Robb V

It was late in the evening as Robb sat in his chambers, the fire burning low in the hearth, casting shadows across the room. He had been alone since Cersei's visit as Roslin had spent the day with Sansa whilst he dealt with the more pressing matters.

The door opened quietly, and Roslin stepped inside. Her face, pale and drawn with concern, lit up when she saw him, though there was an unease in her eyes. She crossed the room, her footsteps soft against the stone floor, and stood before him.

"Robb?" she asked, her voice tentative. "I heard the Queen visited you. Is everything alright?"

He looked up at her, feeling the weight of what he had to tell her. "Come here," he said softly, reaching out to her. Roslin hesitated for a moment, sensing the gravity in his voice, before moving to sit beside him. He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a familiar, comforting gesture, but his expression was distant.

"The Queen came to discuss... certain terms," Robb began, struggling to find the right words. "Joffrey has agreed to pardon my father."

Roslin's eyes widened in surprise, hope flickering briefly across her face. "Truly? Your father… he'll be free?"

Robb nodded, but the hesitation in his expression stopped her short from celebrating. "What's wrong?"

"There are conditions," he said, his voice low and measured. "My father will be allowed to return to Winterfell, but only after he swears fealty to Joffrey, denounces Renly and Stannis, and relinquishes his title as Lord of the North. He'll be stripped of all power—just a man in his keep."

Roslin sat in stunned silence, her eyes searching his for more. "But… but that's better than—"

"Yes," Robb cut her off, his voice harsher than he intended. He took a breath, softening his tone. "Yes, it's better than losing him altogether."

"The Queen wants me to swear allegiance to Joffrey," Robb continued, the bitterness of the words sharp in his mouth. "I'll take my father's place as Lord of Winterfell and the North."

Roslin reached for his face, her touch soft and reassuring. "He's your father, Robb," she whispered, her voice soothing. "He'll understand."

"But to take his place… but I don't see any other way, Roslin," Robb admitted quietly. "I can't risk my father's life any longer."

She nodded slowly, her eyes reflecting the gravity of the decision. "If it keeps your father alive… then perhaps it's the right choice."

Robb's jaw tightened, his hand gripping hers more firmly. "There's more. Cersei… she has denied my request to bring Sansa home and you must stay with her in King's Landing."

Roslin's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. "What? No—"

"She believes you should stay here with Sansa, to mentor her," Robb interrupted, his frustration building. "To keep you safe from the dangers of war, or so she says."

Roslin shook her head, her voice trembling with rising panic. "But, Robb, you know that isn't true. The King has taken an interest in me, and I fear what he might do if you're not here to protect me."

"I know," Robb said quietly, his voice strained with the weight of the situation. His eyes locked onto hers, steady but filled with regret. "But Cersei's painted a different picture—one of the dangers you'd face if you came with me. The war, the soldiers... She's manipulating us, I know that, but…"

"But you're considering it," Roslin whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief and hurt.

Robb stood, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "What choice do I have? You've seen the kind of games they play here, how dangerous it is. I don't want to leave you here, but how can I take you to a battlefield? If something happens to you—"

"And what if something happens to me here?" Roslin snapped, rising to her feet. "I'd rather face the dangers by your side than be trapped in this den of snakes!"

He turned to her, his eyes pained. "I know you're frightened, but think about what Cersei said. Joffrey… He has his eyes on you. If he wants to hurt me, he'll do it through you. He'll use you to control me. I can't protect you if we're fighting battles across the realm."

Roslin stepped closer to him, her voice trembling with emotion. "And I can't protect you if I'm locked away here. Robb, I don't want to be a pawn in their games. If you leave me here, who knows what they'll do? What Joffrey will do?"

Robb clenched his fists, torn between his duty to keep her safe and his deep fear of what could happen in King's Landing. He looked down at her, feeling the weight of her plea pressing on his heart.

"I don't know what to do," Robb admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his uncertainty. "I don't know how to keep you safe."

