"You're wearing my colours."

Robb turned to see his mother standing his rooms in the west tower of the Twins. "I thought it would be appropriate for my new subjects," he said, spreading his arms. "How do I look?"

"Like a king ready to be wedded," his mother said, smiling wistfully, with the pain of sharp memories. He had chosen Tully colours, with a deep blue doublet and red hose, woven with pure white thread. "What of your northern subjects?"

Robb pulled out his cloak and swished it out to reveal a field of white, trimmed with bear fur and a great grey direwolf sprinting across it. "I defy anyone to see me in this and think me anything but a Stark."

"There was never any doubt of that," she said.

"Is everyone ready?"

"Down below, they wait for you to join them to cross the bridge." Where Roslin awaits. "I have something for you." She untied a passage and a cloak of fur fell out. "This was the cloak with which your father claimed me. It is yours."

He took it reverently. "Thank you, mother."

"You're worried about something." Of course she noticed. Even with all these months of hiding his true feelings, she still saw.

"It's Roslin," he said. "Did I make the right choice?"

"Be thankful that you got a choice," Catelyn said. "Lord Frey had it within his power to push whichever of his daughters into your bed that he wanted. He could have chosen a spy to benefit him or an ugly maid for his own twisted enjoyment. He didn't."

It was his own enjoyment to make me choose, to make me do something because he forced it. And not one of his daughters loved that man enough to spy for him. "But I may have chosen wrong. Olyvar and Perwyn assured me that Roslin would be a good queen, a good wife."

"Has she displeased you?"

"She is timid, keeps to her own company. I had hoped that in our circuit she might take some ladies from across the realm into her entourage, and yet more when we return north. She hasn't."

"Have you told her that?"

"I do not want to be a husband who commands his wife in every measure."

"Robb, you are a king, a hero and a legend to her. Roslin Frey has achieved more than any daughter of her house by wedding a king. Like as not, she is fearful of doing anything that might displease you before you are wed. In that fear, she chooses to make as few decisions as possible."

"Will she change after we wed?"

"If you command it."

"But-"

"You do not wish to. I know. But you must. She knows she is not your equal, and so must you. And if you do not wish to command her like soldiers on a battlefield, then do so in other ways. Suggest to her how she might help you and she will do it."

Treat my wife like any of my other vassals then. "At the very least if she does not hinder me and provides me with heirs, then she will have done the least of what I need from her." Catelyn frowned. "What else would you say?"

"Nothing. We should go, we would not want to keep the new queen waiting."

They crossed the bridge on foot this time. The bright sun beating down from above, making the green fork glow and the stone of the Twins shine. The bridge was lined with wellwishers, the lesser lordlings and knights who would not participate in the wedding itself but crowded to get a sight of the king and his family crossing. What a sight we must be. The siblings of Stark, together as one again. Ser Rodrik had sent Bran and Rickon south with a strong escort of a hundred riders, and now they were walking at his side. Rickon, the wild one, had been difficult to coerce into behaving. Tristan had threatened him, Robb had attempted to command him, in the end, Catelyn had told him to have the responsibility of pushing Bran in his chair and that kept Rickon from acting out. He needed stability. A firm guardian, and if Robb could not provide that, perhaps he should be fostered… no, to take him away from Winterfell now would make it worse, perhaps later. Bran smiled again, Summer keeping perfectly in pace with his wooden chair. They were all dressed in their finest, but none more than he. A sound from the river made him glance and he saw barges lined with more people who had no doubt paid for just the chance of seeing him. As they approached the eastern twin, Robb saw the camp beyond of those who had come from the north. As they crossed the bridge, old and familiar faces met him. Lord Wyman Manderly had come from White Harbour, his sons by his side, his granddaughters by their side, fair Wynafryd and fierce little Wylla. Beside them was Lord Hornwood, who had called his mother down to see the festivities and held her arm tenderly. Beside them were Cley Cerwyn and his sister Jonelle. Even Lady Dustin had come south from Barrowton, as had Tallharts, Glovers and several champions of the Mountain Clans. He would have to make time for each of them in the festivities. Many he had not seen since before he was a king, and many more since before he was ruling Winterfell in his father's name. But there were others as well. Too few Karstarks, Dacey Mormont absent from her mother's side, the Flints leaving a place for their fallen sons. They were his people all, and he would rule for them.

