Roslin XIV

Roslin stirred from another restless night, the dull ache in her back and the relentless pressure of her swollen belly making it impossible to find any real comfort. She rubbed her eyes, pushing herself to sit up as the faint light of dawn crept through the narrow windows of her chamber. Today would be no different; sleep had eluded her for weeks now, and each morning was marked by the same dull throb that never quite went away. She was deep into her sixth moon of pregnancy, and with each passing day, the weight of the child seemed heavier, pulling her down both physically and emotionally.

Robb had taken to starting his mornings in the stables, where Greywind now spent his days, banished from the keep by King Joffrey. It had been an insult, one meant to remind Robb of his place in the south, under the watchful eye of the crown. Joffrey claimed the direwolf was a menace, but Roslin suspected it was more about the king asserting dominance, another way to humiliate the Starks while parading his control.

Roslin had noticed how much it stung Robb, though he rarely spoke of it. Each morning, he made the trip to the stables, keeping Greywind company in the warm, southern air. He always promised that they'd be home soon, back in the North where the wolf could roam free. As much as Robb tried to hide it, Roslin knew it hurt him to leave her alone as her pregnancy progressed, but he couldn't stay away from his wolf for long.

Despite her exhaustion, Roslin forced herself to her feet. Each step felt like an effort, but she pushed through the discomfort. The maester's remedies had done little to ease her pains, and she'd long given up on the idea of finding relief. The baby shifted inside her, as restless as she was, as if it too felt the weight of their predicament.

When she finally reached the stables, she found Robb where she expected, standing next to Greywind. The direwolf's thick, gray coat shimmered in the dim morning light as Robb ran a brush through his fur. His focus was intent, his hand gentle despite the wolf's size and power. Greywind huffed, his breath visible in the crisp air.

"How's he doing?" Roslin asked, her voice soft but tired as she approached.

Robb turned at the sound of her voice, his expression shifting from concentration to concern the moment he saw her. He looked her up and down, noticing the way she held herself, the discomfort that was impossible to hide. "He's okay," Robb replied, his tone gentler than usual. He continued brushing Greywind's coat as he spoke. "He doesn't like the South. It's too warm for him here." Robb's hand paused as he looked down at his wolf. "But we'll be home soon, boy. We'll be back in the North where you belong."

Roslin smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I hope we're home soon, too," she said, resting her hand on the swell of her belly. The baby kicked, a strong reminder of the life growing inside her, a life that was coming whether they were ready or not.

Robb turned to her fully then, stepping away from Greywind to gently pull her into his arms. He kissed her forehead, his hand coming to rest over hers on her stomach. "Soon," he promised, though she could hear the uncertainty in his voice. The South had a way of holding them in place, of trapping them in its schemes and politics.

"Is the baby keeping you awake again?" he asked, his thumb gently rubbing the back of her hand.

She nodded, leaning into his touch, grateful for the moment of closeness. "It's getting harder," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "The pain doesn't stop, and I can't seem to rest. The maester's herbs don't help."

Robb's jaw tightened slightly, his frustration barely masked. He hated seeing her in pain, hated that there was so little he could do. "I'll speak with the maester again," he said, though they both knew it wouldn't make a difference.

Roslin shook her head gently, her fingers curling around his. "It's not your fault," she said softly. "This is just... what it is."

He held her close for a moment longer, his forehead resting against hers. "I hate seeing you like this," he murmured, his voice low and filled with the weight of his worry. "I should be able to do more."

"You're doing enough," she assured him, though the words felt hollow even to her. She wasn't sure what "enough" even meant anymore, not in a world where the future felt so uncertain. But she clung to him anyway, because in the face of everything else, they had each other. That, at least, was something no king could take away from them.

For now, that would have to be enough.

As Robb continued to stroke Greywind's coat, Roslin shifted uneasily, her thoughts elsewhere. The silence between them stretched out before she broke it.

"Have you spoken to Sansa recently?" Roslin asked, her tone careful. "I've tried calling on her several times, but each time I'm turned away."

Robb paused for a moment, frowning slightly as he considered the question. "No, I haven't," he admitted. "Last I heard, she's been spending a lot of time with Margaery. They seem to have grown close."

