Roslin XV
The revelry continued deep into the night, the tension of earlier events dissolving into the sea of laughter and music. As the wine flowed freely, the memory of Tyrion and Joffrey's tense exchange faded from the minds of the guests, replaced by the endless stream of toasts and festivities. Roslin sat beside Robb, observing him in rare moments of ease. He was smiling, though still bearing the quiet weight of responsibility. The knowledge that they would be leaving for Winterfell in just two days seemed to lift the burden from his shoulders, each passing hour bringing them closer to the peace and safety of home.
The feast was a whirlwind of indulgence—lords and ladies lost in drink, laughter, and whispered conversations. Roslin smiled politely when required, but her eyes darted around, keenly observing. She saw how the guests, already well into their cups, grew less aware of their surroundings, especially the men of the Kingsguard. They were supposed to be the realm's elite protectors, yet she watched as even they indulged, their vigilance dulled by the fourth, then the fifth cup of wine.
Margaery, for her part, had excused herself from the table, retreating to her chambers with her handmaidens in preparation for the night's bedding ceremony. Unlike the traditional, bawdy spectacle that often accompanied royal weddings, the King and Queen had decided to hold their ceremony in private. The announcement had been met with murmurs of understanding from the crowd, though some disappointed glances were exchanged among those who had anticipated a grander affair.
Roslin's thoughts wandered as she watched the guests succumb to their drunken merriment. Her hand absently drifted to her belly, where her unborn child rested, growing stronger with each passing day. Robb, next to her, rested a gentle hand over hers, their silent exchange speaking volumes. Soon, they would be away from the politics and dangers of King's Landing, back in Winterfell, where a Stark should be born.
But as Roslin gazed around the hall, her mind was elsewhere. Joffrey, now too drunk to notice the stares, lounged at the high table, throwing careless commands to his servants and occasionally barking out laughter. His face was flushed, and his attention wandered aimlessly as he tore apart a hunk of meat.
The revelry had died down significantly as the night wore on. Most of the royal family had excused themselves hours ago, retreating to their private chambers. It was only a matter of time before Joffrey followed suit, and when he finally did, he left with just a single guard at his side, while the remaining lords and ladies were far too intoxicated to notice his departure.
Roslin sat quietly at the table, absorbing the dwindling festivities around her. She felt the weight of the atmosphere shift as she took a moment to compose herself, the laughter of the remaining guests fading into a dull background hum. After a short while, she too excused herself, though Robb insisted on coming with her. His brow furrowed in concern, but the wine had clearly muddled his thoughts, and he was too inebriated to protest when she gently urged him to stay.
"Stay, Robb," she said softly, brushing his arm as she stood. "You need to enjoy yourself before the journey to Winterfell. I'll be fine."
He nodded, his eyes glassy, and she left him behind, the sound of his laughter following her as she walked through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep. The torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced eerily in the corners. She passed several lords, far too drunk to even notice her presence, their raucous laughter echoing against the cold stone.
After wandering for a while, she came upon a member of the Kingsguard, swaying unsteadily, his hand gripping the wall for support.
"Hello, ser," she said, forcing a friendly smile despite the tension coiling in her stomach. "Lord Tywin has asked if you could collect Ser Swann from where he is stationed outside the King's chambers. The King wishes to be alone with his Queen."
The knight squinted at her, clearly struggling to comprehend her request. "Leave the king alone?" he slurred, shaking his head slightly as if trying to dispel the fog in his mind.
"Yes," she replied, her tone smooth and steady, "Lord Tywin insisted. It is important."
After a brief moment of hesitation, he grumbled his acquiescence, turning to stumble down the corridor in search of Ser Swann. Roslin watched him go, her heart pounding as she waited. The hall grew quiet, the sounds of celebration fading into whispers of silence.
Once she was sure no one remained nearby, she made her way to the King's chambers, her breath hitching as she lingered just around the corner. She leaned against the cold stone wall, listening intently for any signs of movement from within. The silence was heavy, thick with anticipation.
Gathering her courage, she stepped forward and knocked lightly at the door, her heart racing with each passing second.
"Your grace?" Roslin called softly as she pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the dimly lit chamber. The air was thick with the scent of spilled wine and the remnants of the evening's festivities.
"Roslin?" Joffrey questioned, his voice a mix of surprise and irritation. He sat on the edge of the lavish bed, his bare chest exposed, the fabric of his wedding outfit discarded carelessly on the floor. The golden threads of his attire shimmered dimly in the candlelight, and she couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between his regal garb and the more casual, disheveled state he now found himself in.
Roslin felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach, but she steadied herself, stepping further into the room. This was the King, the man who held so much sway over the lives of many, and yet here he was, stripped of the trappings of his title, left with only his arrogance and volatile spirit.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Shouldn't you be at the feast, celebrating my union?"
