Chapter Eight – Winter Times

Robb

And he kissed her. She really does taste of roses.

Her lips were soft, sweet, unpainted, and instantly moved with his as soon as they came together. He put one arm around her back, another around her slender shoulders, and he felt one of her hands move up into her hair and pull him closer to her. Her tongue pushed at his lips - but he pulled back. She made a sound of disproval, almost like a whine, pouting at him as he withdrew. "Really?" she complained. "All but two months have I been after you, and now-"

"Less than what you were waiting on?" Robb found himself smiling as he asked her if he met her expectations in romantic matters. "I haven't had any practice at kissing for a while, so it might be a mess-"

"You are fantastic at it, your Grace" she smiled back at him and pulled him back to her, and so he kissed her. Again. Though this time she was doing most of the work – one hand in his hair, the other on the back of his neck, pulling him hard into her, pressing herself close into him, and it would be easy, so, so easy, to lose himself in her embrace and take her in his arms even more than he already had. His cloak looked good on her. Damned good. He had an inkling to rip all other things off of her, until the only things his cloak touched was her naked skin, and then hoist her over his shoulder, bring her back to his chambers and pull the net and pins out of her hair. And then drape her hair over his pillows as-

Restraint. A king knows restraint.

"Gods, how I hate myself for this" he muttered as he gently took her by the shoulders and pushed her back and a little away. She was disappointed, he could tell, but not by much going by her smile. It reminded him of a cat that had caught a pigeon, for some reason. And he supposed that he had played right into her plans. She had all right to be smug and victorious. "I swore an oath to marry the Frey girl" he told her, and her face fell, and there was a wrench of pain in his chest at the sight. "No, I mean, I cannot break that oath. I cannot. But… there is a way, I think, without resorting to dishonour. I'm not quite sure yet. I will speak to my advisors about that. Can you be patient, my Lady?"

"If you start fencing without a shirt on again I will make no promises" she told him, followed by a giggle that made him laugh. She seemed… relieved. "I will trust your methods, my King" she lowered her voice into a whisper, and her hands that had been about his head and his neck trailed down to lay flat on his chest, her fingers running up along his stomach and those of his ribs that were unhurt. "Do whatever you think is best. But please" she urged before she withdrew "be quick about it".

"You should go to your chambers, Margaery" he breathed out slowly and let her step away from him, watching her as she turned around, forcing himself to keep his eyes off of her and on the moonlit gardens. "It is late, and we are foolish with wine".

"It is also winter" she told him, lingering by his side, holding his hand in both of hers. "This place is not as far north as the North, but it is still much colder than I am used to. Elinor and I sleep side by side for warmth, but it is still so cold, and I have difficulties in falling asleep proper. Perhaps-" she yelped in surprise and mock distress as he drew her back to him and hugged her to him with one arm around her narrow waist. By the look in his eyes she giggled. "Your Grace!"

"Do not tempt me, Southron wench" he growled and kissed her breath away, until when he at last withdrew from her and she slumped against him, panting, looking up at him with starry eyes. Gods, it would have been so easy. To just take her. To take whatever he wanted. And why shouldn't he? He was a king, after all. And doing what they wanted and taking whatever they pleased was the prerogative of kings. Why shouldn't he?

A king knows restraint. Do that and you are no better than Joffery.

He had half a mind to beat all sense out of his head and do whatever it was his blood wanted him to do. But he didn't. He restrained himself. For some stupid reason. "Think about me tonight" he gave her a fleeting kiss over her mouth before he put his lips to her ear, and she shivered at his whisper and his breath. "And on the morrow we can think about our future. Agreed?" She nodded, and Robb looked up from her and swept his gaze over the gallery, seeing Elinor Tyrell in the distance, standing there with her back almost pointedly turned and a redness up over her ears.

"Lady Elinor!" he summoned her attention, and she jumped in startled surprise before she turned towards him. "Ward the Lady Margaery back to her chambers, will you? And if anything happens to her, I'll hold you personally responsible" he warned as Elinor took Margaery by the shoulders and the two moved back away from him, Margaery smiling at him all the while. "I intend to make her my queen. Goodnight, my Ladies" he bowed to them, and they curtsied back before he turned his back on the, wrenching his eyes away from Margaery as he headed off into the darkness, hearing their giggling behind his back. As he walked he found a swagger in his step and a smirk on his face. Damn it all, after everything that had happened these last few months it felt good to be truly happy.

He wondered what Father would have thought of Margaery. He was a little saddened at that, but he would not let the memories bring his joy down. His father would have wanted him to smile. He himself had said that Robb had been a little too like him, that he didn't smile enough. You'll have your wish father, and your justice. If the Gods be good. But first he would have to attend to these matters. He had a lot to do before his dreams became reality. A plan was taking shape inside his mind, but he would have to act quickly. First of all:

Find Smalljon.

"Your Grace!" the Umber men guarding the half a dozen proper rooms and outer barracks set aside for them, out along the walls of the outer courtyard, knelt as he and a double tail of guards marched up towards the main doors. Unlike his own men, in bright chainmail and light plate and grey and white tabards, the Umber men favoured rough dark leathers, heavy hides and thick furs laid over studded jerkins and umber red gambesons, but they knelt just the same. "Smalljon's not to be seen 'till dawn, m'lord" said one of the men before the barrack's doors, a commander going by the fox pelts laid over his shoulders. "He's sort of indelicate, so he is-"

"If you're afraid that he'll shout at you I'll go see him myself" Robb told the guards and was quickly granted passage, and he couldn't help but to roll his eyes as he made it up the stairs by the walls to the rooms normally set aside for officers but now fell to berserker chiefs and outrider commanders. The sounds coming from the far of the six rooms, the one that Smalljon had taken, made it clear what he was doing with his sleeping hours. He stopped before the door and looked back to his four guards with a raised eyebrow. One of them, a young lad but tall and broad for his age, blushed from head to toe while the other three grinned. "Right then, let's see how he likes it done to him" Robb grinned and turned back to the door before he kicked it open.

He had to admit that seeing the door splinter before his foot and hearing the thud as it slammed open gave quite the happy feeling. No wonder why Smalljon seemed to love doing it.

"Bloody Gods!" Smalljon Umber, having just been flat on his back on his bed with his new mistress, that black-haired whore from Stony Sept, bouncing energetically on top of him, threw the woman aside on the bed as if she weighed nothing and jumped to his feet, battleaxe in hand. "I'll fucking kill every last-" he quieted when he saw that it was Robb standing there, unarmed and uncloaked, with the torchlight making his shadow dance behind his back. "Robb? Your Grace? What the blazes-?"

"Put on your bloody britches, man" Robb's eyes stayed fixed on his comrade at arm's face. He had no wish to look at his friend's cock – not now, not ever. "At once. You too" he looked to the shapely young woman, jerking his head at the gown and shift discarded in the corner, hardly even noticing her nakedness. "I need you to fetch my mother. And if you keep at it like that when Smalljon brings you with him into the field I will have you gagged. My soldiers need sleep, not moaning in their ears all night". He looked back to Smalljon, who was hurriedly pulling on his clothes. "Fetch Dacey, Owen, Ronnel Stout and Ebbert. You know, that Maester that came with the Tyrell band? I want you all in my solar inside half an hour". He turned on his heel and made to march back out, but stopped in the doorway on his way. "We're about to play at politics".

