Roslin IV

As Roslin made her way through the seemingly endless corridors of the Red Keep, a wave of nausea gripped her. Each step toward the King's chambers felt like an eternity, the oppressive silence and cold stone walls only heightening her unease. All she longed for was to return to Robb, to feel the warmth of his embrace, the way his presence always calmed her. But instead, she was trapped in this lonely march toward uncertainty, flanked by two silent Kingsguard soldiers. They walked with rigid formality, their eyes never meeting hers, offering neither a word of reassurance nor even a fleeting glance of sympathy.

When they finally arrived at their destination, one of the guards pushed open the heavy wooden doors with a forceful shove. The grand chamber that lay beyond was overwhelming. If Roslin had thought her rooms with Robb in the Red Keep were luxurious, this was an entirely different realm of opulence. The walls were draped in rich red velvet, every surface gleaming with gold fixtures and ornate embellishments. The air felt thick with the weight of wealth and power. At the far end of the room, a grand balcony beckoned, offering a breathtaking view of the sprawling city below.

Eventually, Roslin's eyes fell upon the King, lounging carelessly on a lavishly cushioned, reclined sofa. His gaze was sharp and unrelenting, burning into her as if daring her to speak first. The air between them crackled with tension, a silent battle for control, neither willing to yield. But it was Roslin who broke the stalemate, recalling Robb's urgent words to his mother—that everything must be done to appease the royal family. In that moment, she couldn't help but wonder just how far the King intended to push those boundaries.

"Your Grace," she murmured, her voice steady despite the unease swirling within her, and she dipped into a deep, graceful curtsey.

"Lady Stark," Joffrey replied, sitting upright as he regarded her with a sly smirk. "Please, come sit next to me." His hand patted the space beside him on the sofa, a gesture that felt less like an invitation and more like a command disguised as civility.

Every fibre of Roslin's being screamed at her not to obey, but she knew all too well that she held no power to refuse him. Reluctantly, against her better judgment, she moved to sit beside the boy-king. Joffrey was the same age as Roslin, yet to her, he felt much younger—like a child playing at being a ruler, testing the boundaries of his newfound power with reckless abandon. In contrast, Roslin had always been mature beyond her years, and the last month being with Robb had made her feel she had finally stepped fully into womanhood.

"I've heard stories about you Frey girls," Joffrey began, his tone dripping with cruelty masked by false charm. "My uncle Jaime said you were as ugly as hounds, but you... you are beautiful."

"You are too kind, Your Grace," Roslin replied softly, though there was no warmth in her words. She perched on the very edge of the sofa, keeping as much distance between them as possible. Yet Joffrey, undeterred, edged closer, his presence oppressive. He hovered just a breath away from touching her, and Roslin could feel the tension tightening in her chest, every instinct urging her to flee, though she knew she couldn't.

"I always wondered what it was like," Joffrey mused, his voice carrying a sickening curiosity. "All of you girls, so close together in those cramped rooms at the height of youth. Tell me, did you ever act on any... urges with your sisters?"

Roslin flinched as his hand slowly traced a path along her arm, his touch deliberate and teasing. It was delicate—too delicate. Somehow, the softness of it made her wish he would just hurt her outright if that was his intent. The anticipation was far worse, the waiting for a cruelty that hadn't yet come. She understood the implication of his question but doubted whether he even believed his own words. He was simply testing her, pushing her boundaries to see how far she would bend.

"Of course not, Your Grace," Roslin replied, forcing a slyness into her voice she didn't feel. She knew that to survive this moment, she had to play along, to let Joffrey believe he held the upper hand. As much as it pained her, she understood that flirting back, letting him think he was winning, was her only option. "Though," she added, her tone shifting ever so slightly, "I did spend many nights waiting for a man to steal me away."

"And tell me, did Robb Stark disappoint?" Joffrey pressed, his tone laced with mockery as his fingers moved to her hair. He played with the ends, twisting strands around his fingers, the gesture deceptively tender. "I must admit, I was surprised when I heard the Young Wolf had taken a Frey to bed. But then I saw you and... well, who could blame him? I'm shocked your father didn't keep you for himself. I've heard he has a taste for beautiful young girls, and I doubt being related would stop him."

Roslin's breath caught in her throat. She had expected cruelty, but this was beyond anything she had imagined. The accusation was vile—disgusting. Her father may have been a monster, but to suggest he would pursue his own daughter was revolting. In that moment, Joffrey's nature became startlingly clear to her. He didn't just crave power—he thrived on breaking people, on watching them squirm under his twisted games.

Robb's defiance in the hall must have bored him, Roslin realised. Joffrey wanted retaliation; or worse, anger but it was all temporary, it was easy for him to do before moving on to the next person. She had to be unbreakable, unreadable, if she was to survive this. She needed to turn the game on him.

"Well, Your Grace," she responded, her voice smooth despite the storm raging inside her, she had watched Walda with the men that would visit The Twins, she knew how to play the seductress even if she had never done it herself. "Robb Stark is just a boy. And as for my father..." she trailed off, forcing a small, knowing smile as she met Joffrey's eyes. "Some things even he knows better than to touch." Her words were carefully chosen, giving nothing away, letting Joffrey believe he had the upper hand while quietly reclaiming her power as she rested her hand on his thigh.

Joffrey's eyes flickered with interest at her response, his fingers pausing for a brief moment in her hair before resuming their slow, almost affectionate twisting. Roslin could see the wheels turning behind his gaze, trying to decipher whether her words were submission or a veiled challenge. He thrived on weakness, but she had given him none—not yet. His smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes, and he leaned in ever so slightly, their faces now only inches apart.