"I… I wanted to see you alone, your grace," she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. "There's something important I need to discuss."
"Important?" Joffrey raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across his face. "What could possibly be so vital that it couldn't wait until morning? You've disrupted my evening."
Roslin took a step closer, trying to gauge his mood. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the contemptuous glint in his eyes.
"I wanted to apologise, your grace," Roslin began, her voice trembling slightly as she fought to keep her composure. "I miss our friendship and what we could have been."
"Well, it didn't seem that way when you allowed my uncle to humiliate me," Joffrey snapped, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, the tension between them thickening like a storm cloud. "I wanted you, Roslin, and I know you wanted me too. But as soon as my uncle arrived, you played the victim."
"I know I did, your grace," Roslin confessed, her voice trembling with a mix of vulnerability and desperation. "I wanted you so badly, more than I ever wanted Robb. But then your uncle arrived, and…he would have told Robb, so I had to lie. But I still want you."
Joffrey's brow arched, a mixture of skepticism and intrigue flaring in his eyes. "Is that so?" he asked, leaning slightly forward as if drawn in by the boldness of her admission.
"Yes, your grace," she replied, gathering her courage. "If you can keep me in the capital until my baby is born, you can send Robb back to Winterfell with the child. He'll have his heir, and he won't need me anymore. Then you can have me—just like you wanted. I'll be your official mistress, and you can have me any time you desire."
Her words hung in the air, a fragile proposition laden with implications. Joffrey studied her, his expression shifting from disbelief to contemplation. "You would do that for me?" he asked, his voice low and almost incredulous.
"Yes," Roslin affirmed, "I would do anything to be with you. I've watched you from the sidelines, seen how powerful you can be. If you need me to play the part of a devoted mistress, I can do that. Just promise me that you'll keep me here, near you. I don't want to go back to Winterfell, not yet. Not while there's a chance for us."
Joffrey stepped closer, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. "And what of Robb? You think he'll just accept this arrangement? That he'll be content to leave you behind?"
"Robb cares for me, yes, but he also knows duty. He understands the importance of legacy. If he has his heir, he will focus on his responsibilities in Winterfell. I know he will." Roslin added, her voice softening.
"And what if he finds out about us?" Joffrey asked, his voice now a low growl. "What if he comes to claim you back?"
"I don't care. Robb is weak, you are strong," Roslin said firmly, her heart racing at the thought of potential conflict. "I promise you, my loyalty will be to you. I want to be by your side, your true companion. We could create something powerful together, something that could last beyond this war."
Joffrey's gaze darkened, weighing her words against the shifting tides of his ambition. "A mistress, you say? You would be at my beck and call, to do with as I please?"
"Only if you want me to be," Roslin replied, her heart pounding. "I am willing to embrace whatever role you need me to play. I can help you. I can be your ally in the court, someone who understands the politics of this place, someone who genuinely wants you to succeed."
Joffrey's lips twisted into a smirk, a mixture of amusement and intrigue playing in his eyes. "You're a clever girl, Roslin. But cleverness can also be a curse. I'll have you in my chambers, but know this: if you betray me, I will not show mercy. You'll have your place as my mistress, but I expect loyalty above all else."
"I swear it," she vowed, meeting his gaze with fierce determination. "I will be loyal to you, your grace. You have my word."
"Then let it be so," Joffrey replied, a hint of satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth, his voice almost a purr of triumph. "Now go. Margaery will be here before long, and she can't know about us yet."
Roslin hesitated, a playful glimmer in her eye as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Do you not want me first, your grace? We can wait to truly consummate our union until after the baby is born, when I can look the way you want me to. But that doesn't mean we can't do other things first. I could touch you, wherever you wanted…"
Joffrey's eyes darkened, filled with a hunger that sent a shiver down her spine. "Gods, I want you so badly. It's always been you, Roslin." He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them, his urgency palpable. "I tried to move on. I really did, but Margaery is so easy to manipulate, and Sansa…well, it wasn't fun anymore once I'd had her."
The words twisted in her stomach like a dagger. Hearing him speak so callously about those he had once pursued stung, but she knew she had to keep him captivated. If she faltered now, she could lose everything. She fought to maintain her composure, reminding herself that this was part of the game she was playing.
"Your grace," Roslin began, her voice soft yet insistent, "you have me here now. You can have me however you wish. Let's not waste this moment. I want to please you, to remind you of what you desire."
Joffrey stepped closer, their breaths mingling as he regarded her with an intensity that made her heart race. "Then show me," he urged, his voice low and filled with desire.