Well, as it turned out, his friends and a northern Maester, whom he had persuaded Willas to let into his service since Luwin was still in Winterfell and because the man was Northern and perhaps could be trusted, were not that much help. He hoped for some insight into the political process of history, but he was given naught.

"The records are unclear, your Grace" Ebbert told him, furrowing his brow into a pensive scowl as Robb, and all the others with him, all of them half-asleep and half-drunk, kept looking at him expectantly. "The history of the North is long, your Grace. Sometimes, like under Edderion Stark, there was a… a concert of lords. Like a small council, but with members from all of the Houses of the North come to represent their families. Votes were cast, voices heard – modelled after the free councils of the Valyrian Freehold. But under Theon Stark and Brandon Ice-Eyes, amongst others, the local and lesser lords had all but no say. An absolute monarchy, your Grace. In the later cases the North was long at war. I suspect that those two are the ones whose examples we should be following, if anything".

"That's about as helpful to the battle at hand as wings are on a horse" Dacey muttered from aside, her sword laid over the lap of her gown as she sharpened it to pass the time, irritation obvious on her brow. She had been forced to leave not one but two handsome young men who had been warming her bed, and so she was a bit snappish. "You could just break your word to the Freys, your Grace" she supplied with a look to Robb at the head of the table. "He's not too highly regarded-"

"Walder Frey is a Riverlord, and a rich one at that. His support, and that of his soldiers, is vital to our cause" Ronnel Stout, the principal commander of the Barrowdown men and other House Dustin bannermen in Robb's host, a short man with his black hair braided long down his back, a fashion common to the men of Goldengrass. "He controls the way to the North. And, more than that, the King's reputation is at stake. If your Grace is perceived as an Oathbreaker-"

"Piss on Walder Frey" Smalljon rumbled and crossed his mighty arms before his chest. "Oathbreaker or not, that fuckwit's got no honour. I've heard the stories. Even in the Shadow of the Wall we've got them. The 'Late Walder'. Turns his cloak one way or the other, to suit the fucking wind".

"Something most Southrons do, mate" Owen Norrey wrapped his plaid closer around himself and rubbed his tired and drunken eyes. "Their lands are too soft. It doesn't teach them to stick by it like we do. But I see the cleverness in this, so I do your Grace" he nodded at Robb. "If your Lords force you to abandon this Frey lass for a fancier match you're not an Oathbreaker. None needs to know that you were the one suggesting the forcing in the first place".

"Bugger Oathbreaking" Dacey interjected, a vicious scraping of stone on steel coming with her words. "It's still wrong. And it's not merely that. What'll the Southrons think, aye, when they come to hear that the King in the North is hectored by his own men? Who rules Winter then, when the Lords on his side think that they can do as they please?" She looked back to Robb, stern and serious. "It'll make you look weak, your Grace".

"Perhaps they will favour this supposed weakness" Mother spoke up for the first time, and all of them looked to her where she was sitting in the corner, meant to speak for the Riverlander perspective in the matter. "Robb, give this power to the Northerners and they will love you for it. They will bring more of their wishes to you, thinking that you will grant them. If they are encouraged to work against you they must have been harbouring treasonous sentiments for a long time already. And perhaps other Lords will follow you more willingly, if they believe that it will give them greater autonomy".

"Bloody Southron reasoning, that" Ronnel Stout breathed out hard and ran his hand down his clean-shaved face. "As twisted and convoluted as a weirwood's roots. Your Grace, if I may ask?" Robb nodded and waved him on. "Break the betrothal, and you break with the Freys. You would not risk that without a better match in mind. May I ask-?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious?" Dacey cocked an eyebrow at Ronnel as Owen snickered and Smalljon chuckled, and even Mother smiled for some reason. She knew? He hadn't even told her yet. He had summoned her, the Maester and four members of his honour guard – each from a different direction and people in the North to speak for. "It's the one that's been batting her eyelashes at him at every turn. Big brown eyes, shapely yet slender, all that brown hair and that sweet voice of hers-"

"Are you the one that's sweet on her?" Smalljon drawled, to which Dacey narrowed her eyes and raised her now razor-sharp sword with a smirk. "Aye, aye, I get the gist of it. Well" he leant back in his seat and looked like he wished for a pint of ale "you know what they say about girls from the Reach. I saw the painting of the Frey girl, the one that's half Rosby going by all the ermine behind her likeness. Aye, I know a little about the heraldry of the South. Bella's been teaching me. She looked skinny, that Frey girl. Pale. Crowlander girls don't put strong babies into this world, or a lot of them". Robb stopped, finding himself staring into nothingness as those around the table looked to him. Slowly a blush started to spread on his cheeks. He could not help it.

"Isn't it a wee bit too early to concern ourselves with this just yet?" Owen wondered. "I mean, his Grace is younger than me. He's got plenty of time to think of having children later in his life".

"That'd be true – if we weren't running a Kingship here" Smalljon pointed out. "The best way to ensure the sovereignty of the North is by breeding heirs. And lots of them. Fast. The Starks have been desolated by the Spring Sickness and misfortune ever since Torrhen knelt to suck the Dragon's cock. Justice of the Gods, that. There's only a single generation of Starks left – and only three of them will ever carry on the family name. If I were his Grace I'd start making heirs this bloody hour".

"Trust me, I am more tempted to do just that than you know" Robb told Smalljon, and the Umber man grinned back while Mother gave him a hard look, making him blush even further and avert his gaze. Bollocks to it, it felt incredibly awkward talking about such matters in the presence of the woman that had birthed him. No matter how old he got. "Now, each of you – what will the lords of your regions say. Owen: what of the Mountain clans and the Flints?"

"Methinks the Flints aren't going to make a fuss, but the Burley man's going to get narky, since Burley's sworn to Umber and all" Owen scratched at his bushy black beard. "Each of the lords with unwed lasses will, your Grace. If you break with Whoring Walder, they'll each try to marry off their own sprogs to you". He puffed up his cheeks and breathed out hard. "Everyone's going to be up-skelled for shite, your Grace. 'S not my place to doubt, but… you sure this is prudent?"

"It is prudent enough" Ebbert went next, unused to speaking of matters political. Around his neck Robb counted one link in gold, one in silver, one in black iron, two in pale steel and two in tin and several many more in copper. "My father would have argued on my sister Gwyn's behalf – was he here, and if our… their House had any power. The Wolfswood Houses, from the Bay of Ice to Tallhart Lake, will stand by you in this, more or less. They will bare teeth if the other Lords try to vy for the right to marry into House Stark, though".

