Roslin VIII

2 weeks had passed since Robb had left King's Landing, and his letters had become short and infrequent. The last she'd heard from him, he had already departed Harrenhal and was heading for Bitterbridge, offering no explanation as to why. Desperate for answers, she had sought out whispers in the court, but all she managed to learn was that Renly Baratheon had made camp there. The lack of information gnawed at her, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't understand why Robb would be negotiating with Renly. It left her uneasy, questioning his every move.

As much as she hated to admit it, Roslin had grown accustomed to the capital. She had settled into a routine, and while unease still lingered in the back of her mind, she had adjusted. Most of her days were spent with Sansa, working to deepen their understanding of Westeros and its many houses. They talked about royal etiquette and manners, and Roslin had even managed to convince a reluctant maester to teach them about politics and war tactics. Grand Maester Pycelle had grumbled the entire time, insisting that such knowledge was not suited for ladies, but Roslin remained undeterred.

But this morning, she found herself attending to her least favorite duty that had emerged during her time in the capital. In the absence of a Hand of the King, Joffrey had taken to holding an open court each week. He listened to the petitions presented to him and decided on a course of action, but he insisted that Roslin be present at each session to offer him counsel.

The persona she had crafted for Joffrey became increasingly effortless to maintain, yet a nagging fear grew within her: that her true self would gradually fade into obscurity. Each evening, she found herself in his chambers, where their interactions blurred the line between flirtation and manipulation. Joffrey would tease her, probing her limits with an insatiable curiosity, eager to see how far he could push her before she withdrew.

Roslin often felt like an actress on a grand stage, performing a role she hadn't auditioned for. His laughter was laced with a thrill that both captivated and unsettled her. Sometimes, she would catch glimpses of the boy behind the crown, but those moments were fleeting and quickly swallowed by his darker impulses.

Every day, he made jokes about bedding her, about claiming her for himself and tearing her away from Robb. As he jested, she fought to keep her composure, reminding herself that each smile and playful retort was a protective barrier against his unpredictable nature. She feared that with each passing day, the boundaries between the facade and her genuine self would blur further, until she could no longer discern where one ended and the other began.

As Roslin made her way to the Great Hall, she caught a fleeting glimpse of her reflection in a window. The sight startled her; she looked strikingly like Cersei, save for the color of her hair. Her locks were styled in the intricate Southern fashion, cascading elegantly around her shoulders. On days when she attended court, Joffrey always insisted she wear one of the red and gold gowns he had gifted her, each one a bold proclamation of allegiance to House Lannister.

She was painfully aware of the rumors that swirled around her, whispers suggesting she shared Joffrey's bed. Wearing his gifts, adorned in his house colors, did little to quell the gossip. Instead, it only fueled speculation, each gown feeling like a shackle rather than a symbol of favour.

The game was survival and Robb would understand.

As Roslin approached the Great Hall, she found the massive doors already ajar, revealing a bustling room filled with everyone from noblemen to smallfolk. The air was thick with conversation and anticipation. As she entered, a guard proclaimed, "Lady Roslin Stark," and the crowd parted, creating a path for her. Many in attendance curtsied or bowed their heads, acknowledging her presence. With only a handful of individuals of higher station in the room, she allowed herself a fleeting moment of indulgence as she thought, this is what it would like to be Queen.

In her mind, she envisioned a different life, one where Robb had marched into King's Landing at the head of the Northern forces. She imagined him seated on the Iron Throne, the conqueror's crown resting atop his head, radiating strength and authority. She pictured herself walking toward him, taking her place at his side, their son nestled on her lap, a symbol of their union and the future they could build together.

But as she moved forward, her fantasy was shattered by the reality before her. Instead, she was met with the sight of Joffrey, slumped in his oversized chair, a stark contrast to the image of a true king. He was no monarch but a boy playing a dangerous game, lost in his own sense of entitlement.

As Roslin approached Joffrey, she slipped into her role as effortlessly. She lowered herself into a deep curtsey, her gown spreading around her like a blooming flower, the fabric pooling elegantly at her feet. With her eyes cast downward, she felt the weight of expectation settle upon her. It was only when Joffrey gestured for her to rise that she lifted her gaze.

