Roslin VII
Robb stormed into their chambers, his face a thundercloud of barely contained rage. He hadn't spoken a word to Roslin during the entire walk back from the hall, his long strides leaving her struggling to keep up in her heavy gown. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he tore away from her, his expression dark and unreadable, not even sparing her a glance. The tension in the room was thick, the air itself charged with the weight of his fury.
Without warning, Robb's hand shot out, grabbing a delicate glass vase that had sat undisturbed on a small wooden table. Before Roslin could react, he hurled it across the room with all the force of his frustration. The vase shattered against the stone floor, the sharp crack of its impact reverberating through the chamber as glass fragments scattered across the ground like jagged pieces of ice.
"Robb!" Roslin gasped, her heart racing in her chest as she rushed to close the doors behind them, her movements frantic. She shut the door with a soft thud, her fingers trembling on the latch, knowing she needed to shield them from prying eyes. No one could witness Robb Stark, the new Warden of the North, losing control like this. Not here, not now.
Her voice softened, wary of his mood. "What are you doing?" She stepped closer, cautious but determined, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of the man she knew beneath the storm.
"He won't stop, Ro!" Robb growled, spinning around to face her, his voice thick with desperation. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief, and his brow was deeply furrowed with a mix of rage and helplessness. "He won't stop until he has you." His words came out like a bitter curse, his chest heaving. "And I have to leave you here—with him!"
His hands clenched into fists as his eyes darted around the room, searching for something else to break, something that might offer even a moment's release from the suffocating weight of his fear and frustration.
Before he could act, Roslin rushed to him, grabbing his hands firmly, refusing to let him lash out any further. "And I will not let him," she said, her voice strong, matching his intensity but not his fury. Her eyes locked onto his, filled with resolve.
"I am yours, Robb. From the day we married until my last breath. No lord, no king, not even the gods themselves will take me from you." Her words were soft but laced with an iron will, a promise spoken from the very core of her being.
Robb's chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his storm of anger simmering into something else—something closer to despair. He looked down at her, his hands trembling beneath her grasp, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to press down on him. His eyes softened, but the tension didn't leave his body entirely.
"I know you mean it," he whispered, his voice strained, almost broken. "But Joffrey… he takes what he wants, breaks what he doesn't care to keep. And he—" Robb's voice faltered, his throat tightening with the thought. "He'll find ways to hurt you, to hurt us both, just because he can. And I won't be here to protect you."
Roslin tightened her grip on his hands, stepping closer, her forehead nearly touching his. "You've never needed to protect me," she said, her voice calm, like an anchor in the storm. "I know who I'm dealing with. I've seen Joffrey's cruelty, his games, and I am not helpless. I am the wolf's wife and I won't bend for him. I'll be careful, I'll play his game if I must, but I won't let him break me. And he won't come between us."
Robb's breath hitched, his gaze searching hers as though looking for some kind of reassurance. He knew she was strong, but his fear for her—fear of what Joffrey was capable of—was like a gnawing beast inside him.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the air heavy with unspoken fears and shared strength. Finally, Robb let out a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping as the last of his rage melted away. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if letting her go would mean losing her to the darkness that surrounded them.
"I can't stand the thought of him near you," he murmured into her hair. "It kills me."
"I know," she whispered back, resting her head against his chest. "But you'll come back to me. We'll survive this."
Robb held her a little longer, the tension between them easing, though the shadow of what was to come still lingered at the edges of their minds. He pulled back slightly, looking down at her with a tired, vulnerable expression.
"I love you, Roslin," he said softly, his voice raw with emotion.
"And I love you, Robb," she replied, her eyes shimmering with the same depth of feeling. "Always."
Robb gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, then her lips. For a moment, everything else faded away—the looming war, the treacherous court, Joffrey's shadow. It was just the two of them, bound together in a promise that no king, no war, no cruel game could sever.
Robb let out a long, heavy breath, his eyes lingering on Roslin as he slowly stepped back. His hand slipped from hers, reluctant, as though every inch of space between them carried the weight of his impending departure.
"I need to meet with my men," he said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation. "We leave at dawn."
Roslin's lips curved into a small, playful smile, though her heart weighed heavy with the knowledge of what his words truly meant. "Then go," she teased softly, giving him a light push. "I'll see you tonight."
For a moment, the tension in Robb's face softened, a fleeting smile breaking through the storm of worry etched into his features. He hesitated, as if torn between his duties and the urge to stay just a little longer. Without warning, he reached out, pulling her close again, and pressed a lingering kiss to her lips. It was soft, filled with the quiet desperation of a man who knew he'd have to leave behind what he loved most.