"The Stony Shore will follow the lead of Maege Mormont" it then turned to Dacey, and she sighed before she went on. "But my mother's going to try and wed you to one of her daughters. I think that she'd like having grandchildren with the name Stark. Probably be Lyra, or Jory – Jorelle, I mean. She's probably flowered by now". Robb noted that while such was no doubt the truth, the most likely candidate to be married off to him would have been Dacey herself, given her proximity to him as a member of his honour guard. He supposed that she was pretty enough, but he had never fancied her. Not in that way. He looked onto Ronnel next, wanting to hear from the Barrowdown men and the southern parts of the North.

"Ryswell, Dustin and Manderly will be your strongest supporters in wooing the Lady Margaery, your Grace" Ronnel Stout assured him readily. "The Barrowlands and the Rills have long have stronger connections to the South than most other regions. Wendel Manderly will bring up the name of one of his sisters – though it will be perfunctory at best. He won't mean anything by it – but the more pious Lords will take offence by it anyway".

"My da would have liked you to wed one of my sisters" Smalljon spoke last, rubbing his brow with the palm of his hand. "Gods know I have too many of them in Last Hearth as is. As for the Houses along the Shivering Sea… Hornwood don't have anything to bargain with, neither does Houses Locke or Waterman, but Karstark – he'll press his cause the hardest. Alys Karstark is your kinswoman, and the best match you could find in the North. Arguably. As for Bolton – who ever knows whatever the fucking Leech is going to do? My advice, your Grace? Keep them fractured, make them argue, and then make them know that Margaery Tyrell is the best bride any of them could have asked for. Not of their own – but not of anyone else's, neither. Best of one world and worst of another".

Robb, seeing the wisdom of Smalljon's counsel, dismissed them all shortly thereafter after telling them to call for a council of his sworn lords at the very crack of dawn.

Unfortunately, things started to escalate very quickly.

"You would wed a Southron slip of a girl?" Maege Mormont questioned from opposite Robb at the round table in his greater solar, her arms crossed before her chest and her gaze fixed on him and his. "What the bloody treetrunks is wrong with my daughters, eh? If you're going to break with the Freys, why not a Mormont woman? Is Dacey too old for you? Alysane already got children? Lyra's young and spirited, and she's got much wider hips and bigger tits than any-"

"A Mormont? Direwolf to bear?" Rickard Karstark cut her off with a mocking sneer, causing the Mormont woman to narrow her eyes at him and raise an armoured finger in warning. "Bugger that. Should be my Alys, so it should. She's the fairest lass in all the land, and she's-"

"Sod that – should be my sister Wynafryd" Wendel Manderly said from aside, one hand laid proudly over his fattening girth beneath his chainmail. "Unlike the rest of you we've never rebelled, were never kings in the North on our own. We've always been true. We've always been Stark men. Our loyalty is never in question-"

"Your Grace" Ser Kyle Condon, speaking for House Cerwyn, began quietly from just to Robb's side, trying to push his way past Smalljon and Owen who flanked him on either side. "My captive lord Medger Cerwyn has a grown daughter. Your family and theirs have always been on friendly terms. They were one of your first sworn bannermen when the Kingdom of Winter first was founded. Sure, Jonelle might not be the comeliest of lasses, but-"

"My Lord Howland's daughter Meera has flowered, and she is unwed" Jackel Fenn, representing the Crannogmen contingent in Robb's army, supplied from aside on behalf of the marshes and the Neck and House Reed. "There is no girl more graceful than her in all of Westeros, and we have always been faithful to-"

"Fuck the Reeds, and fuck the Crannogmen" said Bran Burley, of clan and House Burley sworn to House Umber rather than the Starks themselves, with a glance towards Smalljon who was standing beside Robb. "M'lord Umber's got four daughters – a single and one group of triplets! – and his Grace can bloody well have his pick! They are tall, fair, sturdy, made for whelping babes-!"

"One more fucking word out of you, Karstark!" Maege thrust her finger in Lord Rickard's face as the squabbles began in earnest. "One more fucking word out of you, and by the Gods, I will burry my mace in your ornery fucking face!"

"You can go stick your head under water and bloody well drown yourself, you fat Manderly cunt!" Bryke of Skagos, one of the chief berserkers who marched in Robb's own household troops, hissed across the table from Wendel. "You Manderlys're as bad as the fucking Southrons! No, worse! They've got the decency to stay where they fucking belong!"

"Umber?! To Stark?!" Galbart Glover shouted at Burley, eyes wide in affronted rage. "I'll have my fingers fed to Greatjon's Wildling whore before I'll see accursed cannibals wedded into House Stark!"

"Enough". At Robb's word they all fell quiet and settled down, shoving swords back into their sheathes and axes and maces back into their belts. Robb should have known that it was a mistake, putting the matter to a vote. "All of you will be quiet for one bloody moment. Now: anyone of you who would oppose me breaking with the Freys – raise your hands". Not a one of them as much as twitched. "All those of you who are for it-" before he even had time to finish the sentence they had all raised their hands and said "aye". Well then. "Seems there is little love for House Frey in the North".

"Walder Frey is a renowned whorer, a miser and a coward" Roose Bolton, who had stood silent through all the arguing and all the threats, spoke up from the back of the group, and as he spoke a few of the others shied away from him as much as they could. "That lends itself not to a good reputation. I cast my vote in favour for it all. Our King should wed the Tyrell girl".

Robb narrowed his eyes in hard thought, wondering why the Leechlord possibly agreed with him for once. When Roose Bolton agreed with anyone, surely it meant that that person was doing something nefarious, or at least something cruel beyond reason? Or maybe Roose's reputation was undeserved. Much of it was his House's, after all. And due to all the leechings. "Why are you for it, Bolton?" Smalljon, having had the same thought as Robb, asked in great suspicion. "Last time I heard you were no friend to Southrons, and you're married to a Frey".

"My own relationship with the Freys aside, which has no bearing on this… How many men do we have?" Bolton asked the council, to which no one answered. "A little less than twenty-one thousand at fighting strength. Do any of you think that with so few we could guard our back, hold our winnings, invade the Westerlands, lay siege to Lannisport and Casterly Rock and still be able to defend our home holds against the Ironborn? And war against Stannis? There are a hundred thousand swords in the Reach. Even with only half of them, with only a tenth of them, we could win this war in months instead of years".

"And so the voice of pragmatism speaks" Robb noted with a nod, and they all looked back to him again. "I'm not marrying into them – if this is agreed to – nor am I making them part of my kingdom. I am marrying her into House Stark. I am forging an alliance. They'd provide us with grain, with swords, with open roads for our soldiers and closed gates for our enemies. In return" he paused. "We have still yet to work out terms or formalise it all. Well see to it then. Now" he cleared his throat "cast your votes".

Four hours later he marched out of that cramped and smelly room, leaving the mulling bickering of his Lords behind as he went to find his Mother and inform her of his decision. She deserved to know first. And… it was good to speak to her again. He knew that she still saw him as only a boy, and that she had other children to care for, but Robb had thousands of them. All the North were his siblings, every man and woman and child, and he fought to set them all free.

