Roslin X
It had been nearly two weeks since Tyrion had arrived in King's Landing, and in that time, Roslin had never felt more secure within the tumultuous walls of the capital. Tyrion, with his keen intellect and sharp wit, had intervened on her behalf, halting her nightly visits to Joffrey and arranging for a private guard to accompany her wherever she went. His presence had brought a sense of stability; the snide comments that had once been so commonplace had faded, and the wandering hands that had once frequently dared to intrude upon her personal space had not reappeared. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
During the day, Roslin found solace in the company of Sansa, they would often escape to the gardens, exchanging hushed whispers and shared stories, their laughter a fleeting balm against the harsh realities of their lives. As they walked among the fragrant blooms, Roslin felt a glimmer of hope that, together, they could weather the storm that was brewing outside the castle walls.
Roslin had also begun to have frequent meetings with Varys. His counsel was invaluable; he provided her with updates on Robb and the war effort, sharing details that often eluded her in Robb's letters. His eyes, so full of secrets, would glimmer with knowledge as he spoke of the shifting allegiances in the realm and the precarious balance of power.
Robb's letters, though infused with love and longing, were frustratingly sparse on political details. Each letter was a tender reminder of his feelings for her, filled with declarations of how much he missed her presence and the warmth of their shared moments. Yet, as much as Roslin cherished these words, they left her yearning for more substantive news.
Varys had shared that Robb had been dispatched to persuade Renly to surrender, hoping to turn the Tyrells to Joffrey's side. Yet Robb's letters painted a different picture, one of admiration for Renly's steadfastness as a ruler and descriptions of the pleasant time he spent in the company of Renly and his court. There was a dissonance between what Varys conveyed and what Robb communicated; while Varys laid bare the stakes of the war, Robb seemed to speak of friendship and the future.
In the short span since Tyrion Lannister had assumed the role of Hand of the King, the air in King's Landing crackled with a new energy, one that hinted at change. Tyrion threw himself into his duties, determined to carve order from the chaos that enveloped the court like a thick fog. His first encounter with Joffrey's weekly open court, however, quickly revealed the monumental challenge he faced.
Seated upon his gilded throne, Joffrey loved to play with all of those he deemed beneath him and his weekly sessions allowed him to do just that. But it wasn't long before Tyrion's constant questions left Joffrey feeling disinterested. With each challenge he issued, he watched the boy's enthusiasm wane, replaced by the sulking shadows of annoyance. The boy king's brow furrowed deeper, and the once-eager audience turned restless, until eventually Joffrey wouldn't attend the sessions at all.
Undeterred, Tyrion began to adapt, reshaping his strategies like a craftsman refining his tools. He began to call council meetings at times when he knew Joffrey and Cersei would be otherwise occupied—Joffrey chasing fleeting whims, Cersei weaving her own webs of intrigue.
One morning, after the court had been dismissed in a hase of discontent, Tyrion discovered a treachery that set his teeth on edge. Grand Maester Pycelle, the very man who was supposed to be a pillar of wisdom, had been feeding secrets to Cersei. The revelation ignited a fire within him. Swiftly and decisively, he summoned the guards, his voice calm yet resolute as he ordered Pycelle's arrest. As the Maester was dragged away, the court whispered in shock, and Tyrion allowed himself a grim smile. He had struck a blow against Cersei, stripping her of a vital ally and reminding everyone that he was a player not to be underestimated.
But the true heart of Tyrion's plans lay in forging alliances. He understood the fragile threads that held the realm together, and he set his sights on House Martell. Princess Myrcella, with her golden curls and innocent smile, would be the key to securing a powerful union with Dorne. As he meticulously crafted the proposal for her betrothal to Prince Trystane, he envisioned the strength that such an alliance would bring—not just to the Lannisters, but to the realm at large.
The court had gradually transformed into a space where Roslin felt a surprising sense of comfort, no longer the brutal arena it once was, where Joffrey and his mother wielded power like weapons, pitting the ambitious against one another for sport. Instead, it began to pulse like the heart of the realm, a place alive with whispers of hope and the potential for change.
