A/N: In retrospect, I realize that this story may so far seem awfully similar to another fanfiction on this site that has the same premise - a time travel fix-it with Robb after the events of the Red Wedding. I didn't mean for that at all...

In my defense, time travel fix-its for GOT are pretty popular. Moreover, I have read a few chapters of that certain fanfic, and based on that sample, I can wholeheartedly promise this fic is going in a VERY different direction!

Next chapter: King's Landing!

ROBB III:

"What is the matter, Father? You've been in a dark mood all day," Robb asked one afternoon. He had broken his fast with his father and his two youngest siblings that morning, as Jon was up early sparring, Sansa was with her embroidery friends, and Mother was still lying in bed. It had been a normal meal up until Father had received a raven and his face turned serious - more so than usual, that is. Even Bran's laughs and Arya's japes couldn't bring a smile to the sullen visage of Lord Stark.

"A raven from Robert," his father sighed. "He wants me to betroth Sansa to his eldest."

His eldest...Joffrey. A chill went down Robb's spine as he remembered the sadistic, sniveling excuse of a human. So that's how Sansa was promised to him. This is my chance. Sansa cannot be sent to that venomous worm! His mind was racing, trying to think of the best possible excuses to avoid the match.

"But he's the Crown Prince! Surely he has better prospects than a girl from the North," Robb sputtered, "and you know, it's best if they meet before anything definite goes through, just in case they don't like each other. I mean, who's to say the Crown Prince won't like Arya better?" He realized he was grasping at straws towards the end, his words getting more jumbled and stuttery. His father simply studied him with a blank expression that slowly dawned into one of understanding.

"Me too, Robb," he nodded, "I don't want Sansa to go south. She may enjoy her stories and her knights here, in the North. She's just a little girl, full of fancies." Robb tried to recall how old his sister was, exactly. He was halfway between eleven and twelve, so that put Sansa at eight years old, nearly nine. Bran and I had long seen heads roll by that age.

"Father, she is not so little. She's got to stop living in her fantasies, and soon," he implored, looking his father in the eye with a matching somber expression to make sure he comprehended the importance of this notion. All this seriousness is turning me into Jon. "But it's true - even I have not been betrothed yet, so you could make the argument that she is still young, and that a Northern husband would work best for her temperament," he suggested, the last part turning into more of a question than a confident assertion. Regardless, Father was nodding. That had to count for something, right?

"If I refuse Robert, he'll take it as a slight upon his honor," Father sighed again, "I suppose I must go through with it."

For a moment Robb felt anger boiling in his gut. He knew that had it been his betrothal offer, Father would have asked to at least get to know his potential partner - why should his sister be any different? He couldn't let his father be so...so complacent with his sister's matters! Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, bowed his head, and forced all semblance of annoyance and hostility out of his tone.

"Father," he began carefully, quietly, "is a slight against the honor of the King more important than the wellbeing of your children?"

Ned Stark blinked and gathered his thoughts. The son before him was nearly twelve years old, yes, but spoke like a man more than a boy. He stared at Robb for a long moment. He's acknowledging me, Robb thought with just a little glee. Maybe he'll let me take part in other important decisions, too. After studying Robb for several minutes, Lord Stark finally spoke again.

"I cannot write to the King without an alternative. What do you propose?" Yes! Robb tried not to let his joy show too much on his face. Good, Joffrey won't ever come near our family. He pondered, however, on his father's question for a moment. The other two royal bastards weren't quite so bad.

"Perhaps you offer something for one of his other children? He has another son and a daughter," Robb suggested.

"What, you mean to offer yourself to the daughter?" his father countered.

A betrothal. Frey…

"No!" Robb shouted. His face paled, but it turned whiter still as he realized how rudely he replied. But he would never, ever enter a marriage pact so thoughtlessly again. He had betrayed enough people by breaking his word once. I killed them all. I was at fault for the massacre. It was my fault. Mine, mine...

"Robb!" a voice boomed around him. Father. That's right. Father is alive. This is my second chance. No betrothals. No Freys. No betrothals. No Joffrey. No Jeyne.

"I'm sorry for raising my voice, Father," he murmured with sincere remorse. "I will not betroth myself to someone I've never met." His father looked at him again with an expression more perplexed than angry. Get a hold of yourself, Robb thought, get a grip. I cannot start acting strangely again. Next time I won't be so lucky.

"If not, what else do you suggest?" implored Father.

"We could foster his younger son," Robb replied as calmly as he could. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that this solution would solve more problems than it would create. "He could befriend Bran. Gods know he could befriend Arya," he added. This way, Joffrey would never come near his siblings, but despite that, they would have some semblance of alliance with the Lannisters - the Baratheons, officially. And when the war against that foul family would inevitably start, it would be the Starks holding a Lannister child hostage instead of vice versa.