Mother was sitting in the gardens, with Willas and Loras and Willas's Maester Ebbert - didn't Lord Whitehill have a boy named Ebbert at the Citadel? - gathered around one of the benches as they made arrangements for the travels of the coming day. Loras gave him a hard look, Willas gave him a challenging smile, his Mother gave him a look of concern. He was glad that she was speaking to him again. He hadn't been avoiding her - not wilfully, anyway - but he had kept his distance. Things had been said and done between them that he suspected had opened a rift that would never truly close, but he was willing to put it behind him. The Lady Catelyn had only tried to gain access to the Kingslayer twice, after all, and he could not fault her for something that she had not done. But he had no eyes for Mother that morning. Only for the centre bench beneath the rosebushes, and the one sitting on it.

Only Margaery.

She rose as she saw him, giving him a nervous smile and a stutter. "Robb-" she began as he marched over to her, his eyes fleeting over her dress - black still, why is she always wearing black? Curse Renly Baratheon, and Gods bless him for dying - before he settled his eyes on her. Was this the call of the Wolfsblood, that which Willas had spoken of the night before, that stirring in his heart that called for passion and possessiveness? He cared not. Whatever the feeling was he would act on it. He stopped before Margaery and took her by the hand, as if to kiss it. And then by that hand he pulled her into his arms.

"Settle, Loras" Robb heard Willas, from a world and a half away, tell Margaery's wardens to stand down and take their hands off their swords. He did not care about any of them right then, not as he kissed his Flower, as he could tell that Mother was smiling at his back, thinking of olden simpler days when she too had been young and in love. As Margaery laid her hands on his upper arms and parted her lips from his he couldn't help but smile at her, even as Smalljon and Owen made sure to step between the two of them and Loras and Brienne, pointed gazes all around.

"So" she wondered quietly, reaching for his fingers, and he let her have his hand, a hand that she laid against her cheek and then leaned into, her eyes never leaving his. "How did it go?"

"My assembly of Lords have forced me to break my betrothal to Roslin Frey" he answered, grinning like a young boy who had just gotten away blameless with stealing all of his sister's sweets. Which had actually only ever happened once. And Sansa had been getting fat. Thinking of Sansa saddened him, but he took his Flower's other hand and brought it to his lips. "And though the Lords bickered fiercely, the voting was made. A slim majority in your favour, my Lady – you must have won the hearts of many of them". Most of them had liked her well enough, he supposed, but it had taken some convincing and quite a few concessions from his side. A King rules by the grace of his subjects.

"My charm is irresistible" she jested and made to stand on her tip-toes so that she could kiss him again, but a clearing of a throat made her look to the side and behold the state of her kin and her wardens. She blushed as she sank back down and withdrew from him, and inwardly he cursed the rules of properness and behaviour. "So, what are-" she stopped still as he sank down on one knee in front of her. "What are you doing?!" she hissed.

"Um, what does it look like?" he wondered back at her. "I mean, I thought I made it clear that-"

"Not now! Stand up!" she urged him and pulled him back to his feet, seeing on his face a frown of quite frankly epic proportions. "We cannot just kiss and then run off into the woods together, or whatever it is you Northerners do. I will not accept anything less than a state affair". She looked around pointedly, and he wondered how she had learned that demeanour, that kind but firm stare that seemed to make almost anyone want to obey her. A queenly gaze. From Renly, no doubt. He held back from grounding his teeth at the thought. "Robb" she wondered at him as the gardens all but vacated but for them, a solitary Brienne standing out of earshot. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing" he assured her. Though there is something wrong, isn't there? She always going to have been someone else's before she was ever yours. But Renly had never touched her. She had told him that, and curse him for his foolishness, he trusted her in all that she had said. Still, that bitter sensation filled him. Is this what it is like to be jealous? "'A state affair'?"

"The wedding, off course" she told him as she took him by the hand and sat him down by her side on the stone seat that she had so recently vacated, holding his hands in her lap as they sat there, knees touching. She shivered. Her cloak was green and black and thin. She noticed how he looked on her shoulders. "It is… I left it in my chambers. I thought that it might give my brothers the wrong impression. Loras would get it in his head to defend my honour or something, I'm sure. He allows flirtatious behaviour well enough, maybe kissing or what-nots, but anything more than that-"

"Can't say I'm not relieved" he replied with a feigned sigh. "I've seen your brother fight. Unless I have my family sword in my hands I'd prefer not to stand toe to toe with him. Be chopped into bits, no doubt". He looked her over again as she shivered once more, and he reached to his shoulder to unclasp his own cloak and lay it over her – only to find that he still wasn't wearing one. "I'd… I'm used to the cold. I don't know if I am warmer than most people, or-" she leant in against him, and he laid his arm over her shoulders under the cloak. At her satisfied little noises, made as she snuggled into him, he smiled. "It's a lot colder than this in Winterfell".

"I will manage. You are still nice and warm, just like your cloak" she told him in what was almost a purr, and he laughed. She stayed silent for a little while, and so he sat there, listening to her breath and to the wind. It was early in the day, and the air was cold, and the closest heart tree was far, far away, but he thought he could still hear the words of the Gods on the wind. A soothing presence. The Gods were all around him. Always. "My first wedding was a rushed thing" she spoke up suddenly.

"I suppose Renly was eager to ally with the Reach and march on the capital as soon as he could" Robb mused. He himself would have been of a mind to hurry any such wedding along, but for very different and much more sordid reasons. "Back home, in times of peace – there'd be feasting to last a week, maybe two. If a Stark would be marrying, he'd invite all the North to Winterfell".

"When my great-grandfather and great-grandmother married they had a tourney to celebrate" Margaery mused. "Jousting and melees and marksmanship contests, banquets and galas and minor marriages for every day for a fortnight. I, on the other hand had one night of dining and dancing before I was off to a bed where my husband didn't as much as look at me with warmth. And then two weeks of marching to Bitterbridge". She settled up at him and looked him deep in the eyes. "I want our wedding to be grand. To announce to the world the strength of our union, and the power of our alliance. And in times of war the people will want distraction. But I am selfish too. I want a proper wedding this time. A real wedding. With all that such would entail".

"Then you shall have it" Robb nodded, and satisfied she nodded back at him and returned to use him as a source of warmth. "And a tourney to accompany it – if we invited all the Northern and Reach lords there we could teach them all a lot about each other. That is how bonds of friendship are forged. But, you should know – my family haven't had the best recent history with tourneys".

"You are thinking of the tourney at Harrenhal, aren't you?" she wondered, and he nodded. "Well, as long as we make sure that no Targaryen princess show up to do unwanted things I think that we will be as right as rain".

"Sometimes the wind blows so hard that the rain falls sideways" Robb scoffed, and she looked at him. "What? The rains don't do that here in the South? Well, I guess that it's more common in the Rills, but-"

"You know, you really make it sound horribly wet and cold up there" she noted with a pout. "And here I thought that you were going to persuade me to come live with you and be your love and prove all the pleasures of the world at Winterfell".

"Without the rain a man doesn't appreciate the roof over his head" he told her, thinking back to how Father had used to say just that. "And without the cold he can't feel the fire in his heart". She seemed to be familiar with the saying, though. Someone else must have said it to her before. "Well then, you want a grand wedding. Finery and flowers and tables breaking under the burden of food. Wine flowing like rivers. And all of our bannermen and sworn lords attending. You call them vassals?"