Though the shadows of war still loomed overhead, filling the air with tension and uncertainty, Roslin felt that something significant was stirring beneath the surface. Tyrion's influence had begun to settle over the court like a protective shroud, subtly redirecting the course of the Lannister legacy and giving the realm a sense of stability that had been sorely lacking. She witnessed the court's atmosphere shifting; the barbed exchanges had softened, and for the first time, she sensed that discussions were guided by strategy rather than spite.
Yet amidst this growing confidence, Roslin grappled with her own fears. Now well into the third moon of her pregnancy, she could no longer hide the evidence of her condition beneath the layers of fabric she had so skillfully employed. The swell of her belly had begun to betray her, a soft curve that marked the undeniable truth of her situation.
Joffrey, though seemingly tamed for the moment, was a creature of unpredictable whims. She could only imagine how he might react to the news of her impending motherhood. An announcement of her pregnancy would undoubtedly rouse him from his tentative calm, drawing out the darker aspects of his personality that thrived on possession and dominance.
The sun had long passed its peak when Sansa and Roslin settled into the quiet comfort of the library, surrounded by the scent of parchment and the warmth of sunlight filtering through tall windows. The air was thick with the promise of knowledge, and as they pored over a grand tome detailing the noble houses of the Crownlands, Roslin felt a sense of urgency underlying their study. The war raged on, and it was becoming increasingly clear that once it was won, the arrangements for Sansa's wedding to Joffrey would demand immediate attention. Roslin was determined to ensure Sansa was prepared for whatever fate awaited her.
Roslin traced a delicate finger along the page until it landed on a vibrant sigil depicting a seahorse. "And this is…" she began, looking up to meet Sansa's gaze with an encouraging smile.
"House Velaryon," Sansa replied, her eyes lighting up as she remembered her studies. "They rule from their keep, Driftmark, on the island of the same name."
"Very good," Roslin praised, her tone warm. "And what are House Velaryon known for?"
"They are strong sailors and are descendants of Old Valyria, the same as the Targaryens," Sansa answered confidently, her posture straightening with each word.
"Exactly! Though unlike the Targaryens, they were never dragon-riders, they have married into the royal family several times and still hold significant power among some of the more traditional houses." Roslin added, trying to instill a deeper understanding of the intricate web of alliances that would shape their world. "Okay, let's move on to the next—"
Before she could continue, the heavy door to the library swung open, interrupting the moment. A guard rushed in, his expression urgent. "Lady Sansa and Lady Roslin," he announced, breathless. "You are called to the Great Hall."
Sansa exchanged a glance with Roslin, her brow furrowing with uncertainty. "What could they want with us now?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and concern.
"I think we're late," Roslin replied, trying to keep her tone light, though unease crept into her chest.
As Roslin and Sansa stepped into the Great Hall, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, wrapping around them like a heavy cloak. The news of Renly Baratheon's death had reached the capital just a day prior, sending shockwaves through the realm. Joffrey, ever the opportunist, had wasted no time in turning the tragedy into a twisted celebration. A feast had been hastily arranged, not to mourn the fallen king but to revel in the misfortune of his house. Roslin could see the long table at the hall's head, laden with an extravagant spread of meats, fruits, and rich wines, all lavishly displayed. Yet, the laughter that echoed within these walls felt hollow, a stark contrast to the somber reality outside.
Roslin had hoped to slip into the hall unnoticed, seeking refuge in the shadows of the bustling court. However, her gaze fell upon two conspicuously empty seats place together at the head table, and she realized with a sinking feeling that they were intended for her and Sansa. Resigned, she made her way toward the table, the weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders.
As she approached, she settled herself next to Tyrion, whose sharp eyes seemed to offer a mix of understanding and amusement at the spectacle before them. Sansa, taking her place beside Joffrey, wore an expression of forced composure, though Roslin could sense the tension radiating from her.
