Late August, 301 AC
"Lords and ladies, knights and squires, on behalf of Robb Stark, King in the North, King of the Trident, King of Mountain and Vale, I do declare that the Tourney of Winterfell in honor of Prince Rickon is now begun!"
Robb inclined his head, his bronze and iron crown gleaming in the sunlight, and the world erupted into riotous noise. The highborn lords and ladies sitting in the stands cheered and applauded; the common folk standing down below screamed their approval with wild abandon, so loud they near overwhelmed the fanfare of brazen trumpets.
"My name day was last week," Rickon grumbled, already slouching. Arya poked him in the side and he yelped, giving her a dirty look as he sat up straight. He wore the same shade of dark grey silk as Robb and Arya, though the band of white silk trim was much thinner. The ice-white shield blazoned across his chest was hard enough to keep clean, even with a running grey direwolf covering half of it.
The black direwolf at Rickon's feet gave a low growl of annoyance. Nymeria and Grey Wind answered from their places at Arya and Robb's feet, baring their teeth at their brother in silent snarls. With a low whuff Shaggydog settled down, ears back to show his displeasure.
"Control him, or Robb will send him back to the godswood," Arya hissed under her breath.
It had been hard enough convincing Robb to permit Shaggydog's presence, given their company in the royal box. Uncle Edmure sat at Robb's right hand, his wife Roslin beside him, her gown of parti-colored red and blue twin to her husband's long tunic. Beside Lord and Lady Tully sat Lord Yohn Royce, tall and strong despite his years, Lady Anya Waynwood, proud and sharp-eyed, and beside them a dozen other lords of the Riverlands and Vale.
Arya and Rickon sat to Robb's left, as did the advisers of the royal court. There was Lord Jason Mallister, thane of ships, still handsome even with silver streaking his brown hair, Torrhen Poole, the keeper of accounts, occasionally casting protective looks at his niece Jeyne down below, and Hother "Whoresbane" Umber, thane of winter, whose face was as rough as his long white beard.
Hother's eyes were flinty, his expression grim, as though the tourney was not worth his time. Arya couldn't really blame him; overseeing the preparations for winter was no easy task. The old Kings of Winter had chosen a thane to help ensure every bannerman was ready for winter; Lord Eddard and his predecessors had taken over the duty themselves, with the aid of the maesters of Winterfell. But poor Maester Luwin could not handle such a heavy task, not when there were three kingdoms to feed instead of one. Hother was an ideal choice, having forged links at the Citadel in his youth and spent the following thirty years managing the winter provisions at Last Hearth.
The seat beside Hother was left empty; with two northmen and a riverlord already upon his council, Robb intended to appoint a keeper of laws from among the lords of the Vale. The Vale had not fought beside Robb in the riverlands, had not bled and died with him at the Red Wedding. Securing their fealty was one thing, keeping it another.
That was one of the main reasons Robb had decided to host a tourney before autumn turned to winter. Everyone knew the Reach was mad for tourneys, but it was a madness shared by every other southron kingdom, including the Vale. Why not invite their lords and knights to show off their prowess? Not that the northern lords were thrilled with the idea. Hosting a small number of southron lords for a week of friendship and feasting was one thing; hosting dozens of lordlings, knights and squires was quite another. Even limiting the number of entrants from the Riverlands and Vale didn't entirely quell their concerns.
Arya shifted in her seat, desperately resisting the urge to itch at the crown of winter roses that sat over her usual bronze circlet. Someone had to be the queen of love and beauty, but why did it have to be her? She was only twelve, not yet flowered. The only mark of her approaching womahood was a growth spurt and the pimples sprouting up on the back of her neck and at the edges of her hairline. She couldn't wait for the mêlée; the knight or squire who was judged the victor would get to give her crown to some other lady. Let her deal with the leaves prickling at her scalp.
Movement in the box below caught her eye; Jeyne Poole was waving at her again, an encouraging look on her face. Plastering on a smile, Arya waved back. Yet again she wished that Jeyne and Meri could sit with her in the royal box, but they had been relegated to the box set aside for the ladies and foster children of the northern court. Every lord, great or small, was dead set on sending at least one son or daughter to Winterfell, and Robb couldn't say no to all of them.
Heaving a sigh, Arya glanced over the chattering mass who surrounded Jeyne. All of them came from families too important to ignore, and as such, she had to remember all their names and make sure Rickon remembered them. Nudging her little brother, they quietly began reviewing the assortment of boys, girls, squires, and maids.
From the north came Rodrik Ryswell, a boy of eight, eldest grandson of Lord Rodrik Ryswell of the Rills. The Ryswells were important because they bred the finest warhorses in the North. Rickon remembered Rodrik easily; they had riding lessons together. Wylla Manderly was just as easy, given that Rickon had known her for nearly two years. He struggled more with Cornel Umber and Alys Karstark, unsurprising given that they were both seventeen, had long brown hair and blue-grey eyes, and spent most of their time in each other's company. Rickon finally remembered which was which when she reminded him that today they wore their house colors, Alys in black with a white sunburst blazoned on her breast, Cornel in flame-red, doubtless wearing a pin somewhere with the giant of Umber and his broken chains.
The skinny boy beside Rodrik Ryswell was easier for Rickon. Edmund "Ben" Blackwood, a squire of thirteen, was rather distinct, what with his skinny arms and enormous, beaky nose. He was one of the only wards brave enough to go near Shaggydog when the direwolf was finally permitted to leave the godswood after months of training with Rickon, Arya, and Nymeria. The new kennelmaster flatly refused to go anywhere near the black direwolf, not when the massive scar on Gage the cook's leg was visible to every man that visited the bathhouse.
The last two ladies Rickon failed to recognize at all, unsurprising given that they had arrived within the last sennight. Catelyn Bracken looked well in her gown of gold and chestnut, as did Rhea Royce in her gown of bronze and black, but they shared similar looks of melancholy. The War of the Five Kings had taken Catelyn Bracken's betrothed, who was slain in the Battle of Sweetroot, while Rhea Royce had lost her husband to a tourney accident not two years after they were wed. Her father Bronze Yohn had brought her north with him hoping that a change of scenery might lift her spirits.
