Robb IV
As Robb and Roslin approached the Dragon Gate, the looming entrance to King's Landing, Robb felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach. The excitement and exhilaration of the past weeks faded, replaced by a gnawing sense of dread. Until this moment, the campaign had felt more like a grand game than a life-or-death struggle. He had played the role of a lord on the march—issuing commands, chastising lords, and leading his men—all without facing any true hardship. He had married a beautiful woman and had been imagining his triumphant return to Winterfell as a hero. But now, as they approached the city that held so many dangers, the reality of the situation began to sink in.
As they passed through the massive gateway, with Roslin by his side and their retinue trailing behind, Robb's eyes were drawn to a banner fluttering in the breeze—a black stag on a field of gold, the sigil of House Baratheon. Beneath the banner stood a dozen men, their armour gleaming in the afternoon sun. At the head of the group was a figure Robb had never met but recognised instantly: Petyr Baelish. His mother had spoken of Littlefinger often enough that Robb felt a strange familiarity with the man, despite never having laid eyes on him before.
Dismounting from his horse, Robb handed the reins to one of his guards with a steady hand, though his nerves churned beneath the surface. Without acknowledging Baelish, he circled around his horse to where Roslin waited, her expression calm but her eyes show a hint of unease. Robb offered her his hand and helped her down with a practised ease, masking his inner turmoil. He might be anxious, but he knew the importance of projecting confidence in a place as treacherous as King's Landing.
"Lord Stark," Petyr Baelish greeted with a wide smirk, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and calculation. "I have been most eagerly anticipating your arrival."
"Lord Baelish, my mother sends her best wishes," Robb replied, his voice steady as he guided Roslin forward, one hand resting protectively behind her back.
"How thoughtful of her. She was always the most caring of women," Baelish responded his tone a delicate balance between genuine and mocking. His gaze then shifted to Roslin, his interest piqued. "And who might this be?" he asked, his eyes lingering on her.
"Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Roslin Stark. Roslin, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, the King's Master of Coin," Robb said, his voice firm but polite.
Baelish stepped forward, taking Roslin's hand with a practised elegance. He brushed his lips briefly against her knuckles before straightening. "Charmed, my lady."
"And you, my lord," Roslin replied with a graceful nod. "Though we have met before. You attended my father's seventh wedding when you were a boy living at Riverrun, in Lord Tully's stead. I was only a young girl then, so I wouldn't expect you to remember."
Baelish's smile grew, a touch of something sweet yet unsettling in it. "I recall the wedding well, though I must admit, I do not remember you, my lady. However, I have heard quite a bit about your wedding. The tale of the young Stark lord who fell in love at first sight with a beautiful young woman and married her that very evening. A story fit for the singers and storytellers, no doubt," he added with a sly grin, clearly hinting that he knew the truth behind their hasty union.
"Indeed," Robb interjected, his tone sharp, cutting through the tension. "And now, I would like to introduce my bride to my father. Can you assist me with that, Baelish?" His question carried the weight of command, leaving little room for the man to manoeuvre.
Petyr shifted his attention from Roslin to Robb, a sly smile spreading across his face. He let the moment linger before speaking again. "Come, let us proceed to the Red Keep. There, you can reunite with your sister and prepare for your audience with the King and the Dowager Queen. I'm sure your lovely wife would welcome a bit of respite after such a long journey. I thought we might travel together in my litter, and the young Lady Stark can tell me all about how her father is faring."
Roslin glanced at Robb, seeking reassurance before making any move. After a brief pause, Robb gave her a sharp nod, his expression firm. With that unspoken agreement, the three of them moved toward the compact wooden litter that awaited them, positioned just behind Baelish's men.
After a short journey that felt never-ending in the cramped litter, they finally arrived at the Red Keep. The towering, imposing castle loomed above them, larger and more intimidating than anything Robb had ever encountered. As they disembarked, Robb followed Baelish into the Keep, listening as he directed the Stark men to find food and water for the group and their horses. When the party split, only a handful of guards remained with Robb and Roslin, he couldn't shake the unsettling realisation that their numbers had steadily dwindled since leaving the Twins.
Baelish led them through a labyrinth of corridors and staircases, winding deeper into the heart of the Keep. The maze seemed endless, the oppressive silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps. Eventually, they arrived at a large set of wooden doors.
"These will be your quarters for the duration of your stay in the capital," Baelish announced with a sweeping gesture toward the doors. "I will see to it that your belongings are brought up, and someone will come to escort you to your audience with the King when he is ready." With that, Baelish offered a final, knowing glance before disappearing into the twisting depths of the castle.
Robb pushed open the doors to the suite, revealing a room unlike anything he had ever seen. The space was vast, with windows offering sweeping views that stretched for miles over the city below. A grand bed dominated the room, alongside a polished desk and a small seating area. Seated delicately on one of the chairs, clearly awaiting their arrival, was Robb's sister, Sansa. She wore a deep red dress, her auburn hair styled in an elegant updo reminiscent of how Queen Cersei had worn hers during the royal procession to Winterfell.
