The Art of Deception

The heavy rain drummed against the canvas of the tent, a rhythmic, ceaseless percussion that only added to the tension in the air. Robb Stark sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood, his gaze moving slowly from one lord to the next. Around him, the most powerful men in the North gathered, their expressions a mixture of concern, calculation, and silent disapproval.

The terms Walder Frey had offered lay before them, the parchment slightly curled at the edges from the damp air. Robb had read them over twice already, but it did not change his thoughts, nor did it lessen the weight of what was being asked of him.

The first few demands were palatable—two of Walder's grandsons as wards in Winterfell, Olyvar Frey as his squire, plus additional land in the Riverlands and the North awarded to House Frey once the war was won. These were things Robb could stomach, things that even, in some ways, benefited him. Wards ensured loyalty, and a squire was customary. Even the desire for land, while a bold request, was within reason.

But the marriages—Arya to Elmar Frey and himself to any Frey daughter of his choosing—were too much.

Robb lifted his eyes, glancing first at his mother, Catelyn, who sat across from him, hands folded on the table. She looked weary, her auburn hair duller in the candlelight, her lips pressed into a thin line. He could see it in her eyes—she wanted to accept House Freys' terms. She was desperate for any advantage, for anything that would bring them closer to securing the Riverlands, to ending this war as swiftly as possible all so that they could search for her husband and daughters.

Robb understood her desires as they too were his own. He understood the logic and the urgency behind their need to accept. If he accepted these terms, he would gain 5,000 Frey soldiers immediately and passage across the Green Fork without delay. He could march on Riverrun and drive the Lannisters from the Riverlands with a force even Tywin Lannister would struggle to ignore.

His mother was thinking as a Tully, a woman of the Riverlands, whose home was still under siege, whose husband was still missing. She would take whatever deal was offered if it meant saving those she loved.

But Robb was not just a son, nor was he only a brother. He was now a lord in command of an army. More than that he was a Lord who had risen up in rebellion against the Crown. His decisions had consequences beyond just his family—they affected all of the men sitting in this tent, the thousands outside in the rain, the families who waited for their return.

The men who followed him, the were not pleased with the Freys terms.

The murmurs of discontent had been soft at first, but they grew louder with each passing moment as they properly digested what the Freys were asking for. Robb's sharp ears caught snippets of hushed conversations.

"It's too much."

"Walder Frey thinks he can leash the boy."

"One marriage is fair, but two?"

Lord Greatjon Umber, seated near the end of the table, was the first to truly voice his displeasure. "Walder Frey always was a slippery old cunt," he growled, shaking his head. "What? Does he think he owns the North now? That he can marry off Lord Stark like some common sellknight?" He spat onto the floor, his large hand curling into a fist on the table. "This is no alliance—it's a collar."

Lord Rickard Karstark, sitting beside Roose Bolton, nodded. "An alliance should be built on trust, not shackles," he said in his cool, measured tone. "He's demanding too much, and he knows it."

Robb exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the pommel of his sword. He had known this would happen. Even if he could stomach the terms, the lords of the North would not. Marriage was not just a union—it was a political tool, one of the strongest assets a ruler could wield. Robb's unwed status was part of his strength.

He had already received more than a few subtle—and not-so-subtle—offers from his vassals. To wed a Frey would not just be an insult to those who had hoped to tie their houses to his, but it would also limit him strategically.

As for Arya—he did not even know if she was alive. How could he promise her to a Frey when she was missing, lost somewhere in the south? The thought of giving his wild, spirited little sister to one of Walder Frey's sons, to be locked away in the Twins like a bargaining chip, made his stomach twist in disgust.

Roose Bolton, ever the calculating man, spoke next. "The Freys think they have you cornered, my lord," he said smoothly, his pale eyes unreadable. "They assume you are desperate and will take whatever leash they offer. But desperation is weakness, and if we show weakness, the Freys will bleed us for every ounce of advantage they can take." He paused, looking around the table before settling his gaze on Robb. "You would not be the first Stark to wed for duty, nor the last. But you must ask yourself—are you prepared to accept terms dictated by a man who has yet to pick a side? A man who plays all sides?"