"Yes, vassals". She must have noted the tone of his voice and the edge to his words, and she swatted idly at his chest, her hand lingering there to trace the ridges of his muscles. "It will take time, to summon all of your guests to Highgarden. I think that if my father hosted the festivities it would be better for everyone". She sat up and away from him before she leant up to kiss him again, and this time he replied with all the passion in his heart, startling her. "I-" she gasped as his arms went around her and his fingers ran down her spine through her dress's fabric. "It will be best to wait. I'm supposed to be in mourning, and… and-"

"And if we wait a longer while, there won't be any suspicions of paternity" he leaned away from her, to which she nodded, cheeks aflush with red and eyes wide in meeting his. "I see the wisdom in it. I may not like it, but patience is something I have been trying hard to learn". It would have been prudent to bind House Tyrell to their alliance shortly, making sure that they honoured their vows, but custom had to be observed and ritual adhered to. "We should negotiate a betrothal".

"My father would want to be there" Margaery told him, leaning in to kiss him once again. She seemed to like doing that, he noted in the back of his mind, but he wasn't one to deny her, and she came away from him with a smile, her lips swelling a little as if stung by a bee's barb. "And my Grandmother. Maybe my brother Garlan too. It's… the two being betrothed shouldn't be the ones to negotiate, should they?"

"We should leave it to our kin. Such is the custom in the North, too. And I would want my mother – and brother – there". It was better that way. If the two of them set their minds to dealing with the betrothal things would no doubt escalate to nothing but kissing and cooing within mere moments. "My bannermen are penning a letter to Walder Frey as we speak. I should write to my brother Bran".

"And I to my Grandmother" she agreed. None of them rose, their hands still clasped together where they sat. At the look she gave him Robb started chuckling, which made her laugh in turn. "Would you accompany me to the rookery, your Grace?"

"Gladly" he answered as he stood and linked her arm in his, and together they left the gardens, Brienne of Tarth and Grey Wind the direwolf following shortly after them.

And there was a warm scent on the wind. A scent of summer. A return of spring.

A lie. Winter had only just begun.

To Lord Walder Frey of the Twins

Penned by Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort

Under the dawn after the full moon of the ninth month of the two-hundredth and ninety-ninth year since Aegon's Crowning and Conquest, in the eyes of the Gods of the Deep Forests, the Northern Lords convened at Pinkmaiden Castle in the Riverlands.

While there it was decided that our King Robbard's engagement of marriage to your daughter Roslin Frey is not in the best interest of the North. We believe that the ancestors would look down on this union. We believe that the honour of your House does not match the honour of House Stark, of Brandon the Builder's get. We believe that the Gods would disprove.

We have therefore resolved to break this union, in the eyes of Gods and Men. Our King shall no longer be bound by oath to fulfil this obligation of marriage and to wed your daughter. We absolve our Lord King of any dishonour inherent in this action, as this was the decision of our gathered council and not of his will.

We will expect your ongoing service in the cause of freedom and independence for the Trident and the North. Any withdrawal of support from his Grace's efforts at war that should follow this declaration shall be regarded as high treason, oathbreaking, and desertion of the highest order.

It will be met as such actions deserve to be met.

So hath the North spoken.

Undersigned

Lords Rickard Karstark of Karhold, Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte, Robin Flint of Widow's Watch & Flint's Finger, Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, Ser Helman Tallhart of Torrhen Square, Brandard Slate of Blackpool

Ladies Maege Mormont of Bear Island, Lara Branch of Briardown, Kiere Marsh of Anurwent

Lord Heirs Jon Umber of Last Hearth, Wendel Manderly of White Harbour, Ser Donnel Locke of Oldcastle, Torrhen Whitehill of High Point, Ronnel Stout of Goldengrass, Ser Kyle Condon of Spear Roost, Roger Ryswell of Snowbourne, Brandon Norrey of Norrey Hall

Chiefs Durmand Flint of Breakstone Hill, Gregor Forrester of Ironrath, Bran Burley of Burley Hall, Bowen Bole of Skull Hollow, Darren Woods of Lystner Hill, Jackel Fenn of the Blacklilly Pond holdfast, Kase Brineborn of Outrider Keep

Champions Bloodaxe Bryke of Skagos, First Berserker; Benjicot Branch of Briardown, Grandmaster of the Hunters Guild; Lyam Bole of Skull Hollow, First Marksman; Dacey Mormont of Bear Island, the Bearfang;

Further Undersigned

His Grace Robbard Stark, the first of his name,

The King of Winter and of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, High King of the First Men, the Sword of the North, Vanquisher of Lions, Unmaker of Armies and Mountains

The King in the North

Jon

They came onto the banks of the Trident just north of the Towers to find the gates of House Frey barred to them.

Only when they had ridden a mile and a half farther south did they find out why. Jon was getting tired of hearing Greatjon Umber complain and curse about, well, everything really. But mostly the Lannisters.

"Fuck the Lannisters!" Greatjon exclaimed as they rode south along the riverside, grumbling and grunting atop his horse, a massive destrier with a brindled coat and only on whole ear that Jon pitted with all his heart. The horse must have been struck deaf ages ago, given the Greatjon's propensity towards shouting. "Fuck 'em! That Thorne man, that refused to let you through the gates and had you climb the Wall like a fucking Wildling, he was a Lannister man, you mark my words! And now these fucking Freys! The fucking gall, to disobey their rightful king and lord!"

"Peace, Lord Umber" Jon urged from where he was riding beside him. "They keep the bridge. It's their right to deny passage as they will, King's subjects or not". And if the Freys truly were Lannister men now, barring all who carried the Direwolf banner from crossing the Trident over their bridge, then they were now in Lannister lands. And the woods thickened up ahead down the road. Thick woods and trees close together could hide many men with bows and arrows. "We should strike the banners and hide our shields" Jon warned.

"I agree with the White Wolf, my Lord Umber" Hoster Blackwood spoke up from behind them, and the small following of men that had accompanied Lord Umber down south from Winterfell, those a dozen-and-a-half men who had not remained in the garrison of Wintertown, mumbled in agreement. They had come across several bands of marauding Ironborn on their ride back to Riverrun and Jon had proven himself an apt fighter and skilled leader against them. They no longer called him "Lord Snow".

They called him Jon Stark, the White Wolf. One of them, a man called Bendar who had been a tailor and leatherworker in Barrowton before the war, had even made for him a banner out of his old Night's Watch cloaks. All black, with a running white wolf across the centre. Jon wondered what Lady Catelyn would say when she saw it.

"Aye" Greatjon slouched his shoulders and glowered at the empty air before him. "We'll strike the banners, and creep along like thieves in the fucking night". Better that than dead, Jon reflected as they dismounted and rolled up their banners and covered their Wolfshead shields with their cloaks. They still wore northern armours, the Umber men in their studded gambesons and dark leathers and the three Blackwood guards of Hoster's in their red and black tabards laid over armour of overlapping scales of hardened black and white wood. Anyone could see that when looking at them, though Jon still wore his Night's Watch leathers and mail. Suddenly his horse whinnied in fear, and Jon felt more than he heard or saw Ghost's approach.