"Brother!" Sansa exclaimed, leaping to her feet and rushing into Robb's arms, embracing him tightly.
"Sansa, are you all right? Have they harmed you?" Robb asked, his hand resting gently on her head as he returned her embrace, concern etched into his voice.
"They won't let me see Father or Arya," Sansa blurted out, her words tumbling out in a rush. "They say he's a traitor and that she misbehaved, so they've locked her in her chambers. Have you seen them? Did you get my letter?"
"I received no letter," Robb replied, pulling back slightly to look into her worried eyes. "Why? What did it say?"
"The Queen said I still have to marry Joffrey, but I don't want to, Robb," Sansa continued, her voice trembling. "He's a dreadful king, and he said Father tried to steal his throne, but that can't be true. He told me you had to come to prove that not all Starks are traitors. I just want to go home. I want Mother— is she with you?" Her eyes searched behind Robb, desperate for a glimpse of Catelyn, but instead, they landed on Roslin, who stood quietly at the entrance, hesitant to interrupt the siblings.
"Sansa," Robb said firmly, his tone serious as he cupped her face in his hands, "I will find a way to free Father, and we will go home. But you must be careful with your words. Joffrey is our king, and to say otherwise is treason. If anyone hears you, you could end up like Father—or worse. Do you understand?"
Sansa nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she listened to her brother's warning. "The King has invited me here to discuss Father's release," Robb continued, softening his tone. "Mother is waiting for us all at Harrenhal, and I swear we will all go home together."
With a reassuring smile, Robb turned to Roslin and said, "Now, Sansa, this is Roslin, my wife. I'm counting on you to treat her as a sister." He gestured for Roslin to step forward and join them, adding with a light chuckle, "Well, maybe not the way you treat Arya."
"Lady Sansa," Roslin said softly, taking the younger girl's hands in hers, "I think we're going to be firm friends."
For the first time since Robb had reunited with her, Sansa smiled, a small but genuine glimmer of hope breaking through her fear and sorrow.
"Sansa, when was the last time you saw Arya?" Robb asked as he settled into one of the seats, his tone gentle but urgent.
Roslin guided Sansa to sit on the bench opposite him, still holding her hands as if trying to lend her strength. "The day Father was taken," Sansa replied, her voice trembling. "They came to our rooms, and they killed everyone—Septa Mordane, Jory—and I just ran. I should've stayed. I should've found Arya. I should've kept her safe." Her voice broke, and she began to weep, the weight of her guilt and fear overwhelming her.
"You did the right thing, Sansa," Roslin said, her voice full of warmth and understanding as she wrapped her arms around the girl, comforting her.
"And where is Arya now? You said she was in her room. Who told you that?" Robb pressed gently, trying to piece together the situation.
"My new maid," Sansa answered, her voice small and frightened. "I asked to see Arya so we could pray together for Father and those who had passed, but she told me that Arya wasn't being given the privileges I was, that she had been locked in her room for disobedience. She warned me to behave, or the same would happen to me."
Sansa's composure crumbled, and she broke down in hysterics. "Please, Roslin, don't leave me alone here again," she pleaded, her desperation raw and palpable.
Roslin tightened her embrace, her voice soothing as she reassured the girl, "We're here now, Sansa, and we're not going anywhere. We'll face this together."
A sharp rattle at the door abruptly interrupted their intimate moment. "Enter," Robb commanded, his voice steady and authoritative.
A member of the Kingsguard stepped into the room, his famous white armour and cloak gleaming. He was a man barely older than Robb, and his demeanour was serious and unyielding.
"Lord Stark, the King and his mother are ready to receive you now," he announced. Robb rose to his feet, placing a reassuring hand on Sansa's head as he passed her. He moved to kiss Roslin's hand, but before he could do so, the guard continued, "His Grace has asked that Lady Stark attend with you."
Both Robb and Roslin exchanged surprised glances, but eager to appease the boy-king, Roslin quickly stood. She promised Sansa they would return before she knew it and then turned to one of the guards who had accompanied them to King's Landing. "Stay with her, and do not let her out of your sight," Roslin instructed her voice firm with concern.
With that, she joined Robb, who addressed the Kingsguard with a nod. "Show the way," he said, his tone resolute as they prepared to face whatever awaited them.
The Kingsguard led Robb and Roslin down a grand staircase, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. As they descended, they passed numerous servants, each one pausing to curtsy to Robb and his wife before hurrying back to their duties. A few minor lords and ladies also crossed their path, addressing Robb by name as they made their way through the keep. The familiarity unsettled him—this was a place utterly foreign to him, yet somehow these Southerners seemed to know him. Perhaps they could sense the North in him, or perhaps his arrival had been more anticipated by the people of King's Landing than he had realised.
