The alliance sealed at the Field of the Green Cloth would be one of the most unlikely, important and enduring alliances in the history of Westeros. It ushered in a new era of history, marked by the inauguration of a new and purely Westerosi dynasty.

THE HOUND

He was enjoying this. "AGAIN!" he barked.

His halfwit of a King rushed forward, swinging his absurd little sword. Weak, wild and completely without discipline. It was no difficulty whatsoever to parry, and none more to send him sprawling back into the dirt.

Joffrey flung himself back to his feet, clinging forlornly to his arm. He looked torn between crying for his mother and spouting yet more unheeded royal decrees.

"You should not strike a King, dog. Don't imagine I will forget this."

Something between the two, then. Sandor shrugged, indifferent. "Ser Kevan holds the power now, and he wants you trained up. You're starting late, so you'll learn nothing without bruises."

"I don't see why I need to learn any of this at all. I am the King, I have others to die for me. You among them, dog."

He suppressed a bout of pure hatred for the boy, as he often did. "Aye, you do. Still, I heard you say you meant to slay your Uncle yourself. If you mean to do that, you best pay some attention."

That got the little fool's notice, at least. The boy found the energy for another one of his mad, screeching attacks. Once again he was sent flailing backwards. This time he stayed down, mewling about his royal dignity a holding his bloodied lip.

Sandor could not fail to notice the many discrete spectators of their bout. Most were Ser Kevan's men, but there were other assorted lords and knights. They showed no outward reaction to their King's cowardice and ineptitude, much as they showed none when he'd taken to firing his crossbow at beggars from the battlements of the keep.

He grabbed the boy and hoisted him to his feet, belaying a further tantrum. "That'll be enough of this for the day. I was told to take you to the Septon to learn about the light of the Seven, or some such shit."

The boy frothed with aimless anger. He'd not much enjoyed the new regime, that was certain. Ser Kevan was not in the same habit of fond indulgence as the whore Queen had been, nor was he shy of introducing the back of his hand to Joffrey's esteemed royal cheeks.

He dragged his charge to the Septon, content for that doddering old pervert to suffer the boy for a few hours, and was relieved of his guard by Ser Arys.

In previous years, he would have liked to go out into the city and wench and whore away his night. Of late, that would not be so wise. The ordinary folk of the city had taken to pouring their chamber atop the heads of those who openly went about the King's business.

A few times already he had been called out to bash some skulls together when Western bannermen got themselves into trouble. The whole city seemed ready for another bout of rioting and disorder. In any case, the stink of death and starvation that seemed to permeate the streets was less prevalent within the walls of the Red Keep.

He'd taken to pacing the battlements, instead. Much of the city could be seen from there, all of the gates and the Blackwater Bay. He wondered how long it would be before the war would come to them. The whole city was rife with rumours of plots and imminent attack.

Many could scarcely wait for a chance to change their rulers, he knew. Sandor had nothing but derision for such people. However much the Lannisters were cunts, they weren't likely to give up the city without a fight. That would mean a sack, and everything that entailed.

It was a waste of time to contemplate such things, he realised. It was not as if he had the power to change a damn thing. Still, there was hardly much in the way of distraction in times like these.

Well, besides when Ser Kevan had ordered Baelish's head smitten off. Sandor would gladly pay his whole week's stipend to see that again.

ARYA

Arya was not at all sure what to make of any of this. She had been in the south for some time now, and these Reacher folk seemed to be the most southern of all the southerners. So fond of pageantry, of speeches and of display.

Still, Robb had told her they needed to come here. That they needed to win the support of these strange people if they wanted to make their enemies pay for what they had done to father. She did not quite understand how, but thought that if her brother said so it must be true. He hadn't been wrong yet.

He met her eyes. She gave him a big smile, and he winked back. She stifled a laugh. She was to be on her best behaviour today, as ladylike as Sansa even. She didn't mind, really. It wasn't everyday her big brother would get married, after all. She'd even compromised on the dress with the Septa, who nowadays was her constant shadow.

She was sat between Theon and Uncle Brynden, forming Robb's small familial party in the front row. Theon had escorted her inside politely enough, but made no attempt to initiate any conversation. Come to think of it, he had been extremely sullen lately, seeming to have withdrawn into himself. She would ask Robb about it later, after the wedding.

Her brother stood at the front of the hall, tall and proud. He was adorned in light armour, with his sword clasped to his hip. It was more for show than battle, in truth, but he still cut a dignified picture.

He was proudly surrounded by the symbols of their house. A huge banner was hung across the wall behind him, depicting a rampant crowned direwolf on a pure white field. The real thing sat by his feet. Grey Wind seemed to be observing all of the proceedings without much concern. Arya had seen many of the southern lords and ladies eye the wolf with great wariness. She could not help but wonder what had become of her Nymeria.

She was distracted from her brother by a sudden blast of trumpetry. She almost groaned in annoyance. The most southern of the southerners, indeed. The whole hall rose to its feet. Arya looked over all of the assorted nobility. Behind her were some of the most important Northmen that had come south with Robb. The Greatjon, Lord Glover, Lord Norrey and others. She met Lord Bolton's eyes only briefly, but quickly looked away.

On the other side of the hall were the assembled worthies of the Reach. She did not know most of them, having barely paid any attention to what few of Septa Mordane's lessons had been dedicated to this far-away land. She knew only that the first rows were the bride's family. She recognised Ser Loras, to whom she had been introduced. And old Lady Olenna, who had introduced herself.

