The Road Not Taken Chapter 12: Roslin V, a game of thrones fanfic

Roslin V

Roslin woke with the first light of dawn creeping across her face, the warmth and brightness of King's Landing still unfamiliar to her. Back in the Riverlands, the days were often cloaked in shadow, the skies grey and heavy with the threat of rain. The heat of the capital felt almost stifling, so unlike the damp cold that accompanied the long winters of her home. She reached across the bed instinctively, her hand brushing over the empty space where Robb should have been. As usual, he was already gone. It had become their silent routine—he would rise before her, and more often than not, she would wake to find him watching her, his quiet presence a comfort she had come to cherish.

Pushing back the covers, Roslin gently eased herself out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cool stone floor. Robb was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn't alarmed. He was likely with their guards or checking on Sansa and Arya. Today was the day—the day Eddard Stark would be released from the black cells and publicly swear his loyalty to King Joffrey. The entire city would gather to witness the event, and Joffrey had demanded the presence of the entire Stark household.

Roslin crossed the room and paused in front of the tall mirror that hung in the corner, studying her reflection. She had always been small, slight in frame, and delicate in her figure. But now, something had changed. There was a fire in her eyes, a quiet strength she had never seen before. No longer the timid girl who had been raised in the shadow of the Twins, she had become a woman—a lady. The Lady of Winterfell. She was the wolf's wife, and inside her, their child grew.

Turning to the side, she ran her hand gently across her still-flat stomach. There was no sign of the life within her yet, no visible swell to announce the child's presence to the world. But she knew. She could feel it—a quiet, steadfast strength, just like Robb's. Their child. A Stark of Winterfell. And in that moment, she felt not fear, but resolve. Whatever trials lay ahead, she would face them.

In the stillness of their chambers, Roslin spoke softly to the child growing within her, her hands resting protectively on her stomach as if cradling the life that lay beneath. She stroked her belly with slow, tender movements, her voice barely a whisper. "Your father is a great man, little one. The greatest I have ever known. And he will protect us, I know it." Her words were filled with quiet conviction, though she was speaking more to herself than anyone else. These were the moments she cherished—the rare moments of peace and solitude that had become so fleeting since their arrival in King's Landing. It was the first time she had felt true calm since the journey south, when it had been just her and Robb, alone in the privacy of their tent.

With a deep breath, she rose to prepare herself for the day ahead. A maid entered—Fae, a sweet girl with a warm smile who had been assigned to her by the King's household. She could not have been more than a few years younger than Roslin herself, and though she was gentle and kind, Roslin remained wary. In King's Landing, even the softest face could belong to a spy. And though Fae served with quiet devotion, Roslin knew better than to trust a girl on the Lannisters' payroll.

Fae helped her tie her hair in the Southern style, weaving it intricately as was the custom. Roslin's gown, one of the many made for her following her journey into the city, was a soft grey, adorned with silver and black embroidery. Ornate patterns wound their way up the bodice and down her sleeves She studied her reflection in the mirror, her fingers tracing the embroidered designs.

For a brief moment, her thoughts drifted to her mother. She wondered what her mother had felt when she discovered she was carrying her. Was it joy? Or fear? Had she cried? Had she wanted another son? Did she know the life of duty and expectation that awaited her child if it was a daughter? Roslin's gaze lingered on the reflection of her own face, searching for answers in the silence of the room.

"Thank you, Fae," she said at last, her voice soft, almost a murmur. "You may go now." The girl curtsied and quietly left the room, leaving Roslin once again alone with her thoughts.

Roslin left her chambers and made her way to the room that had been given to Arya the previous night. The corridors were busy, with many people moving from place to place. When she reached Arya's door, she pushed it open without knocking, feeling no need for formalities. Inside, two maids were struggling to get Arya into the bath they had drawn for her. The young girl resisted, squirming away from their attempts as if the water were an enemy.

At the sound of the door opening, the maids immediately paused, releasing Arya as they turned to face Roslin. They dropped into quick, nervous curtseys. "Lady Stark," they greeted in unison.

