The Northern entourage finally reached King's Landing.

At the gates of the Red Keep, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, met them. Grey eyes stern, his face unreadable.

The Northern lords dismounted, kneeling one by one before him, showing their respect.

But Eddard's gaze fixed on his eldest son.

Eddard Stark: "I had thought you would be wiser than this, Robb. I expected foolishness of Cregan, aye, but not you. To wed the King's daughter without her father present—it was reckless."

Robb flushed, caught between pride and shame. Cregan muttered under his breath, "why's it always me?"

Ned's sharp eyes flicked toward him, narrowing in that way that could still cut his sons down more than any sword.

But before he could say more, Myrcella Baratheon stepped forward—golden hair gleaming in the southron sun, her voice steady.

Myrcella: "It was both our choice, good-father."

Ned's jaw worked, a sigh leaving him as he studied his new good-daughter.

Eddard Stark: "Do not take his side so quickly, child. You will learn—as all of us have—that Cregan is a reckless boy. Perhaps you will be the one to calm that in him, though the rest of us have failed. But indulging his every folly will serve you poorly."

He straightened, turning his back on the matter.

Eddard Stark: "Enough. His Grace waits for you. Let us go before the King."

In the Throne Room

The Iron Throne loomed above them all, jagged steel under torchlight. And upon it sat Robert Baratheon, not drunk nor red-faced, but stern. A king.

The Northern lords entered the hall. As custom held, they dropped to their knees—all but the Mormonts, who bent no knee save to a Stark. It drew whispers, but Robert said nothing.

When his voice came, it was iron.

Robert Baratheon: "Tell me now, boys. Why in the hells was I not present at my own daughter's wedding?"

It was one of the rare times Robert sounded less a tired drunkard and more the storm that had won a throne.

Robb Stark took the lead, as was his role, his voice calm but carrying:

Robb: "Your Grace, it was done with the intent to bind wolf and stag once more—just as you and my father once swore. I gave consent because the North would never have accepted a marriage sworn before a southern sept. My father's own match was exception, made in time of war. My uncle Brandon's was meant to be held in the South, true, but most of the northern Lords has refused to attend the marriage . In the end, that union never came to pass—and the rest of that tale, Your Grace, you know better than I."

The words carried weight—part truth, part crafted lie—but wisely chosen.

Robert's silence simmered. He remembered well what Ned had once said—that it had been no small pain to convince the Northern lords to accept a marriage in Riverlands, even at the height of rebellion.

Before the King could speak further, Tywin Lannister's voice cut in, dry as dust and sharp as steel:

Tywin: "Yet even so, Stark, you did not ask leave. You did not inform the crown. What you have done is a slight. A child's folly."

Cregan bristled, sharp-tempered as ever. His voice rose before Robb could stop him:

Cregan: "No. A slight would have been refusing your customs, and yet here I am to stand—in your sept, before gods I do not keep. That is respect enough."

Robb's eyes shot him a glare that said plainly, hold your tongue, fool.

He smoothed over his brother's heat with words of his own:

Robb: "We acted as best we could, Your Grace. This was done to ensure Myrcella would be welcomed and loved in the North. Still, we stand here now, ready to bind in the sept as well, though our gods are not yours."

Then came a soft voice, sharper in its subtlety—Petyr Baelish, from behind the throne.

Littlefinger: "Not Lady Myrcella, my lord. Princess Myrcella."

It was bait.

Robb did not flinch.

Robb: "She is my brother's wife now. In the North, she is Lady Stark. No longer a princess."

Had he called her princess, the word might have been twisted as Starks trying to grasp for a crown. By refusing it, he closed one trap, though others still lay hidden.

Robert grunted, still displeased.

Robert: "Even so—it should not have been. No marriage of mine should happen without father or kin present. At least you damned Starks should have asked."

Robb, firm but respectful: "It was sudden, Your Grace. Their choice Both Cregan and Lady Mrycella, not mine. And there was no time for leave or letters."

The King leaned forward upon the throne, heavy brows furrowed, his eyes turning to his daughter.

Robert: "Step forward, Myrcella."

She obeyed, bowing her head.

Robert: "Tell me true. Was this your wish?"

Her voice was steady, unafraid.

Myrcella: "Yes, Father. I wanted to honor the ways of the North, where I shall live. My husband keeps the Old Gods. I wished to be a good wife to him."

Robert's scowl broke, if only a little. The fire dimmed in his eyes.

Robert: "Then it's settled. In five days, you and Cregan shall wed again, this time in the sept.With Southern and northern Lords both attending the wedding."

The matter eased, if not forgotten. Robb let out the barest breath of relief.

But Tywin, cold-eyed and ever pressing, had yet another barb:

Tywin: "Then what of the ten thousand swords at your back, Stark? That is not a wedding escort—it is a provocation."

Cregan nearly laughed, the thought almost spilling free—the pot calls the kettle black. But Robb's glance stayed his tongue.

Robb answered instead: The men half of them march for me and Northern Lords to escort them, half march from my brother lands to honor and protect their new lady. It is our way. It is northern way "

Whispers stirred through the Southern court, but Robert's booming voice cut through it all:

Robert: "Enough. The matter's done. The court is dismissed."

---

Behind Closed Doors

Later, in the quiet of a smaller chamber, Robert sat with Eddard and Robb. The King had taken wine, but not enough to dull the edge in his voice.

Robert: "What's done is done. But there are other matters yet."

Robb, wry-smiled, leaned forward.

Robb: "Essos. You mean to ask about Essos, Your Grace. You need not worry. Soon, Cregan will speak before the small council, and he'll give you what truth there is."

Eddard nodded.

Eddard: "Aye. He knows more than either of us."

The night deepened, and the game was only just beginning.