Roslin turned back to him, her emotions swirling between fear and anger, though she was fighting to remain calm. "Robb," she began, her voice steady but tense. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to stay calm." She hesitated, the words caught in her throat. "This morning, when I woke, I felt suddenly sick, and then…" Her voice faltered, apprehension tightening her features. "In the city, the dressmaker asked if I knew that…"

"Knew what?" Robb interrupted, startled by her sudden change in demeanor. He quickly rose from his chair and joined her at the window, where she now stood, her back tense with worry.

"If I knew that I was with child," Roslin finally whispered, her voice fragile, as though speaking the words made them more real. "She said she's seen enough ladies in the early stages to tell." She searched his face, desperately seeking a reaction, any reaction.

Robb stood frozen, the weight of her words crashing over him like a tidal wave. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn't find his voice. The thought of Roslin carrying their child—their future—amidst the chaos and uncertainty of war shook him to his core.

He reached out, cupping her face gently in his hands, his thumb brushing her cheek as if to ground himself in the reality of the moment. "You're sure?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a mixture of awe and fear.

Roslin nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. "That's what she said, and I… I feel it. I didn't want to believe it at first, but…this afternoon I went to the maester, he says it has only been a moon but it's true."

Robb exhaled sharply, his thoughts spinning. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her protectively as if shielding her from the world outside. The room felt too small, the fire too dim for the enormity of what they now faced. "Our child," he murmured, the words filled with both wonder and dread.

Roslin's hands clung to him, the weight of their reality pressing down on her. "What are we going to do, Robb? Joffrey won't hurt me whilst I carry the heir to the North at least not physically but mentally…"

"I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Roslin pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, her brow furrowed. "Joffrey… he won't stop. He enjoys tormenting people—especially those he knows it will hurt, it isn't about me… he wants to hurt you." Her voice trembled with the weight of her fears.

Robb took her hands in his, his grip firm but gentle. "I'll swear allegiance to him because I have to, but I swear to you I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. You, and our child." His gaze softened, though the weight of responsibility etched deep lines of worry into his face. "I never thought… not now, not like this. But we'll make this work." He said as he gently touch her belly.

Roslin nodded slowly, though uncertainty still clouded her expression. "I'll stay here. I trust you, Robb. I always have." She leaned into his chest, her fear momentarily eased by his warmth. "But promise me… promise me you'll be careful, promise you'll come back to me."

He kissed the top of her head, resting his chin against her hair as he tightened his hold on her. "I swear it. I will come back to you and we will go home, all 3 of us." His voice was resolute, though inside, the storm of doubt and fear still churned.

In the dead of night, a sudden, urgent pounding on the chamber door jolted Robb from a restless sleep. He had struggled for hours to find any rest, Joffrey had delayed his father's release to the following morning. Every shadow seemed to whisper of betrayal, every creak in the floorboards a reminder of the dangers lurking just beyond the door.

Beside him, Roslin stirred but remained nestled in the thin covers, her breathing deep and steady, though he knew the constant stress had weighed heavily on her. She had always been a deeper sleeper than him, but even now, in the safety of their room, her brow creased slightly, as if she too could sense the trouble stirring in the darkness.

The banging continued, insistent and unyielding, echoing through the silent corridors like an ominous drumbeat. Robb swung his legs out of the bed, the cold stone floor biting at his feet. He grabbed a old shirt and held it against his naked body, obsecuring his member and moved toward the door, every step cautious, every muscle tensed.

The room was lit only by the dying wicks of candles that had been lit long ago. Robb glanced back at Roslin, her dark hair spilling over the pillows, and for a moment, his heart tightened. He would protect her at all costs—but in a place like this, even protection felt like a fragile thing.

As he reached the heavy wooden door, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the iron latch. His breath came slow and measured, his senses sharp, alert to any sound or sign of danger. He knew that a summons in the middle of the night could only mean one thing—trouble.