Roslin offered them a gentle smile. "Thank you both," she said, her tone kind but firm, "but I can bathe the Lady Arya myself."

The maids exchanged uncertain glances, silently seeking reassurance from one another before nodding and hurrying out of the room, leaving the two Stark women alone.

Arya stood beside the bath, glaring at the water as if it had insulted her. Roslin moved closer, picking up a scrubbing brush and holding it out to her. "Get as much of the dirt off as you can yourself," she said, her voice soft but practical. "And I'll help with any parts you miss."

Arya took the scrubbing brush, eyeing Roslin with a mixture of suspicion and defiance, but there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. She stepped cautiously into the bath, the water sloshing gently around her ankles as she lowered herself in. Roslin watched quietly, giving her space but remaining close enough to offer comfort. The bathwater quickly turned murky, evidence of Arya's weeks on the streets.

For a few moments, the room was silent except for the sound of Arya scrubbing her skin with determined force, her movements quick and a little rough. Roslin could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she bit her lip as if holding back anger, fear, or both.

"You don't have to be so rough," Roslin said gently, stepping forward. "The dirt will come off without a fight."

Arya glanced at her, then at the brush in her hand. She slowed her motions, though her expression remained tight, her lips pressed together in a stubborn line.

After a few more moments of silence, Arya spoke, her voice quiet but laced with frustration. "I don't need your help, you know. I've done this before."

Roslin knelt beside the tub, resting her arms on the edge. "I know," she replied softly. "You've been incredibly brave, Arya. Surviving out there on your own… It takes strength. But you don't have to do everything by yourself anymore. We're family, and we look after each other."

Arya's scrubbing slowed further, her fingers loosening their grip on the brush. She didn't say anything, but Roslin could see the weight of the past few weeks in her eyes—the fear, the loss, the loneliness.

Roslin reached for a small cloth, dipping it into the water. "Let me help with your hair," she offered, her tone soothing as she moved behind Arya, gently wringing the cloth over the tangled mess. She began to work through the knots with careful fingers, speaking softly to distract her. "You've always been strong. On our journey here Robb told me stories about you. He's proud of you, you know."

Arya said nothing, but her shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly under Roslin's gentle touch.

Roslin continued to work quietly, the only sound the soft ripple of water. After a few more moments, she spoke again, her voice tender. "I don't know what's going to happen next, Arya. But I promise you, whatever comes, we'll face it together. You, me, Robb, and Sansa. We're family, and that's what matters most."

Arya's hands stilled in the water, her defiance fading into something more vulnerable. She turned her head slightly, looking back at Roslin with eyes that, despite everything, were still the eyes of a child searching for reassurance. For a moment, she hesitated, then nodded, the faintest glimmer of trust breaking through the hardness that had built up in her over the past weeks.

Roslin smiled, the warmth of it softening her features. "Good," she said quietly, continuing to comb through Arya's hair with gentle hands. "We'll get through this. All of us."

Once Roslin was satisfied that Arya was clean, she helped her out of the bath, wrapping a soft cloth around her to shield her modesty. She gave Arya a moment to dry herself, then gestured toward the vanity where Arya could sit once dressed in her simple underdress. Roslin picked up a brush and began gently running it through Arya's short, uneven hair. Most of the knots had come loose in the bath, but a few stubborn tangles remained. As Roslin worked through them with care, Arya winced but didn't complain.

The girl's hair, hastily cut, barely reached her shoulders. Roslin's brush moved slower over the worst tangles, and she smiled softly, trying to ease the tension in the room. "You remind me of my niece back at the Twins—Alyx," she said. "She isn't as fierce as you, but I see the same fire in her eyes. The same strength."

Arya glanced at Roslin in the mirror. "Do you miss them? Your family?"

Roslin paused for a moment, thinking. "Sometimes," she replied, her voice honest. "There are moments when I wish I could tell my brother something, or ask my sister for advice. But…" She trailed off, realising that her hand had stilled, lost in the memories of her childhood. "My family wasn't like yours, Arya. It wasn't… loving."

