Roslin VI
Later that evening, Roslin stood in her chambers, preparing herself for the ceremony that would commence in a few moments. The atmosphere in the room was a stark contrast to the gravity of their situation. Robb would soon be named Warden of the North, with Roslin by his side as his lady. As she glanced around the room, she saw the scene of lively activity: Robb was seated with Sansa, who was proudly displaying the intricate embroidery she had completed on her dress. Ned, looking slightly more rejuvenated in freshly shaved and formal attire, watched with a hint of satisfaction. Meanwhile, Arya, her spirits lifted, demonstrated her skills with a wooden sword, showing off the techniques she had learned from her dancing master.
The room buzzed with an almost deceptive cheerfulness, an island of happiness in the sea of uncertainty that loomed just beyond. Tomorrow, everything would shift once again, and the weight of the future was a shadow over their joy.
Plans for the immediate future were already set: Arya, Ned, and Robb would leave for Harrenhal at first light. From there, Arya, Ned, and Catelyn would continue their journey home to Winterfell, while Robb would join Tywin and Jaime Lannister's campaign. Roslin, on the other hand, would remain in King's Landing, tasked with mentoring Sansa in preparation for her future role as Queen of the realm. It was a role fraught with its own challenges, but it was one Roslin had to embrace.
Her thoughts wandered to the hope she clung to—that Robb would be able to end the war swiftly enough for them to reunite in Winterfell before their child was born. She longed for their baby to arrive in love surrounded by family in the safety of Robb's home, rather than the heat and hostility of King's Landing. But she knew, deep down, that this hope was a fragile.
The earlier garments they had worn seemed plain and unremarkable now, overshadowed by the opulence of their new attire. Sansa and Arya had both donned elegant grey gowns, each embellished with intricately designed wolf motifs that Sansa herself had painstakingly added. Arya, however, appeared visibly uncomfortable in her dress, which pinched awkwardly in all the wrong places as she attempted to wield her wooden sword.
Ned's attire was the simplest of all: a crisp white shirt paired with a leather jacket and a belt, understated yet dignified. Robb's outfit was more striking—a grey jacket that shimmered with silver in the light, a perfect match for Roslin's gown.
Roslin's dress was a masterpiece of layered fabric, its heavy material hugging her waist and chest, creating a silhouette that draped gracefully to the floor. The gown flowed like a waterfall, with a short train trailing behind her, making her feel both elegant and distinctly transformed. As she looked at her reflection, she felt as if the person looking back was unfamiliar to her.
A brief rattle at the door interrupted the room's murmur, bringing a sudden silence. A guard pushed the door open and announced, "It's time." Ned quickly ushered the younger girls out, exchanging a brief, hushed word with Robb that Roslin couldn't overhear. After the girls had left, Robb offered Roslin a reassuring smile before donning the large, heavy ceremonial cloak that had once overwhelmed her on their wedding day. The cloak now fit him perfectly, though Roslin could only imagine how stifling it must be under the relentless King's Landing sun.
Robb stood resolute by the door, the weight of the cloak accentuating his commanding presence. He extended his arm towards Roslin, who accepted it without hesitation. "Are you with me?" he asked, his gaze fixed ahead.
"Always," Roslin replied softly, her voice steady and unwavering.
Roslin and Robb moved through the corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floors. The weight of the ceremony hung heavily in the air, mingling with the tension that had settled over the palace. As they walked, Roslin stole glances at Robb, noting the tight set of his jaw and the way his gaze remained fixed ahead, focused and resolute.
They reached the grand hall where the ceremony was to take place, the massive doors looming before them. The hall was already filled with nobles and dignitaries, their murmurs creating a low hum of anticipation. The atmosphere was electric with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, every guest keenly aware of the significance of the moment. As Roslin and Robb approached the grand hall, the towering doors loomed before them, a solemn gateway to the ceremony that awaited. The hall was already a sea of finely dressed nobles and dignitaries, their low murmurs weaving a tapestry of anticipation. The air crackled with a palpable tension, a mixture of excitement and apprehension that hinted at the weight of the occasion.
