This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.

[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]


Three months later, 298 – Robb Stark – The Twins, The Riverlands

"Heh," Lord Walder Frey scoffed. "Robb Stark. Or is it Lord Robb Stark, now? Does your father live, boy?"

The man was looking down his nose at them, perched at the top of a set of stairs, in his high-backed chair as he was. Arrayed around him, a stand that might fit around a great bed stood, draped with tapestries bearing the colors of his house. In front of him, rows of benches faced the chair.

It was in between these rows of benches that Robb Stark stood, only just keeping his lips from curling downward.

His father never went to such great lengths to remind all those around him of his status. Even when dealing with smallfolk, he would meet them eye-to-eye, at the base of the steps leading to the dais in Winterfell's great hall. He never flaunted his wealth or his position. He reminded men of his status through his actions and his deeds, as a fair and just ruler… not some puffed up peacock.

That northern winters did not allow the Starks enough luxuries to even become that arrogant was beside the point.

"My father lives, the gods permitting, Lord Frey," Robb said, lifting his chin and speaking louder than he otherwise might. "You may address me as Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell."

"May," the old man muttered. "You stand in my hall, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell. I may do as I please. I may throw you out on your arse, should I wish it, heh."

"Some respect is due!" The Greatjon thundered, just behind Robb's right shoulder. "I'll not hear words from a craven that hides his swords behind his walls while his liege-lord starves!"

"Who are you? Some barbarian? Heh. Mayhaps you bred a little too much savage into this one, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell. He speaks out of turn, that he does. That he does."

"Peace, Greatjon," Robb said quickly, glancing back at the man, a frown on his face. He knew what Lord Walder Frey lacked in manners, he made up for in ego. He hoped that the Greatjon would anger the man somewhat before they settled down to negotiate the passage of his army south but he misjudged just how… vile the Lord of the Twins truly was.

Puffed up peacock indeed.

"My men are as disciplined a force you'll ever find, Lord Frey, worry not."

"Heh," the old man scoffed, waving his hand. Out of one of the corners of the room, a young lass darted forward. She held a simple plate of bread and cheese. "Eat then. Savor it. You'll not get more from me until we've discussed your toll."

"The ungrateful arse," The Greatjon seethed, seizing a chunk of the bread after Robb took his. The force with which he did so staggered the girl, thin and wispy as she was. Still, her face was pretty enough.

Lord Roose Bolton, standing just behind Robb's left shoulder and silent as the night, took his bread and the girl retreated shortly thereafter. Their guard had been held up at the gates of The Twins' northern tower, only the three northmen remained to treat with Lord Frey.

"Do you like the sight of my daughter, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell? I have many. You can have your choice, of course, methinks you'll be a Lord before long."

The Greatjon stiffened so quickly that he knocked one of the benches aside, such was the man's bulk. "I'll not hear another foul word against Lord Stark, understand cretin!? You and your shite family have no right! Yer only claim to greatness is a damned bridge!"

"A bridge you wish to cross, savage," Walder Frey muttered, leaning forward in his chair, his robes hanging loosely about his hunched frame. "Three Kings and just as many Queens have guested in my towers. Can you say the same?"

"Piss on your bridge. And piss on your family too, the lot of them!"

The Late Lord Walder Frey snarled and Robb struggled not to smile. He was relieved to see that his mother was correct about the Frey Lord – insults and gloating truly were his area of comfort.

If only she were here with him now - Robb would have been far more comfortable with her behind him than he was with Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. The Lady Stark had wanted to return to Winterfell as fast as she could, though, given his… blunder.

His failure, rather. The dagger hidden under his mail and leather and cloth shirts spoke of nothing but.

Robb did not blame his mother for wishing to return. She only had one son left after him, now; he sent her off with twenty of his best swords and turned his attentions to The Twins with the full might of The North at his back.

A fair amount more than twenty thousand men, that might was. The number of men under his command made his knees weak to think about.

But duty and purpose straightened his back where his confidence failed him.

He gathered his father's men and women and led them south for a reason. A reason he needed to stick to, lest his army see him falter.