Arya sat quietly, her face thoughtful, before she spoke, her voice small. "Sometimes, I think I don't love my family." She paused, her words heavy with guilt. "When Father wouldn't let me fight like Bran or when Sansa made fun of me for being different... I would get so angry. I'd think I hated them all. But when I was out there, on the streets… all I wanted was for them to find me. To hold me. To tell me everything was going to be okay."

Her voice cracked, and before Roslin could respond, tears began streaming down Arya's cheeks. Roslin set the brush down immediately, her heart aching at the sight of the young girl's pain. She moved closer, gently wrapping her arms around Arya's small, trembling frame.

"It's alright," Roslin whispered, holding her tightly. "It's alright to feel like that, Arya. You've been through so much. But your family loves you, just as you love them. Sometimes, we say or think things we don't mean, especially when we're hurt or scared."

Arya buried her face in Roslin's shoulder, the sobs quiet but powerful. Roslin stroked her hair, offering silent comfort as the girl finally let herself cry.

"We're going to get through this," Roslin murmured, her voice soft and steady. "You're not alone anymore. We're here, and we'll keep you safe. Robb will keep you safe."

Arya nodded weakly, her tears slowing as Roslin continued to hold her. The room was filled with a tender silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle, as Arya allowed herself to lean into Roslin's embrace. For the first time in weeks, Arya let go of the weight she'd been carrying, if only for a moment and allowed herself to feel the safety of family once more.

"The Ladies Roslin and Arya Stark," the announcer's voice boomed through the vast hall as the two girls stepped inside. The weight of the eyes upon them was immediate—nobles from all corners of the realm, their silks and velvets rustling as they turned to observe the new arrivals. Roslin scanned the room, recognising a few familiar faces among the sea of richly dressed lords and ladies, while others remained strangers, their curious gazes sharp.

Roslin could feel the tension in the air, thick as the heat that clung to King's Landing. They were called to this gathering before making their way to Baelor's Sept, where Ned Stark would stand before the city and make his declaration. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

With a gentle hand, she guided Arya forward, her touch light yet steady. It didn't take long for her eyes to settle on Robb, standing near the far end of the hall. He was deep in conversation with Petyr Baelish, his posture tense, but he straightened as he noticed their approach. Sansa stood beside them, her face pale and strained.

"Come," Roslin murmured to Arya, her hand still resting on the girl's back. Together, they made their way across the grand hall, weaving through the crowd as whispers followed in their wake. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, but Roslin kept her chin high, her gaze steady as they moved toward the only people in the room who truly mattered.

When they finally reached them, Robb turned to them, his expression softening as his eyes met Roslin's.

"Roslin, Arya," Robb greeted, his voice low but warm as his gaze shifted between his wife and his sister. He gave Arya a brief, approving nod, his worry tempered by relief at seeing her cleaned up and presentable, but still very much the stubborn child she'd always been. He leaned down to place a delicate kiss on Roslin's cheek, as he straightened, his hand gently brushed against Roslin's stomach, a quiet acknowledgement of the life growing there, his silent promise to protect them both.

Sansa, standing a little to the side, stepped forward. Her eyes flicked nervously to Arya before meeting Roslin's. "Arya," she said in a strained but gentle tone. She reached out and took her sister's hand, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. "It's good to see you."

Arya stared at her for a moment, clearly still feeling some of the resentment from their time apart, but then she gave a curt nod in return. The hostility that had once existed between the sisters seemed to have dimmed in the face of everything they had endured.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Petyr Baelish stepped forward with a smooth bow, his sharp eyes gleaming with their usual calculating charm. "Lady Roslin, Lady Arya," he greeted, his voice dripping with polite formality, though his gaze lingered a beat too long on Roslin before shifting to Robb.

"It is truly heartwarming to see the Starks reunited, even under such difficult circumstances," he continued, his tone laced with subtle insinuation. "A shame, though, that Lady Catelyn couldn't be here for the occasion."