Roslin's brow furrowed in response, a soft hum of concern escaping her lips. "Hmm."

"Hmmm?" Robb turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, amusement flickering briefly across his face. "What's that supposed to mean?" He stepped toward her, the beginnings of a chuckle in his voice, though it was clear he wasn't entirely at ease with the unspoken tension.

Roslin glanced at him, then away, chewing lightly on her bottom lip before she finally spoke. "I just mean…" she started, trying to choose her words carefully. She knew how much Robb respected Margaery, and she didn't want to cause unnecessary strain between them. But she couldn't shake her unease. "I know you like Margaery, and I do too, but there's something about her I don't trust."

Robb's expression softened, though he was still curious. "Why? Margaery's been kind to us. She's helped Sansa a lot."

"That's what I'm worried about," Roslin said, her voice dropping slightly, as if afraid someone might overhear her doubts. "Sansa has been through too much, Robb. After everything with Joffrey, she's fragile—more fragile than she lets on." She took a deep breath, placing a hand over her belly as if to calm the rising discomfort there. "Margaery's charm… it's powerful, and I fear Sansa might be too vulnerable right now to see through it."

Robb's face grew more serious as he listened. He folded his arms across his chest, studying her carefully. "You don't think Margaery has Sansa's best interests at heart?"

Roslin hesitated, searching for the right words. "I don't know, Robb. Margaery is a Tyrell, and the Tyrells are... they're ambitious. Always calculating. Margaery's learned to wear a friendly face, but she's playing the game just as much as anyone else here. Her loyalties lie with her family first, not with us, and definitely not with Sansa."

Robb's eyes darkened as her words sank in, and he moved closer to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You think Margaery's using her?"

"I think," Roslin said slowly, "that Margaery will do whatever it takes to secure her place on the Iron Throne. If that means keeping Sansa close, playing the role of a kind friend, then that's exactly what she'll do. But I fear what might happen when Sansa is no longer useful to her."

Robb's jaw clenched, and he let out a slow breath. "Sansa's stronger than you think," he said, though there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.

"I know she is," Roslin replied quickly. "But she's also been isolated for so long. She was a child when she came here, and she's been made to grow up far too quickly. She's been lied to, manipulated, threatened—Joffrey has scarred her in ways that none of us can fully understand. Sansa needs real support, not someone who's playing her own game."

Robb sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. "I'll talk to her," he said quietly. "But I don't think we should jump to conclusions about Margaery."

Roslin leaned into him, grateful for the support, though the tension didn't leave her. "Just… keep an eye on her," she whispered, her voice laced with the exhaustion of her pregnancy and the emotional toll of watching the ones she loved endure so much pain. "I can't protect her here, not the way you can."

"I will," Robb promised, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "We'll get through this, all of us. Once Joffrey's wedding is over, we'll leave this cursed place, and we'll all be safe." He glanced down at her belly, placing a gentle hand there as if to reassure both her and himself. "You, me, Sansa… and our child. We'll go home."

Roslin gave a small smile, though her heart still weighed heavy. Home felt so far away. But for now, it was all they had to hold onto. The hope of it was a fragile thing, and she prayed that, somehow, it would be enough.

Later that afternoon, Roslin resolved to visit Sansa. It had been nearly a moon since Sansa had moved into her marital chambers following her wedding to Tyrion, and in that time, Roslin had sensed an unsettling distance growing between them. Sansa had become more withdrawn, her presence more elusive, as if she were slipping through Roslin's fingers like sand. It wasn't that she distrusted Tyrion—quite the opposite. Tyrion Lannister, for all his wit and cynicism, was proving to be a far better man than Roslin had ever dared hope for. He was kind to Sansa, protective in ways no one had ever been since the horrors of King's Landing had begun to unfold around her.

Tyrion never let Sansa out of his sight. Wherever she went, he was by her side, ensuring she wasn't alone. He escorted her on afternoon walks through the palace gardens, and though their conversations appeared pleasant enough from a distance, Roslin couldn't shake the feeling that Sansa's mind always elsewhere. At mealtimes, Tyrion made sure she never dined alone, either seated beside her at the table or organising small gatherings so she would be surrounded by company. But despite the care he took, there was a quiet sadness in Sansa's eyes that Roslin feared no amount of companionship could soothe.