"Wait" Jon said to them all, and at his tone they looked to him in confusion before they beheld the state of his Direwolf. Ghost was more red than white, a long and bloody scratch beneath the fur of his hindquarters, but the blood dripping from his snowy coat was not his own. "Come" Jon urged, and the beast panted as it approached him to allow him to be stroked over the head and behind the ears. Jon smelled at the blood that came away to cling at his fingers, and somehow he knew. "Man's blood. Someone told to kill wolves. A scout with a bow and a long knife and no armour".

"Fucking sorcery" Greatjon cursed but still reached for his great axe. At the wall and farther south, traveling with the former bastard of Winterfell, he had seen many things he had thought impossible. Even dead who walked like men. "Ambush, Stark?"

"Aye" Jon showed his teeth and pulled Longclaw from his side with gloved hands. Even though he hadn't worn a coat or cloak since they had ridden past Moat Cailin he always wore his black gloves. "You were right, Lord Umber. These are Lannister lands now". And hardly had he said that before the arrows filled the air.

The fight was brief, bloody and cruel. Afterwards they counted their losses. Five men, two dead and three wounded beyond help, to a dozen peasant and conscript troops with almost no armour and little weapons, most of poor quality. Half of the attackers: the rest had fled when Blackwood took their leader's head and twirled it by the dirty brown locks above his head, roaring laughter like a madman. The young Riverlander had proven to be as bloodthirsty a berserker as any Umber man under the tutelage of the Greatjon. All of the members of Greatjon's band were experienced fighters, who had lifted their shields and turned to battle without hesitation, and the attackers had fought without discipline or order or even skill. Jon thought it nothing but a waste – that hadn't stopped him from downing two men himself.

With the tip of his now muddied riding boot Jon turned over one of the corpses he had been standing over. A thin, rake-like young man, with weasel-like features and a leather doublet stitched finely with two grey rectangles joined by a stylised arch. "A Frey man. Honoured footman by the look of him. Or a bastard".

"The whoring Walder is supposed to have hundreds of them" Blackwood shuddered, pale and terrified of himself and his rage after the Berserker state had left him, as he turned over another dead man, green in the face still with the rising bile. "This one's got the same doublet. No mere bandits, these. Or sellswords. These are livery. Men-at-arms".

"That Frey fuck!" Greatjon roared aloud and kicked a dead man so hard over the head that his neck snapped with a sickening crunch of a sound. "Traitor! Oathbreaker! I'll cut off his fucking balls and feed them to him!" He growled and gripped his arm, where a arrow had struck him in the shoulder and almost pierced his armour. "Should have used crossbows. Puny shite like this isn't enough to stop an Umber fighting for House Stark! The King in the North!"

"The King in the North" the survivors echoed, but Jon said the words quietly, darkly staring down at the man beneath him. He pushed Longclaw's gory tip through the man's neck and wrenched it around, severing the corpse's head from torso. Wights didn't rise if the heads were cut off, though cutting off the head didn't stop a dead man already risen. He knew that Wights would not rise this far south, in the lands of Summer. Not yet, not until the Others came in the white frost. But that was another war, a war that was to come soon but still some ways afar. And there were more pressing matters to tend to for his family.

"Frey will claim the doublets stolen and these men mere robbers and bandits. He will not risk his head by saying otherwise" Jon told all of his travelling companions, and their cheer fell silent. "The southern crossing will be closed to us too. That's why they waited to ambush us when we were farther down the road. Otherwise they'd fill us with arrows at the crossing and throw our bodies into the river, having no other option. We need to find a ship" he went on as he jerked up a dead man's cloak and wiped Longclaw clean on it. "Commandeer one if need be. We can row it down the river and then to wherever Robb's encamped".

"Aye, Lord Stark" Greatjon nodded, and there wasn't a trace of jest or false flattery in his voice. "As you order, we act". Jon looked past the dead and the men and horses, and the living ones too, staring out over the Trident's waters. What the name of all the Gods had Robb done to cause this treachery? He was a lone wolf, trapped in the south, and all the lions were closing in on him.

Hold out, Robb, Jon prayed silently. Just a little longer. Help is on the way, and Winter is Coming.

Dearest Lady Grandmother

I am successful. The wolf no longer drinks at the towers. He is mine now.

Informally so, of course. We have yet to make arrangements of the formal kind. He has consented to such. Of course his family would be present, as would be mine. But he cannot travel too far, as he has battles to fight.

Perhaps in Goldengrove?

He has given me a cloak, of white and grey. It is the warmest thing I have ever worn. I bring it to my bed at night and think of him. Perhaps living in the frozen North would not be so bad.

I await your reply eagerly.

With love and affection,

Lady Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden

The Double Rose

"What does Margaery say, Lady Grandmother?" Garlan asked, sitting straight in his chair with a mug of water in his hand. "Is she well?"

He detested the aftertaste of wine, bitter and sour, just like ale, just like all other spirits. Water was the choice of a man who kept his body pure of poisons, honed and ready like a blade perfectly forged. A true knight did not concern himself with drinking or with fine foods. He cared not for glory. He served only, for justice and honour and for the defending of the weak and his family. And Garland had to admit, he was fearing for his family.

Lady Olenna scoffed and rolled the message back up, a ghost of a smile on her face before she handed the small scroll on to Garlan while all the other ladies of the court milled about some distance from her pavilion, the sun of Highgarden beaming down on them from overhead and making the floral patterns in the top of the pavilion dance over their feet, Garlan in the only chair beside Grandmother's in his modest finery. He preferred simple clothing. Gaudiness spoke only of a vain and weakened heart, unfit for true courage and powerful emotion. "She says she has succeeded. Partially. I think she is rather sweet on the boy. She takes his cloak with her to bed every night".

"Are you saying that she has bedded him?" It seemed unlike Margaery – but then again, he still thought of her as the young girl that had wept the first time Lady Olenna had told her that she was a pawn in the Great Game, same as all the rest of them. He still thought of her as the little girl, not as the young woman taught by Maesters and trained by Lady Olenna herself to be the perfect tool of seduction and deceit. He knew what his sister was, what Lady Olenna had made her into, though he had for the longest time refused to see it. He knew that Margaery was a kind girl. A maiden, too. He would have killed any man who laid his hands on her dishonourably.

"She has not" Grandmother replied and shook her head. "Which is why she brings his cloak to bed with her, not he himself. Read between the lines, you sword-battering brute. It would be better for us all if she fell into his bed, though. An honourable man never feels as obligated towards you as after he has put his seed inside of you".

"Do not speak of her that way, Grandmother". She looked to him, arching one hair-thin eyebrow high. "I will not have it". There were only a few people alive in the world who dared to openly defy the Queen of Thorns, and he was clearly a member of that slim minority. She stared at him for the longest time before she gave him a toothless smirk.