Robb said nothing, his jaw tightening as he recognised Petyr's veiled attempt to provoke him. Baelish, ever the opportunist, pressed on with feigned sympathy. "She has written to me on multiple occasions, expressing her deep desire to join you all here, but alas, Lord Bolton insists she remains where she is."

A thunderous BANG, BANG echoed through the hall, drawing every eye toward the Iron Throne. The crowd fell into a hushed silence, their attention snapping to the source of the noise: a finely dressed courtier who stood at the head of the room, wielding a large wooden staff.

All eyes followed his movements as he raised his voice to announce the King's arrival. "His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar."

As Joffrey strode into the room, resplendent in golden finery that gleamed like his own hair, his presence demanded every bit of attention. Behind him, his mother, Cersei, followed in her signature crimson gown.

The women in the hall dropped into deep curtsies, while the men bowed their heads as Joffrey approached the Iron Throne, his expression a mask of self-satisfaction. He took his place before the towering seat of power, eyes sweeping the room with an imperious air.

"My Lords and Ladies," Joffrey began, his voice carrying through the hall with a sinister edge, "I thank you for your presence on this bittersweet day. Today, we will hear from a traitor to the crown—my father's closest friend, a man who chose betrayal before my father's body was even cold."

Roslin felt Robb tense beside her. She knew this day would be far from easy. Joffrey needed to maintain the appearance of chasing justice, even though the outcome was already predetermined. He had to play the part of a king deliberating with care, so that when he finally bestowed his twisted version of mercy, it would feel authentic. Without hesitation, Roslin squeezed Robb's hand, offering silent support as Joffrey's venomous words continued to drip from his tongue.

"Today, I am faced with the hardest decision of my reign," Joffrey declared, his tone almost mocking in its sincerity. "How to punish a man who is both a traitor to the crown and one of those responsible for putting it on my father's head." He paused, casting a sweeping look across the room. "But I take comfort in knowing that the next generation of House Stark"—he gestured toward Robb and his family—"supports me fully in whatever outcome I choose today."

At his signal, the eyes of the gathered lords and ladies turned toward the Starks. The weight of their stares pressed down on Roslin, and for a moment, the silence stretched uncomfortably long. She felt the scrutiny, the curiosity, and even the judgment in their gazes.

Finally, Joffrey shattered the tension with a dismissive wave. "Let us depart for the Sept," he said, descending the throne's steps with the deliberate grace of a king. His mother and the guards followed closely, his golden cloak flowing behind him as he swept out of the room. Just before disappearing through the door, he offered Roslin a brief, smug smile, a silent reminder of the power he held over them all.

Roslin glanced at her husband, sensing the turmoil beneath his calm exterior. She stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm, offering what silent support she could. "We'll stand together," she said softly, her voice for his ears alone.

He looked down at her, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, before he turned to Arya and Sansa. "Stay close. Whatever happens, we will face it as a family."

Arya looked up at him, her expression hardening with determination. Sansa, still pale, nodded silently, her hand clutching Arya's a little tighter.

They arrived at the Sept to find Joffrey already positioned at the top of the steps, waving down at the sea of citizens who had gathered to witness the former Hand of the King meet his fate. The square buzzed with anticipation, and Roslin could feel the tension thick in the air. She and Robb made their way to the section reserved for nobles, where they were given a clear view of the spectacle about to unfold. The space felt stifling, cordoned off from the crowd below as if to remind them of their separation from the common folk.

Sansa stood beside them, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, eyes vacant and distant. Arya, in stark contrast, couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the crowd, her expression hard and unreadable. Roslin watched her, a pang of realisation settling in—days ago, Arya had been part of that crowd, lost among the faces of the city's masses. In another world, she might still be there, hidden and surviving.

Robb nodded stiffly, his composure unbroken despite the growing tension that seemed to thicken the very air around them. He glanced briefly at Roslin, his eyes dark with a mix of dread and determination. Without a word, he began to move, gesturing for Sansa and Arya to follow, though Sansa hesitated for a heartbeat before complying, her face pale and expression unreadable.