To Robb's utter relief, his father seemed to be agreeing to his idea. "That should suffice for Robert. But Sansa really should be betrothed soon, to someone from the North, in case Robert should insist," Father replied.

"Betrothed, no that's too soon! But looking into prospects-" Robb began, but stopped short.

That's it.

Keep your enemies closer…

"Father, what about Domeric Bolton?" he remarked. Genius, Robb, you're a genius! With a marriage pact, the Bolton heir would be taken care of by the Starks and live a fulfilling life. With the heir to the Dreadfort so tied to the Starks, Roose Bolton would never dare revolt.

"Roose's son? That's-" his father began, but Robb would never find out what he was about to say, because suddenly the door to Father's study opened with a bang. "Arya, what have I told you about-"

"Mother says come quick," panted his little sister, "the baby's coming!"

At that, his father shot up from his seat, anxiously walking out the door. Remembering his son's presence, he turned around.

"Robb, take care of your younger siblings," he muttered, "Maester Luwin is busy with your mother," he added, dashing out of the room without another word. The two remaining siblings looked at each other in anticipation, but then glanced outside to see a heavy downpour. It was warm enough for rain, not snow, which meant that unfortunately, playing outside would not be an option. Arya sighed.

"Come on, sister," Robb reassured her, ruffling her hair. "Let's go find everyone else," he suggested.

"Sansa's with Mother," she told him, "because she wants to hold the new baby first. I don't know where the others are," she added.

"Race you to find our brothers?" Robb suggested with a grin. She laughed and immediately scampered off. They soon predictably found Bran in the library, but Jon wasn't to be found. Their youngest sibling - for now - mentioned seeing his dark-haired brother ride off with Theon sometime early in the morning.

"I don't know where they went, but they were both carrying bows," his little brother supplied, flipping the pages of his book. Probably Theon is giving him an archery lesson. Ever since that night in Wintertown, Robb had been asking about Theon's home more. It made quite a difference - Theon's cocky attitude was rapidly deflating, and the boy was much subdued. Of course, Robb still mistrusted that his new outlook was born out of brotherly affection, but either way, this kinder, less abrasive Theon was markedly an improvement upon the arrogant ass he was before.

Bran suddenly let out a little gasp, stirring Robb from his thoughts about the Ironborn heir. His little brother tugged on the sleeve of his arm in excitement.

"Robb! Robb! Let's go to the kitchens; I have an idea!" the little boy exclaimed. To his right side, Arya groaned, not wanting to be pulled into one of Bran's schemes again. "I promise you'll really like this one!" Chuckling, Robb decided to indulge his little brother and turned to his sister, who was busy rolling her eyes.

"Why don't we go, Arya? Let's see what your brother has thought up," he pleaded on Bran's behalf. "Besides, it's not like we have much else to do," he added.

"Fine, but if it's boring, I'm grabbing all the cranberry tarts and leaving," she relented, sighing. Too bad she's the only one of us who likes those sour berries, Robb thought with a smile as he led his siblings down to the kitchen, Bran jumping up and down in excitement. To Robb's relief, the kitchens were nearly empty, the only staff being a kindly maid who noticed his younger brother's excitement and let out a laugh, leaving the little lord to his devices. As soon as the three siblings had walked in, Bran had immediately run off, darting back and forth as he gathered a load of supplies that nearly threatened to fall out of his little arms. Robb had grabbed a couple of items from his brother - a bottle of vinegar and a small pot - as he wondered whether his little brother's schemes could cause a disaster. So far, nothing seemed too deadly.

"Ready!" Bran yelled, bringing over a large spoon and a sack of a white powder that resembled powder on first glance. "Alright, first we need to pour the vinegar into the pot to keep everything neat," he began, uncapping the bottle to reveal the strong-smelling liquid that made Arya scrunch her nose. "And now - get ready - I'm going to put in some of this stuff," he gestured to the white powder, "and - boom!"

"Boom?" asked Arya, now more curious than disdainful. Bran nodded with a grin, which made Arya's eyes go wide. "Let me pour it!" she yelled in excitement. Her little brother, happy that his sister was finally going to join in his games, was all too happy to oblige. But Robb was steadily growing more and more nervous as Arya dumped a handful of white powder into the pot.

Boom! Bran was right - the explosion created by the mixture was unprecedented. His two younger siblings laughed happily as the resulting white froth bubbled over the pot and spilled on the floor, going in all sorts of directions. Eventually, the hissing sound of the froth died down, and all that was left was a sticky mess.

"Alright," Robb cleared his throat, trying to sound authoritative, "time for cleaning up. You don't want the staff to tell Mother and Father, do you?" His little siblings groaned but complied, each the wet rags that Robb handed to them. "Now Bran," he added, "do you have any other tricks? Something that won't cause a huge mess, please."

His little brother's eyes widened in excitement. "So many!" he exclaimed. And so the siblings passed the time until the birth of their youngest brother, Rickon.