They pushed through the Neck, the air thick with the stink of rot, and finally reached the real gateway to the North.
Guarded by swamp and quicksand, three black basalt towers rose from the marsh, locking down the single causeway that led north.
"No siege tower could ever reach this black muck!"
Jory Cassel, the captain of Lord Eddard's guard sent to meet them, stood ramrod straight as he gave the tour.
"To take it you'd have to storm the main gate or climb the walls under arrow fire."
He pointed at the walls slick with moss, grinning like a proud father. "But one good rake shove and they slide straight into the mud."
"If they're short, they might just vanish."
The second the words were out, he slapped a hand over his mouth.
Robert sat his horse under the gatehouse, squinting up at the towers. For once he didn't curse—he just grunted.
"Good spot to hold."
Joffrey tossed in a half-hearted echo. "Yeah, yeah. Moat Cailin really is the North's greatest fortress."
But the Imp never let an insult slide. Tyrion fired back on the spot.
"I heard there used to be twenty towers here back in the old days." The Imp waddled over to the base of the wall and picked at the moss-filled cracks.
He pried off a chunk of weathered stone and started tossing it up and down.
"What happened? Did all the North's stonemasons switch to carving ice sculptures?"
"Or are the Starks so broke they can't even pay for repairs?"
Jory opened his mouth to argue.
Joffrey cut in first.
"Uncle, the last few years have been peaceful and the realm's been prosperous."
"Wouldn't the coin be better spent fixing people's homes or throwing a decent harvest feast instead of dumping it into this bottomless swamp?"
He scratched his itchy neck.
Twelve days crossing the Neck had left him feeling sticky and miserable.
He just wanted this over so he could sit down somewhere dry.
Even with the save, the pride on the captain's face stayed frozen.
He glanced at Robert's neutral expression, then at the huge column waiting behind them, and finally gave a stiff bow.
"Your Grace, your rooms are ready. It's damp and cold here—best to rest early."
He turned and led the way, shoulders a little slumped.
Once inside the castle courtyard at Moat Cailin, Joffrey could still see faint traces of past glory in the layout.
With the hundred northern soldiers stationed here, the three remaining towers had more than enough space for the king's three hundred followers.
Some would just have to sleep on the hall floor.
After they reached their room, Joffrey cleared a dry corner, wrapped himself in a thick cloak, and settled in while the servants set up the beds.
He was sharing with Tyrion tonight—the man barely took up any space.
Moisture seeped from the stone walls and the dust of centuries gave off a musty smell.
The Imp didn't seem to mind the crude conditions at all. He poked around, then wandered over to his servant Morrec, pulled a suspicious-looking strip of jerky from his bulging pack, sniffed it, shook some pepper from a little silver vial onto it, and tore off a big bite.
"Want some?"
The chewing echoed loudly in the quiet stone chamber.
Joffrey frowned and looked away.
"You can actually eat that."
Yesterday a knight from the riverlands had somehow caught a lizard-lion and proudly carried it straight to Robert.
The king had laughed, taken it, and tossed the man a gold dragon.
Then he'd thrown the carcass into a wagon and forgotten about it.
Somehow—on purpose or not—that wagon happened to be carrying the queen's luggage.
The thing's bared fangs had been pointed right at the door.
In the middle of the screaming, Tyrion had picked it up, had it skinned, and roasted it himself over the fire until it was charred black.
"When in the Neck," the Imp mumbled around a mouthful, "do as the crannogmen do."
"Crannogmen eat raw frogs too," Joffrey snapped. He'd always been careful about what he ate. "Why don't you try that?"
"Frogs?" Tyrion's eyes lit up. He glanced around the room. "Where? I don't hear any croaking."
He shot a look at the Hound dozing by the door and scooted closer to the small burning hearth.
"Maybe some hungry dog already stole them?"
Sandor Clegane didn't even lift his eyelids. His crossed arms just tightened a fraction.
Joffrey didn't want any trouble and stayed quiet.
When no one played along, Tyrion got bored and tossed the rest of the lizard-lion jerky out the window.
The stone room fell quiet.
All that remained was the occasional pop of damp firewood and the endless low rustling from the deep marsh outside in the black night.
After leaving Moat Cailin and heading north, the weather didn't improve. Thick clouds pressed low, threatening snow at any moment.
The road ran through wide fields dotted with barrow mounds—fitting, since the area was called the Barrowlands.
Three days from Winterfell the column stopped again.
No real reason—just to wait while the queen had her "creaking monster" put back together.
Nobody but Robert dared call it that out loud.
When the huge castle finally appeared on the horizon, Joffrey let out a long breath.
Finally.
It was do or die. This time he had to lock down the entire Stark family.
This trip had been a royal pain in the ass.
Once they reached the gates, Joffrey got a close look at the heart of the North.
It wasn't a grand city like King's Landing—just a massive castle of plain gray stone built for the lord and his household.
Even including the winter town outside, the permanent population couldn't have been more than twenty thousand.
A clear sign of how empty the North really was.
Beneath the direwolf banners the iron portcullis rose slowly. The king rode in first, flanked by two Kingsguard.
He swung down from his horse and pulled Lord Eddard into a crushing hug.
"Ned!"
The king laughed loudly, using the lord's nickname.
"You haven't changed a bit."
Eddard pulled free and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours to command."
The queen entered on foot with Joffrey's brother and sister. Her creaking monster obviously couldn't fit through the gates.
After the adults exchanged greetings, Joffrey and the others were formally introduced.
Eddard Stark was a tall, stern man with brown hair and gray eyes. A few white strands showed in his neatly trimmed beard, making him look older than his thirty-five years.
But those five little Starks…
Joffrey suddenly realized there was a lot he could work with here.
You serious-faced bastard—four of your own kids have red hair!