Arya snorted. Lift her spirits indeed. Rhea Royce was here for the same reason as Catelyn Bracken, Alys Karstark, Cornel Umber, and two dozen other pretty young ladies who'd come to Winterfell for the tourney. Their fathers wanted Robb to choose one of them as his queen, as if a sweet face was enough to make him propose marriage on the spot. Robb Stark might have liked gossiping about pretty girls with Theon and Jon when he was a boy, but King Robb was a man, and he did nothing unless it served his people. He was more like to wed a fleet of ships loaded with grain than a buxom daughter of a minor house.
The wind plucked at her crown, a petal falling past her nose. Much as Arya hated being Princess of Winterfell, she couldn't begrudge Robb for his reluctance to marry. Not when it was her fault that he was a widower. And so she gritted her teeth and tried to follow Lady Edythe Cerwyn's directions about being a good hostess, even though it felt like walking in a pair of shoes that didn't fit, the leather chafing her raw.
"Princess Arya," a stern voice said. She turned to find Robb looking at her, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Yes, Ro— Your Grace?"
"You and Prince Rickon may explore the tourney grounds, so long as you return to my pavilion by midday."
Arya could have kissed him. She nearly leapt out of her seat, dipping a curtsy to Robb while Rickon made a clumsy bow befitting of his six years. Ser Perwyn stepped from his place behind their chairs, as did a pair of men-at-arms, members of the household guard. They bowed to the king as well before following Arya and Rickon down the steps, Arya waving for Jeyne and Meri to come join them as Rickon grabbed Wylla by the hand.
The next hour passed much too quickly. They watched men-at-arms set up pavilions, bought warm cheese tarts from one of the few food stands already set up, let Nymeria and Shaggydog race across the empty field being made ready for the mêlée, examined the wares of a master armorer come all the way from the Vale with Lady Waynwood's train. Arya wished Gendry could have seen the gleaming swords, with their graceful hilts and sharp edges, but he wouldn't have a day off from the forge until near the end of the tourney.
"Can you make a dagger with a bull's head pommel?" Arya asked the armorer, who eyed her bronze circlet and crown of flowers.
"For the Princess of the North? Anything, my lady. But perhaps a sword would be a finer gift for your sworn shield?" He glanced at Ser Perwyn standing behind her, frowning when he saw the crimson towers and silver scales on his quartered surcoat.
Arya bit her lip. A sword would be a good gift for Ser Perwyn; she would have to come back later when someone else was guarding her. But a sword wasn't right for Gendry, no more than a dagger.
"Can you make a smith's hammer? The kind you would use to make a sword?"
The armorer blinked, confused. "I- yes, my lady, I could. I have a few spare hammers with me which I might ornament. But a smith's hammer does not have a pommel."
Arya thought for a moment. She had a better idea than just a silly bull's head pommel.
By the time she arrived at Robb's pavilion Arya was quite pleased with how she spent her hour of freedom. The armorer had agreed to make her request, delighted when she paid half his price up front with the coin Ser Perwyn held for her. Lord Eddard had always taught them that it was best to give a craftsman some coin so he knew an order was made in earnest, and did not have to worry that the purchase was a mere whim that would be forgotten when payment came due.
Robb had no intention of forgetting any of his bannermen. Most of the mountains lords had not seen Robb since before the war, when he visited with Lord Eddard. Given that Robb intended to permit wildlings into the Gift, they'd spent most of the last few months in the saddle, riding from one mountain clan to another. It fell to Lady Edythe Cerwyn and Wylla Manderly to oversee the preparations for the tourney with the help of Maester Luwin and Torrhen Poole. The mountain clans welcomed "the Robb, son of the Ned" with hard looks and angry eyes, but Robb was determined to earn their loyalty. He drank their ale and ate their bread and salt, praised their sons and daughters, promised them the shelter of Winterfell when autumn ended, all in rough northron.
Originally Robb had intended for only himself and Arya to go, leaving Rickon as the Stark in Winterfell. That plan was almost immediately scrapped when Rickon threw a screaming, weeping tantrum that ended with him gasping for air, his face nearly purple as he sobbed. Nothing Robb could say would persuade him that it was a short, safe journey, that he would see his brother and sister again before he knew it. Only when Robb agreed to bring Rickon along did he finally calm down, though he still clung to Arya like a limpet.
By the time they reached the mountain clans Rickon's tantrum was a half-remembered nightmare. The younger sons of the mountain lords were near as wild as he was, fond of wrestling and fighting and racing their shaggy ponies. Their daughters were half-wild too, as bold and brash as any Mormont. To her delight Arya found that more than one shared her interest in fighting, though they favored small bows and throwing spears rather than swords.
"Better to kill a wildling from far away," a Norrey girl told her grimly. "Close enough for swords is close enough for one of their friends to grab you."
Much as Arya admired their skill and their muscled arms, their disdain for water dancing annoyed her. Upon returning to Winterfell immediately Arya complained at length to Oro Nestoris, her new water dancing master. This promptly backfired, as every lesson since then had been spent learning how to escape from a man's hold, no matter where or how he grabbed her. Arya was almost glad that she didn't have any lessons until the tourney ended; Oro was twice her size and very strong, and memorizing all the ways to escape different holds was exhausting.
No one was in the pavilion yet except for Robb and two of his honor guard, Patrek Mallister and Helman Tallhart. With so few eyes, Arya did not hesitate to hug her brother tight and thank him for letting her explore the tourney. Robb hugged her back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before shooing her to the seat beside his.
Lord Edmure Tully arrived shortly after that, eager to discuss all the news from the south. Arya listened, trying not to fidget, as he expounded at length about Lady Shella Whent's decision to bestow Harrenhal upon a flock of Most Devout and holy brothers and sisters who had fled King's Landing. Properly Uncle Edmure should have inherited Harrenhal, being Lady Shella's oldest nephew, but he didn't seem to mind.
"I've enough work to do, what with clearing the last of those Bloody Mummers and trying to rebuild and replant before winter," Uncle Edmure sighed. "The curse of Harrenhal is the last thing I need. Who better to cleanse the place than the Faithful?"
He then went on for a good quarter of an hour about the dwarf High Septon of Harrenhal, about the miracles which had led to his acclamation, about his staunch opposition to corruption, about his offer to house and feed the poor of the Seven Kingdoms, so long as they toiled alongside the Faithful in the fields and helped restore the ruined castle to a habitable state. Robb mostly listened, asking the occasional question before shifting to the subject of the Twins.