"Lord Stark," came a low, hurried voice from the doorway, barely more than a whisper in the stillness. "The King has summoned you."

Robb moved swiftly, pulling on his clothes with deliberate haste, his movements tense. His mind raced ahead, already preparing for what awaited him.

As he pulled on his boots, Roslin stirred beside him, her sleep-addled confusion quickly giving way to alarm. She sat up, her hair spilling across her shoulders, eyes wide with concern as she tried to piece together what was happening.

"Robb, will you please talk to me?" she asked, her voice thick with worry as she climbed out of bed. "What's going on?"

"Joffrey wants to see me," Robb answered, his tone sharp, his mind clearly preoccupied. The tension in his voice spoke of more than mere annoyance; there was an edge of fear, panic creeping in around the edges. He paused, softening slightly as he turned to face her. "I'm sorry, my love, but I have to go."

Roslin didn't hesitate. She crossed the room in a few swift steps, pulling a dark grey nightdress from the wardrobe and fastening it around herself with determined grace. "Then I'm coming with you," she declared, her voice steady and resolute.

"Roslin, please—" Robb began, reaching for her arm, his expression strained.

"No, Robb," she cut him off, her tone firm as iron. "I am your wife, and tomorrow I will be the Lady of Winterfell. I will not sit idly by and wait for you, not this time."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them heavy in the air. Robb's jaw tightened, torn between his need to protect her and the unyielding force of her will. He knew she was right, though the thought of exposing her to the dangers that lurked in Joffrey's presence made his chest tighten with dread.

"Very well," he finally relented, his voice quieter now. "But stay close."

They moved swiftly through the silent corridors of the Keep, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The bustling activity of the previous day had vanished, leaving the halls eerily quiet, save for the occasional whisper of their own movements. The silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the distant creak of ancient timbers and the muted flicker of torchlight dancing on the walls.

As they approached the Great Hall, Joffrey sat upon the iron throne, his posture rigid and uneasy. Unlike his earlier relaxed demeanor, he now appeared restless, his arm propped against his knee as he bounced his legs with a rapid, jittery rhythm. His attire was similar to Robb's but more elaborate, adorned with a heavy red velvet overcoat that gleamed in the torchlight.

Standing beside him, Cersei loomed like a storm cloud. Her usually intricate hairstyle had been replaced by a single, thick braid that cascaded down her shoulder. Her sharp gaze cut through the dim light, burning with an intensity that was fixed unyieldingly on Roslin, her expression a mask of disdain.

Finally, between two stern members of the Kingsguard stood a young boy. His appearance starkly contrasted with the opulence of the throne room; he was slight, no older than ten, and bore the threadbare clothes of Flea Bottom. His face, although cover in dirt, was pale and his eyes remained firmly fixed on the ground, his small frame trembling slightly as the guards held him upright.

"Stark!" Joffrey's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Though it was meant as a greeting, it felt more like an accusation. His gaze was fixed on Robb with a steely intensity, his expression betraying no hint of welcome. With a dismissive flick of his eyes, he shifted his attention to the woman standing beside Robb. "Lady Roslin," he said, his tone softening ever so slightly, accompanied by a smirk that curled at the corners of his lips.

"Your Grace," Robb responded evenly, his voice smooth as he sought to deflect Joffrey away from his wife. He took a step forward, his posture straight and composed. "What seems to be the matter at this late hour?"

Joffrey rose abruptly from his throne, his movements sharp and agitated. He pointed a trembling finger toward the center of the room, where the young child stood, a look of indignation etched on his face. "This boy was caught causing trouble outside the Keep's gates and—"

"I've told you, I'm not a boy! I'm a girl!" The child's voice, high and defiant, cut through Joffrey's tirade. The child spun around, their head snapping back with a fierce glare. It took Robb only a heartbeat to recognise the child's face beneath the grime and disheveled hair—Arya, his sister, standing there in the dim light, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and desperation. The realisation hit him like a cold wave, the gravity of the situation suddenly clearer.