Her attention was drawn, like most everyone else, to the arrival of her brother's bride. Arya supposed she was beautiful, insofar as she cared to ponder such things. Sansa would probably be gushing over the dress, but that was never in her nature. She felt a pang of sadness. She hoped to see her sister again someday.

The Lady Margaery made her way up the altar, a perfect picture of ladylike precision and grace. She was escorted by a portly man, doubtless her lord father. She halted before Robb and made a slight curtsey. Robb inclined his head and gave a shallow bow.

Lord Mace gently removed the silken green Tyrell cloak from his daughter's shoulders. Uncle Brynden stepped forward and handed Robb the Stark bride cloak. The grey direwolf could hardly have contrasted more with the green rose it replaced as Robb clasped it to his bride's shoulders.

The two of them stood facing one another now, before the Septon. Lady Margaery gave Robb a beaming smile, and spoke out clearly. "With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

Robb gave her only a small smile in response. "With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife."

They kissed, which to Arya seemed a rather gross embrace, and the hall applauded politely. The Septon spoke over the din to declare them both man and wife. The trumpetry was resumed with great enthusiasm, and her brother led his new bride out of the hall as the crowd filed out behind them.

All of the esteemed guests were accommodated in great tents of green cloth for the feasting, which the Tyrells had set out with great care. The innermost tent was the largest and most luxurious, fitting perhaps a hundred of the most important guests, Arya among them.

As Robb's closest present family, she was placed at the main table between the now Margaery Stark and her grandmother, the Lady Olenna.

As dish after dish of luxurious fare was placed before them, she tried to ignore the adult conversation all around her. It all seemed far too serious for a wedding, anyway.

Perhaps Lady Olenna agreed, for the slender and wise-looking old women turned to her. "My dear, you do appear to be rather ferocious. You needn't spear your boar with quite such force, it's already rather dead."

She blushed in embarrassment. Her manners could only carry her so far, it appeared.

Her new goodsister smiled in amusement, but rose to her defence. "Now Grandmama, it's been a rather long and tiring day, so I'm sure you can forgive such a minor lapse."

"I'll have you know, it wasn't a criticism. I'll be glad to have a young girl with a bit of personality beside me. I am rather sick of your collection of clucking hens." responded the old woman.

Margaery laughed. "Oh dear, what shall our new family think of us?"

"That we have some wits about us, I should hope." Lady Olenna turned back to her. "Now girl, there are worse things for you to be than fierce. Your brother has named you the Lady of Harrenhal, has he not? In your own right, as well. You both had a Whent grandmother, I believe. That'll be no position for a clucking hen, be sure of that."

Arya smiled uncertainly. She thought the old woman was trying to encourage her, but she could never be completely sure. She looked to Robb. He nodded at her, encouraging. "Most girls are stupid hens." she replied.

The old woman snorted, and most of the table laughed. Arya felt a bit more sure of herself.

Lady Olenna turned now to Robb. "The question is, the question on all our minds, what is the next chapter in this saga of the Young Wolf? You've thoroughly charmed us all, for sure, and successfully bundled my granddaughter into your bed. How shall you direct the rather large army you've received for her dowry?"

"I'm sure, my lady, that you have likely discerned much of what I intend. We must see the Florents and their ilk laid low, but once we have done so I mean to exert our combined power to restore peace to the whole country."

The conversation was between the two of them, but Arya could see that practically all who were close enough to hear it were paying close attention.

Robb continued. "The Lannisters are all but defeated. Joffrey will meet his end soon enough, by my sword or another. The West lays prostrate, subject to a harrying this country has not seen since dragons roamed the skies.

Just this morning, I received a raven from Lord Karstark. Stafford Lannister's army has dispersed, and offers divided and ineffectual resistance. The Ironborn ravage the coasts. My forces have taken Ashemark and Sarsfield. A small Reacher army marching up the Ocean Road would meet very little resistance in subduing the rest of that beleaguered country."

"All well and good, yes. A very pretty picture. Come the morning, after you and my granddaughter have had your nocturnal fun, we'll go through all the dreary business of claiming and crowning and so forth. We send a few thousand men traipsing up the coast, and by then we'll have more of the realm than not acclaiming you their King.

But what of Stannis? I may be a feeble old woman, but I see clearly enough to know that he'll be the greatest threat now. We both know of his unique proclivities, I think."

A chilly and awkward silence seemed to still the room, as if some unknown line had been transgressed.

Robb spoke up. "There is something that can be done about his.. proclivities, but this is not the place to discuss that."

The old woman clapped her hands together once, her cheer seemingly restored. "By all means then, let us postpone all such business. I shall let you enjoy my granddaughter thoroughly."

Margaery laughed, affecting a blush. "Grandmama, please."

The rest of the celebrations were not particularly interesting to Arya. There were a few more dainty courses, and then everyone began to shout for a bedding, as was apparently the norm. Grey Wind scared away anyone who thought to lay a hand on his master's new wife with an almighty growl, and Robb had led her from the tent to get on with whatever strange ceremony they were supposed to do.

Arya was led back to her own quarters by the Septa, who bid her good night. She yawned. It had been a long day of ceremony and feasting and strange adult conversations.

She did not hear the man's approach, and went rigid with shock and fright as his hand came down over her mouth. Immediately, she began to struggle and thrash, until she heard him whisper in her ear.

"A boy becomes a girl, and a girl becomes a princess."

Arya closed her eyes. She had been dreading this moment for some time.

The man known as Jaqen H'ghar spoke again. "Three lives a girl took from the God of Many Faces. A debt must be repaid. Speak three names."

She gulped. Robb had told her this would happen. She focused on what he had told her.

Arya took a deep breath, and spoke the names.