The godswood of the Twins was a small place, overcrowded for the ceremony and the Heart Tree was an old pine, rather than a weirwood. May the gods look out on us and bless us all the same. An owl sat in the branches looking down despite the time of day. More branches in other trees were full of children, mostly Freys, but some of the guests as well. Bran looked up sorrowfully, but he masked it well enough when Robb smiled down at him. Bran's legs were something he couldn't fix.

He stood by the Heart Tree and did not have to wait long before there was a rustle from behind him. He turned and saw her. Roslin was in a beautiful gown of river blue. Her hair was worn loose and free flowing to her waist. She knelt and accepted a blessing from the septon of the twins before standing again and walking towards him. Lord Walder came beside her, pushed by his heir Ryman who looked more than irked by the task. Tristan stepped forward to lead the ceremony. "Who comes this day, to be wed before the old gods?"

Walder Frey hawked up and spat before speaking. "Roslin of House Frey, Fifth daughter of my house, full sister to my fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth sons. A maiden, probably, ready to be wedded and broken in heh."

Roslin ignored the comments and held herself with the grace of a queen. Tristan looked aghast at Walder's words and Shield growled beside him, but he forced himself to continue without comment. "Who comes to claim her?"

"I, Robb of House Stark, King in the North and of the First Men, Lord of the Kingdoms of the North and the Trident and Protector of the Realm." Robb declared.

"Roslin of House Frey. Do you take this man?"

"I take him, in the sight of gods and men."

Tristan nodded and turned to Robb. "Then I ask the gods for their blessing for this union." Robb and Roslin knelt and offered their prayers. Gods, bless me that I made the right choice, and if not, give her the strength to rise to the task before her. They stood. "You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection."

Robb gently removed the cloak of House Frey and passed it back to Lord Walder, resisting the temptation to toss it over the old bastard's head. He beckoned and Olyvar stepped forward, presenting Robb with his father's cloak. He swished it out with a flourish and wrapped it around Roslin's shoulders. And so they were wedded. He leant in and kissed her to the applause of the watchers. Now Robb should pick her up and carry her to the wedding feast. But there was another matter to see to first. He bid Roslin kneel and called Arya forward. She carried a soft velvet cushion and on it was a crown, a smaller copy of Robb's own. Still bronze and iron, but with no runes on the bronze, and the iron were daggers to Robb's swords. He took up the crown and placed it on Roslin's brow. "My queen." He smiled down at her. The crown fit perfectly.

"My king," she bowed her head.

"No more pussying around!" Lord Umber called. "The feast!"

The roars came all around and Robb ducked low, picking Roslin up around the waist and holding her. Despite the cloak, despite the crown, she weighed little, and squealed as Robb carried her to the feast hall, clasping her hands around his neck and looking down at him with an adoring smile.

The feast had not been as long or sumptuous as would have been expecting for the wedding of the first King in the North for three hundred years. But most of the men would be competing in the tourney, and it wouldn't do to be weighed down by food or half in your cups while trying to couch a lance. There were only two courses and the wine was poured modestly until at last Lord Umber banged the table and stood. "Enough pissing about. Let's get the king and queen bedded!"

The men and women of the hall leapt to their feet. "Prepare yourself my queen," he whispered to Roslin, who giggled as she was seized by Smalljon Umber and Harrion Karstark and hoisted into the air. Other men joined in, pulling at her dress. Tristan sat back, his eyes resting and Domeric looked on amused as Daryn dragged Cley to get involved.

The hands that seized Robb were daintier, but no less enthusiastic as it seemed every Frey girl he hadn't chosen to marry now wanted to get their hands on him. And others too. Alysanne Mormont tore the cloak from his shoulders while Alys Karstark stole a glove and Wynafryd Manderly was able to unlace his doublet and pulled it from him as they dragged him to the bedchamber. Robb noted that her father was keeping her younger sister Wylla from getting involved.