Before she could respond, Joffrey closed the gap, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both quick and passionate. But just as quickly, he pulled back, his breath heavy and his expression conflicted. "If Margaery finds out…," he warned, running a hand through his tousled hair, his gaze shifting nervously toward the door.
Roslin smiled, a mix of mischief and assurance lighting her features. "Then let us be swift and clever," she murmured, brushing her fingers against his chest, teasingly. "You have me, your grace. Let me show you how devoted I can be."
Joffrey quickly turned away, pulling off the remainder of his wedding attire in a flurry of motion, casting aside the remnants of the royal celebration. As he sat on the edge of the bed, the tension in the air thickened, and he beckoned her over with an insistent gesture. Roslin felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with trepidation as she approached, her heart pounding in her chest.
She stood over him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. Leaning down just enough to be tantalizingly close, she hovered near his mouth, teasing him with a kiss that never quite materialized. Joffrey's frustration was palpable; he leaned in, eager for the contact that she withheld.
"Do you want to know something, your grace?" she said, her voice light and laced with mischief.
"Of course, I do," Joffrey replied, his eyes narrowing with anticipation, trying to close the distance between them for another kiss. "Tell me."
She drew back slightly, allowing the silence to hang between them, then unleashed her words. "I've always fucking hated you."
The impact of her declaration hung in the air, sharp and electric, igniting a tension that crackled between them. Joffrey's expression shifted from eager anticipation to sheer shock, the confident smile fading from his face like a shadow under a cloud. For a moment, he stood frozen, at a loss for words, his narrowed eyes wide with disbelief as he struggled to comprehend the audacity of her words.
"Y-you can't possibly mean that," he stammered, the edge of his voice betraying the growing sense of panic that lurked beneath his bravado.
But before he could recover from his surprise, Roslin moved with a suddenness that took even him off guard. Her hand slipped into the folds of her gown, fingers deftly retrieving the dagger she had concealed in her sock—a small blade, expertly hidden and sharp enough to do the job. With a swift and practiced motion, she thrust it forward, driving the steel into Joffrey's chest.
His eyes widened in a mix of horror and betrayal, the realization of her intent crashing over him like a cold wave. The initial shock of the blade's intrusion was followed by an immediate, visceral pain that coursed through him, igniting his instincts. He staggered backward, clutching at the wound as blood seeped from his chest, warm and slick between his fingers.
"What… what have you done?" he gasped, the bravado he had worn like armor evaporating in an instant. His voice was strained, a blend of anger and disbelief, as he stumbled toward the bed, his strength rapidly waning. Joffrey's face twisted with fury and fear as he sank to his knees, the weight of his crown suddenly feeling like a noose tightening around his neck. "You'll pay for this!" he shouted, though the bravado in his voice faltered as he gasped for breath.
"Will I?" Roslin countered, her tone cool and calculating. "You're the one bleeding out on the floor, my lord. Your reign ends here, and I won't shed a single tear for you. No one will."
As he writhed in agony, the colour drained from his face, leaving him pale and ghostly. For a fleeting moment, Roslin caught a glimpse of the boy beneath the crown—the terrified child who had wielded his power with reckless abandon, convinced of his own invincibility. "I could have given you everything," he croaked, desperation lacing his voice as he struggled for breath.
"I could endure what you did to me," Roslin replied coldly, her gaze unwavering. "But what you did to Sansa? You're sick… you're a monster. No one will mourn you, Joffrey Baratheon."
With those final words, she turned on her heel, the dagger still glinting ominously in her hand, and fled the chamber. The echoes of his ragged breathing lingered in her ears, a haunting reminder of the power she had just stripped away. As she hurried through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep, her heart raced with a potent mix of adrenaline and fear, acutely aware that she had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Miraculously, she had avoided splattering his blood on her gown, but the crimson stain on her hands was a vivid reminder of what she had done. She needed to reach her chambers quickly.
Suddenly, the anguished scream of Margaery pierced the air, "No! My love, stay with me! Someone help the King! Guards, please!" The desperation in her voice sent a shiver down Roslin's spine, but she pressed on, determined to escape the chaos she had unleashed.
It became evident that returning to her room undetected would be impossible. In a moment of clarity, she realised she wasn't far from Tyrion and Sansa's chambers. Panic surged within her as she pounded on the door, striking it hard but not loud enough to draw undue attention. She knocked for what felt like an eternity, her heart pounding in her chest, until at last, Tyrion opened the door.
His expression shifted from surprise to distress as he took in the sight of her—blade glistening with blood covering her hands, eyes wide with urgency. "My lady, what have you done?" he whispered, ushering her into the room with a sense of urgency that belied his usually measured demeanor.
Roslin stepped inside, the gravity of her actions crashing down around her like a heavy cloak. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and she could sense that nothing would ever be the same again.