a short note in Joffrey's hand:
"Goldengrove may fall without a fight. But watch the Rowans—they may still turn on us."
Two days later Renly received the news and nearly fell off his horse.
"What?!"
"Goldengrove is lost!"