"Get the wench bedded your grace!" One of the men cheered as they cleared the path for the ladies to shove Robb, now in his smallclothes and crown and nothing else into the bedchamber.

Robb glanced around at the empty bed. "Where is-" He began.

"Make way!" Boomed Wendell Manderly, behind him came Daryn Hornwwod, carrying the queen in his arms, Roslin was clutching onto him for dear life as Wendell barged into the room.

Daryn said "a thousand apologies your grace, but her grace didn't want her dress ripped." He raised Roslin up over his head like she was as light as a newborn and then tossed her onto the feather mattress. Roslin laughed, her cheeks flushing as she clumsily tried to set her crown (the only clothing left to her) straight and pull the bedclothes up to cover her breasts.

"Out, by royal command," Robb pointed at the door. "The next one of you to see my wife naked will lose their eyes!"

Alone, Robb crawled up the bed, to where his wife had nestled herself in the pillows. She was still wearing the crown. That must be no comfort for her. He reached up to take it off. "No!" She squeaked, then raised a hand to her lips. "Forgive me, your grace," she whispered.

"You wish to wear the crown to bed?"

"Not to bed… when I bed." She turned her face away in embarrassment. Was she afraid he would set her aside, and so she clutched to the crown until the marriage was consummated?

"As you wish." So Robb would keep his crown on as well. "You are nervous," he said softly.

"A little," she whispered.

He leant down and kissed her, cupping her cheek softly until she started kissing him back. "Shall we?"

She took his hand and brought it to her chest. Her skin was hot, her nipple hard against his palm. "Yes."


"I'm so sorry, your grace," Roslin said sheepishly, getting to her feet placing the crown down on the bed. Her face was burning red with embarrassment.

Robb smiled at her, unable to help himself. She looked adorable. "No harm was done, my queen," he assured her. "We were rather… exuberant." Thinking back, he couldn't remember when Roslin's crown had fallen off. Had it been the first time, when he was on top, or the second time, when she was. Whenever it was, it had landed on the floor and rolled away, and when they woke that morning she had been terrified that it would be lost, only to find it had rolled under the bed. She had crawled on all fours to retrieve it in a position that was most unqueenly.

She tried to speak, but her tongue got tied, so he reached out and pulled her back into bed, settling her on top of him. Her legs wrapped around his middle and her fingers went around the back of his neck. "My king," she breathed. Still, she struggled to meet his eye until he turned her head with his finger. "I… I hope I have your son in me."

He nodded. "So do I, but if not it is no concern, we will be trying again."

She turned even more red and smiled sheepishly. "Now, your grace?"

He kissed her and lay back down on the bed. They would have plenty of time to rest throughout the day.

As Robb was dressing, Roslin asked. "My king, may I ask a question of you?"

"Of course."

"Would it please you if I wore this?" She held up a slender gown of grey and white. Stark colours.

"It would please me greatly," he said. "But do not feel as though you have to ask my consent to wear my colours. I cloaked you last night, you are mine now. My colours are yours to wear."

"Thank you, your grace."

When she emerged from changing in a dress to match his own colours, for today he was Stark from crown to boots, he knew he had made the right choice. She may not be as queenly as he would wish, but she wore Stark colours like she was born to them.

He held out his arm. Unlike the rest of the castle, they had had the luxury of sleeping late. But they had kept everyone waiting long enough. They had a tourney to attend.

Lord Frey had outdone himself preparing the tourney field. The land to the east of the Twins had been set aside, streets of pavilions for knights and lords and squires. On the far side of the tourney field, so that the sun might be behind them for the morning tilts and hidden by the mass of the Twins in the evening, was the tourney stand. Rows of benches for lords and knights of note, and a raised dais in the middle with four chairs set on it. The two in the middle for the king and queen, and the two either side for lord Walder and his wife. On the other three sides of the tourney field was standing room for the smallfolk who had come to see the events. And events there were. An entire week had been set aside for the tournament. On the first three days were the jousts, the first day given over to the privilege of the lords of Robb's realm, the champions of tourney and battles past and the men of Robb's guard in the war, who held pride of place. The second to the knights, second sons and warriors of note, and on the third day the lists opened to any who would wish them. Any man across the three days who were victorious in the lists against three or more opponents would be granted entry to the final tilts on the last day of the tourney.