Robb stared down at the letter again, the ink stark against the parchment. The weight of the decision pressed on his shoulders, but he already knew his answer.

No.

He could accept a marriage to one of Walder's daughters or Arya's betrothal—not both. He could make some compromise, show some willingness to appease the Freys, but not at the cost of all his future leverage.

"I won't accept these terms," Robb finally said, his voice calm but firm. "We need the Freys, but I will not be leashed by them." His gaze flicked to Catelyn, who remained silent but looked as though she wanted to argue. He gave her a small shake of his head. "I'll make a counteroffer. Go to him, saying we are willing to accept his terms except for the marriages. See if he is willing to accept this, push him to do so. But if he refuses, tell him I am willing to accept one marriage. Either I take a Frey wife or Arya does. Not both. That is non-negotiable."

There was a long pause before Brynden Blackfish leaned back in his chair, studying his great-nephew. "A bold move," he muttered, a glint of approval in his sharp eyes. "Walder Frey won't like being denied."

"Then he can refuse," Robb said. "But when he comes crawling to us with his tail between his legs, let us see then what he acts like then."

A slow grin spread across the Greatjon's face. "Ha! That's more like it," he boomed, slamming his fist on the table. "Show the old bastard he doesn't hold all the cards."

Catelyn sighed, rubbing her temples. "I hope you're right, Robb," she said softly.

Robb met her gaze evenly. 'So do I, Mother.' For a moment he remained silent, tuning out the words of the lords around him as he focused on the steady drumming of rain against the canvas of the tent, a relentless reminder of the storm brewing both outside and within their war council. His gaze then swept out across the room to the gathered lords of the North stood or sat in a semi-circle, their faces grim and expectant.

The air was thick with the scent of damp wool and oiled leather, of steel that had been honed in preparation for war. Shadows flickering against the fabric walls, cast by the lanterns that swung gently with each gust of wind. Robb Stark stood at the head of the table, hands resting on the heavy wood as he surveyed the men before him.

He could see the tension in their postures, the way some leaned forward, brows furrowed, waiting for his decision. Others, like the Greatjon, sat with arms crossed, eager for a bold move. Roose Bolton's pale blue eyes remained unreadable, his expression a mask of polite interest. Brynden Blackfish, ever the seasoned warrior, watched with sharp calculation.

"Though we have yet to hear Lord Walder's response to our counteroffer, I doubt any of us believe he will agree. So we shall now proceed with the war without House Frey," Robb announced finally, his voice cutting through the low murmurs like a blade.

A few lords exhaled sharply in satisfaction, nodding their heads. The Greatjon let out a quiet grunt of approval. Lord Glover exchanged a look with Lord Karstark, both men clearly pleased with the decision. Even Bolton inclined his head slightly, though whatever thoughts lurked behind his cold gaze remained his own.

Robb let the murmuring die down before he continued. "While we need the numbers the Freys would provide, that much is true, we cannot allow them to dictate the terms of this war. If we give in to them now, we show the rest of Westeros that we are weak, that we can be manipulated. I will not let the North be treated as desperate beggars at Walder Frey's table."

More nods.

More mutters of approval.

"So what is our next step, then?" Lord Hornwood asked, his fingers tapping idly against his belt.

Robb turned to Rodrik Forrester, his expression firm. "Lord Forrester, you will take command of five thousand men and when my mother returns with Lord Walder's refusal, lay siege to the Twins."

A ripple of surprise ran through the room.

Lord Forrester straightened slightly, his brow furrowing. "Besiege the Twins, my lord?"