The fall of the Twins was all but certain within the next moon, so said Lord Jonos Bracken and Lord Tytos Blackwood, who had command over the siege. What was less certain was what to do with the Twins after they surrendered. Robb was not inclined to permit any Frey to hold the keep, not even one of the Truefaiths. Instead he proposed that the keep become neutral ground, held by a castellan in the name of the Tullys of Riverrun. The toll paid by those crossing the bridge would be shared betwixt Winterfell and Riverrun; the lords and landed knights formerly sworn to House Frey would become direct vassals of House Tully.
"What about all the widows and orphans?" Edmure asked. "When I arrived Ser Walton Truefaith asked if there was any word of his sister's daughter, Marianne Vance, a maid of eighteen. He wasn't able to take her when they fled, and he fears for her safety."
"Gods," Robb swore. "Some of them might have known of the Red Wedding, but the younger ones..." He cast a glance at Arya. "The widows and orphans may all go free, so long as those who have come of age swear a holy oath that they knew nothing of Lord Walder's plans. They may return to their kin, or if they have no kin, they may either remarry or join the Faith. House Frey's coffers should be sufficient to pay small dowries for either a husband or a motherhouse. But those who remarry must seek my leave; I'll not have them vanish into the shadows until the day their new husband comes to Winterfell and his lady tries to poison my wine."
After that it was all talk of the Riverlands, of examining lineages to find the rightful heirs of childless lords slain in the fighting, of sorting out the taxes owed to Winterfell and how they would be paid, of persuading reluctant septries and motherhouses to acknowledge the dwarf High Septon, of hunting outlaws, restoring villages, and on and on and on.
Finally it was time for the opening feast. Arya listened from the high dais as the herald cried for the lords and knights and squires to present themselves to the judges on the morrow, still resisting the urge to shred her crown of winter roses. The first day of the tourney ended with dancing and drinking; only two more days until she could be rid of the awful thing.
The second day of the tourney was slightly more interesting than the first. It took half the day for all the entrants to present their sigils and banners to the judges and sign up for events. Although Robb presided over the tourney as host, he would not sit as judge. Instead he had given that honor to Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Yohn Royce, Lord Wyman Manderly, and Lord Hugo Wull, most powerful of the mountain lords.
If she had not known better Arya might have taken the Wull for a blacksmith, what with his barrel chest and brawny arms. He had never even seen a tourney before; Lord Manderly had to explain the rules to him at length before they could begin. To Arya's surprise the Wull took vicious glee in the rule that said ladies must be allowed to examine all the banners so that men who wronged the ladies the previous day might be disqualified.
Arya had barely seen any of the knights, as she was always with Robb, but it seemed several had tried to push unwanted kisses on innocent maids during the dancing. The judges unanimously disqualified a Woolfield, a Norrey, a pair of Perryns, and a Grafton, but when Alys Karstark raised objection to a Hardyng who then accused her of lying, a quiet shouting match broke out between Uncle Edmure and Yohn Royce, one which only ended when the Wull bodily flung Hardyng out of the pavilion after he called Alys a tease who was more wildling than lady.
Bronze Yohn was still cold with fury when he met with King Robb in his pavilion shortly thereafter, and the meeting did nothing to improve his temper. He had many, many complaints about how Lady Lysa Arryn was running the Vale as regent for her son Robert. Lady Lysa was the king's aunt, he allowed, but she was nothing like the beloved, dearly departed Lady Catelyn. Lysa was fickle, erratic, foolish, concerned with nothing but her sickly son, a boy of nine who only stopped nursing in the last six months.
"The boy must be taken from her," Yohn Royce insisted, crossing his arms. Robb made commiserating noises, but would not promise to do more than command Lady Lysa to permit her son playmates from among the noblest houses of the Vale.
Yohn Royce did not like that, no more than he liked Robb's gentle refusal to send northmen to help put down the wildling clans who lived in the Mountains of the Moon. They had always raided the Vale, but they were raiding more than ever now that several clans had acquired steel. Merchants and farmers across the Vale traveled in fear of having their precious cargo looted, the wildlings taking as much grain and wool as they could carry. Bronze Yohn was particularly irate about the Black Ears, who left their victims alive but short an ear.
"Led by a woman, if you can believe it," Bronze Yohn grumbled. "A savage named Chella that goes about with a necklace made of all the ears she's taken."
Arya strangled the urge to ask Bronze Yohn whether he was more upset about the ears or about Chella being a girl, and soon enough he turned to complaining about the Burned Men. All the clans were violent barbarians who made no decision without holding a council, a council where even the lowliest man or women had equal say with their chieftains. But the Burned Men were the worst of the worst, madmen who burned their own flesh when they came of age, so brazen they'd stolen Jon Arryn's niece Alyssa Waynwood years and years ago when she was on her way to marry a Bracken.
The subject of the dwarf High Septon provided a brief respite. It was a shame that Paul the Pious was a dwarf, a grotesque, but then the Seven did sometimes show their power by uplifting the lowliest of the Mother's children. Still, Bronze Yohn approved of anything that defied the Lannisters and their cronies, including disavowing the High Septon who ruled from the Great Sept of Baelor.
"We must have war before winter comes," Bronze Yohn insisted with solemn gravity. "The Lannisters broke the Peace of Sweetroot into splinters with their treachery."
"They paid the weregild," Robb answered mildly.
"And married Princess Sansa to a Dornish bastard, rather than return her," Bronze Yohn scoffed.
"Princess Sansa has written to us several times, as has Robett Glover, who even now watches over her as she and her husband tour the Free Cities. All the envoys we sent to Sunspear reported that she was in good health and good spirits, treated with all the honor due a princess. Ser Olyvar Sand slew the Mountain for her, and..." Robb ground his teeth. "By all acounts treats her as a sister, given her youth. He has sworn a holy vow not to consummate the marriage until after she comes of age."
"Hmph. Even a Dornishman would not break such a vow lightly. And Cersei Lannister allowed this?" Bronze Yohn's eyes were the color of steel, and just as sharp.
"Cersei Lannister apparently intended to have Princess Sansa poisoned until Prince Oberyn Martell convinced her that his bastard son was a raping brute at Ser Olyvar's own behest. He has a dozen sisters of his own; apparently he could not bear to see a helpless young maid suffer so cruel a fate."
A cold silence fell over the pavilion as Bronze Yohn considered Robb's words. It was strange, to see Robb talk of Sansa so calmly. Direwolf or not, he was furious that she hadn't returned as he had hoped. If Daenerys Targaryen had dragons, that was Robb's burden to deal with, not Sansa's. Even if Daenerys did intend to someday conquer Westeros, she and her dragons might be killed by her enemies before that day came. Why would Sansa, sweet, gentle, Sansa, risk her skin when she could be safe at Winterfell?