Robb's heart pounded as he took in the sight of Arya, her small frame standing defiantly in the middle of the grand hall. His mind raced, grappling with the shock of seeing her here, in such a vulnerable state. He took a step forward, his eyes locking with Arya's, conveying a mix of surprise, concern, and relief.

"Your Grace," Robb began, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of tension, "if I may speak candidly, I was under the impression that Arya had been confined to her rooms following my father's arrest. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but she does not appear to have been residing within the Keep for the near 2 moons since his arrest was made."

Before Joffrey could respond, Cersei interjected with a sharpness that cut through the conversation like a blade. "After your father's arrest, this girl escaped from the Kingsguard and committed the heinous act of killing an innocent boy while fleeing the Keep," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "We have been scouring the city for her tirelessly, day and night. So forgive us if we've woven a few tales to maintain some semblance of peace with you and Sansa."

Joffrey's face twisted into a scowl. "This child," he spat, clearly frustrated by Arya's defiance, "was caught disrupting the peace. She's a murderer and will face punishment"

Arya's gaze was unwavering as she met Joffrey's eyes, her small frame quivering slightly but her resolve unshaken. "I was only trying to get food for myself," she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of defiance and fear. "I didn't mean any harm."

Cersei, standing to Joffrey's side, watched with an unreadable expression. Her eyes flickered briefly to Robb, then back to Arya, a flicker of cold calculation in her gaze.

Robb took another step forward, his face set in grim determination. "Your Grace, Arya is under my protection. I ask that you release her to me. Whatever trouble she has caused, I will take responsibility."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed, clearly displeased by the interference. "You think to dictate terms in my court, Stark?" he said, his voice laced with scorn. "This child has no place here. Why should I grant you any leniency?"

Robb fixed Joffrey with a steely gaze, his jaw clenched in resolve. "She is a child, Your Grace. You have taken from her everyone she has ever known and and killed people she cared for in front of her. What did you expect her to do?"

A heavy silence settled over the room. Joffrey's expression grew even colder, but Robb's unwavering stance seemed to give him pause. "Arya is a strong-willed child, at the best of times but placing any child in such a dire situation and expecting a positive reaction is unjust. Tell me, Your Grace, how would your own sister have responded under similar circumstances?"

"Do not speak of Myrcella," Cersei snapped, her voice laced with venom.

Robb inclined his head respectfully. "I apologise, Your Grace. It was not my intention to cause offense. What I am suggesting is that nearly four weeks of living on the streets of Flea Bottom should be punishment enough for any highborn lady. We should be grateful that Arya has shown the fortitude to survive in such harsh conditions. She should return to Winterfell with my mother and father as planned and take this opportunity to understand how grateful she should be to still be alive to tell the tale."

Joffrey's face remained stern, though he seemed to wrestle with the decision. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Very well. I will permit her release into your custody. However, do not mistake this as the end of the matter. Should she cause any further trouble, either here or at Winterfell, it will be on your head, Stark."

Robb nodded, struggling to conceal his relief. Joffrey rose abruptly and swept past Robb, pausing just long enough to press a fleeting kiss to Roslin's hand. Cersei followed closely, her robes rustling as she exited. As the Kingsguard released Arya, she crumpled to the floor, her gaze fixed on the cold stone as she struggled to regain her footing. Once Joffrey and Cersei had departed, leaving a palpable silence in their wake, the Starks were left alone in the dimly lit hall.

Robb turned to Arya, his face softening with concern. He stepped closer, his voice gentle and filled with worry. "Are you alright, Arya?" he asked, his eyes searching her face for any sign of distress.

Arya nodded, her eyes still wary but a flicker of gratitude shining through. "I'm fine. Just hungry and cold."

Without another word, Robb took Arya's hand gently, guiding her towards Roslin, who stood silently beside him, her face a mask of concern and support. The weight of the night's events hung heavy on them all as they began to leave the hall, the oppressive silence of the hall closing in on them.