Sansa had suffered too much, endured too many traumas at the hands of monsters like Joffrey, to easily open herself to the idea of peace, let alone happiness. It was as if she had built an impenetrable fortress around her heart, and though Tyrion's efforts were earnest, they hadn't yet found the key to unlocking the person Sansa used to be—the bright, hopeful girl who had once dreamt of fairytale weddings and noble knights. Now, she was a woman forced into a marriage of survival, and while Tyrion treated her with the utmost respect, Roslin could see that Sansa was still trapped in her own mind, struggling to reconcile this new life with the one she had once imagined.

Roslin couldn't help but feel a wave of guilt as she made her way through the castle halls toward Sansa's chambers. She had wanted Sansa to be safe, to be kept far from the reach of Joffrey's cruelty, and in that sense, Tyrion had been the best choice. He wasn't the kind of man who would ever hurt her, not like others might have. But safety wasn't the same as happiness. And though Roslin believed Tyrion was a good man, kind and patient, she feared that Sansa was merely surviving, not living.

As she approached Sansa's door, Roslin felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. Would Sansa even want to see her? Lately, her visits had been met with cool indifference, as though Sansa was building walls not just between herself and her circumstances but also between herself and the people who cared for her. Roslin wondered if her own concern had inadvertently become suffocating, if Sansa felt that the protection offered by Tyrion and her family was just another cage. She knocked softly on the door, waiting for an answer that didn't immediately come.

After a long pause, the door creaked open, revealing one of Sansa's handmaidens. She gave Roslin a polite nod, ushering her inside. The chamber was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Roslin's eyes scanned the room until they landed on Sansa, seated by the window, staring out at the distant horizon with a distant, wistful expression.

"Sansa?" Roslin called softly, stepping forward.

Sansa turned at the sound of her voice, but the smile that graced her lips didn't reach her eyes. "Roslin," she said, her voice quiet, almost fragile. "It's good to see you."

Roslin moved closer, her heart aching at the sight of her sister-in-law. "I've missed you," she admitted. "I feel like it's been ages since we've had a proper talk."

Sansa glanced down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "I've just been... busy," she said, though the words sounded hollow. She gestured vaguely to the room, as if her entire world had been reduced to these four walls. "Tyrion keeps me occupied."

Roslin's brow furrowed with concern. "He means well," she said, her voice gentle. "He cares about you, Sansa. He wants to make sure you're safe, that you never feel alone."

"I know," Sansa replied, her tone polite but distant. "He's kind. And he's been good to me, truly." But there was a pause, a hesitation in her voice that didn't go unnoticed.

Roslin pulled a chair closer and sat beside her. "But?"

Sansa's shoulders sagged slightly, and she let out a small, resigned sigh. "It's not Tyrion," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It's me. I don't know how to be... happy. Not anymore. I feel like I've forgotten what it's supposed to feel like."

Roslin's heart broke at the confession, but she kept her composure, reaching out to take Sansa's hand in hers. "Sansa, you've been through so much," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "No one expects you to be happy right away. It's going to take time to heal from everything that's happened. But you will heal. I know it feels impossible now, but you're stronger than you realize."

Sansa gave a small nod, though her gaze remained fixed on the window. "I just don't know who I am anymore," she confessed. "I used to dream of things like this—being married, having a home, a husband who treats me well. But now... everything feels so far away. Like I'm living someone else's life."

Roslin squeezed her hand gently. "You're not alone in this, Sansa," she reminded her. "You have Tyrion, and you have me. We're here for you, and we'll help you find your way, even if it takes time."

Sansa's eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she blinked them away quickly. "I want to believe that," she said softly. "I really do."

Roslin smiled warmly, though the ache in her heart remained. "One step at a time," she whispered. "We'll get there, I promise."

Sansa nodded again, her hand tightening slightly around Roslin's as if drawing strength from the small gesture. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with quiet gratitude.