When he pulled away, his eyes held hers for a moment longer, the depth of his love and fear unspoken but clear. He turned, glancing over his shoulder once before stepping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Roslin stood still for a moment, the room suddenly feeling emptier without him. She exhaled deeply, her hand brushing absently against her lips where his kiss still lingered. She understood how much Joffrey's presence weighed on Robb's mind, how it twisted his thoughts and made him anxious to protect her. But Robb had a war to face, a campaign that would demand every ounce of his focus and strength. The thought of him riding into battle, working with Tywin Lannister and the chaos of war, tightened something in her chest.
She had to trust in his strength and skill, just as he had to trust in hers. Whatever Joffrey's twisted games were, she was sure she could handle them. Robb needed to focus on what lay ahead—surviving, winning, and returning to her.
Roslin moved to the mirror, the thick ceremonial gown weighing her down. The heavy layers of fabric constricted her chest, making it difficult to breathe freely. She ran her hands over the intricate designs, the silver thread shimmering in the low candlelight. This was not her; not the woman she needed to be to face Joffrey tonight. She wanted to shed the dress, to feel herself again before facing the boy-king.
But just as she reached to undo the laces at her side, there came a soft, gentle tap at the door. Her hand stilled, a shiver of unease trailing down her spine. She straightened her posture, smoothing the front of her gown, forcing composure into her voice. "Enter."
The door creaked open, slow and deliberate, revealing a figure that immediately sent a fresh wave of tension coursing through her. Varys, the King's Master of Whisperers, stepped into the room, his movements fluid and silent, like a shadow.
"Lady Stark," he greeted, offering a subtle nod of his head, his expression unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with quiet knowledge.
Roslin's gaze flicked to the door behind him, still slightly ajar, before settling back on Varys. His presence, though unsettling, was not unexpected. In King's Landing, nothing escaped the Spider's web, and her name had undoubtedly caught in its threads.
"Lord Varys," she replied, keeping her voice steady, though her pulse quickened beneath the weight of his silent scrutiny.
Roslin remained still, her pulse a steady drumbeat as Varys approached. His steps were so light they barely disturbed the air around him, yet his presence filled the room. He closed the door gently behind him, the faint click echoing ominously in the silence.
"I hope my presence isn't an inconvenience, Lady Stark," Varys said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He clasped his hands together in front of him, his robes flowing around him like the shadows he was so accustomed to walking through. "I come merely as a concerned friend... though we are not yet friends, are we?"
Roslin narrowed her gaze, unsure of his intentions. "I didn't think concern was a luxury we afforded one another here."
A small smile tugged at Varys' lips, though it never quite reached his eyes. "In this place, my lady, concern is the rarest of luxuries. And yet, I find myself troubled by the way our dear King gazes upon you."
Roslin stiffened, but she did not speak. She had been right—Varys saw everything.
"You are intelligent, Lady Stark," Varys continued, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. "You know Joffrey's nature, and I needn't remind you of the dangers he poses. You may be... safer if you align yourself with those who can help you." His words were laced with a subtle but unmistakable offer.
Roslin folded her arms over her chest, her expression guarded. "And you think you can help?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, and Varys studied her, his eyes flicking briefly to the heavy ceremonial gown she wore, as if assessing the weight of her burdens. "Help is always available, my lady. But it is often a question of how much you want it."
Roslin clenched her jaw, her thoughts racing. She had no love for Joffrey and knew well enough the kind of man he was. His gaze had lingered on her far too often, his words teetering on the edge of propriety. And yet, she could not show weakness, not now.
"What is it you want, Lord Varys?" she asked finally, her voice steady, though she felt the tension coiling tighter inside her.
Varys tilted his head, his smile never fading. "I want what's best for the realm, my lady. And, in this moment, that means ensuring your safety... and perhaps, the safety of those you love."
The mention of her family—of Robb—sent a chill through her. "Most of those I care for leave tomorrow. Robb can take care of himself."
"Of course," Varys agreed smoothly, though something in his tone suggested otherwise. "Though of course, you will remain with little Sansa. The game we play here is one of shadows and whispers. Battles fought not with swords, but with secrets. And in that game, Lady Stark, allies are invaluable."
Roslin met his gaze, her mind racing. She could feel the weight of the future pressing in, the heavy uncertainty of the path that lay ahead. Could she trust him? Or was he just another player trying to secure his position?
She took a slow breath, keeping her expression unreadable. "If I were to accept your... offer of help, what exactly would you expect in return?"
Varys smiled again, this time more genuinely, though it still sent a shiver down her spine. "Only your trust, my lady, I truly would like to be your friend."