"It's the sort of willfull madness I'd have expected from you, not Sansa," Robb had ranted in the privacy of his solar while Arya listened, unsettled. It felt very, very odd to be the well-behaved sister. Arya wanted to be angry with Sansa for abandoning her, but guilt always won out over anger. Sansa would never have been captured if not for Arya running off to try and kill Amory Lorch. Was that why Sansa wouldn't come back? Was she punishing Robb and Arya for failing to save her from King's Landing? Something didn't make sense, but Arya couldn't figure out what pieces she was missing.
"Lord Royce," Robb said, interrupting her thoughts. "War is coming, but not the one you think. Your own brave son, Ser Waymar, may have been the first to face the enemy that means to slay us all."
Robb seemed to talk for hours, but no matter how hard she tried to listen, Arya could think of nothing but Bran, lost somewhere beyond the Wall. Did he still have Summer and the two Reeds to keep him safe? Was he cold? Was he hungry? Maester Luwin had told them all he knew of greenseeing, but what on earth was a three-eyed crow?
The thought still disturbed her that night as Jeyne took down her hair and Meri set aside the crown of winter roses, wilted after the long day. Arya had to don a fresh crown each morning, woven with flowers from the glass gardens by Cornel Umber's clever fingers. At least when she crawled into bed she could pretend she wasn't a princess, just Arya. She could cuddle with Jeyne and Meri like they had at the hollow hill, and whisper about all the different people come to Winterfell. Jeyne was already half in love with some handsome redheaded squire, just like she'd fallen in love with Beric Dondarrion at the Hand's Tourney; Meri meanwhile was in awe of the fine ladies, their shiny hair and pale skin and fancy gowns.
"Jeyne has shiny hair," Arya said crossly, tired of Meri gushing over some chestnut-haired maiden from the Vale.
Neither Meri nor Jeyne said much after that, but Arya still couldn't fall asleep. She missed the reassuring weight of Gendry against her back; Robb was just as good, except for his occasional habit of crying softly in his sleep. Sighing, Arya pounded her pillow, flipped it over, and wrapped a hand around the hilt of the dagger she kept on her at all times, her thumb tracing the snout of the wolf's head pommel Gendry had made. When she fell asleep it was to drifting, meandering dreams of crows and caves and waters dark as death.
Nor could she keep her mind from wandering the next day. The entire morning was spent taking oaths from all the knights and squires and northern warriors, each entrant swearing to behave honorably in the contests to come. Sansa would have loved the flapping of bright banners and the ringing of the trumpets, but Arya was more interested in watching the fighting than all the pageantry you had to suffer before anyone actually drew a sword. If a tourney was to last seven days, shouldn't they start fighting on the first day? But no, here they were, on the third day, still going through endless pomp and formalities.
There were still more formalities at dinner, a feast that seemed to somehow offend many of the lords and ladies of the Vale by having only seven courses. Arya didn't see the problem; every course was cooked to perfection. What was there to complain about? The opening day feast had been much more lavish, and the closing day feast would splendid too, but surely they didn't need to stuff themselves every night of the tourney. How would they be able to fight if they were too full to move?
Arya was happily sharing a honey roll with Rickon when the trumpets blew a fanfare and the herald stepped forward. That's right, it was the end of the third course. Quickly Arya brushed the crumbs from her fingers, straightening her dark blue skirts trimmed with Tully mud red. Tiny silver fish swam up the sleeves, some of the last work Lady Catelyn finished before King Robert came. The dress had been meant for Sansa, but it was Arya who wore it, Arya who must make her mother proud.
"High and noble lords, knights, and squires! On behalf of the judges, I hereby announce that those intending to compete in the mêlée must be on the mêlée grounds tomorrow at noon, armed and ready!"
A roar of approval went up from the guests, some banging their cups on the tables, some cheering and whooping. Robb allowed the merriment for a few minutes, then had the trumpeters blow another fanfare to silence them so the herald might continue.
"Honored guests! As it has always been the custom of maidens to show compassion, those who have come to see the tourney do fear that the fever of battle may cause excess brutality amongst our gallant competitors. Not wishing to see anyone beaten too hard, the ladies have asked the judges to choose a true knight whom they may entrust with the solemn duty of carrying their favor."
At this the herald waved a long white veil, richly embroidered with thread of silver and gold. Arya hoped no one noticed the tiny bloodstain on one corner. Though Lady Edythe had supervised the long hours of needlework which went into stitching the favor, with most of the work done by Wylla Manderly, Cornel Umber, Jeyne Poole, and Lady Edythe herself, courtesy required that the hostess, Arya, do at least a small part of the needlework herself. She'd resentfully stitched a somewhat clumsy weirwood leaf on one corner, not daring anything more elaborate, and hoping the crimson thread would hide the dots of blood from where she'd pricked herself.
"The knight chosen to bear the ladies' favor shall tie it about his lance, and if he sees someone too severely beaten, he shall touch the unhappy man's helm with the veil, and those beating him must stop, for he is now under the protection of the ladies."
That was her cue. Arya rose to her feet, as did the rest of her ladies-in-waiting. When she reached the front of the dais the herald bowed, handing her the veil with a flourish. Earlier in the evening Arya had marked where Ser Mychel Redfort sat, so it was easy enough to make her way straight to his place at one of the trestle tables closest to the dais. He was a younger knight, only twenty or so, but he was the son of Lord Horton Redfort, one of the most powerful lords of the Vale, and his lady wife was Ysilla Royce, Bronze Yohn's own daughter. She wondered if the judges had wanted to choose Ser Mychel, or if Bronze Yohn had bullied them into it. Robb had refused to have anything to do with the selection, lest he be accused of favoritism.
Ser Mychel gallantly accepted the favor, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek and the cheeks of Alys Karstark and Wylla Manderly, who stood to either side of her, the crowd once again applauding and cheering. When they quieted down Ser Mychel thanked the ladies for the honor, swore to do his duty, and accepted a lance so that the herald might tie the favor on the end. Then he followed her back to the dais, taking a seat of honor between her and Robb for the rest of the feast.
Arya did her best to engage Ser Mychel in conversation like she was supposed to, bringing up the topics Lady Edythe regarded appropriate. She must have done something wrong, because when she asked about his lady love Ser Mychel scowled for the rest of the course, only cheering when she asked him about his horses.