As she met his eyes, he extended his hand, showcasing the signet ring on his smallest finger, which bore the intricate designs of both a stag and a lion. Roslin leaned in and pressed a soft kiss upon it, holding his gaze as long as she dared. The moment stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension, until finally, she pulled away and took her place at his side, acutely aware of the roles they were both playing in this elaborate dance of power.

"Lady Roslin, you look beautiful today," Joffrey said sweetly, the venom that had once laced his words seemingly vanished. Roslin recognized, with a twinge of unease, that he genuinely believed they were in love—a secret, forbidden romance destined to be immortalised in songs for generations to come. The notion of "King Joffrey and his lady Roslin" filled her with an unsettling mix of dread and irony. As he smiled at her, she couldn't shake the feeling that their reality was far from the fairy tale he envisioned.

Roslin managed a polite smile, suppressing the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. "Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. She turned slightly to observe the bustling hall, searching for any familiar faces among the crowd.

As she took her seat, the noise of the hall faded into a dull roar, and she steeled herself for the proceedings ahead.

Noblemen and women began to present their petitions, each seeking Joffrey's favour. She listened intently, trying to glean any information that might help her understand the shifting tides of power around them. Joffrey, however, was more interested in his own amusement, often interrupting with snide remarks or laughter at the expense of those who dared to approach the throne.

A few more petitions came and went, with Joffrey either making grand promises or cruelly rejecting the pleas. Roslin sat beside him, maintaining her composed mask. Then, a guard stepped forward and announced with a clear voice, "A representative from the Iron Bank of Braavos."

At once, the hall seemed to still. A man emerged from the crowd, his appearance immediately setting him apart. He was rotund and bald, dressed in a dazzling array of silks in shades that shimmered under the flickering light of the hall—deep purples, sapphire blues, and rich golds. His rings clinked together as he moved, his fingers heavy with jeweled adornments. Though Roslin had little experience with the people of Essos, she knew at once that this man hailed from across the Narrow Sea.

"Your Graces," he began, his accent thick, but his words precise. With an elaborate and theatrical bow, he continued, "Firstly, I wish to extend my deepest gratitude to you and your Queen for your generous hospitality in welcoming me to your great city, and to your most magnificent home. The Iron Bank of Braavos holds the highest regard for your kingdom, as we do for all who keep their agreements."

As he straightened up, Roslin noticed a ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled crowd. The air thickened with whispered suspicions and quiet gossip. The Iron Bank was known to be a powerful institution, one that kings and queens alike were wise to tread carefully around.

Joffrey's lips curled into a lazy smirk. "It is, of course, my pleasure to welcome you to Westeros," he replied, his tone filled with arrogance. "But let me correct you on one point, good sir. The Lady Roslin is not my wife." He paused, clearly enjoying the attention, his eyes scanning the crowd before falling back on the Braavosi man. "She is my dear friend and confidante, offering her invaluable counsel while her husband, Robb Stark, fights in my campaign." Joffrey let out a soft laugh as if he had said something particularly clever, the condescension dripping from his voice.

The court fell uncomfortably silent for a moment, then the whispers started again, only louder this time. To the people of King's Landing, "friend and confidante" was nothing more than a thinly veiled euphemism. In their eyes, Joffrey had just declared Roslin to be his whore, a mistress openly acknowledged before the court. The implications of it hit her like a blow, and though she maintained her outward composure, she could feel her stomach twist.

Roslin could sense the eyes of the room upon her, judgment heavy in their stares. She knew how they would interpret this—her fine gowns, the regal seat beside Joffrey, the power he allowed her to wield in public. She could almost hear the rumors spinning out of control, spreading like wildfire through the capital. Every whisper, every sideways glance, would only fuel the perception that she had betrayed her absent husband.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her expression cool, tilting her chin ever so slightly as though unaffected by the slander. She reminded herself, this is survival. Every word, every gesture had to be carefully crafted to keep herself safe, to protect Robb, and to ensure that when the time came, she could leave this wretched place.

The Braavosi representative, to his credit, didn't bat an eye at Joffrey's correction. "Of course, Your Grace. My apologies for any misunderstanding to you and to the Lady Roslin." He bowed again, though this time with a slight stiffness that suggested he had caught the tension in the room.