Roslin stood and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead, "You're not lost, Sansa. You're just finding your way back."

"I just haven't felt like myself since…" Sansa began, her voice trailing off as she glanced toward the window, her words heavy with unspoken pain. "And I don't know if it's everything that's happened, but I've been so sick lately. Weak, tired all the time…" She paused, rubbing her temples as though trying to ease an ache that had become all too familiar. "Tyrion's been kind," she added softly, "he's brought me things from the maesters—herbs, tinctures, remedies—but nothing seems to help."

Roslin's heart clenched as she listened, watching the exhaustion and uncertainty etched into Sansa's features. Her skin had taken on a paler hue than usual, and there were faint shadows beneath her eyes—signs of sleepless nights and unrelenting worry. She reached out instinctively, placing a comforting hand on Sansa's arm. "How long have you been feeling this way?" Roslin asked gently, concern evident in her tone.

Sansa sighed and leaned back in her chair, her hands resting on her lap, fidgeting with the fabric of her gown. "It's been a while now... A few weeks, maybe longer. At first, I thought it was just the stress of everything—Joffrey, the wedding, the fear of what would come next. But the sickness… it hasn't gone away."

Roslin studied her closely, noticing for the first time the subtle changes in her posture, the weariness in her eyes. "What kind of sickness?" she asked, her brow furrowing as she considered the possibilities.

"It's hard to explain," Sansa replied, shaking her head slightly. "Some mornings, I can barely rise from bed without feeling faint. My stomach turns at the sight of food, but I feel weak if I don't eat. And the smells…" She grimaced. "I can hardly stand certain scents anymore. Even the perfume Tyrion had made for me makes me nauseous."

Roslin's concern deepened, and a thought began to form at the back of her mind, though she hesitated to give voice to it just yet. "Have you spoken to Tyrion about this?" she asked, trying to sound neutral, though she could feel the weight of her suspicion growing.

Sansa nodded, though her expression was one of frustration. "I have, but he's just as worried as I am. But it feels like more than that, Roslin. I can't shake this feeling that something is... wrong."

Roslin's mind was racing now, piecing together Sansa's symptoms, the timeline of events, and the possibilities that lay before them. She could see the fear in Sansa's eyes, the uncertainty of what might come next. Gently, she reached out and took Sansa's hand, holding it between her own as she spoke carefully, choosing her words with caution.

"Sansa," she began softly, "it's possible… that there's another reason you've been feeling this way."

Sansa looked at her, confusion crossing her face. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Roslin hesitated, but she knew she couldn't leave Sansa in the dark. Not now. "The symptoms you're describing—the nausea, the weakness, the changes in appetite and smell sensitivity… It sounds like something I've experienced myself." She glanced down at her own rounded belly, where the signs of her own pregnancy were now unmistakable. "It sounds like you might be with child."

Sansa's eyes widened in shock, her lips parting in disbelief. "With… child?" she repeated, as though the words were foreign to her.

Roslin nodded slowly, her hand still holding Sansa's as she spoke. "It's only a possibility, of course. But if it's true, it could explain why you've been feeling so unwell. It wouldn't be the stress or the exhaustion—it would be the baby."

Sansa sat back in her chair, her mind reeling from the revelation. "A baby?" she whispered, her voice shaking. "But… Tyrion and I… we haven't…" She stopped, her breath catching in her throat as the truth began to sink in. She looked up at Roslin, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. "It's not possible," she whispered again, though her expression suggested she already knew the answer.

Roslin's heart sank as she watched Sansa's realization unfold. The truth of her past, of what Joffrey had done, hung like a heavy cloud over them both. Roslin squeezed Sansa's hand gently, her voice filled with compassion. "Sansa… there are ways to know for certain. The maesters could examine you, give you answers. But if what I'm thinking is true…" Her words trailed off, unable to complete the sentence, but the implication was clear.

Sansa's eyes filled with tears as she looked away, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. "What do I do, Roslin?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "If it's true... If I'm carrying his child..."

Roslin moved closer, wrapping her arms around Sansa in a gentle embrace. "You don't have to face this alone," she whispered, her voice fierce despite the tenderness of the moment. "We'll figure it out. Whatever happens, we'll protect you. I promise."