He does have a very nice destrier, Arya decided the next day as she watched Ser Mychel approach the stands, the ladies' favor fluttering from the end of his lance. Mule, Ser Mychel's piebald stallion, held his head proudly, as if he knew how handsome he looked in his bardings of red and white, as if he barely felt the weight of a knight in full armor upon his back.
Dozen of other destriers were making their way down to the mêlée grounds, a large open field split asunder by the Wolfsclaw. The river began as a spring in the low hills of the eastern edge of the wolfswood, its waters flowing south toward Winterfell, past Castle Cerwyn, and eventually down to the White Knife. Here the waters flowed slowly; the place chosen for the mêlée was broad and shallow enough to ford. Robb claimed that when he was little, the winter snowmelt swelled the river to thrice its size, but it looked gentle enough today.
Over the last three days the competitors had divided themselves into two teams, grey and white, each claiming one side of the river to lightly fortify and defend. Sansa had gushed on and on about the Hand's Tourney, but mostly about the jousting, not the mêlée. Arya didn't remember anything about a proper mock battle between two sides, just an open field where men bashed each other at whim until only one was left standing.
Here each side had chosen a captain, Ser Patrek Mallister for the grey and Lord Horton Redfort for the white. Arya did not quite understand how the grey had chosen an amiable knight of four and twenty whilst the white had chosen a short old man. She would have thought it would be the other way around. The grey team were mostly northmen and rivermen, seasoned veterans of a dozen or more battles in the south, joined by a few Vale hedge knights who'd spent their lives hunting bandits. The white team were mostly valemen and knights of the riverlands who were their kin, along with a dozen or so young knights from White Harbor eager for a chance at glory.
When the trumpets blew to open the mêlée, Arya found herself watching Robb as much as the fighting. Her brother watched the battle like a hawk, his eyes darting back and forth as the knights couched their blunted lances and charged at each other. The grey team had let the white charge across the stream, but they met their charge without faltering, and held steady even as the dust and the clamor made it harder to tell what was going on. To her confusion many of the shabbier knights lingered at the edges of the field, not even trying to fight.
"What are they doing?" She asked Robb.
"Waiting for the others to tire themselves out. A good ransom can feed a hedge knight for a long while." Intent on the battle, he answered without looking at her. "See how Ser Patrek holds his formation?"
Arya looked. Both teams had begun in well-ordered formations, but the white formation was breaking apart, each knight out for himself, while the grey team held together. "But Ser Patrek is always hawking and drinking and teasing the serving girls," Arya said, puzzled. True, Ser Patrek had nearly died defending Robb at the Twins, and was fiercely proud to remain part of King Robb's honor guard, but still.
"Patrek also helped hold the line at Sweetroot," Robb told her. "It takes a spine of steel to hold men together well enough to feign retreat, but he followed my orders to the letter. Never underestimate a man because he smiles and enjoys frivolous sport."
"Father didn't hawk and drink and tease serving girls," Arya muttered.
"No," Robb sighed, finally looking at her. For a moment she thought he might muss her hair like Jon used to... then his hand was resting on her shoulder, his forehead pressed against hers. "The north loved Eddard Stark for his justice and his strength, not his smiles. But Father's way is not the only way."
"But it's your way."
Robb squeezed her shoulder gently, kissed her brow, and turned back to the mêlée, a sad smile on his lips.
It took until mid-afternoon for the competitors to finally tire themselves out. Ser Mychel Redfort intervened now and then, dipping his lance over the heads of the most unfortunate losers so their attackers would cease bashing them. One of the Knotts from the mountain clans had to be stopped half a dozen times for wielding his club with excessive zeal against knights of the Vale, smacking dents into their shiny armor with unholy glee. The Knott didn't seem very bothered; he laughed gamely when he saw the veil fluttering over his foe and charged off to find a new opponent.
Bronze Yohn was very quiet indeed when the judges finished deliberating and he had to tell the herald to announce that the day belonged to the grey team. The individual winner of the mêlée would not be announced until dinner, but Ser Patrek Mallister and his men cheered as if every man of them had won the prize himself. She supposed they had, as almost all the knights of the white team had fallen and would have to pay through the nose to ransom back their horse and armor.
Dinner was a rather disjointed affair, what with the white team sulking and the grey team boistrously recounting their exploits at length for ladies who had missed their finest moments. Winner or loser, almost all of the knights not competing in the joust on the morrow drank like fish. Arya could barely hear the trumpets sound when it was time for her to bring forward the prize for the winner of the mêlée. Although the winning team would split a fat purse of Lannister gold, the man judged the best of all who fought would receive an additional prize, a silver ring set with an enormous diamond. More importantly, the victor would also get to take Arya's crown of winter roses and give it to some other lady.
Arya had thought the Knott might be chosen the victor, given how enthusiastically the Wull cheered him on, but the judges chose Ser Patrek Mallister instead. His cheeks and nose were red with drink as he accepted the diamond ring, and the chaste kiss meant for her cheek somehow ended up on her nose instead, sending up a shout of laughter.
"Thanks to your gallantry," Arya said through her teeth, trying her best not to snarl. Up on the dais Nymeria snarled for her, taking a vicious bite from a haunch of venison. "You may honor a lady of your choosing as the queen of love and beauty."
She carefully removed her crown of winter roses and handed it to Ser Patrek, and all the knights and lords within earshot immediately began shouting suggestions. There were plenty of ladies to choose from, northern ladies in fine wool, riverlands ladies in shimmering silks, Vale ladies in heavily embroidered gowns... just pick one, she thought irritably as Ser Patrek practically spun in his eagerness to look about the hall, staring first at one maiden then another.
"There are too many lovely ladies!" Ser Patrek finally bellowed, almost in her ear. Around the hall maidens blushed and tittered, some of them more sincerely than others. "How can a man choose between the lily and the rose, the sun and the moon?"
To her horror Ser Patrek turned back to Arya, a happy grin splitting his face from ear to ear. "I say no man can choose! Let Princess Arya remain our queen of love and beauty!"
Carefully he placed the crown of winter roses back atop her head, the leaves itching at her scalp. Maidens groaned in disappointment, lords clapped their approval, and Arya wanted nothing in the world so much as she wanted to stab Ser Patrek.