As he began to discuss the true purpose of his visit—the matter of the crown's debts—Roslin found herself only half-listening. Her mind was consumed by the precariousness of her situation. Every day spent here, playing Joffrey's game, brought her closer to danger. The line between being the king's "confidante" and becoming his prisoner was thinner than she had ever imagined. She only hoped that somewhere, beyond these walls, Robb was fighting to bring her home.

Next to be introduced was "Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor, with his daughter, Lady Desmera Redwyne." The herald's voice echoed through the hall as the pair stepped forward. Roslin recognised Desmera instantly. She was one of the young women whom had been put forward after Cersei called for girls to "entertain" the young king.

Joffrey's eyes gleamed as Lord Redwyne and his daughter approached, clearly anticipating a game of his own making. "Lord Redwyne," Joffrey called out, his voice thick with forced politeness. "Thank you for accepting my invitation to court. It has been quite some time since your last visit to King's Landing, has it not?"

Lord Paxter bowed, his face carefully composed, though Roslin could see the strain in his eyes. "Yes, Your Grace," he answered. "I have not been in the capital since the coronation of your father, King Robert."

"Ah, what a shame it is that you should return now under such... difficult circumstances," Joffrey retorted, the smirk that tugged at his lips making it clear that he was toying with the lord. His voice dripped with mockery as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the Iron Throne. "One wonders why your liege lord, the esteemed Mace Tyrell, would dare turn against his rightful king. Does House Tyrell have ambitions we should be aware of?"

There was a heavy pause in the hall as Joffrey's words hung in the air, the tension palpable. Lord Redwyne stiffened ever so slightly, but his response was measured, cautious. "I cannot speak for Lord Tyrell, Your Grace," he replied, choosing each word with care. "But I assure you that House Redwyne stands firmly behind the one true king—King Joffrey Baratheon."

Roslin watched Lord Redwyne, noting the flicker of unease in his eyes. He was walking a dangerous line, trying to appease the capricious boy seated before him without stepping too far into the political minefield laid by Joffrey's baiting. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Joffrey's response.

Joffrey chuckled, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the Iron Throne's armrest. "Oh, I'm sure you do," he said, his tone flippant. "But "perhaps you should remind your lord of the oaths he swore to the crown," Joffrey continued, a sly edge entering his voice. "After all, we wouldn't want to see the Arbor suffer the consequences of any... misunderstanding. Would we?"

The thinly veiled threat was clear, and Lord Redwyne's face flushed slightly, though he maintained his composure. "Of course not, Your Grace. I will ensure that Lord Tyrell understands the loyalty of House Redwyne to the crown is unwavering." His voice was steady, but Roslin could sense the undercurrent of tension in his words.

Beside her father, Lady Desmera stood silently, her eyes fixed on the floor, her posture rigid with unease. She looked as though she might melt into the stone beneath her feet, the weight of the room's attention bearing down heavily upon her. Her long, chestnut hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, the natural sheen catching the light of the torches that lined the Great Hall. Her pale blue gown, though finely made, did little to mask the tremor of anxiety that rippled through her as she awaited whatever Joffrey might say next.

Joffrey's gaze lingered on her, his predatory smile spreading wider as he called out, "Lady Desmera, is it?"

The girl's head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear as she stepped forward and immediately dropped into a low, graceful curtsey. "Yes, Your Grace," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the same polished charm that all noblewomen were trained to exude. Her heart-shaped face was flushed, the delicate blush of her cheeks betraying her discomfort as she stared at the cold stone beneath her feet.

Joffrey tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked her over. "I've heard of you, my lady," he said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. "News of your beauty and your grace have reached even my ears."

Desmera's eyes flickered upward for just a moment before lowering once more, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "You are too kind, Your Grace," she murmured, her tone demure as she remained in her curtsey, not daring to rise until Joffrey permitted it.

Joffrey leaned back, tapping his fingers idly on the armrest of the Iron Throne. "Too kind, am I?" he mused, his voice teasing as his gaze roved over her. "I wonder, my lord," he said, directing his attention to her father, Lord Paxter, "does your daughter dance as gracefully as she speaks?"