For where his will weakened, so too would that of his army, Luwin said.

"If you think I'll marry off one of my kin to this savage, boy, then you're sadly mistaken!"

"Who'd want one of your-!"

"Greatjon," Robb barked.

It was a testament to the man's new-found loyalty to him that he fell silent. Never before had he been so proud of Grey Wind for taking two of the massive man's fingers.

"My apologies, Lord Frey," he said, once the hall fell quiet. The smile he attempted to summon did not quite come, but the old man huffed and leaned back into his chair all the same, placated. "The woman who brought us guest right, she was very comely."

"Heh," The Lord of The Twins said, shifting in his high-backed chair. "Pretty face. Not too sickly. Wide hips, she'll do nicely for a wife. You seek a wife, boy? A pretty thing to warm your bed?"

"Nay, Lord Frey, but-"

"Then why have you come before me? Your army is large. Costly to get across the bridge. Upsetting to my daughters. Anything less than your-"

"Do you know of Moat Cailin, Lord Frey?"

The man spat on the ground. "You'll give me a decrepit castle as toll, Robb Stark? You waste my time!"

"I assure you, I do not."

The man's eyes narrowed and he slouched in his chair. A moment of silence washed over the miniature throne room, broken only by The Greatjon's heavy breathing and the rustling of Lord Bolton's pink cloak.

The hall was a musty place, dull and dingy, Robb noted. It was small and cluttered, filled with benches and candles and armoires that did not belong, each one of different make and design. The result of collecting tolls from varying groups of people, no doubt. There was even some ironwood, the likes of which The North made the most of their profits from harvesting.

"Speak then," Lord Frey rumbled, waving his hand at Robb. "And quickly! I'll not take ruins as the price of your army crossing my bridge! Ruins are useless to me."

"Not ruins," the Heir to Winterfell responded. "Not for long."

The Greatjon shuffled behind him, restless, even as Lord Bolton ceased moving entirely.

Robb Stark liked to think he was no longer a fool. He was fairly certain that he knew what lay in store for his father in King's Landing with the likes of Joffrey Baratheon as King. He and Maester Luwin had spoken of it at length before he left Winterfell, the need to march south, and the position and endgame of the Lannisters.

The unstable boy sitting the Iron Throne now would no doubt sentence his father to The Wall after whatever farce of a trial he was forced to undergo – because Eddard Stark would not have committed treason of any kind against Robert Baratheon!

But with his father on the wall, that would leave Robb Stark as Lord of Winterfell, Warden and Lord Protector of the North. He would need a wife in short order to secure his line, lest he die in battle and leave all his responsibilities to Rickon, and that wife would have to come from a northern family. Anything less would displease his future Lords, given Robb's own mother was of the south.

Thus, his marriage could not be a bargaining chip in crossing The Twins, but the future Lady of Moat Cailin could… Robb planned to give it to one of the families slighted by his choice for the Lady of Winterfell. A family that was overlooked.

Even further, he planned on funding the reconstruction of the run down castle with the spoils he would win in this… war. A gamble if he ever knew one, but then, if he lost this war, he would likely be dead or in chains. Thus, he worked with the assumption that he would win.

And when he won, he would have gold aplenty to rebuild Moat Cailin. He planned on repurposing his army's food carts to carry it and already he had two and twenty trustworthy men and women picked out that he would assign to guard the precious metal. Of course, for all his plans on howhe would spend the gold, the details of just howhe would get it were still vague and needed quantifying. After he lifted the siege on Riverrun and dealt with the Lannisters, that would be his next goal, alongside rescuing his sisters from the capital.

A ledger of intimidating tasks, no doubt.

He could not help but feel overwhelmed by it. The same way he felt about taking on the duties of Lord of Winterfell when his father went south so many months ago.

But Robb Stark rose to the challenge of being a Lord then, and so too would he rise to the challenge of leading an army now.

He would not fail The North.

"Once this business with my father is settled, Moat Cailin will be rebuilt," he said, refocusing his attentions on the conversation at hand. "I ask that you provide a Northman of my choosing with a wife; her dowry will be three hundred guardsmen and just as many smallfolk to populate the keep and its lands."

