Roslin IX

A/N: Just a trigger warning for this one - threats of sexual assault and attempted sexual assault.

Roslin's wrists burned as Joffrey yanked her out of the Great Hall, his grip tight and unrelenting. His fingers dug cruelly into her skin, leaving her struggling to keep pace with his furious strides as he dragged her through the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep. The silence between them was suffocating—Joffrey hadn't spoken a word since they'd left the hall, but the tension radiating from him was palpable. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, and every hurried step felt like a countdown to something worse.

Behind them, a member of the Kingsguard followed at a distance, his face impassive beneath his helmet. Roslin knew better than to expect any protection from him. No knight of the Kingsguard would intervene on her behalf—not against the King. They were sworn to protect Joffrey, not his victims. The thought chilled her, sending a shiver down her spine as she glanced back briefly, only to see the silent guard watching them, as indifferent as a statue.

Her thoughts raced as they neared Joffrey's private chambers. She had seen this side of him before—the tempest of his anger—but never had it been so visceral, so consuming. The scene in the throne room had bruised his fragile ego, and now, Roslin feared she would be the target of his humiliation.

Joffrey burst through the doors, his fury barely contained, his hand still clamped around Roslin's wrist. With a rough, careless shove, he threw her into the room, causing her to stumble forward as the doors slammed shut behind them. The echo of wood crashing into place seemed to reverberate through the chamber, a final seal that left the Kingsguard on the other side, indifferent and distant. Now, it was just the two of them.

Roslin had been alone with Joffrey before, but never under such a cloud of rage, never with this edge of unpredictability that sent her heart racing in her chest. The air between them was thick with tension, so oppressive it felt as if the walls themselves had drawn closer. She could hear the rush of her own pulse in her ears, drowning out the sound of Joffrey's shallow, labored breathing.

There was a moment of unbearable silence. Joffrey's eyes bore into her, seething with unspoken fury, his lips curled in a sneer. Roslin stood frozen, trying to compose herself, though her mind raced with possibilities of what might come next. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and forced herself to break the silence, her voice trembling but steady.

"Your Grace—" Roslin began, her voice trembling just slightly as she tried to regain her composure, her mind racing to find the right words to defuse Joffrey's anger.

Before she could finish, Joffrey whipped around, eyes ablaze. "Don't you dare speak to me like one of them!" he snarled, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. His face twisted with barely-contained rage as he took a step toward her, his fists clenched at his sides. "You think I didn't see it? The way you stood there, letting him make a fool of me in front of my court? In front of you?"

Roslin took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm even as fear clawed at her insides. She had always known Joffrey was dangerous, his temper quick to flare, but this was different. The cold, calculating cruelty she'd grown used to was gone, replaced by something far more volatile.

"I didn't—" she started, but Joffrey cut her off with a sharp, mocking laugh.

"You didn't?" He stepped closer, looming over her now, his presence suffocating. "You stood there, just like the rest of them, while my uncle humiliated me! And you, the one person who should've defended me, who should've stopped him—you said nothing." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Nothing."

Roslin's mind raced as she tried to find the right words, anything that might calm him. "Your Grace, Tyrion's words mean nothing," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "He may hold the title of Hand, but you are the King. You're the one who holds the power, not him."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed, studying her, and for a moment, she thought she might have gotten through to him. But then he scoffed, shaking his head. "Do you think I'm stupid?" His voice cracked with frustration. "I know what they're saying behind my back, what they think of me. They don't fear me the way they feared my father. They mock me!"

Roslin took a hesitant step forward, lifting her hand to gently touch his face, but before she could, Joffrey slapped it away with a sharp, angry snarl.

"You'll never touch me like that again, not unless I say so," he spat, his face inches from hers now. His breath was hot against her skin, his eyes filled with a dangerous mixture of anger and something darker. "You think because you're his wife—that you're safe. But you're not, Roslin. You belong to me now."

The words hung in the air like a curse, and Roslin's blood ran cold. She took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. She had been playing a dangerous game, and now, it felt as if the pieces were slipping out of her control. Joffrey had always been cruel, always unpredictable, but this... this was different. His obsession had grown, twisted into something far more dangerous.

"Please, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice careful, pleading, as if she were trying to soothe a wild animal. "I only want to serve you, to be of aid in any way I can. But you must know—I am loyal to you."

