You didn't remember much beyond waking up. One second, you're fighting it out, bloody on the battlefield, the next you're sitting in a makeshift prison, freezing your ass off in the frigid Riverland air. You didn't know where the war camp was exactly, but...if you looked to the sky you could see the flying grey direwolves up on flags, and if you looked to your hands, you'd see shackles. You could assume that you were not exactly in ally territory.

So you slayed a few men. So your army had been giving Robb Stark trouble. So they called you a demon on the battle feild. This wasn't how you expected this to go, but it was going better than you'd assumed it'd be. You thought you'd be dead.

Instead of death, you got something arguably worse. Stares. From the injured and crippled you hadn't finished off, from the men you had yet to slay, gawking like you were some foreign attraction. Taunting and spitting. Some gentlemen. Just goes to show how one bad day can really sent you to the gates of the Seven Hells. Or...the outdoor prisons of Robb Stark's camp.

A notice of your awakening, and suddenly the entire camp knew about it. Immediately Robb Stark knew of it, and he made his presence known, coming to you his large Direwolf in tow. Maybe to tease, maybe to taunt, maybe to gawk. You hardly knew the kid beyond his father. You only barely spoke to him when your father, King Robert Baratheon made his way North to force the role of 'King's Hand' onto that poor honorable bastard Ned Stark. You didn't know the next time you'd speak to him would be in a jail cell after massacring a quarter of his troops

The first thing left to know was why the hell you were still alive, and the second thing was what the hell he planned to do about it.