And so Arya spent the fifth day of the tournament trying to sulk without everyone knowing she was sulking, a difficult task given that she watched the jousting from the royal box. Whatever humiliation the knights of the Vale had suffered in the mêlée, they were extremely good at jousting. Ser Targon the Halfwild rode like he'd been born in the saddle, Ser Roland Waynwood broke three lances against Lord Smallwood before he was judged the victor, and Ser Mychel Redfort unhorsed six opponents in a row. Yohn Royce fairly glowed when the day ended with a joust betwixt his son and heir, Ser Albar Royce, and the still undefeated Ser Mychel Redfort, though he was a bit less happy when Mychel won.
Arya was not very happy either. The winner of the joust was supposed to name a new queen of love and beauty, and she was relieved when the time came for her to place her crown of winter roses on the end of Ser Mychel's lance. She thought he meant to give it to his wife, but he rode up and down in front of the stands, past where his wife sat with other ladies of the Vale, before finally returning to the royal box and extending his lance to her.
Unable to fling it back in his face, Arya settled for asking Mule to throw his rider. The piebald stallion refused, nor would he agree to kick Ser Mychel. After much wheedling and the promise of raisins he agreed to lightly step on Ser Mychel's foot when he dismounted, which was at least better than nothing.
That night there were no singers at the feast save for a black brother named Dareon. Song after song he sang, of winter winds and frozen rivers, of dark days and darker nights, of cold so deep it sank into a man's bones. The singer had a deep voice, somehow both rich and sweet, but Arya didn't like how eagerly he quaffed wine between his songs or how his eyes lingered on the ladies. She would have much rather had Jon Snow than some stupid singer, but Jon refused to leave the Wall, not even to speak before the high lords assembled for the tourney. Apparently stupid King Stannis had burned his stupid wife because his stupid red priestess said it would help make him more powerful. Arya couldn't see how burning someone would make you more powerful, even if the queen wanted to be burned like Jon said.
"My lords already view him with suspicion, at best!" Robb had hissed when he read the letter shortly after their return to Winterfell. "Word will spread, if it hasn't already; what is he doing?"
"Maybe he's trying to hatch a dragon?" Arya volunteered.
"Oh, yes, the prior attempts went so well," Robb said scathingly. "Baelor prayed and fasted, and prayed and fasted, and died dragonless. Aerion Brightflame drank wildfire, and turned himself into flames and ash. Aegon the Unlikely assembled nearly every Targaryen, dragon egg, and pyromancer he could find, and nearly extinguished his entire house at Summerhall. Why the devil would Stannis Baratheon of all people try such folly?"
That was a question neither Robb, Arya, nor Maester Luwin could answer, but it was on Arya's mind as she listened to the singer sing of a night without end and an enemy without a name. Whyever Stannis had burnt his wife, Jon Snow did not dare leave the Wall for fear Stannis might try something even madder in his absence. Maybe Stannis would burn himself, and stop bothering Jon.
The hall was quiet and subdued when the singer sang his last song and the heralds blew the trumpets for the awarding of prizes for the joust. Besides the prizes of coin there was a wand of gold for the knight who struck the best blow with his lance, a diamond for the knight who broke the most lances, and sapphire for the knight who stayed longest in the lists without losing his helm. Arya noted to her satisfaction that Ser Mychel was limping when he came to collect his prize.
Ser Mychel was still favoring one foot when they opened the dancing together, and Arya made sure to "accidentally" kick his injured foot more than once before the dance ended. Dance lessons had become somewhat less painful after Oro Nestoris made them part of her water dancing training, informing her that feet which danced lightly were better suited to dancing around her foe. That said, regardless of where her left hand was supposed to be during a dance, she still had a tendency to hold it out as though she gripped Needle. It was a relief when she could finally sit down; Robb might make her dance with the highest born lords and counselors, but she was free to refuse every other knight who tried to lead her about the floor.
"You look like you're trying to set Ser Mychel on fire by glaring at him, princess," Alys Karstark murmured as she joined Arya on the dais, a cup of mead in her hand. Arya snorted; almost without thinking she touched the hated crown of winter roses.
"He was supposed to crown his wife, not me," Arya grumbled.
"Ser Mychel doesn't like his wife; at least that's what Myranda Royce says." Alys took a sip of mead. "He was in love with a bastard girl, so his father made him wed the highest born maid he could find. Neither of them were pleased; Lady Ysilla fancied some stuttering Waynwood, and the betrothal was almost certain when Lord Horton persuaded Yohn Royce that a gallant Redfort was the better choice."
Arya made a face. "So he wanted to thumb his nose at Lord Redfort and Lord Royce?"
"Right in one. Choosing a random lady would ruin her reputation and his own, but choosing the king's sister is the height of chivalry. Why do you think Ser Patrek chose you? If he chose a wedded woman her husband would challenge him to a duel; if he chose an unwed maid he would be expected to offer for her hand. You are already betrothed, and any honor given to you is seen as offering fealty to King Robb."
Well, it was small consolation for one more day of wearing the stupid crown, but at least now Arya knew they weren't making fun of her.
She and Jeyne did make fun of the lords and knights who spent the sixth day of the tourney recovering from the mêlée and the joust, soaking in tubs of hot water and having their wounds tended by maesters. Those who had escaped injury joined King Robb and his council to watch the day of peasant games, where men too lowborn for lance and sword might still show their mettle at archery, wrestling, hammer throw, or javelin throw. There was also a foot race, which Robb watched closely; he needed more messengers to run up and down the stairs of Winterfell.
As Master Armorer Theowyle had chosen today as Gendry's free day, he entered the hammer throw and ended up placing third, though Gendry's rough smile fell when he noticed the lords and ladies gossiping in the stands. It had not taken long at White Willow for the older men to notice Gendry's resemblance to Robert Baratheon, though no one told him until Dacey Mormont finally took him aside, exasperated by everyone knowing except Gendry himself. Gendry had never spoken of it since, and Arya didn't dare bring it up.
Her friend's smile returned somewhat when he received his prize. The winners in each event were awarded small purses of gold and silver, as well as heavy cloaks of rabbitskin, warm caps made from fox fur, leather gloves lined with lambswool, even bolts of wool from Winterfell's flocks for their wives and daughters to turn into clothing.
The last events of the afternoon were a pair of horse races, one for men and one for ladies. Best of all, Arya was allowed to compete in the ladies' race. Hodor brought her mount, a plain-looking bay mare from Winterfell's stables named Surefoot. Ready, girl? Arya asked the mare as they approached the rope which marked the starting line. Surefoot whickered, stamping a foot. She was more than ready to show these other horses the meaning of haste.