Joffrey's sneer softened, just barely, but his eyes remained hard. He reached out suddenly, his hand gripping her chin, tilting her head up so that she was forced to look directly into his cold, unfeeling gaze. "Loyal?" he repeated, his voice a dangerous purr. "Then prove it."

Her heart skipped a beat, fear tightening her chest. "How?"

His smile returned, slow and menacing, as he took a step closer to her. "You know," he began, his voice dripping with an unsettling calmness, "I realised something today at court." His eyes gleamed with twisted amusement. "When I was talking to the Redwyne girl, it finally struck me why you're so fascinating to me."

He reached out and gently twirled a strand of her hair between his fingers, his touch a dangerous contrast to the tension building in the room. "Other girls are dull, predictable, eager to say what they think I want to hear, desperate to please. But you... you don't play their game, do you, Roslin?"

Roslin's heart quickened as she forced a smile, hoping to keep his temper at bay. "Of course not, Your Grace," she replied carefully, her voice steady though her nerves frayed. "We're friends. Why would I need to pretend with you?" She took a slow step back and then gracefully sat by the window, creating a safe distance between them. Every movement was calculated—calm but deliberate. Something was different about him. His demeanor was darker, his gaze more predatory, like a cat stalking its prey.

But Joffrey wasn't fooled by her attempt to deflect. His smile widened, his gaze unblinking as he followed her retreat. "Friends? No, Roslin, we're not friends," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "My father used to tell me I was strange—because by the time I reached four-and-ten, I still showed no interest in girls. And he was right. I had no interest." He came to stand beside her at the window, though his eyes remained fixed on the city below, not on her. The weight of his words hung in the air between them, thick with menace.

"I never understood it," Joffrey murmured, his voice soft but chilling, as though he was sharing some private revelation. "Why the idea of sex seemed to rule everyone. My father was obsessed with it, always boasting, always indulging." His lips twisted in disdain. "It baffled me. It disgusted me, really. And then... I met you, Roslin."

Roslin's blood ran cold, her entire body stiffening as his words settled over her like a noose tightening around her neck. She could feel where this was leading, the unspoken threat laced in every syllable. A primal instinct screamed at her to run, to put as much distance as she could between herself and Joffrey. But her legs wouldn't move. Fear rooted her to the spot, as if her body had betrayed her mind's most desperate command. It wasn't just that she knew she shouldn't run—there were guards outside, no escape, no sanctuary—it was that she physically couldn't. She was frozen, paralyzed by the aura of cruelty that emanated from him.

Joffrey turned his head slightly, his eyes dark and gleaming with a dangerous intensity as he studied her, as though she were some fascinating creature caught in his web. "It's all I can think about, touching you. Kissing you. Fucking you. You're not like the others," he continued, stepping closer. "You're not afraid to challenge me, not afraid to play your own game." He gave a low, almost amused chuckle. "And I think that's why I finally understand, why I want you so badly. You want me too."

He leaned in slightly, his breath hot against her skin, and Roslin could feel the tension building in the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, so loud she wondered if he could hear it. She felt the urge to scream, to fight, but she knew it would be futile. Here, in this room, in this castle, she was his prisoner in all but name.

Joffrey's fingers slid along her jaw, a touch that was soft yet filled with menace, like a predator toying with its prey. His thumb brushed against her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes locked, trapping her in his gaze. Roslin felt her pulse quicken, the air around them thick with an unspoken threat. She could feel the raw power he held over her, every ounce of his authority pressing down on her like a suffocating weight.

He leaned closer, so close she could feel the heat of his breath. His lips barely grazed hers as he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, "Get on the bed."

The words sent a jolt of terror through her, but she couldn't move, her body refusing to obey even as her mind screamed for her to run, to fight. Her stomach churned, and she fought back the bile rising in her throat. This wasn't a command; it was a statement of control, a reminder that no matter how carefully she had played her part in this twisted game, it was his game all along.

Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself to speak, her voice trembling. "Your Grace—" she began, trying to find some shred of her composure, some fragment of the mask she had worn for so long, but the words faltered under the intensity of his stare.