Walder Frey remained silent for several moments, his knuckles white with the pressure they squeezed the chair's armrests.

Then: "You've not the authority to order something like that, Robb Stark."

"A castle for a crossing, Lord Frey."

"Bah!" The man scoffed, throwing a hand up in the air. "You waste my time! Useless promises! Promises you cannot uphold! Leave! Out! You'll marry a Frey daughter or you'll not cross!"

"Very well, Lord Frey. We shall take our leave."

The old man's face slackened and his shoulders slumped for a brief moment but the loss of composure was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "Fine, then! When you return, you'll not get a single piece of rotten bread out of me!"

And so they left, he and The Greatjon and Roose Bolton. It did not take them long to leave the confines of the stout castle and rejoin with their guard – a force of Stark, Umber and Bolton men one hundred strong. As they exited The Twins, the might of the North stretched out in front of them – none of the men and women were camped, but merely stood in loose formation, just as Robb had ordered.

He wanted them ready to move at a moment's notice.

"Was that wise?" Roose said, his voice low and barely audible over the rushing waters of the Green Fork below them.

Robb suppressed a shudder. Bringing Lord Bolton along with him to meet with Frey was a calculated risk, especially considering the history between the two most powerful houses in the North. Lord Bolton was a man that put himself and his family first, Maester Luwin had told him so, even to the detriment of House Stark.

The Heir to Winterfell was dumbfounded to learn that, but Luwin had no less than a dozen accounts where Roose Bolton had outwitted his father. From instances as small as chopping all the trees down in a disputed piece of land before Eddard claimed it to occurrences as large as weaseling his way out of answering for missing carts of food that passed through his land.

It disturbed him to learn the world was not as orderly and honorable as he thought.

Still, it was a lesson well learnt.

Robb was not certain that he could outwit the man, not yet, not without knowing him well enough to predict him. Instead, he was forced to prove his worth to House Bolton, to show that he was useful enough to follow.

At least through the end of this war.

It was a balancing act that he felt he should not need to play – House Bolton was sworn to House Stark, after all – but an act that was required of him nonetheless.

"Aye," The Greatjon said slowly, begrudgingly, as though it pained him to agree with Roose Bolton. "Yeh can't go promising things best left up to yer father, lad."

"My father has been accused of treason," Robb said, continuing quickly even as The Greatjon sucked in a breath. "I know he is innocent. He would never betray Robert Baratheon. But the capital is in Lannister hands, now, and they'll find a way to betray him as they wish he did them."

"Bah! As if I'll let some runt tell me my Liegelord is guilty of treason!"

"That runt is your King," Robb said, frowning. The thought of it soured his mood. The thought of his sisters and his father being the boy's prisoners soured it further. "He is a boy as green as he is dull but he has power and power matters. He'll sentence my father to The Wall and my father will have no choice but to go.

"It is not honorable. It is not just. It is not how it should be but it is how it is," Robb continued, spinning on his heel to face The Greatjon. The man had nearly an entire head on him and his shoulders were heaving. The sight was incredibly intimidating but if he stopped here then what respect he had gained would be lost.

"That leaves Winterfell to me, Lord Umber. I do not like damning my father to the whims of an ungrateful shite with a crown too heavy for his head but I have no choice! I must plan for the future of The North. To that end, I plan to give Moat Cailin to the son of a northern family slighted by being passed over when I choose my wife from one of my bannermen."

The Greatjon's eyes widened and, beside him, Roose Bolton's pale eyes swiveled to focus upon Robb, instead of the armies at his back.

"I will marry within The North and use The Frey bride's dowry to begin repairing Moat Cailin. I buy the loyalty of the Freys – fleeting though it may be – and please two Lords of the North with one choice. Do you see, now?"

"Aye," Lord Umber said slowly, his head cocked. He was staring hard at Robb Stark, as though seeing him for the first time in many years; the same look came upon his father's face when he spied King Robert in Winterfell. "I follow, lad."