As they waited Arya glanced over her competition. Most were ladies she did not know, but she recognized Alys Karstark and her mean-tempered gelding Plumblossom and Catelyn Bracken and her stallion Avalanche. Though most of the ladies were maidens or young wives, there was one older woman all in black, her grey-brown hair up in a widow's knot. Arya stared at the bardings on her horse, noting the crossed long axes on yellow quartered with a golden horse head on bronze bordered with black.
"Lady Dustin," Arya greeted her when the widow of Barrowton reined up beside her. "Who's this?" She asked, with a gesture to the widow's handsome red gelding.
"A horse, princess," the widow said curtly.
Well, that was rude. What's your name? Arya asked the horse. He startled, stamping and whinnying his alarm though he was too well-trained to rear. Lady Dustin calmed her mount, shushing him and patting his neck with one beady eye trained on Arya. Whatever his name, the red gelding did not like the notion of a two-legger talking in his head, not at all. Two-leggers were supposed to talk with pats and apples and spurs and the like.
Trumpets blared; the ladies drew their mounts up to the line, waiting for the moment when the rope would drop. Steady, Arya reminded Surefoot. We know the ground better than they do. Surefoot whickered her agreement, tail lashing, muscles bunched.
A horn sounded, the rope dropped, and Surefoot bolted. Arya laughed as the wind caught at her hair and kissed her cheeks, her riding skirts flapping like wings. They had left them all behind, Lady Dustin, Alys, Catelyn, all of them. Over the Wolfsclaw they dashed, around the muddy mêlée field. The path ran through a corner of the wolfswood, and Surefoot slowed, dodging rocks and leaping over gnarled tree roots, careful to avoid slipping on the patches of wet leaves near the streams and pools.
It felt like forever before they were back out into the sunshine, with nothing but a meadow between them and the finish line. Arya gripped the reins rightly, squeezing the saddle with her knees as she let herself drift, looking through her own eyes, then through Surefoot's. Oh, to be a horse! She could feel the joy of running on four strong hooves, kicking up the weeds and sweet smelling grass, every breath of cool air better than the finest wine. Her legs hurt, but it was a good hurt, the hurt of a race well run.
A horse whickered behind them, and Arya fell into her own skin. Lady Barbrey was not six yards behind them, and gaining. Faster, faster! Arya begged, and Surefoot eagerly obeyed. She loved to run, she wanted to run as fast as she could, forever and ever— Arya paled. Surefoot was lathered in sweat; she'd let the mare run too fast for too long. But they were so close to the finish...
Arya yanked on the reins. Slow down! She yelled. They were neck and neck with Lady Barbrey now, the finish line only a dozen yards away. Surefoot protested despite her flagging speed, but another yank of the reins and she slowed to a canter, just as Lady Barbrey crossed the finish line.
"Well, at least you had the sense not to kill your mount, my lady," Lady Dustin said bitingly after they dismounted, waiting for the stableboys to come take their exhausted horses.
"Surefoot likes running fast," Arya protested, trying not to clutch at the stitch in her side.
"Hmph. That doesn't mean you should let her. I don't let Spite have his head until past the halfway mark." The widow patted the red gelding's cheek, his velvety nose snuffling at her shoulder.
The herald announced the winner, and then it was time for Lady Dustin to be presented to Robb. To her surprise Lord Rodrik Ryswell was already in the royal box, having a quiet conversation with King Robb. Someone had dropped a goblet; it lay at Robb's feet, red wine pooling while Grey Wind growled under his breath, angry with the wine's sour smell. That was odd; a servant should have cleaned that up already.
"A well-earned victory, Lady Dustin," Robb called when they were close enough to be heard without shouting. "If I might speak to you a moment, my lady?"
The widow inclined her head, sharp eyes glancing to Lord Rodrik, then to her three Ryswell nephews who stood beside him. The shortest was the heir, Roger Ryswell, but Arya couldn't remember the names of the other two.
"You won!" Rickon shouted, barreling into her arms.
"I placed second," she corrected him, ruffling his shaggy hair. Rickon babbled so loudly in praise of her riding that she could barely hear Robb's whispered conversation with the Ryswells. Something about bad wine, and the Night's Watch.
"—alone, I assure you," she heard Lady Dustin say when Rickon paused to take a breath. "His bastard slew my sister's only son—"
And then Rickon was off again and Arya heard no more of it until dinner, when Rickard Ryswell announced the singer had inspired him to join the stalwart men of the Night's Watch, and he would depart upon the morrow. He seemed oddly sweaty when he said it, though the looks his father and brothers gave him were cold indeed. Lady Dustin did not seem to care; though she wore no other jewelry, she seemed very pleased with the silver circlet she'd won in the lady's race, and gave Arya an unpleasant smile whenever their eyes met.
There were no games on the final day of the tourney. It was the seventh day of the week, the day set aside for prayer by those who worshipped the Seven. The small sept built for Lady Catelyn was packed to the brim with rivermen and valemen and their ladies; Septon Watt looked even more overwhelmed than he had when he offered prayers before each tourney event and before each meal held in the Great Hall. Robb and his counselors had argued at length whether or not he should attend services, before finally deciding he should not. He followed his father's gods; to offer insincere lip service to the Seven was far worse insult than keeping to his own faith.
Princess Arya followed her father's gods too, but she attended the service anyway. Lady Catelyn had followed the Seven, as did Meri and Ser Perwyn and Gendry and poor Queen Jeyne. When the time came for the lighting of candles Arya lit one to the Stranger for Jeyne Westerling, asking the faceless god to take good care of her goodsister.
When the service ended Arya was the first to depart the sept, as befit her rank. It was she who led the throng out to the tourney fields, where King Robb awaited them with all his northmen, Rickon half asleep beside him. Lords and ladies filed into the stands; the commons stood behind the lists, waiting for the king to speak.
There were no blazing trumpets today; a single sad horn blew for silence when Robb was ready to speak. She'd never known Robb could be so loud. His voice rang across the field as he read from the scroll which listed all the northmen and rivermen lost in battle against the Lannisters, praising their courage and promising to look after their widows and orphans. The scroll was very long; when he reached the section with the names of those slain at the Red Wedding he clenched his hand into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white.