Roslin's heart hammered in her chest, but still she remained frozen, her feet rooted to the ground. Every fiber of her being resisted, but she knew, deep down, there was no one here to protect her. No one to stop him. The Kingsguard outside wouldn't dare defy him. Even if they heard her scream, they wouldn't intervene. Not against the King.

With a shaky breath, Roslin swallowed her pride, her honor, and the last pieces of her resistance. Slowly, she took a step back, her feet moving as though they belonged to someone else, her body numb. Her hands fumbled with the fabric of her gown as she turned toward the bed, each movement feeling like a slow march toward her doom. She could feel Joffrey's eyes on her, drinking in every second of her humiliation.

"I think about you every night, Roslin," Joffrey murmured, his voice laced with dark desire as she reluctantly laid back on the bed. He stood over her, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as he began to unfasten his doublet, his movements slow, deliberate. "How much you want me," he continued, his tone twisted with a sick sense of triumph.

Roslin's body tensed as he spoke, her mind racing, desperately trying to block out his words.

"Every night, after you leave," he went on, his voice soft, but dripping with malice, "I think about you lying underneath him as he fucks you. Wishing it was me. Wishing you were in my bed instead of his." His smile grew wider, more venomous, as if the thought brought him some perverse pleasure.

As Joffrey advanced, Roslin's mind was flooded with thoughts of Robb—his warmth, his strength, the promise of their life together. She could do this, she thought, she could survive. Just as her heart began to race with fear, a sudden voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The doors to the king's chambers burst open, revealing Tyrion Lannister standing in the threshold, his expression a mixture of disbelief and indignation. The air seemed to shift as Roslin sat up, a mix of hope and anxiety washing over her.

Tyrion's presence filled the room with an unexpected sense of authority, his stance firm and resolute. "Are you an idiot," he continued, eyes narrowing, "all of the woman in the kingdom, and you go after the wife of one of your greatest allies?"

Roslin's breath hitched, relief mingling with apprehension. She dared to glance at Joffrey, whose face twisted with rage, the flush of anger contrasting sharply with his previous demeanor.

As Joffrey glared at Tyrion, the tension in the room crackled like a storm about to break. "This is none of your business, uncle!" he spat, fists clenching at his sides. His eyes darted between his uncle and Roslin, fury radiating off him in palpable waves.

"On the contrary, it is very much my business," Tyrion shot back, his tone steady and unyielding. He stepped further into the chamber, making his way toward Joffrey with a calmness that only seemed to infuriate the young king more. "Your actions reflect on the crown, and this kind of behavior is unacceptable. You're to be a king, not a petulant child. And instead you decide that you're going to parade around one of the most powerful men in the kingdom's wife as if she was your whore. Are you determined to make Robb Stark a cuckold? Is that it boy? Your grand plan to turn your allies against you."

Roslin took the opportunity to inch back, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel Joffrey's glare burning into her, a mixture of possessiveness and contempt. "You think you can just barge in here and lecture me?" Joffrey sneered, but there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice, a flicker of doubt as he faced his uncle.

"Yes," Tyrion replied bluntly, undeterred. "Because someone has to remind you that being king does not grant you the right to act like a brute. You may hold the power, but you will not wield it over others without consequence." He gestured toward Roslin, his voice softening. "She is not a toy for you to play with. You need to remember that."

Roslin's heart swelled with gratitude as Tyrion defended her, but she also sensed Joffrey's simmering rage. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she feared he might lash out at his uncle instead. "You think you can speak to me like that?" Joffrey seethed, his voice barely containing his anger.

"Someone must," Tyrion replied, folding his arms across his chest with a firmness that belied his stature. "Before you destroy everything that better men than you have worked for. Before you ruin your own reputation further. You have a girl waiting to be your bride, and yet you choose to humiliate her by pursuing her brother's wife like a common fool. Do you even understand the consequences of your actions?"

Joffrey's sneer deepened, a flicker of defiance igniting in his eyes. "If I want her, I'll have her," he retorted, his voice dripping with entitlement. "I'm the King"

Tyrion stepped closer, his gaze steady and piercing. "You may wear the crown, but true power comes from respect, not fear and I promise you boy not a single lord in this country respects you"

Joffrey waved a dismissive hand, but Tyrion pressed on, his voice lowering but growing more intense. "You see only what is in front of you, but you fail to grasp the larger picture. Every act of cruelty you inflict on those around you will ripple outward. This is not a game, Joffrey. This is politics, and there are stakes far greater than your childish whims."