They soon arrived at the Great Hall, a vast room that dwarfed even the grand hall of Winterfell. The enormous doors stood wide open, and as Robb peered inside, he saw the length of the room bathed in sunlight streaming through large windows. The light illuminated the path to the infamous Iron Throne, which loomed at the far end of the hall. The room was nearly empty, save for a few small figures near the throne, and Robb couldn't help but notice how barren the hall appeared. He had heard tales of the Red Keep's grandeur, of dragon skulls once lining the walls and statues of great kings—Aegon, Jaehaerys, Viserys, Egg—standing proudly in the corners. But now, the hall stood bare, with only banners hanging on the walls—half bearing the stag of House Baratheon, half the lion of House Lannister.
As they made their way down the length of the room, Robb's eyes fixed on the figures ahead. King Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne, tapping impatiently on its arm. The throne cast a dark shadow over him, and something about the sight of the boy perched upon it felt deeply wrong to Robb, unnatural and unsettling. At Joffrey's side stood his mother, the Dowager Queen Cersei, her gaze sharp and cold as it raked across the room to land on Robb. Seated on the stairs leading up to the throne was the King's uncle, Jaime Lannister, clad in his white and gold armour, his posture relaxed, as if he hadn't a care in the world. And stationed at every entrance, a member of the Kingsguard stood at attention, each with a hand resting on the hilt of their sword, ready to act at a moment's notice.
"Stark!" Joffrey's voice rang out, sharp and condescending, before Robb and Roslin had even reached him. "I presume you've come to condemn your father and beg for my forgiveness."
"Your Grace," Robb responded, inclining his head respectfully toward the boy king, while beside him, Roslin dipped into a deep curtsey. "I have come to rectify any wrongdoings and hopefully reach terms with you."
"There will be no terms for your father," Joffrey snapped, his youthful face twisted in anger. "He is a traitor, and I will have his head."
Robb fought to keep his emotions in check, resisting the urge to retort angrily. Instead, he asked, "And what has my father done? What are these treacherous acts?"
"Our late King, my love, King Robert, wasn't even cold when Eddard Stark began conspiring to place himself on the throne instead of our beloved Joffrey," Cersei interjected smoothly, her voice laced with venom. "He claimed that in King Robert's final moments, Robert had named him as Lord Protector until Joffrey came of age, but we also have intelligence that he was seeking support to place the pretender, Stannis Baratheon, on the throne in his stead."
"If this is true, I would need to speak to my father before offering any explanation, Your Grace," Robb said, addressing Cersei directly, trying to maintain a calm and diplomatic tone.
"If?" Joffrey echoed, rising from the Iron Throne with a sudden fury. "If? Are you calling me a liar? Your father stood before me and claimed my throne for himself! I should have had his head weeks ago, along with your sister's."
Robb felt his pulse quicken, but he forced himself to remain composed. "Speaking of my sister, I wish to see Arya," he said, sidestepping Joffrey's provocation. "Sansa mentioned she had misbehaved and was receiving punishment. I assure you, I will punish her myself for any wrongdoings once she is back in my care."
"That girl is wild," Jaime Lannister chuckled from his relaxed position on the steps of the throne. "Everyone is safer if she remains where she is."
"That may be," Robb replied, his voice firm, "but unless you plan to accuse her of any crime, you have no right to keep her from me."
Joffrey began to descend from the throne, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached them. "I wanted to see you in person," he said to Roslin, his tone suddenly turning unsettlingly soft. "They said you were beautiful, but they haven't done you justice." He reached out, his hand moving to stroke her face, but Robb stepped between them, his eyes blazing with restrained fury.
"Please, Your Grace," Robb said through gritted teeth, barely managing to contain his anger. "You invited me here to discuss terms. There must be some way we can resolve this and both leave content."
"I did no such thing," Joffrey sneered, stepping back with a dismissive gesture. "It was my mother's petition that brought you here. You see, Stark, you're a boy, not a real lord, and as long as your father lives, you'll never become one. I am the King, and you will remain here until I decide otherwise. Your father will remain my prisoner, your sister will become my bride, and I might even take your wife just because I can. There's nothing you can do because no one breathes in this castle until I say so. If you're lucky, I might let you live."
Joffrey began to stride past them, heading toward the exit of the hall. "Lord Stark will remain in his rooms until I say otherwise," he commanded over his shoulder.
"Joffrey, please," Cersei called after him, her voice a mix of authority and concern.
"And bring Lady Stark to my quarters," Joffrey added, turning back with a leering wink directed at Roslin.
Robb's fury boiled over, but before he could act, Roslin squeezed his hand, her touch grounding him. "He won't touch me, I swear," she whispered, her voice steady despite the danger surrounding them.
With that, the Kingsguard stepped forward, separating Robb and Roslin and leading them in different directions, their fates now in the hands of a mad boy king.