"A boy, you say?" Joffrey echoed, his tone light but underpinned with malice. "And what does that make you, Lady Stark? You seem far more experienced than a simple girl from the Twins. Perhaps you've grown tired of your wolf already. I wonder... do you find yourself longing for something more? Or someone more fitting of your beauty?"

Roslin felt his thigh tense beneath her hand as he spoke, as if the very thought of power over her excited him. His words dripped with a mix of arrogance and cruelty, a taunt meant to lure her into revealing more, into cracking under the pressure of his relentless probing. But Roslin remained steady, her heart pounding in her chest though her exterior was composed, even serene.

She knew she couldn't react the way he wanted, couldn't give him the satisfaction of her discomfort. Instead, she leaned ever so slightly closer, her hand still resting lightly on his thigh, as if to play along with the dangerous game he was weaving.

"Longing?" she mused, her voice low, almost a whisper. "Your Grace, what I desire is far beyond the reach of most men. But I've learned that boys in power, even kings, often think they understand a woman's heart." Her eyes stayed locked on his, unflinching, though her tone was laced with enough ambiguity to keep him intrigued, unsettled. "You see, the wolf may be young, but his teeth are sharp. And I am not so easily tamed."

Joffrey's smirk faltered, only for a moment, as he searched for the deeper meaning behind her words. The tension between them thickened, the air electric with the unspoken battle for control. She could feel his frustration simmering beneath the surface—he wanted her to flinch, to break, but instead, she held firm.

"Perhaps," Joffrey said slowly, withdrawing his hand from her hair and sitting back slightly, his expression darkening. "But we'll see how long that sharpness lasts when you've been at court long enough. Everyone breaks eventually, Lady Stark."

Roslin smiled faintly, but there was steel behind it. "Perhaps, Your Grace," she replied softly, "but some of us are far harder to break than others."

Joffrey's gaze darkened further, a flash of irritation in his eyes. He wasn't accustomed to resistance, especially not from someone in such a vulnerable position. Roslin's calm defiance was a puzzle he hadn't anticipated, and it gnawed at him. His hand, which had fallen idle by his side, clenched slightly before relaxing again as he leaned back into the sofa, pretending to be unaffected.

"You speak boldly for a woman so far from home," Joffrey remarked, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "But you'll find that in King's Landing, boldness can be... costly."

Roslin's heart raced, but outwardly, she remained poised. She knew that every word, every glance had to be calculated. Joffrey thrived on the fear he instilled in others, but she had learned in this brief exchange that his power crumbled when confronted with unshakable composure. She couldn't let him see the fear that coiled within her, the dread that had taken root the moment she stepped into the room.

"I've learned to pay the price for boldness, Your Grace," she replied, her tone smooth as silk. "But I've also learned that fear and obedience often cost much more." She withdrew her hand from his thigh slowly, deliberately, as if to signal that she would not play the game on his terms. "The question is, what do you value more—loyalty born from respect, or submission born from fear?"

Joffrey's expression twisted slightly, as though the notion of respect was foreign to him, or worse, unimportant. He shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Joffrey's voice dropped, cold and venomous. "No wonder the wolf fancies you. Listen Lady Stark, if I want you, I'll take you, and nothing will stop me." His eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned in closer. "Maybe I'll have your lord husband's head to go along with his father's. How would you like that, Lady Stark? How would you like to be my queen?"

With sudden force, he grabbed her face, his grip hard and unyielding, fingers digging into her skin. He held her there, his gaze cruel and predatory, before pushing her back, releasing her from his hold. "Or perhaps you'll just be my whore," he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I wouldn't want someone another man has already had as my bride."

Roslin met Joffrey's eyes, her pulse steady despite the fire burning beneath her skin. She held his gaze, refusing to flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her fear. Every moment she remained unbroken, she could see his frustration simmering beneath the surface. His need to control, to dominate, was tangible, but she would not let him win.

"If you want to break me, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice calm but edged with steel, "you'll need to do more than threats and cruelty. I've already seen what real power is—what real strength looks like—and it's not the fear you try to wield. It's earned, not forced."

"You speak like a woman with nothing to lose. I wonder how much of that is true." His fingers brushed against her arm again as he once again closed the distance between them, this time with slight pressure, a reminder of his control. "We shall see, Lady Stark. The court can be... unpredictable. It can make or break anyone who dares to think they are untouchable."

Roslin felt the weight of his words but refused to let them settle. Instead, she held his gaze, unflinching, her chin lifted just slightly in defiance. "I'll remember that, Your Grace."

The tension between them hung in the air like a drawn blade, neither willing to fully concede, each waiting for the other to make the final move. But Roslin knew that at this moment, she had survived—at least for now. She had danced through the fire and come out unburnt.

Joffrey's smirk returned, more calculating this time. "You may go now," he said dismissively, waving a hand as though she were nothing more than a minor amusement. "But don't stray too far, Lady Stark. We're not done yet."

Roslin rose gracefully, her heart pounding in her chest as she dipped into a formal curtsey. "Of course, Your Grace." Without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, her back straight, her steps steady despite the tremor of relief threatening to overtake her.

As the door closed behind her, she allowed herself a single breath of reprieve. She had faced the lion in his den and lived to tell the tale. But she knew this was only the beginning, and Joffrey's games were far from over.