Lord Redwyne, visibly flustered by the sudden shift in attention, bowed quickly, his words stumbling over themselves. "Of course, Your Grace. Lady Desmera is well-trained in all the arts befitting a noblewoman of her station."

Joffrey grinned, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Perhaps we should put that to the test, then. Lady Desmera, come forward."

Roslin watched from her seat beside Joffrey, her face calm, but her stomach twisted at the scene unfolding before her. She could see the terror in Lady Desmera's eyes as she took a tentative step forward. It was the same terror Roslin herself had felt countless times—being the focus of Joffrey's cruel games, unsure of what he would ask or how far he would push.

Desmera rose from her curtsey, her legs shaky as she stepped closer to the throne. "Your Grace," she said quietly, clasping her hands in front of her to steady them.

Joffrey's smirk widened as he regarded her, clearly reveling in her discomfort. "Dance for me, my lady. Show me this grace everyone speaks so highly of."

A murmur rippled through the hall, the gathered lords exchanging glances, some stifling gasps of disbelief at the request. Lady Desmera's face paled, her eyes darting to her father, who stood rooted to the spot, powerless to intervene. There was no graceful way out of this demand.

Roslin's heart sank as she watched the young girl, barely more than a child, trembling in her place. She felt a surge of anger toward Joffrey—how easily he wielded power, how carelessly he humiliated those around him for his own amusement. But she knew better than to intervene. To speak up now would only place her in Joffrey's crosshairs, and she could not afford that—not when so much depended on keeping his favor.

Lady Desmera swallowed hard, her lips quivering as she spoke, "I… I am not prepared to dance, Your Grace." Her voice wavered with fear, though she tried to maintain her composure.

Joffrey's smile faded into a look of displeasure, his eyes narrowing. "Not prepared?" he repeated, his voice hardening. "When your king makes a request, Lady Desmera, you obey." His tone was low and dangerous now, and the atmosphere in the hall shifted from amusement to tension.

Lord Paxter took a step forward, his face stricken with concern. "Your Grace, please—"

"Silence," Joffrey snapped, cutting him off with a glare. "Let your daughter speak for herself." His gaze flicked back to Desmera, who stood frozen, tears threatening to well up in her eyes.

"Come now," Joffrey said, his voice once again taking on that saccharine tone. "It's just a dance. Surely a lady of your talents can manage that?"

Roslin clenched her hands in her lap, her nails digging into her palms. She knew the humiliation Joffrey sought to impose on the girl—how he delighted in testing the limits of fear and obedience. Forcing a lady of high birth to dance before the court like a common entertainer, to degrade herself for his pleasure—it was a move as calculated as it was cruel.

Desmera's eyes darted around the room, searching for some escape, but there was none. Slowly, she lifted her chin and took a deep breath. "As you wish, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She stepped forward, her movements stiff and awkward as she began to dance, her feet shuffling across the stone floor. There was no music to guide her, no rhythm to follow—only the oppressive silence of the hall and the weight of Joffrey's gaze upon her. The crowd watched in hushed fascination, their expressions a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.

Joffrey leaned back in the Iron Throne, his smirk returning as he watched Desmera's awkward, hesitant steps. "Faster," he commanded, his voice ringing out through the hall. "Show me that grace I've heard so much about."

Desmera tried to comply, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate as she twirled and stumbled, her gown catching underfoot. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Roslin's heart ached as she watched, but she knew she could do nothing. This was the game they were all forced to play, and there was no winning—only survival.

"That will do," a voice called from the back of the room, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. "A lovely performance, my lady. I'm sure the King would agree, but you can stop now."

Heads turned sharply toward the entrance, where a figure was making his way down the aisle, short of stature but commanding all attention. It was a voice everyone in the hall recognised—Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of House Lannister.

"Uncle!" Joffrey's voice rang out, sharper than usual, more surprised than angry. "What are you doing here?"

Tyrion gave a sardonic smile as he approached the throne, his eyes flicking to Lady Desmera and her father, who still lingered at the base of the dais. With a kind gesture, Tyrion gave Lady Desmera a light pat on the back. "You've suffered enough for one day, my dear," he said softly, and with a grateful, relieved glance, she and Lord Redwyne melted into the crowd, grateful to no longer be at the centre of Joffrey's attentions.