"A well-thought plan," Lord Bolton allowed, hands clasped behind his back. "If only Lord Frey would have agreed to it."

Robb smiled a grim smile, one that was half a smirk and half a sneer. "Lord Frey is a man whose ego is only outdone by his greed. You looked upon him before we left. You watched his composure break. He expected me to agree to his demands. The army will only march for a quarter of a day down the river before we receive riders from The Twins, calling us back."

Suddenly, the lack of tents and campfires within the army's ranks seemed all the more obvious.

"You had them ready to march all along," The Greatjon murmured, a shocking change in his usually boisterous voice.

Robb did not answer, instead he turned on his heel and stalked off toward his army. Within his cloak, his hand lay over his breastplate, where the handle of the knife rested against his skin. Bran's knife.

This time, his bluff would not be called, he was sure of it.

Indeed, the Frey messengers ended up catching them before they took their first break, apologies on their lips and offers of renegotiation on their tongues. By nightfall, the northern army was leaving the southern castle of The Twins, bolstered by two thousand Frey men and marching with wishes of good fortune pulled only by feigned courtesy from the lips of The Late Lord Walder Frey.

The Greatjon would go on to call it his first victory in the war, a wide grin on his face.

That he always managed to be near Frey bannermen when he did so did not escape Robb in the slightest.


One month later, 298 – Robb Stark – Lord Harroway's Town, The Riverlands

The command tent was large and stiflingly hot this far south. It did not suit Robb in the slightest, given it felt a great many times hotter in his armor than the glass gardens of Winterfell ever did in his furs. Still, he endured, for around the massive round table within the tent were arrayed his Lords and Ladies. Men and women tried and true, each having humored him and his campaign of subterfuge that he started after crossing The Twins. A campaign that would hopefully pay its dividends by the day's end.

Once south of the Frey's castle and with the whole of his army at his back, he made an effort to visit every town and village and keep on his way to Riverrun. They stopped first at Seaguard and then at Fairmarket; riders were sent off to every hamlet in sight, too. Robb made certain that every smallfolk who looked upon his army knew that he was making haste for the Tully's castle and looking for every able-bodied man to defend his liegelord that he could find. He even led his army in a southwesternly direction for a time after leaving Fairmarket, to truly make it seem like he was heading toward Riverrun.

But after a day's march he turned his army around and instead crossed the Red Fork, moving southeast, toward the point at which the Red Fork, the Green Fork and the Blue Fork met in the hopes that he would find Tywin Lannister moving to reinforce his son, Jaime Lannister, at Riverrun.

And he did.

The boy – for he had only seen fifteen namedays – sighed deeply. Umber. Glover. Mormont. Bolton. Karstark. Even Flint and Wull and Norrey of the mountain clans. He had Mallisters and Freys and every peasant brave enough to fight in the Riverlands.

In all, his men numbered close to twenty-six thousand, now. Eight thousand of that number was mounted atop horses, lightly or heavily armored.

"The Mountain That Rides has left with the horse of the Lannister force to reinforce the siege at Riverrun," Robb said, his voice loud and as certain as he could will it. This would be his first battle and no matter the amount of forethought he put into it, he could not help but be nervous. "That leaves them with half our number in foot trailing behind. That is our target."

Around the table men and women murmured and shifted, each eager in their own way. Roose Bolton let nothing show on his face, standing with his arms crossed and his pale eyes narrowed. The Greatjon beat his meaty fist on the table and Rickard Karstark smiled a small smile. Maege Mormont laughed under her breath. Jason Mallister leaned forward to observe the map that lay spread upon the table.

'If only Jon were here,' Robb thought, closing his eyes for a brief moment. Theon was still with him but he missed his half-brother dearly. He missed his father dearly. Even the presence of his mother or one of his sisters would be comforting.

He was alone with Grey Wind and Bran's dagger.

He opened his eyes in a glare.

He would not have the comfort of family. Not here, not now. He was on his own in this campaign, with only men and women he did not know to keep him company. That was changing – every day, he learned more of those he led – but they were not family. Not yet.