Robb gave a sharp nod. "But do not entrench yourself. Walder Frey will know he has the numbers to meet us on the field if he so chooses, and I do not doubt he would relish the chance to bloody our forces while we remain divided. You are not to give him that chance. Keep your men mobile, never let them settle too deeply into a true siege."

Understanding dawned in Rodrik's expression, his lips pressing together in thought before he gave a slow, approving nod. "A feigned siege, then? To keep the Freys contained while preserving our strength?"

"Exactly," Robb said. "Your presence there ensures that the Freys cannot march south to aid the Lannisters, nor can they openly side against us without facing the full strength of the North. But you are not to commit to a prolonged siege. If the Freys attempt to meet you in open battle, you will have the freedom to withdraw at a moment's notice."

Rodrik Forrester bowed his head. "I understand, my lord. I will see it done."

Robb nodded, then turned to Roose Bolton, whose pale, expressionless gaze met his own. "Lord Bolton, you will take command of the remaining ten thousand men and march southeast along the Kingsroad."

A few lords shifted at that, glancing between Robb and Roose.

The decision was logical, but Roose Bolton was a man few trusted.

Even so, none spoke against it.

Robb continued, his tone even. "The world already believes I am here, and they will assume I am with the force marching along the Kingsroad. We want them to believe that."

Lord Karstark stroked his beard thoughtfully. "So you want them to think you are heading for a direct confrontation?"

"Precisely," Robb confirmed. "You will march slowly, Lord Bolton. A journey that should take two days should take four or five. Move cautiously, deliberately, as if we are unsure of ourselves." His gaze swept the room, gauging their reactions. "We want Tywin Lannister and the rest of Westeros to believe that I am an inexperienced boy fumbling through his first war, making the mistake of besieging the Twins and leading a slow, vulnerable march along the Kingsroad. We want them to believe that we are playing directly into their hands."

There were mutters of agreement, some lords chuckling at the idea of misleading the Lannisters so thoroughly. Even Roose Bolton allowed a small, amused smile to flicker across his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. He inclined his head. "A clever ruse, my lord. I will ensure your deception is most convincing."

Robb met his gaze, holding it for a long moment.

Bolton was a dangerous man, but for now, he needed him.

He gave a short nod before looking back at the others.

That was when Lord Tallhart finally asked the question the room had been waiting for. "And where will you be, my lord?"

Silence settled over the tent.

Robb exhaled slowly. "I will not be here."A few lords exchanged glances, but Robb pressed on before anyone could interrupt. "I will cross the Blue Fork and link up with Wylis Manderly and the men already stationed there. I will take command of our forces and lead the charge to liberate Riverrun before the Lannisters even realize what is happening."

There was a brief moment of stunned silence before one lord scoffed. "Why not simply take the six thousand men and attack the Freys from the south?"

Before Robb could answer, Brynden Blackfish leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Because that would be idiocy." The room turned to him, waiting. "If we did that," Brynden continued, "then we might as well announce to all of Westeros that we have forces beyond the Freys' control. We would lose any element of surprise, and Jaime Lannister would have ample time to prepare his forces. Riverrun is already on the edge of collapse. If we are to move, we must do so quickly and quietly."

The Greatjon let out a booming laugh. "Aye! That slippery old bastard Walder Frey might be playing his usual games, but if we defeat the Lannisters, he'll be singing a different tune. He knows which way the wind blows."

Robb inclined his head. "House Frey is opportunistic, and these ridiculous demands are proof enough that they intend to wring as much from us as they can. But if we succeed—if we liberate Riverrun, if we defeat Jaime Lannister, if we capture the Kingslayer himself—then the Freys will have no choice but to reconsider where they stand."

The murmurs of approval grew stronger, the lords nodding, the tension in the room shifting to something more eager, something more hungry.

"Then let's give the old weasel something to think about," Lord Karstark said, a sharp grin spreading across his face.

"Aye," the Greatjon rumbled, grinning broadly. "Let's show these southron cunts how the North fights."

Robb allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

The pieces were in place.

Now, they had only to move them.