Roslin, feeling the weight of the confrontation, remained silent but attentive, her heart pounding in her chest. She could see the tension building in Joffrey, his pride battling against the undeniable logic of Tyrion's words.

"I love her!" Joffrey screamed, his voice echoing off the stone walls, a raw mixture of defiance and desperation.

"You know nothing of love!" Tyrion shouted back, matching his anger with a fierce intensity. "You are incapable of love. What you feel is obsession. You are blinded by your desire, mistaking lust for something far deeper. Love does not possess; it cherishes. It does not conquer; it uplifts. And besides she does not love you, you are unloveable."

Joffrey's face contorted with frustration, the conflict within him palpable. He glanced at Roslin, then back at Tyrion, as if seeking validation for his feelings. But deep down, he sensed the truth of Tyrion's words. The atmosphere in the room was charged, and Roslin could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on them.

"Get out," Joffrey finally muttered, the bravado in his voice wavering, his anger giving way to a fragile insecurity. "Both of you, leave me."

"Come, my lady," Tyrion said, extending a hand to Roslin, his tone gentle yet firm. "I'll escort you to your rooms."

Roslin hesitated, torn between the turmoil of the moment and the palpable tension in Joffrey's gaze. She could feel the storm within him, a whirlwind of emotions battling for dominance. But the thought of remaining in that room, facing his wrath alone, filled her with dread. She took Tyrion's hand, grateful for his presence.

As they stepped into the corridor, the weight of the encounter began to lift, yet the uncertainty of what lay ahead lingered. Tyrion guided her with a measured pace, his expression thoughtful. "Are you all right, Lady Roslin?" he asked, concern etched into his features.

"I... I'm fine," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I swear, my lord, I haven't— I wouldn't— share his bed, I mean."

Tyrion nodded, his brow furrowing as he absorbed her words. "I know, my lady. I'm sorry you've faced him alone for so long. But I promise you, you will never be left alone with him again."

As they reached her door, Roslin turned to him, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you for intervening. I don't know what might have happened if you hadn't come in when you did."

"Unfortunately, my lady, I do know what would have happened," Tyrion replied, a flicker of seriousness crossing his features. "And I also know what your husband would do to me if he thought I allowed it." A small smile touched his lips, lightening the gravity of the moment. "I met him in Winterfell, you know. He's strong—your husband. As are you, Lady Stark."

Roslin felt a swell of pride at his words. "Robb is strong, yes, but he's far away, further by the day I fear."

Tyrion's expression softened. "The Stark name you have carries significant weight, even within these walls. You must remember that, Roslin. For those of us who don't wield swords, the alliances we forge can be just as powerful."

She sighed, glancing down the hallway as if expecting more chaos to emerge from the shadows. "I worry about what Joffrey is becoming, what he might do next. If he sees me as a threat or a toy..."

"Then he will be the fool," Tyrion said firmly. "Joffrey may wear the crown, but it doesn't grant him wisdom. You have allies, both in and outside these walls. Use them."

Roslin nodded, feeling a sense of resolve growing within her. "I will. But I fear for those who don't have the strength to protect themselves."

Tyrion's eyes softened. "That's the heart of a true leader, my lady. It's what will set you apart in this game." He hesitated for a moment, then continued, "If you ever feel cornered or in danger, seek me out. I may not have the might of a warrior, but I know how to navigate these treacherous waters."

"Thank you, Tyrion," she replied sincerely. "Your support means more than you know."

With a final nod, he stepped back, preparing to leave. "Stay safe, Roslin. And remember: not all battles are fought with swords. Sometimes, the most powerful weapon is your own mind."

As he walked away, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. The quiet of her chambers felt both comforting and isolating. The weight of the day's events settled over her like a thick fog, and she took a deep breath, reminding herself of the strength within her.

She moved to her window, gazing out at the sprawling city below, where lights flickered like distant stars against the darkening sky. The streets were alive with activity, yet the castle felt like a prison, its walls closing in around her.

Tomorrow, she would begin anew, fortified by the knowledge that she was not alone. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could turn the tide in her favour before it was too late.