When the list finally ended Septon Watt led more prayers, the northmen keeping silent vigil as the rest of the crowd bowed their heads. They had said their prayers to the old gods already; King Robb had led them to the heart tree while Arya was in the sept. When the last strains of the hymn to the Mother faded away, Maester Luwin handed Robb a second scroll.
"Lords and ladies, knights and squires!" Robb's voice was strange and stern, almost like Father's. "These men died valiantly to defend their kith and kin, home and hearth." An approving rumble swept over the crowd. "We drove the lions from our lands, made them pay gold for every drop of blood spilt." A roar went up, commons and nobles alike cheering and stomping. Robb waited for them to quiet, his breaths oddly loud.
"But Lannisters are not the only foes to threaten our realm and our people. There is a greater enemy who threatens us all, an enemy far more dangerous than any westerman or reacherman, an enemy long thought vanished into legend."
Arya shivered, glad that Rickon was dozing and could not hear as Robb spoke of the Others. Others and their wights were supposed to stay in Old Nan's stories, not walk out of the haunted forest and slaughter rangers. But Jon Snow said they had, he said they'd slain near three hundred black brothers at a place beyond the Wall called the Fist of the First Men, only a score surviving to return to Castle Black. The old Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, had been among the fallen, and now her brother Jon held the Wall, the nine-hundred-ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
It was Jon Snow who had sent the second scroll with the singer Dareon, a list of all the rangers slain beyond the Wall. The first name hurt most of all; she had to fight back tears as Robb read the name of First Ranger Benjen Stark. There was Ser Waymar Royce of the Vale, Bronze Yohn's youngest son, Ronnel Harclay of the mountain clans, Ser Thoren Smallwood of the Riverlands, even men from the Crownlands, Stormlands, Iron Islands, and the Reach.
"The Wall must be held," Robb declared as Grey Wind paced at his feet. "The black brothers cannot hold it alone; they need the spears of staunch northmen, the swords of stalwart rivermen, the lances of our valiant knights of the Vale." Scattered shouts of approval met his words, though less than Arya expected. Robb paused for a moment to take a breath, a flash of anger in his eyes. "Would you trust Stannis and his red priestess and his stormlanders to keep your lands safe?"
"No!" Bellowed Yohn Royce. Others shared his outrage, booing and jeering. Robb did not even try to quiet them, but waited patiently, eyes hard.
"I will not command that every lord call his banners," Robb said when the lords were finally calm. "I know the hardships you face, for they are mine own. What good is victory over the Others if all our folk starve and freeze while their men are gone? Crops must be planted and harvested while autumn lasts, sheep must be shorn, their wool carded and spun and woven, villages and holdfasts must be made safe from brigands. To oversee that work is an honorable charge, fit for those with wives and children and other duties that cannot be set aside."
"But the Wall must hold!" Robb's voice was even louder now, his face stern and grim as winter itself. "I ask only for the bravest and boldest of men, men who fear neither cold nor death, men whose daring o'erwhelms their dread. What greater glory could there be than driving back the direst foes men have ever faced? What higher calling could there be than defending the old gods and the new from monsters who worship neither?"
"I speak to you as the son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, not as your king. And in Lord Eddard's name, I swear to you, winter is coming."
Grey Wind gave a great howl, the sound sending shivers up Arya's spine as Nymeria and Shaggydog joined in. Robb sank heavily into his seat as the crowd erupted, the clamor so great Arya almost didn't notice Maester Luwin slip behind Robb and press a letter into his hands.
"What is it?" She asked as Robb cracked the mottled gold and brown seal. "Is it Sansa? Is it Bran?"
"The Twins," Robb said curtly, his voice almost lost beneath the tumult. His eyes scanned the blotted page; finally he spoke again. "Blackwood and Bracken have taken them, and not lost a single man."
Arya stared at him. "How?" Even she knew sieges were bloody business, especially if you stormed the walls. Greatjon Umber wanted to storm the Dreadfort, but Robb wouldn't let him for fear of losing too many men, not to mention destroying walls that would be needed to shelter the smallfolk come winter.
"Lord Walder's sons seem to have turned on each other," Robb said, frowning as he handed her the letter. "Ser Sorrel Roote happened upon one of Lord Walder's granddaughters, a girl of nine, who bore witness to the kinslaying. Blackwood and Bracken believe her; they seek my leave to hold trials for the surviving Freys."
Arya read the letter, the weight of her bronze circlet momentarily forgotten. Much as she hated being a princess, at least it was better than being Cersei Frey.
Haha BARELY got this finished in time; closing on the house this afternoon writing a tourney is so hard; can't wait to hear what y'all think!
NOTES
1) Wondering what happened during the siege of the Twins? Check out my new oneshot, A Fraying Knot. In the wake of a Red Wedding which fails to kill Robb Stark, the Twins are besieged. As time goes on, Cersei "Little Bee" Frey begins to wonder whether her family may be more dangerous than the host outside their walls.
2) Thane is an Anglo Saxon word for a lesser noble or a clan chief; I decided to incorporate it as a northron title similar to master. So instead of master of ships, thane of ships. Keeper of the accounts I chose because the actual title for a "master of coin" in medieval England would be comptroller and that word sounds ridiculously modern. Chancellor and treasurer also didn't sound right.
Minor etymology nitpick: magnar of thenn is a deeply annoying canon combination of words because magnar comes from Latin magna and thenn comes from Anglo Saxon thane. Those two things shouldn't coexist for the wildlings! Especially the far northern ones! Does Sigorn son of Styr have little brothers named Claudius or Augustus??!
3) Ladies being able to have knights disqualified for poor behavior was apparently a real thing. See the primary source, A Treatise on the Form and Organization of a Tournament. That said, I'm sure social rank and politics played into whether that was enforced.
4) Tourneys were heinously expensive productions; great for PR but awful for the pocketbook. Robb is dancing a very fine line of being extravagant enough to please the Riverlands and Vale, but also stingy enough not to throw away money needed for winter. As per usual, trying to make everyone happy is an exercise in frustration. Poor guy.
Traditionally the main events would be just the mêlée and the joust; archery wasn't usually included except in England to encourage commoners to keep training at longbow; I added a few other peasant events Robb can use to scout/hire new household guards, and the horse races were Robb rewarding Arya for behaving and encouraging his bannermen who breed the horses needed for northern cavalry.
5) Gendry's parentage should have come up earlier; I completely forgot to mention it during chapters dealing with the fallout of the Red Wedding. Oops.
6) Nice speech, Robb! We'll see how that goes with no wights to show off