Roslin caught sight of Joffrey seated at the center of the table, his golden crown gleaming under the torchlight. He appeared to relish the spectacle unfolding around him, his laughter sharp and cruel as he made light of Renly's demise. It was a twisted mockery that made Roslin's stomach churn. "Look at them," he sneered, gesturing dismissively toward the absent Baratheons, "all those fools who thought they could stand against me. A king unmade! How pathetic."
His words drew laughter from his followers, who eagerly chimed in with jests and taunts aimed at Renly's memory. Roslin felt her heart sink as she watched the scene, noting how easily Joffrey could twist the dagger of death into a weapon of amusement. She exchanged a glance with Sansa, whose expression mirrored her own unease. This was not merely a celebration; it was a display of Joffrey's cruel ascendancy over the wreckage of another man's dreams.
As they approached the feast, the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive, the court's laughter mixing with whispers of dread. People congratulated Joffrey for winning a war in which he hadn't lifted a finger, patting him on the back as though his mere presence had vanquished the opposition. "It seems my mother was right," he boasted to those around him, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Renly was nothing more than a shadow of his brother, and now he's gone, just as I said he would be and soon Stannis will follow him."
A wave of revulsion surged through Roslin as she surveyed the scene. How could they celebrate so brazenly while Renly lay dead? The echoes of laughter and clinking goblets grated against her sensibilities, as she thought of the grief that must be consuming Margaery, Renly's widow. She thought of the close friendship between the two detailed in Robb's letters, and how lonely she must now feel.
Now, here was Joffrey, mocking Renly's memory as if it were all a game. A chilling thought crossed her mind: how swiftly would Joffrey revel if Robb were to meet a similar fate? Would she still be donning the black of mourning when Joffrey came to claim her as his prize?
The hall pulsed with life, but the vitality of it felt tainted. Roslin clenched her fists, the opulence of the feast and the merriment around her starkly contrasting with her swirling thoughts. She could not be complicit in this charade. Not when so many had suffered.
As the festivities continued, Roslin felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders like a mantle. This was not just about surviving in the court; it was about navigating the treacherous waters of power, alliances, and loss. She and Sansa had to prepare themselves for the battles that lay ahead, both in the court and beyond.
"May I have everyone's attention, please?" Joffrey called out, his voice dripping with mockery as he smirked at the gathered crowd. "As you may have heard, Renly the pretender is dead!"
A loud roar erupted from the room, cheers mingling with laughter, filling the Great Hall with a cacophony of exultation.
"Renly was slain by his own guard in full view of Robb Stark," Joffrey continued, puffing out his chest as if he had orchestrated the entire affair. "And now, thanks to Lord Stark's persuasive words, House Tyrell has pledged its loyalty to our cause! Together, we are unstoppable against Stannis and the Greyjoys."
The hall trembled with applause. Roslin felt a sick churn in her stomach as she listened to the way Joffrey twisted the narrative, relishing his moment of glory while Renly's body lay cold.
"Anyone who dares challenge me and my reign will feel the might of the Crown! The combined forces of the Lannisters, the Starks, and the Tyrells will crush any challenger. Let them come, and let them experience my wrath!"
His proclamation hung in the air, a brazen taunt that echoed against the walls of the Great Hall, filled with the promise of violence and ambition. A chill swept through Roslin as she exchanged a glance with Sansa, both young women acutely aware of the dangerous game being played. In that moment, the celebration felt less like a victory and more like the prelude to a storm.
As the cheers continued to reverberate through the hall, Roslin's heart sank deeper. She could see the faces of the court lighting up with eager excitement, celebrating bloodshed while remaining blissfully ignorant of the pain that accompanied it. Joffrey's bravado had become a grotesque performance, and with every word, he transformed Renly's death into a spectacle, a display of his dominance.
Roslin glanced at Sansa, whose eyes were wide, a mixture of horror and disbelief playing across her features. Sansa's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her goblet, her knuckles turning white against the metal. "I can't believe he's so heartless," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the raucous laughter. "How can he celebrate while the realm burns?"
Roslin squeezed Sansa's hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "We must endure this, Sansa. We cannot show weakness. Not here, not now."