Roslin's eyes roamed the room, taking in the array of unfamiliar sigils that adorned the Lords and Ladies. This was no ordinary transition of power; the ceremony had been hastily arranged, a departure from the usual protocol that would see major houses summoned to witness the new Warden swear their allegiance. In addition to the haste many Houses were split, now fractured into rival claimants, and the recent alignment of House Tyrell with Renly Baratheon through a swift marriage of their daughter, Margaery, the war was becoming real and people needed to choose a side.
Robb paused at the threshold, turning slightly to meet Roslin's eyes. The intensity of his gaze spoke volumes—this was a pivotal moment for them both. Roslin squeezed his arm reassuringly before they stepped into the hall together, the crowd's eyes immediately drawn to the new arrivals.
The grand hall was adorned with banners of House Stark and House Lannister, their rich colors contrasting sharply with the cold, grey stone. The high, vaulted ceiling was decorated with intricate tapestries, and the light from the chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the gathering.
As Robb and Roslin made their way down the center aisle, the room fell into a respectful silence. The nobles, dressed in their finest, watched with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. Joffrey stood at the head of the room sat on his throne, his expression a mask of regal satisfaction. Beside him, Sansa looked anxious, her gaze occasionally meeting Roslin's with a hint of pity that didn't linger for long due to Cersei's presence at her otherside.
Robb and Roslin approached the foot of the steps to the throne where the ceremony would take place. The anticipation was palpable, each guest eager for the proceedings to begin. As they reached the steps, Robb took his place and knelt in front of Joffrey, while Roslin stood slightly behind him, her presence a silent support.
Joffrey cleared his throat, and the room fell into an expectant hush. "Lords and Ladies," he began, his voice echoing through the hall. "Today we gather to honor the new Warden of the North, Robb Stark, and his lady, Roslin Stark. Their dedication to the realm and to each other exemplifies the strength and unity we seek in these turbulent times."
The crowd responded with silence. Robb's face remained stoic, but Roslin could sense the weight of the moment settling over him. She could feel the weight of her own role in this unfolding drama, knowing that their lives were about to shift dramatically once again.
Grand Maester Pycelle, holding aloft a massive and weathered tome, stepped forward to address Robb. The book, its cover cracked with age, seemed to symbolise the weight of tradition about to be honored.
"Do you, Robb of House Stark, swear by the Old Gods and the New to pledge your allegiance to King Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister?" Pycelle asked, his voice resonating with solemnity.
Robb responded with deliberate clarity, "I, Robb of House Stark, swear by the Old Gods and the New to obey King Joffrey, to protect his lands and honour, and to keep the North safe and secure in his name for the rest of my life."
Pycelle nodded approvingly, then dipped his fingers into a small vessel of holy water. He placed a single drop upon Robb's forehead and recited, "May the light of the Seven guide you and lead you from evil." He followed this with the placement of a small, symbolic cracker into Robb's mouth, a gesture signifying the binding of his oath.
King Joffrey, his face a mask of practiced benevolence, then addressed Robb. "I, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, accept you as my vassal. As long as I live, you shall have warmth at my hearth, steel from my forge, and a place at my table."
With a final flourish of false graciousness, Joffrey rose from his throne and descended the steps. He laid a heavy hand on Robb's shoulder, his grip both firm and commanding. Robb kept his head bowed in respect as Joffrey's voice cut through the tension. "Rise, Lord Stark."
The crowd responded with a brief but polite applause as Robb rose from his kneeling position and rejoined Roslin. Joffrey resumed his seat on the throne, his posture radiating a sense of entitlement and control. Grand Maester Pycelle then turned his attention to Roslin.
"Lady Stark," Pycelle intoned, his voice carrying a note of formality.
Roslin had been informed only days before that, as the wife of the newly appointed Warden, she was required to swear her own oath. Unlike those who married after their spouse's appointment, whose oaths could be given privately, Roslin was compelled to make her pledge publicly. This expectation filled her with dread, a sentiment she struggled to hide.