Roslin took a deep breath, smoothing her dress as she stepped in line behind Robb, the weight of the King's demand settling heavily on her. Arya, for her part, looked less frightened than she should have, her gaze sharp and defiant as she marched alongside her family.

As they ascended the steps to the Sept, the eyes of the crowd followed their every movement, whispers rippling through the nobles as they passed. The sun beat down mercilessly, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill of impending doom that Roslin felt in her bones.

At the top, Joffrey stood with Cersei and his siblings at his side, their golden and crimson garb glistening like the very symbols of power they wielded. Joffrey's face bore a smirk, though his eyes held no warmth—just that familiar cruelty simmering beneath the surface. Cersei, by contrast, was unreadable, her features carved from stone as she stood like a queen carved from the very rock that Casterly Rock stood on.

"Ah, Lord Stark," Joffrey greeted, his tone light but mocking. "It pleases me to see you all here for this... solemn occasion."

Roslin's fingers twitched, her instinct to grab Robb's hand overwhelming, but she resisted. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat a reminder of the fragile balance they were treading.

Robb inclined his head slightly, his face a mask of formality. "We are here as requested, Your Grace."

Joffrey's smirk widened at the formality, clearly enjoying the power he held in this moment. "Excellent," he drawled. "You and your family will have the best view in the house."

Roslin's throat tightened. The King's words were a thinly veiled mockery, his pleasure in their suffering evident. She glanced sideways at Sansa, whose hands were trembling slightly, and at Arya, whose fists were clenched as if she were preparing for a fight.

The crowd grew restless as the King's Justice stepped forward, positioning himself ominously near the sept doors.

Roslin's heart sank deeper into the pit of her stomach. Joffrey wasn't going to let this go easily. This was his game, his performance, and they were all merely pieces in it. He had promised to let Ned go, to let him go home but he was unpredictable and Roslin knew that nothing was certain.

"Ah, Lord Stark," Joffrey greeted, his tone light but mocking. "It pleases me to see you all here for this... solemn occasion."

Roslin's fingers twitched, her instinct to grab Robb's hand overwhelming, but she resisted. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat a reminder of the fragile balance they were treading.

Robb inclined his head slightly, his face a mask of formality. "We are here as requested, Your Grace."

Joffrey's smirk widened at the formality, clearly enjoying the power he held in this moment. "Excellent," he drawled. "You and your family will have the best view in the house."

The crowd grew restless as the King's Justice stepped forward, positioning himself ominously near the sept doors.

She stole a glance at Robb, who remained rigid and silent, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding below. His face betrayed nothing, but Roslin could sense the storm raging inside him. He had come this far, endured humiliation and the uncertainty of King's Landing, all for this moment. For his father's freedom.

But nothing felt certain. Not with Joffrey.

The crowd had grown larger, citizens pressing into the square, eager to see the fate of the traitor Lord Stark. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the whispers and murmurs swelling like a tide. Every face below seemed to hold a hunger for the spectacle, a mix of anticipation and fear.

The heavy doors of Baelor's Sept groaned open, and there was a sudden, collective intake of breath from the crowd. Out from the shadows emerged Eddard Stark, flanked by guards, his hands bound in front of him. He walked slowly, the weight of his imprisonment clear in the stiffness of his movements. Roslin had never met the Lord of Winterfell before but even she could tell that he was changed, his beard was long, his face gaunt, but his eyes—those Stark eyes—still held that fierce resolve, even in the face of what was to come.

Sansa let out a small, choked gasp, and Robb's hand twitched at his side. Arya stood deathly still, her young face a mask of disbelief and anger. Roslin could feel the tension in all of them, the threadbare hope that still clung to the idea of their father's release.

Eddard was led to the front of the steps, where he was forced to kneel before the crowd. Roslin's stomach turned at the sight of him—once a noble lord, now a prisoner, stripped of his titles and dignity. She couldn't help but glance toward Joffrey, who was watching with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Lord Eddard Stark," Joffrey's voice rang out, high and sharp as it cut through the crowd's murmurings. "You stand accused of treason against the crown. Do you have anything to say?."