For a moment, silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Roslin could feel the pull of the choices before her, each more dangerous than the last. Finally, she nodded, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment. "Very well, Lord Varys. I look forward to a long friendship between us."
Varys inclined his head deeply, a gesture of respect. "Wise, my lady. Very wise." With that, he stepped back toward the door, his movements graceful and unhurried. "I shall leave you to your evening, my lady."
Without another word, he slipped out of the room, leaving Roslin standing alone, her heart racing as the full weight of his words settled over her.
Roslin found herself once again walking the familiar, foreboding path between her chambers and the King's. She had shed the heavy ceremonial gown for something lighter, a simple slip dress layered with a gray overlay that flowed softly as she moved. The weight of the evening's events pressed on her, but she pushed it aside. Tonight, her aim was simple: get in and out as quickly as possible.
As she neared Joffrey's quarters, she steeled herself, knowing this would not be her last visit. Once Robb left for the campaign, her time with the King would inevitably increase, affording her more opportunities to play her own game. But tonight? Tonight, her only plan was to return to Robb's side, to hold on to these last few hours before the tide of war pulled him away.
The Kingsguard flanked the door to Joffrey's chambers, their expressions impassive as they pushed it open for her. As the door creaked wide, it revealed Joffrey standing at his desk, his attention fixed on a mess of papers strewn across its surface. He didn't look up, but Roslin felt the weight of his presence the moment she stepped inside.
"Your Grace," she said, sinking into a deep, graceful curtsey, her eyes never rising from the floor.
Slipping into the role she had crafted for herself around Joffrey was truly easy for her. It was how she managed to navigate these moments—by convincing herself that she wasn't truly Roslin Stark, wife of Robb, Lady of Winterfell. No, here she was Roslin Frey, daughter of Walder, a woman driven by ambition, a social climber playing her part in the dangerous game of the court. It was a mask she wore well, even as it ate away at her beneath the surface.
"Ah, Roslin," Joffrey sneered, barely glancing up from the table before gesturing for her to rise. "I've been waiting. Come here—I need your advice on something."
"Of course, Your Grace," Roslin replied, her voice steady as she stepped forward with deliberate grace, crossing the room to stand at his side.
As she reached him, her eyes drifted down to the table. Joffrey was meticulously shuffling through a series of cards, each one depicting a portrait of a young woman with a name scrawled beneath. Her brow furrowed slightly as she recognized the sigils and house names—Redwyne, Celtigar, Lefford—each card representing a lady from one of the great houses of Westeros.
Joffrey arranged the cards with a slow, deliberate precision, each movement tinged with a cruel amusement. "My mother," he began, his voice thick with mockery, "thinks it's time I became a man."
Roslin's stomach churned, but she held her composure as his eyes flicked toward her, gauging her reaction.
"And since your sweet sister-in-law isn't ready to share my bed," he continued, a sneer curling his lips, "my dear mother has suggested I take a mistress like so many of the Kings who have sat the throne before me."
His fingers hovered over one of the cards, tapping it lightly before turning to her again, watching, waiting. Roslin felt her heart quicken, but she kept her expression neutral, knowing any flicker of emotion would only spur him on.
"My whole life," Joffrey drawled, "I've been told how vital it is for a woman to remain loyal to her husband, how crucial it is for girls to be chaste, and that it's a man's duty to protect their innocence until marriage." His tone shifted, dripping with disdain. "Yet here we are—noble houses scrambling to present their daughters the moment they learn the King desires a whore."
As Roslin's gaze flicked over the cards sprawled across the table, a sickening realization washed over her: there must be nearly a hundred of them, each representing a lord offering up his daughter or sister to Joffrey, laid out before him like a banquet. Her eyes finally landed on one particular card, and her breath caught in her throat. Initially startled, she quickly came to terms with the inevitability of it. There, in bold letters, was the name she dreaded: "Walda Frey."
"So, Roslin," Joffrey said, a smirk playing on his lips as he noticed her lingering on the card, "who should I choose?"
"Whoever you like most, Your Grace," she replied, quickly slipping back into her character.
"And what if I can't have who I want most?" Joffrey asked, his tone shifting as he placed his hand over hers, which rested on the table. Roslin fought the instinct to pull away, understanding all too well the implication behind his words. She couldn't afford to reject him outright; she needed to redirect him.
"Your Grace, you are the king. You can have anyone you desire," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension crackling between them.
Joffrey leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her reaction. "That's the problem, isn't it? There are always limitations, especially when it comes to the likes of me." His voice dripped with mock sorrow, but the edge in it was unmistakable.