"Do you, Roslin of the Houses Stark and Frey, swear by the Old Gods and the New to pledge your allegiance to King Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister?" Pycelle asked, his gaze steady and unyielding.
Roslin could feel Joffrey's eyes boring into her, a palpable pressure that made her stomach churn. Despite this, she maintained her focus on Pycelle, determined to fulfill her role.
"I, Roslin of the Houses Stark and Frey, swear by the Old Gods and the New to obey King Joffrey, to support my lord husband in his duties to the King, and to uphold the safety of the North in his name for the remainder of my life," she declared, her voice steady though her heart raced.
Pycelle dipped his fingers into the vessel of holy water once more, applying a single drop to Roslin's forehead as he recited, "May the light of the Seven guide you and lead you from evil."
Roslin raised her head and opened her mouth as she had been instructed, her eyes meeting Joffrey's. He responded with a smirk, his expression a mix of satisfaction and calculated cruelty, as Pycelle placed the small cracker onto her tongue.
The feeling was deeply unsettling, it felt wrong, it felt sexual. It was becoming increasingly evident that Joffrey's interest in her was far from innocent. What she had initially dismissed as a mere test or a ploy to unsettle Robb had revealed itself to be something darker. The way Joffrey looked at her as she sat at his feet on her knees. She knew how a man looked at a woman he wanted. Even a man as twisted as Joffrey could look that way.
Joffrey descended from the throne with a calculated, almost mocking grace, far more deliberate than his previous movements with Robb. His voice, dripping with false benevolence, filled the hall.
"I, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, accept you as my vassal. As long as I live, you shall have warmth at my hearth, food from my harvest, and a place at my table."
A whisper reached Roslin's ears from behind—a young knight's voice barely concealed by his friends' muffled laughter. "And a place in my bed…" The comment was audibly cutting, and she could see from the faces around her that it had been heard by more than a few, including Robb.
Joffrey's hand landed on her shoulder, echoing the gesture he had used with Robb, but this time, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "I want to see you… tonight," he murmured with a chilling intimacy.
Roslin struggled to maintain her composure, fighting against the urge to react. As Joffrey straightened and addressed her again, his voice commanded attention.
"Rise, Lady Stark." He extended his hand to her, a gesture that was both a command and a prelude to something far more disturbing. With a reluctant breath, she took his hand and stood, her resolve tested but unwavering.
Roslin stepped back to Robb's side as Joffrey ascended the steps to his throne one last time. The King's voice rang out with forced cheerfulness. "Please join me in celebrating the newly appointed Lord and Lady of Winterfell!"
The crowd responded with polite applause, a stark contrast to the earlier, more enthusiastic reactions of the common people.
Joffrey continued, his tone dripping with feigned sincerity, "Tomorrow, Lord Stark will join my grandsire and my uncle on their campaign to vanquish the wouldbe usurpers—Stannis and Renly. The Kingdom will be restored to safety under the reign of the one true King."
In response, one of the young knights from the crowd let out a loud cheer, "Long Live the King!" His voice was quickly joined by others, creating a wave of forced enthusiasm that echoed through the hall.
Roslin glanced sideways at Robb, noting the tight set of his jaw. He was trying to maintain his composure, but the weight of the ceremony and Joffrey's calculated cruelty was evident.
Joffrey, basking in the attention, surveyed the crowd with a smirk before his gaze settled back on Roslin and Robb. The King's satisfaction was palpable, a mask for the unsettling control he exerted over them all.
Robb offered a stiff smile, returning the crowd's applause with a nod. Roslin mirrored his gesture, though her heart felt heavy with unease. The celebration was a veneer over the tension and uncertainty that lay beneath.
As the crowd slowly began to disperse, the nobles and dignitaries moving in groups, the atmosphere shifted from the grand spectacle to more private, muted conversations. Roslin felt a knot of dread settle in her stomach, knowing that while the ceremony had ended, their real challenges were only beginning.
As they made their way through the hall, Roslin caught a final glimpse of Joffrey, who was already engaged in conversation with his court. His eyes, however, kept drifting back to her, a reminder of the unsettling promise he had made.