"This is why I like you, Garlan. Unlike your father and younger brother there is something in your head, and unlike your older brother you have a spine. You are not shy about using the sword. You always speak your mind. You have compunctions about this whole matter". She leant in towards him and put her chin to her hand, a pensive cast to her face. "Speak them".

"Stark is a heathen". She scoffed and waved at that, shifting away from him. "I know it matters little to you. It matters nothing to me, Grandmother. As long as he is kind to her, as long as she is fond of him, I would approve of any man my sister choses. Stableboy or emperor alike, from Yi Ti to Lonely Light, they could worship the Black Goat for all I care. But my paternal grandfather will not be so accepting. Leyton Hightower is a very pious man. A very pious and powerful man".

"Oh, I doubt it nothing, Garlan" she noted and leant back in her chair as he read the message from Margaery. "Leyton Hightower, Tanton Fossoway, Gareth Dunn, Lorent Caswell – Randyll Tarly wants nothing but to fight, so he might go either way. The same I can say for Titus Peake. But if we are not careful and swift in these days ahead we will have trouble in the Reach. I think we will both bless and curse Robb Stark's name before Winter has turned to spring. But I doubt that were will an actual war within the Reach".

"It will not be so clearly cut, Grandmother" Garlan rolled the message back up and handed it back to Lady Olenna, who took it and laid it together with the separate letters from Loras and Willas that had arrived earlier in the day. "If worst comes to worst, we will not know the names of our enemies. We will know them as friends". But she did not heed him in that. Just like how Father had been all but frothing at the mouth to go see the Young Wolf and would set off for Goldengrove at dawn the following day, just like how Willas ignored his warnings, just like how Margaery charged in so recklessly. "I will take my leave, Grandmother" he stood from his chair and bowed at her.

"Take care, Garlan" she warned him, and as he walked away in silence he nodded to himself. These were dangerous times. A man had to take care that he did not lose his head.

As he went and walked in silence, distanced himself from all as he made his way down the steps of the Queen's Lookout, as the marble platform overlooking the river Mander in the shadow outside of the walls of the inner citadel had been come to be known, he sighed inwardly. Somehow he felt as if the world was about to come crashing down upon his head, upon all of their heads, and he was the only one that was able to see it. He hated this feeling of encroaching doom.

Cold times were coming. Winter days, when brother would fight brother. The war was, without a doubt, coming to Highgarden and the Reach. And he, unlike many of his countrymen, had no illusions about their chances in a true war. The quantity of soldiers mattered far less than their quality, and while Randyll Tarly and he himself were their two most skilled commanders the ones they would be fighting would have dozens of them.

They might dismiss it, but he had a sense of what would happen when this alliance with Northern heathens would be made public. Some Houses, like Fossoway, would never stand for such a thing. And his wife was a Fossoway by birth. Sweet Leonette.

He had met her during a ball a few years earlier, on the eve of the day that Loras had been knighted after a pompous show of a tourney. She had wondered why he had been standing to the side of the festivities all the while, not partaking in any of the dancing or the singing, and when she had sipped from his cup she had been amazed to find it filled with nothing but water. He told her that he only toasted in wine, and even then only in a manner most perfunctory. He told her that he disliked the noise and rowdiness of drunken celebration, yet somehow she managed to get him to dance with her. One dance only, she had promised, yet somehow they danced all throughout the night.

They had gotten married two months later. A quiet little ceremony in the Highgarden sept, with their closest family in attendance. Later that night they had lain together for the first time. She had been his first. He hadn't been hers, though, but he did not fault her for that. Let he who is without fault cast blame. He cared for her a great deal. And it was not as if Father would have disproved of the match even if he had only married the Fossoway woman out of political manoeuvring. They were a rich family, the Fossoways of Cider Hall, grown wealthy off of the liquor and produce trade with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities.

Some of her family had gone to Stannis along with the Florents and the Meadows, and an act of defiance in civil strife would be unacceptable to his father. If the Fossoways revolted, which he had little doubt that they would, the male line of their family would be put to the sword.

And Garlan was obedient. I will kill Leonette's father and brothers without hesitation if asked to do so. He would, no doubt about it. He would not like doing it, but he would do it just the same.

There was nothing that he would not do for his family.

To Lord Frey

The pup has broken with you, and caused you dishonour.

Do not think about that. I was asked to pen the letter because I have the closest ties to your family, but I took no joy in it. And neither should you. Muster your emotions. Do not defy the King. Not openly.

I spoke against the union, but I was voted down. The Tyrell whore has sunk her thorns deep into the North. She claims herself virginal still. Though I doubt it nothing that she parts her petals for any man who can deliver her an advantage. Such is the nature of Southron women.

You would like her, Frey. Then again, you are ruled by your cock. Which is why you should keep your head down and yourself to your station if you want to keep it.

A Tyrell and Stark alliance has shifted the balance out of our favour. A King in the North with the backing of the two most fertile lands in the South is hard fought. I will not fight them. Not even in secrecy.

Tell Lord Tywin that I have no longer any interest in doing his killing for him. Tell him that his days are numbered. And then break with the Lannisters yourself, if you are wise. If you are wise you will keep your head. Keep your lands. And keep your cock.

If you must act against the pup, do so in secret, and do not openly defy him. Oppose him, and you oppose all the Northern lords. Even me.

A new sun rises on the North, and the Lions are as good as dead.

Give my love to Walda.

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort

Margaery

Their departure from Pinkmaiden was delayed until Robb's army was set to march. Bad weather was blamed, as were hard winds and delayed messages, but everyone knew that those were the reasons she gave, not the reason she stayed.

Arrangements were made. Margaery and her following, which would include Lady Catelyn, would travel south to Goldengrove while Robb marched east with his army to smash Tywin Lannister's forces out of Harrenhal. There he would join up with the other contingents of his army and then head back west and go even further, towards Wayfarer's Rest and then on to the Golden Tooth, to begin the invasion of the Westerlands. When he had made sure that his forces had free reign in Lannister lands he and his personal guard would ride south to Golden Grove – hopefully after or at the same time as Father and Garlan arrived there. Together they would set the terms of her marriage and her betrothal.

She only hoped that things would go well. She knew very well that her father was not the easiest of men to deal with, but surely Robb had dealt with worse. But she was more worried about Robb's following on the day that they finally left the castle, as her following had mounted their horses in the courtyard of Pinkmaiden opposite Robb's personal levy and honour guard, the rest of his vast and savage army gathered outside the castle walls.

"Ebbert is a good man" Willas told him where he stood by her side, watching Robb say farewell to his mother further up the line of their horses and riders, the Master in question himself mounted along with most of Robb's honour guard and riders who were to set out shortly. Galbart Glover had already marched off with the vanguard, almost half a day earlier, heading for Harrenhal with nearly four thousand men at his back. Robb would follow with the main force, his new Maester at his side. "He is a loyal man" Willas added, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "A Tyrell man. He is Northern himself, but I have assured his loyalty for the rest of his mortal life. Allies or not, we need good listeners and informers within the Northern ranks".