Joffrey, oblivious to the quiet discontent rippling through the room, continued his tirade. "To celebrate our victory, I've ordered a feast unlike any other! Let the halls be filled with music and merriment as we toast to our future—a future free of Renly Baratheon!" He raised his goblet high, a golden chalice gleaming in the torchlight.
"And to Lord Stark, who has proven himself an ally worthy of our trust!" Joffrey added, a smirk stretching across his face. He glanced at Roslin, a cruel light dancing in his eyes.
At the mention of Robb, a shudder ran through Roslin. She thought of him—of his loyalty, his fierce love, and the precarious position he now found himself in. Would he continue to stand strong, or would this war consume him like it had so many others? The weight of her own fears settled heavily upon her as she mentally prepared for what the future might hold.
"Tonight, we feast!" Joffrey announced, and the hall erupted once more into cheers and applause. He glanced around, as if searching for anyone who might challenge him, but found none. The gathered courtiers were too enchanted by his proclamations, too fearful of his wrath, to question him now.
As the noise subsided, Roslin caught sight of Tyrion, seated next to her, his expression a mask of concern. He raised an eyebrow in her direction, silently inquiring if she was alright. She managed a tight smile, though the gesture felt like a thin veneer over the turmoil roiling within her.
"Your Grace," Tyrion said, standing to address Joffrey. "If I may suggest, perhaps we should consider a more... somber approach to our new alliances?"
"Somber?" Joffrey scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "What use is somber when victory is at hand? What say you, my good uncle? Do you wish to dampen my triumph with your dull wisdom?"
Tyrion's gaze remained steady, unyielding in the face of Joffrey's arrogance. Roslin stood quickly, wanting to support Tyrion "I think Lord Tyrion is merely suggest we remember the lives lost, especially Renly's, and show respect to those who mourn. Margaery Tyrell will soon be among us, and her grief is not to be trifled with. We should consider how our actions reflect upon the Crown."
Joffrey rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. "Margaery can weep if she likes! After all, it's not my fault her husband was weak!"
Joffrey turned back to the assembled court, his demeanor shifting to one of theatrical gravitas. "If I could have your attention once more," he called out, his voice rising above the chatter. The room fell silent, all eyes on him, expectant and eager. "I have another announcement."
He paused for effect, the tension palpable, and then flashed a conspiratorial grin at Roslin, "Lady Roslin, please stay standing". Her heart raced at his command, unsure of what was to come.
Joffrey's voice rang out, resonating with a mix of pride and malice. "On this day, where we are a step closer to ending this war and returning the realm to the peace it deserves, let us look to the future. Lady Roslin and I are delighted to share the news that she is with child."
A wave of applause erupted from the court, loud and boisterous, but Roslin felt as if the ground beneath her might swallow her whole. Shock and dismay coursed through her, cold and swift. How could he know? A part of her was desperate to flee from the scrutiny of a thousand eyes, but she remained standing, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
She glanced at Sansa, whose expression mirrored her own horror. Sansa's mouth formed a small 'o' of disbelief, eyes wide as if she had just witnessed a cruel betrayal. Joffrey's announcement was not merely a revelation; it was a calculated maneuver, designed to sow doubt and confusion. With the rumours surrounding her and Joffrey, this declaration was bound to bring about doubts over her child's parentage, casting shadows over the life growing within her.
"Is it truly so? Is it the King's?" whispered a voice from the back of the hall, barely audible yet cutting through the applause. Roslin's stomach twisted at the implications of those words.
"Congratulations, Your Grace and Lady Roslin!" a voice called, but Roslin could hardly respond. She forced a smile, feeling the strain of it stretch across her lips. Every cheer felt like a knife, each clap a reminder of the precariousness of her situation.
Joffrey was reveling in the attention, basking in the glory of the moment, but all Roslin could think of was the implications of his words. The way he spoke, the way he twisted the narrative, made her skin crawl. She felt exposed, a pawn in his game, the future of her child now entangled in the whims of a boy king who thrived on chaos and cruelty.