Roslin inhaled slowly, careful to choose her words wisely. "Perhaps you could consider who would serve your interests best. A mistress can be more than a fleeting pleasure." She gently withdrew her hand from beneath his and began to shuffle through the cards on the table.
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, a spark of intrigue flickering in his eyes. "Go on."
"Imagine a lady who could enhance your standing, someone whose family could forge valuable alliances for you…" She continued, her gaze steady on him as she selected a few cards that bore the names of families with significant influence.
Joffrey grasped her hips, pulling her closer to him, and Roslin felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She thought of Robb and how this would tear him apart, but she repeated in her mind, "This isn't you."
"You think I should use them? Like pawns on a board?" Joffrey mused, his fingers pressing into her side with a possessive grip.
"Exactly," Roslin said, allowing a hint of confidence to seep into her voice. "You're not just a king; you're a player in a larger game. Choose a lady who can bring value to your reign."
He smiled, a sinister gleam flickering across his face. "And what about you, Roslin? Are you saying you wouldn't mind if I took a mistress?"
She met his gaze, unwavering. "I am merely a servant to your desires, Your Grace. My opinions matter little in the grand scheme."
"Ah, but they matter to me," he said, pulling his hand away and leaning back against the desk, a calculating glint in his eyes. "You matter to me, Roslin."
Roslin's heart raced as she met his gaze, sensing the unsettling truth in his words. Joffrey was a danger in the best of times, but now he seemed delusional, convinced that he cared for her and she for him. She steeled herself, responding, "I am here to serve you, Your Grace, in whatever capacity you require."
"Good," he said, his tone casual, though his eyes were anything but. "Now, tell me about the Frey girl. Is she as meek as she appears?"
The question hung in the air, and Roslin's mind raced. She had to tread carefully, knowing any misstep could land her in dangerous territory. "Walda is… eager to please, Your Grace. She has much to offer, though her family may not be as influential as others."
"Eager to please?" Joffrey echoed, a smirk creeping back onto his face. "I think I'd like that."As Joffrey picked up Walda's card, a cold shiver ran down Roslin's spine.
They moved on to discuss several other girls, with Roslin offering her thoughts, each comment treated by Joffrey as undeniable truth. The conversation dragged on, and Roslin quietly longed to be dismissed. Throughout, Joffrey's flirtations became more brazen—his fingers brushing against hers, a hand lingering on the small of her back, each touch making her stomach churn. Yet she maintained her composure, knowing any wrong move could shift the delicate balance she walked.
Joffrey's gaze lingered on her as he placed the final card down, the smirk on his face growing more twisted with each passing second. He reached out again, his fingers grazing hers.
"You've been most helpful, Roslin," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "It's rare I get such... thoughtful counsel."
Roslin forced a smile, her pulse quickening beneath the surface. "I'm glad to be of service, Your Grace."
Joffrey circled her slowly, his gaze predatory, never breaking from her face. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "do you think Robb truly appreciates what he has?"
Roslin turned sharply to face him, refusing to let fear dictate her actions. She would not cower, not now. Their eyes locked, and Joffrey's smirk deepened. He stepped closer, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, an action meant to seem tender but laced with possessiveness. For a brief, horrifying moment, he leaned in as if to kiss her.
Roslin's pulse raced, her chest tightening with dread. She knew what was coming, the twisted game he was trying to play. Every instinct told her to run, but she forced herself to stay calm, to stay composed. She could not show weakness now.
"If there's nothing else, Your Grace," she said, her voice steady but cold as ice, "I should return to my husband. He leaves at dawn, and I wish to spend the rest of this evening with him."
Joffrey paused, his face inches from hers. His eyes flickered with something dangerous before he finally pulled back, a thin, mocking smile on his lips. "Of course. Go to your wolf while you still can."
She gave a small curtsy and left the room as calmly as she could manage, feeling Joffrey's eyes on her until the door closed behind her. Once alone in the hallway, she allowed herself a deep breath, the weight of the evening pressing down on her.
Roslin hurried back to her chambers, her heart aching for Robb. As she reached their door, she paused for a moment, gathering herself. She pushed the door open and found Robb standing by the window, staring out into the darkened city.
"I'm back," she said softly, her voice carrying the strain of the encounter with Joffrey.
Robb turned to face her, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and relief. "Are you alright?"
Roslin nodded, but as she stepped toward him, the tension she'd been holding in broke, and she found herself falling into his arms. "I just need you," she whispered, clinging to him as though he were the only thing keeping her grounded.
Robb held her tightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm here, Roslin. I'm always here."
But the dread of what was to come still lingered in the back of her mind—Joffrey's twisted obsession and the dangerous game she was forced to play. Tomorrow, Robb would leave, and she would be left alone in the lion's den.