Sansa leaned into Roslin's embrace, her tears spilling freely now as the enormity of the situation weighed down on her. "I thought I had escaped him," she whispered, her voice broken. "I thought it was over."

Roslin held her tighter, her heart aching for the girl who had been through so much, who had suffered at the hands of cruel men and yet remained standing. "It's not over," Roslin said softly, "but it will be. We'll make sure of it."

Sansa remained in Roslin's embrace, her breathing slowly evening out as the tears subsided. The weight of what Roslin had suggested clung to her like a heavy shroud, but she was grateful not to face it alone. After a long moment, she pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Sansa nodded weakly, though the fear in her eyes remained. She stood from her chair and walked toward the window, staring out into the distance as if searching for answers beyond the walls of the Red Keep. "If… if I am…," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "what do I do, Roslin? What will people say? What will Tyrion think?"

The mere thought of it seemed to overwhelm her, and she clutched the edge of the windowsill as if steadying herself against the tidal wave of emotions.

Roslin stood and walked over to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Tyrion is a good man," she said, her voice firm but filled with compassion. "He won't abandon you. If you're with child, he will protect you—and the baby. He knows what Joffrey did. He's not blind to the cruelty you've suffered."

Sansa turned toward her, eyes wide and uncertain. "But what if he doesn't want a child that's… Joffrey's?" she asked, her voice cracking with anxiety. "What if it's too much for him?"

"I've seen the way he looks at you, Sansa. He cares for you more than you realize. And if this is Joffrey's child… he'll find a way to make peace with it. He'll see it as another chance to protect you, to give you the safety you deserve." She said softly

Sansa let out a shaky breath, trying to absorb the weight of Roslin's words. She nodded slowly, though her gaze remained distant, filled with worry and doubt. "What if the maesters confirm it?" she asked, her voice small and fearful. "What if I really am with child?"

Roslin considered her response carefully, knowing how delicate the situation was. "Then we take it one step at a time," she said softly. "We'll keep it quiet for as long as we can. Tyrion will know how to handle things, and Robb will do whatever he can to protect you. We'll decide what's best for you and the child when the time comes."

Sansa's breath hitched at the word "child," as though the reality of it had finally sunk in. "A child," she whispered, almost to herself. "Joffrey's child."

Roslin stepped in front of her, forcing Sansa to meet her eyes. "It won't matter whose blood is in that child," she said firmly. "If it comes to that, it'll be yours, and you'll have the choice to raise it with love and care. You'll be the one who shapes its future, not Joffrey."

Sansa's eyes glistened with unshed tears, but there was a flicker of something else in them now—a faint glimmer of resolve. She nodded, though the weight of what lay ahead still hung heavily on her shoulders. "Thank you, Roslin," she whispered. "For staying with me. For helping me."

Roslin smiled gently and took Sansa's hands in her own. "Always," she replied. "You're family. And family doesn't abandon each other."

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and both women turned toward the door. A quiet knock followed, and the door creaked open to reveal Tyrion standing in the threshold, his expression one of concern.

"Sansa," he said softly, stepping inside. "Roslin." He gave a polite nod in her direction, then turned his full attention back to his wife. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sansa swallowed hard and forced a small smile. "A little," she lied, though her voice trembled. She looked to Roslin for strength, and Roslin gave her a reassuring nod.

Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing something was amiss, but he didn't press the matter. "If you need anything," he said gently, "just say the word. I'll send for the maester if you think it'll help."

Sansa shook her head, her voice still shaky. "No," she said softly. "Not right now."

Tyrion glanced between the two women, sensing the tension in the room but respecting their privacy. "Very well," he said quietly, "I'll be in the study if you need me." With that, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Once he was gone, Sansa let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She looked back at Roslin, her expression still filled with uncertainty but laced with a newfound determination. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough," she said, her voice wavering but steady.

Roslin gave her a warm, encouraging smile. "We'll face whatever comes together, Sansa. You're not alone in this."

And with that, the two women stood in silence, preparing themselves for whatever the future would bring.