Roslin's breath caught in her throat. This was the moment. The moment where Joffrey would either uphold his promise—or break it entirely.

The silence was suffocating, the crowd waiting with bated breath.

"I am guilty, Your Grace," Eddard said, his voice steady but hollow. "In my grief after your father's death, I allowed myself to be misled, manipulated by your uncles." Roslin could hear the lie in his tone, the forced words betraying his true thoughts, but no one dared to challenge him. Not now.

"I see now that I was wrong," Eddard continued, his gaze steady but burdened with the weight of his confession. "You are your father's true heir, the rightful King of Westeros. The Lords Stannis and Renly are traitors, and they must face the King's justice. As must I."

His words hung heavy in the air, a confession of betrayal that felt painfully false, yet necessary for the game he was forced to play.

Roslin watched as Ned Stark's words settled over the crowd like a thick fog, palpable in their disbelief. The man before them, once the embodiment of honor, was now renouncing his loyalty, and for what? To protect his family—his daughters, his house. Her heart ached for him, for the weight of this moment. She squeezed Robb's hand, but he remained stone still, his jaw clenched tightly as his father's false confession echoed through the square.

Joffrey, standing tall at the steps of the Sept, smiled—a thin, cruel twist of his lips. His golden crown glinted in the harsh sunlight, making him seem more like a golden statue than a boy-king. He looked over the crowd, enjoying the tension he had orchestrated, reveling in the power he held over life and death.

"You see?" Joffrey's voice rang out, cold and triumphant. "Even Lord Stark admits his treason." The words were a blade, cutting through any hope that might have lingered in Roslin's heart.

There was a murmur among the gathered crowd, a mix of disbelief, shock, and dread. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances, while the common folk muttered in fear. Cersei shifted beside Joffrey, her face unreadable, though her eyes flickered briefly with something akin to concern. Roslin wondered if even she feared what her son might do next.

Joffrey stepped forward, his smirk widening as he addressed the crowd. "My mother and my council have advised mercy," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "And Lord Stark has pleaded for his life, for the sake of his daughters." He turned his gaze to Robb and Roslin, letting the weight of his words fall on them.

Roslin's gaze locked onto Joffrey, her eyes hard and unblinking, her expression controlled. She knew what Joffrey wanted—he wanted her to play her character, another man's wife who truly wanted him, the woman he wanted but couldn't have. And she was happy to obilige, she tilted her chin ever so slightly, as if daring him to make his next move, challenging him in a way that would stoke his need to prove himself. Her heart raced, but outwardly, she remained composed, the perfect image of resilience.

Joffrey, sensing the tension, seemed to revel in it. He raised his voice, addressing the crowd with dramatic flair. "I will not begin my reign by spilling the blood of my father's dearest friend," he declared, his tone heavy with faux magnanimity. "A man who was his brother in all but name, especially in a time where his brothers by blood have proved to be the most traitorous." He paused, letting the crowd absorb his words.

Roslin could see the calculated performance in every gesture, every word. This wasn't mercy—it was a game.

"However," Joffrey continued, his voice shifting to a sharper tone, "Lord Stark cannot go unpunished. His poor judgment has proven him unfit to lead the North. Therefore, he will be stripped of all titles and lands, which shall pass to his heir, Robb of House Stark."

Roslin's heart tightened, but she forced herself to remain composed. Beside her, Robb stood frozen, his face a mask of barely contained rage, though his eyes flickered with relief at the news that his father's life would be spared.

Joffrey pressed on, his voice filled with self-importance. "Lord Stark will live out the rest of his days in Winterfell, as a husband to his wife and a father to his children—but he will no longer hold power or sway in this or any land."

The crowd shifted, murmurs spreading through the gathered nobles and commoners alike. Joffrey's eyes gleamed as he cast a glance toward Sansa, his voice softening with a false tenderness. "I do this in memory of my late father and for the love of my future queen—Sansa Stark."