Of the three days between, the first would hold a melee, the second an event of Robb's own devising, a foot melee of pairs and the third would be a day of rest for the competitors as the common man took to the field in contests of archery, wrestling, singing, dancing, mummery and acrobatics. Then on the last day, the finals of the joust would take place, and a champion be crowned.

"Is it true, your grace," Roslin asked him, breathless with excitement, "that this will be the largest tournament since the great tourney of Harrenhal?"

Robb laughed. "I would turn that question to my uncle, I was still unborn at the time. What say you uncle?"

"It may be so, your grace," Brynden said. "The tourney at Lannisport held a greater number in attendance, but many were still too weary from putting down Balon Greyjoy's rebellion to compete in the lists as well." Brynden would not be competing in the lists, but would instead be at Robb's side. Robb was not well versed in tourneys, but intended to draw warriors into his household from it. The Blackfish would be able to determine the skilled and worthy from the lucky. At Robb's other shoulder was Robbett Glover. The protector of the royal family would not be delegating his responsibilities this day.

Robb, his queen and his protectors walked to the tourney field, passing many notables as they did, Robb wished them all well as he passed, from Jonos Bracken, brushing his horsehair plume, to Lord Manderly's sons as their father watched with pride, to Tytos Blackwood and his sons. He was surprised to see Blackwood and Bracken pitched so close to each other. Next was the pale pink pavilion of Roose Bolton. Robb couldn't help but squirm at the sight of it, clearly made to appear to be made of human skin. Outside Lady Walda was eating a crusty pie. Lord Roose was sat on an ornate wooden chair, nursing a cup of wine in one hand. He wore no plate or mail, but fine linen garments, and watched with his pale eyes. He stood to greet Robb when Domeric emerged from the tent in black mail with a pink, fur-lined cloak and a helm shaped like a screaming skull, with a topknot of pink hair. It was a more ornate set of arms than he had seen Domeric wear in the war. His face was set and stern and ready for the jousts to come. Domeric was as fine a rider as the north had, Tristan had spoken of it enough, and Robb had seen from the first battle in the war, when he had captured Jaime Lannister himself. I shouldn't wish for his victory Or a victory of any of my northmen over the rivermen- my rivermen. They are all my men and I must treat them as one.

When they left the tent he looked down at Roslin to check on her, she would not be the first woman unnerved by the direct presence of the family of the Dreadfort. But instead, she looked… proud. "Is all well, my queen."

"Yes," she said quickly, setting her face.

"You look pleased with something. What is it?"

She looked up at him, took a breath and tried to stand taller, even then never reaching his shoulder. "I was just admiring my placement."

"Your placement?"

Roslin indicated the tents. "See how one lord from the North follows one from the Riverlands? Well…" her cheeks reddened in a way that might have been mistaken for a morning chill. "That was my insistence." That surprised Robb and clearly it showed. "Have I displeased you? That was not my intention my king I-"

"You have not displeased me. Far from it, that was well thought of you." She shone with embarrassment and pride woven into one.

Lord Frey was already on the dais, as were his wife and four men at arms to guard them. A crier from House Frey also waited. As the king's former squire, Olyvar had the right to compete on the first day. The crier had a long scroll oar vellum, with the names and arms of every knight and lordling set to compete etched out before him. Robb guided Roslin to her seat and they sat down together, Grey Wind curling at their feet. The stands around them filled out and Robb took the time to point out the northern lords and ladies that Roslin hadn't met yet. She knew most of the banners and colours already, but some of the lesser houses she didn't know.