Tyrion turned back to Joffrey, his keen eyes narrowing as he approached the towering throne. "As for me, Your Grace," he continued, his voice dripping with both respect and an undercurrent of reproach, "I've been sent by Lord Tywin, to serve as Hand of the King until such time that he can take up the position himself."

At this, Tyrion handed a sealed scroll to a nearby Kingsguard, who promptly passed it to Joffrey. The young King tore through the wax seal, his eyes scanning the document in silence, though his face betrayed the irritation bubbling beneath his thin mask of royal composure. After a few moments, Joffrey thrust the scroll toward Roslin, as though he couldn't be bothered with it anymore.

Roslin quickly read over the document herself. It was true—Tyrion was to serve as Hand of the King in his father's absence, with the full authority of the position until the war allowed Lord Tywin to return to court.

Tyrion's eyes gleamed as he watched Joffrey's barely concealed displeasure. "In other words, dear nephew, I've come to ensure this court no longer serves as your personal stage for cruelty and theatrics."

Joffrey's face reddened with humiliation, his fists clenching as the low murmur of the court rose in response to Tyrion's subtle rebuke. His gaze flickered toward Roslin, searching for some sign of reassurance or support, but her face remained a mask of calm neutrality, her eyes giving nothing away. In that moment, she felt his desperation but refused to indulge it. From the balcony above, Queen Cersei watched, her posture rigid, lips drawn into a thin, displeased line. Though her presence loomed over the hall, she did not intervene. The weight of Tyrion's authority was undeniable, no matter how much it frustrated her.

"Grandfather sent you?" Joffrey spat, his voice breaking the murmurs in the hall. "Of all people?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, unfazed by the young King's growing irritation. "I suppose he thought it best to have someone here who, let's say, understands the nuances of ruling a kingdom." His tone was biting but masked with just enough civility to avoid outright insult.

Joffrey leaned forward, his eyes burning with rage, but Tyrion remained calm, his gaze unwavering. "Your grandfather," Tyrion continued, "believes the time for playing games is over. The Iron Throne does not rest easily in a storm. And right now, we are surrounded by storms on all sides."

The reminder of the war, of the very real threats gathering at the kingdom's borders, sobered the mood in the room. The court had grown far too comfortable with the spectacle of Joffrey's weekly theatrics, but Tyrion's presence brought a stark reminder that their enemies were not noble ladies being forced to dance for amusement—they were armies, rebels, and kings laying siege to the realm itself.

Roslin observed the shift with growing interest. Tyrion's arrival could change everything—he wasn't known for kindness or sentimentality, but he was known for his intelligence. Perhaps he could bring balance to the court, curb Joffrey's dangerous impulsivity. She didn't allow herself to hope too much, but she sensed a small flicker of relief. With Tyrion as Hand, she might gain an ally, someone who could see through the farce she'd been forced to play with Joffrey.

Joffrey, however, was not so easily swayed. "And what will you do?" he challenged, his voice trembling slightly, betraying his youth despite the crown atop his head. "Are you here to give lectures, Uncle? Or do you actually plan to do something useful?"

Tyrion smiled again, this time with a hint of malice. "Oh, I plan to do something useful, Your Grace. Very useful indeed." He paused for a moment. "Be assured this playing at ruling is over.

"Do not mistake me for a child, Uncle," Joffrey said, his voice lowering dangerously. "I do not need your help to rule."

Tyrion bowed slightly, his head dipped just enough to show respect without losing his own authority. "Of course not, Your Grace. But every King needs his council. I am only here to serve you."

The tension lingered for a moment longer before Joffrey relented, leaning back in the Iron Throne with a huff, his eyes darting around the room, frustrated by the deference being shown to Tyrion. It was clear to all present that while Joffrey might wear the crown, the power in the room had subtly shifted.

Tyrion turned to the court, his voice carrying across the hall. "Let it be known, by order of Lord Tywin Lannister, that I, Tyrion of House Lannister, will henceforth serve as Hand of the King until such time as my father returns. All matters of state will pass through me, effective immediately."

With that, the session of court felt as though it had shifted from a stage of entertainment back to the somber duties of ruling. Roslin sat quietly at Joffrey's side, her face betraying nothing, but inwardly, she felt the tides of power turning.