Sansa's head jerked up, startled, her wide eyes meeting Joffrey's outstretched hand. He beckoned her to join him, his smile smug and possessive. "Together," Joffrey announced, "we will forge a new Westeros—where mercy and forgiveness stand side by side with justice and punishment."

The crowd, ever fickle, erupted in cheers. "King Joffrey!" they shouted. "Long live the king!" A few scattered voices even called, "Queen Sansa!" The wave of support felt sickeningly false to Roslin. She couldn't help but think that if Joffrey had called for Ned's head, the crowd would have cheered just as loudly for that too.

Two Kingsguard stepped forward, lifting Ned from his knees and unlocking his shackles. He stood, unsteady but upright, his expression unreadable.

As the crowd's cheers echoed through the square, Roslin kept her focus on Joffrey. His performance, though calculated, had the desired effect—the crowd was whipped into a frenzy of approval. But Roslin knew better than to trust the sudden shift in tone. Everything was a show for Joffrey, a dangerous game with the lives of others as his pawns.

Beside her, Robb's body remained tense, though the faintest flicker of relief crossed his features as Ned was freed from his shackles. His father stood, shoulders stooped from the weight of humiliation, but alive. Roslin wanted to reach for Robb's hand, to reassure him, but the moment wasn't safe enough for such a gesture. They were still being watched, still very much part of Joffrey's spectacle.

Sansa, pale as a ghost, moved slowly toward Joffrey, her steps hesitant as she took his outstretched hand. The young king smiled down at her, his expression smug and satisfied, as if he'd just secured the greatest prize. Roslin could see Sansa's fear in the tightness of her shoulders, the trembling in her fingers as they linked with Joffrey's.

Joffrey held her hand up for the crowd to see, basking in the adoration as if Sansa were a jewel he had plucked from the North and placed in his crown. "Our reign begins today," he declared, his voice ringing with triumph.

Roslin's stomach churned at the sight. Sansa had no choice but to play along, no choice but to endure whatever future Joffrey had planned for her. Roslin wanted to run to her, to pull her away from this nightmare, but she knew it was impossible. They were all caught in this web, powerless against Joffrey's whims.

As Ned was freed he began to walk towards where the Robb, Roslin and Arya waited. His steps were slow, his face drawn with exhaustion and the pain of everything he'd been forced to endure. As he reached them, Robb stepped forward, his voice low and strained. "Father."

Ned met his son's gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and pride. "Robb," he murmured, his voice rough from days of captivity. "I am so sorry my son."

Robb clenched his jaw, his voice a quiet but firm whisper. "We'll get through this, Father. We'll go home." His gaze softened as he turned toward Roslin. "Father, this is my wife, Lady Roslin." He gestured for her to step forward.

Ned's eyes widened in surprise as Roslin approached and offered a respectful nod. "It's an honour, my lord," she said, her voice steady despite the tension hanging over them.

Ned gave her a tired smile, shaking his head gently. "I'm no lord anymore, my dear. But I look forward to hearing how my son found such a beautiful wife." There was warmth in his tone, though it was tinged with the weariness of all he had endured.

Before the moment could linger, Varys appeared beside them, his face calm but his words carrying a quiet urgency. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark," he said with a subtle nod to Roslin and the others. "I suggest you make your way back to your quarters. The city's mood can shift unpredictably, especially on a day like this."

Robb didn't need further convincing. He nodded, placing a firm, protective hand on Arya's shoulder, pulling her closer to him. "We should go," he said, his voice tight with determination.

Roslin moved closer to Ned, offering silent support, knowing the weight he carried now. She cast a glance toward Sansa, wanting desperately to reach out to her, but Joffrey was already leading her away, his hand gripping hers as they made their way toward the royal litter. The message was clear: they may have gotten Ned back, but Sansa was his.

Roslin's heart ached as she watched her sister-in-law being led further into Joffrey's grasp, but there was nothing she could do. Not yet. For now, they had to take what they could—their family, in whatever form it remained—and find a way to endure.