When the stands were filled, Robb stood and the crier announced him. "My people!" He cried. "After many months of hardship and sorrow, in which we have seen friends fall and good men lain to rest too soon, we of the new kingdom have peace. And with the fortune of the gods it shall be a just peace to see us through all our days. But before we turn to matter of the tourney, I have a last few rewards to pass out for services performed during the war." And so he summoned them. Tristan came first. When Robb passed him the decree naming him the lord of Moat Cailin it was met by cheers and applause from the crowd. Next he summoned Lord Manderly, who waddled down from the stands and took a knee, where Robb thanked him for the design of the new coinage and named him the Lord of Mint and Bullion. Then he called Brynden Tully and Greatjon Umber forth and bestowed upon them the ranks of king's captain. Greatjon became the Captain of the Gift, with command of military forces against any potential invasion by the Wildlings, and the Blackfish was named the Captain of the Trident, to command the defences of the river against any invasion from the south. Not a word would be raised against either man for the positions, for both had earned it in the war. For the last he called Jason Mallister, one of his pillars of victory at Bayonne, and named him the Lord Admiral, charging him to see to arranging a fleet of ships to defend against the ironmen, the greatest naval threat to the new realm. In the past, the Ironmen had conquered the Riverlands from the sunset sea. In Balon Greyjoy's first rebellion he had attempted the same before Lord Mallister had stopped him at Seagard, and in the second his longships had harried the north. Jason accepted the position with solemnity and assured Robb that he would begin working on the necessary ships upon his return to Seagard. Later he would need to arrange a fleet to be built on the east coast as well, but the ironmen were the greatest threat.

Now that Robb's key council positions were filled, it was time for the tourney to begin.

The trumpets sounded, Robb resumed his seat and the crier called out the first competitors.

Anticipating a large field of contestants, there were to be three jousts occurring at the same time, and so the first six knights came out in shining warplate on barded steeds. The six jousters were Edmure, Tristan, Lords Mallister and Blackwood, Smalljon Umber and Harrion Karstark. Robb greeted all of them with a raised hand before they rode to the ends of the lists where a northman faced off against a riverman. Tristan against Lord Mallister, Smalljon against Tytos and Harrion against Edmure Robb wondered how well Tristan would fare. He was always far better with the sword than the lance, and he was riding against a famed tourney knight in Jason Mallister. They all trotted to the far ends of the lists, where their shields were hung from stands for the crowd to see and raised their twelve-foot lances in the air. The pinons on the ends snapped and cracked. Robb gave a gesture and the trumpets sang out again. Six riders put six pairs of spurs into the flanks of six horses. Six horses charged, six riders steadied and six lances lowered. They came together in a single great crash and in a heartbeat the riders passed each other. The crowd roared in approval when they realised that all six lances had broken on the first tilt. "A splendid omen," Roslin said.

Squires handed fresh lances to the riders at the ends of the lists and they turned and rode again. Robb felt the stands shake at the thunder of hooves beneath his feet as once more the riders came together. Tristan and Lord Mallister were closest to him and his brother's lance scored of Jason's shield before glancing off his helm, unbroken, while Lord Mallister's own lance shattered against Tristan's breastplate, leaving him reeling. Behind them, Smalljon was cast to the ground by Lord Blackwood, who leapt to his feet and called for his sword. Tytos joined him afoot and they met in a clash of steel on steel, longsword and shield against greatsword. Harrion Karstark had not fared so well, lying dazed on the floor. When he was lifted to his feet by his squire he yielded the match with a raised hand, making Edmure the first victor of the tourney. Edmure rode back to his shield, the remains of his lance held aloft in triumph. Tristan and lord Jason rode against each other again and this time Tristan struck the surer blow, with Mallister wobbling in his saddle, but he was able to hold true. They rode against each other four more times, breaking laces with each pass. Finally, Tristan's lance slipped around Jason's shield and drove him from the saddle in a storm of splinters. By then, Smalljon had beaten Tytos into submission with his greater strength and length of blade.

The trumpets cried and the criers called the names of three new challengers to enter the lists. "Ser Marq, of House Piper." He rode in bareheaded and waving to the crowd. "Lord Cley, of House Cerwyn." Cley hid his youth beneath his helm, somehow making the battleaxe on his helm seem more fearsome. "Ser Wendell Manderly." The merman on his shield was wrought in turquoise and glimmered in the light of the sun.

They took their positions, Ser Wendell against Tristan, Cley against Edmure and Marq against Smalljon. Robb beckoned in Greatjon. "Ser Marq and the Smalljon. Who is favoured?"