"I see". She nodded back at her brother, acknowledging her consent. She did not like it, but Willas took whatever precautions he and Grandmother deemed it prudent to take, for the survival of their House and the successfulness of their endeavours. Small wonder that she had an ill feeling about the Maester from the very moment that she had seen him. The instincts Grandmother had instilled, no doubt. "We should trust Robb, Willas. His family will be my family soon".

"Oh, Margy, I'm all for that" he assured her. "The man seems earnest enough, and you clearly think the world of him. But I must think of the good of the Reach and its people. And so do you. Cleave to your lover however much you wish, Margy – but never forget which family it was that birthed you. Besides" he went on as Robb and his mother separated, the Young Wolf turning at last for Margaery "it will not just be him that Ebbert will be spying on".

As Robb approached Willas began to limp away, two of his personal servants standing by his horse while the third held the reins to help him mount. Willas was a kind man. She knew that. But one day he would rule Highgarden, and with their father growing older and none the wiser she knew that that day was approaching fast. She cast those thoughts from her head as Robb stood before her in all his armour, battered and battle-scarred, and on a whim she folded out the cloak in her hands and swept it about its rightful place on his shoulders, fastening it with a steel Wolfshead pin.

"I can't be wearing this in Highgarden before the wedding" she muttered to him and the slightly crestfallen expression on his face. "And you will be needing it. It is cold in the field, even for someone as impervious to the cold as you. Think of me when you are wearing it, will you? And bring it back to me". She fastened it and took his gauntleted hands. "Promise me. It's mine. I want it back. I want you back, safe, and whole".

"These are merciless times, my Lady" Robb told her, standing so close to her that their cloaks were all but covering each other. "Winter times. My family knows winter better than any other. I will worry for your safety". A thought seemed to cross his mind, and so he reached down to his britches purposefully. One part of her mind marvelled and blushed all over at the direction the rest of her mind went to. Still, she was a little disappointed when he removed his baldric and scabbard and held his actual steel sword before her, making her closer her fingers around the sheath. "Since you can't keep my cloak" he smiled "this'll have to be my token of affection. Wear it at all times. No one's going to look twice on that in times like these".

"It's no crown of roses or a gown in your colours, your Grace" she noted, thinking that he meant well above all else but that his gift was useless to her. "Robb, I've never been taught to use the sword. I do not know the first thing about fighting with the blade-"

"Stick'em with the pointy end" he grinned, and she stared at him in silence before she fell haplessly into giggles. "Rodrik Cassel used to say that all the time when me and Jon were first learning how to knock each other about" he chuckled and pushed the scabbard firmly in her direction. "Your brothers are the best fighters in Westeros. Don't let Smalljon tell you differently. Have them show you a thing or two. Please. I would sleep better if I knew that you were safe".

"Says the young king off to fight a war" she scoffed and hefted that scabbard. "It's… its light. I thought that all the warrior maidens in the songs carried small and slender sword, but this is just a common longsword. It is still very light".

"Well-made swords aren't supposed to be heavy – unless you have been swinging them around for an hour already". She turned the scabbard around in her hands, looking closely at the handle and the guard. The crossguard was made out of black steel that curved gently forwards, out of rough iron and seemingly impure, wolves leaping along the sides of it hammered into the metal. The handle was weirwood white, shot through with red, gnarled and knobbly so that it lay better in the hand. And the pommel, as well as the rain guard, were bronze, no jewels or ornaments or precious metals, the pommel itself a thick small disk with a leaping wolf defined into either side of it. "My smiths made some shapes for my new mint. It was a shame to let it go to waste".

"They've got little crowns on their heads" she noted absently, looking up to see that his smile had become a little self-deprecating. "I think it is adorable. Very regal. Are you going to add a crown onto the Direwolf of your House banner now that the Starks are kings again?"

"Maybe to my personal crest, but not to the family banner. Bran and Rickon might grow up with the wrong ideas if so" he grinned, and for a moment he looked so… so boyish and carefree. It warmed her heart, and so she stood onto her feet and kissed him on the lips, in front of all of his men and her escort. As she tasted him on her lips – tasting of his breakfast, simple robust foods with earthy flavours, yet also of him, somehow both cold and sweet – she heard someone holler and hoot, and a cheer rose around them, mostly from the Young Wolf's bodyguards. She did not care. She could feel the hairs of his beard against her cheeks, soft and prodding, and she liked it very much. He was, quite frankly, irresponsibly good at kissing.

"Thank you" she told him as they parted when she sank back down on her heels. "You are certain that you will be hale and whole without it?"

"Aye" he nodded. She liked the way he said it. It was as if his voice made her melt. His accent was almost sinful, given how delightful as it was. "Maybe I'll start using a greatsword in battle. Not much use from horseback, though. And two swords look… gauche". She laughed at that. "What? You think I haven't learned any of your fancy Southron words, what with being around your lovely self and all?"

"Oh, aye" she replied, trying to mimic his Northern drawl as much as she possibly could, and he laughed aloud. By his help she fastened the belt around her waist and made sure that the hilt of her new sword hung by her left hip, and afterwards she took his hands. "I do not want you to go" she confessed, linking her fingers with his. "I do not want you to get hurt, or worse. And… I will miss you".

"Dry your eyes, love – we'll see each other again soon enough" he laid his gauntleted hand by her cheek and gave her one last fleeting kiss. "Now, on your horse" he jerked his head towards Rosa "before your brother tries to lop my head off. I'm honest. Not a word is lie. He's giving me a dark and bloody look. Probably doesn't like all the liberties I am taking with you".

"He can't say anything about it. He is a knight, and you are a king, my wolf". She did let him help her onto her horse, though. He lifted her into the saddle like she weighed as little as air. "Goodbye, Robb" she bid him well with a strange hitch in her voice as the other riders in her fellowship began to urge their horses forwards alongside her.

"Fare thee well, Margaery" he answered with a bending of her neck, and stood still there as they rode out through the rebuilt gates of Pinkmaiden castle beneath the streaming banners of her house and her family and the Tully trout, past ranks and ranks and ranks of the Northern army formed up and ready for the march. Some, who had heard of her and Robb, cheered as she went past, and there were shouts at times of actual words that she could make out.

"Margaery!" some cheered. "Margaery Tyrell!" And some, the ones she liked the best, shouted "The wolf and the rose!" after her. Despite the heavy feeling in her breast she smiled.

END

A/N: I'm just sayin': no people, nowhere, are immune to politics. It just takes different shapes depending on the people and the region. Just ask Iceland.

This chapter is a day late, too, just like the last one. I'm sorry about that. Being sick worsens and slows my output, apparently.

Don't be too bothered by the premise of this chapter, will you? It's a situation taking right out of Swedish and Scandinavian history, a situation replicated often in the Muscovite council of princes. A simple change in reputation can be devastating to someone in a position of great power, especially during the pre-modern era. And also, I had a list laying around with the names of every single Northern lord that followed Robb into the field. It was a shame not to use it. There is a Lord of the Rings reference in that signature block. See if you can spot it.

Also, Roose Bolton lies. Like, a lot.

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. The best is yet to come.

Ta.