"We move once night falls," he continued. "The Greatjon and Lady Mormont will lead the van, five thousand of our horse, around the Lannister force to take them in the rear. The rest of the army will be waiting ahead of them. Lord Karstark will command the left flank, Lord Mallister the right. Lord Bolton will take the center."

"The men will be tired from a night march," Galbart Glover cautioned. He stood on the other side of Maege Mormont, to Robb's left.

At the same time, the Lords of the Mountain Clans – Norrey, Wull and Liddle, Robb noted – began shouting over one another for the right to lead the men. The Greatjon immediately began shouting them down and, suddenly, the tent was thrown into a cacophony of voices.

Robb growled under his breath and decided there that he would place Roose Bolton near him at every meeting from then on. Unsettling though the man's presence was, he still held his silence even now and for that, at least, the Heir to Winterfell was grateful.

Nonetheless, he had to do something about the noise, lest they be heard all the way in King's Landing.

That in mind, he turned around, to where Grey Wind was lying on a large pelt in a corner of the tent. The direwolf was growing swiftly, now standing even with Robb's own shoulder; he was already a sight to be afeared.

'Howl,' Robb thought. 'Howl.'

At first, the wolf did nothing, only stared back at him. But, slowly and languidly, as if the cacophonous noise his Lords were making bothered him not in the slightest, the predator raised himself up.

Then, abruptly, he threw his already massive head back and let loose a howl so loud it silenced even The Greatjon.

"I am not unreasonable," Robb said lowly once shocked silence reigned. "I've placed no Flints or Wulls with Tallharts or Dustins. I've separated the Liddles and the Norreys and made certain the Manderlys were placed with the Mallisters. You'll find no Mormonts next to any Glovers nor any Flints next to any Umbers, the gods take that forsaken rivalry."

Robb paused then, eyeing The Greatjon first, then Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Galbart Glover and each Lord or Lady after them around the table. None spoke, though all met his eyes.

"We will win this battle," he continued, nodding as he thrust his finger toward Lord Harroway's Town on the map. "We will route Tywin Lannister's foot then take The Mountain That Rides and Jaime Lannister from the rear as they siege Riverrun, looking north for our armies when we approach from the east.

"You have your commands. I'll lead what remains of our horse and keep at bay what remains of theirs. It is a solid battle plan. Follow it, and we will taste Lannister wine tomorrow, brothers and sisters."

"Here, here!" The Greatjon roared, beating his chest. Stirred by his excitement, The Flint of the mountain clan with the same name began to whoop and holler too.

In short order, the tent was filled with yelling and hollering once more. This time, though, they were sounds of celebration, rather than petty arguments.

Robb only hoped that they could cheer after the night was through, for his first battle would be judged by the rest of the world as a measuring stick of his value as a commander. He sincerely hoped it did not turn out to be a failure, Mace Tyrell – 'Highgarden. Golden rose. Exports: grains, livestock, silks. Populous region. Three sons and a daughter. ' – failed in his attempt to starve out Stannis Baratheon at the end of Robert's Rebellion and he still carried with him that failure to this day.

In the end, all he could do was hope.

Hope was all he had.


Catelyn Stark traveled north, to Winterfell, instead of south, with her eldest son after learning of Bran's untimely death. Thus, a properly prepared Robb is forced to barter with Lord Walder Frey himself and in doing so, extracts a different agreement from the man. An agreement that leaves him free to take his wife from a northern house.

Prepared and learned on the Lannisters through his lessons with Maester Luwin and away from his mother's influencing voice, Robb chooses strategic value over sentiment in targeting the bulk of the lion army over freeing his mother's family sooner. He aims to rout Tywin Lannister's host over chasing off Jaime Lannister from Riverrun's walls. His army is never split in two.


A/N: Here we are, chapter two of Penance! The War of Five Kings has started to get under way and Robb is testing his feet as a child leader. Where shall we go from here?

I'm thinking I'll post a chapter every other Saturday, so be on the look-out for the next one come December 1.

And for those of you celebrating next week, Happy Thanksgiving!

Till next time,

Phailen