"If Ser Marq keeps his saddle, he has the advantage, afoot, Jon's size and strength will come into play."

Roslin asked Brynden's opinion on Edmure and Cley, but Robb's eyes were drawn again to his brother when the trumpets sounded. He needn't have been concerned. Ser Wendell held his lance well, but he was a large target and Tristan carried him from the saddle on the second pass. Behind them, Smalljon was limping back to his horse and Edmure and Cley were riding again, and again, until, after a dozen lances, Robb was called on to judge and named Edmure the victor. Cley rode well, but Edmure broke nine lances to Cley's eight. That put both Edmure and Cley only one win away from a place in the final day. In the next round of contests Edmure rode against Karyl Vance and Tristan against Patrek Mallister, while Marq Piper faced Galbart Glover.

But like Robb, the crowd's attention was on Tristan and Patrek. Tristan, the feared prince, and Patrek, riding to avenge his father's defeat. The trumpets roared and the riders lowered their lances. They cheered and roared, half for the prince, half for ser Patrek. Robb clenched his fist tightly, he couldn't cheer, he had to be stone. Win, Tristan, be the first into the final day for the honour of our house. They rode. Lances lowered. On the first pass, neither broke a lance, on the second they crashed together. Tristan's head snapped back as Patrek's lance broke on his visor.

Robb was on his feet. Tristan swayed unsteadily as his horse faltered. His lance dropped to the ground first, then his shield, then he fell to the grass. The crowd fell silent, the other contestants halted. Galbart Glover dropped the broken stump of his lance to stare and Edmure and Karyl Vance paused hammering at each other with longswords. All stared at the prone form of the prince in the grass. Shield broke his tether and bounded over, causing the horses to rear away in fright as he looked down at his master. Roslin was at Robb's side, gripping his arm tightly. Patrek dismounted and hurried over, casting his own helm aside as he ran. He stood over Tristan, looking down. Robb was about to run when Tristan's arm rose into the air shakily. Patrek took it and hauled him to his feet and the crowd erupted in cheers as Tristan was escorted off the field and Robb resumed his feet, giving the signal to continue.

Morning turned to afternoon turned to evening and contestants and champions came and went. As Robb led his wife back to the Twins at the end of day, all talk, from highborn and lowborn was on how splendid a day of jousting it had been. Ser Patrek had gone on to become a crowd favourite, not only had he avenged his father's early defeat, but he became the first champion to win a place in the final day's tilts. Olyvar and Black Walder Frey had broken lance after lance against each other before continuing the fighting afoot with longswords in a brutal combat that was cheered as the Twins of the Twins. Despite the fact the two looked nothing alike, the rumour began that they were indeed twins, and by the end of the day it was near enough accepted fact.

Daryn Hornwood was cheered as Greataxe, for while he won no challenges ahorse, whenever he was cast to the ground, whether the landing was light or hard, he staggered to his feet, called for his greataxe and continued the fighting afoot. Five men yielded beneath his heavy axe blows before he faced Lord Vance who landed him on his back with such force that he didn't get up again and had to be carried off the field.

But to the smallfolk, the hero of the day was of Domeric Bolton. It was mid-afternoon before he emerged onto the field and the crowd was silenced at the fearsome look of his armour. He took his place opposite Black Walder Frey and took him on the first tilt. His blow was so perfectly placed that he unhorsed Black Walder without even breaking his lance. Then he dismounted and cut a strip from Black Walder's cloak as he lay prone before tying it to his arm. He did the same with every challenger he faced, and before long his left arm was flying with ribons as he rode, and the crowd loved him. The silence with which he had emerged onto the field was gone and the chant of "Dreadknight! Dreadknight! Dreadknight!" Erupted into the air with every victory. Robb glanced at Lord Bolton in the stands and believed he saw pride on the pale, cold face.

It had been a splendid day of jousting, and tomorrow he looked forward to even more.

"Come, my queen," he said, getting to his feet and holding out his arm.

"We're returning to the Twins?"

"Yes. There will be more jousting on the morrow," he leant in. "And we still need to make an heir."