Robb XI
The morning after the Battle of the Blackwater was unexpectedly sunny, casting a sharp contrast against the bloodshed of the previous night. The fighting had raged into the early hours, a brutal clash that left the remains of Stannis' forces either dead, fleeing, or surrendering. When the signal finally came that victory was theirs, Robb Stark collapsed to his knees in exhausted relief. Though he had seen his share of conflict during his campaigns in the Stormlands, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer chaos and brutality of this battle.
They had been still half a day's ride from King's Landing when news reached them of Stannis' assault. Tywin Lannister, always the strategist, had urged caution. He insisted the city could withstand a siege for at least a week, but Robb and Jaime had been less patient. Ignoring Tywin's caution, they pressed on, riding hard with the Tyrell forces at their back. Upon reaching the outskirts of the city, they were greeted by an unexpected sight—most of Stannis' fleet had been utterly decimated, charred and destroyed. Rumors spread through the ranks that it was wildfire that had done the damage, reportedly unleashed on the orders of Tyrion Lannister. Yet no one knew for sure.
By the time Robb and his forces arrived, the battle in the bay had already begun. The Crown's men, fought hard but were steadily losing ground. The defenders of King's Landing had been on the brink of collapse, outnumbered and desperate. It was the arrival of the reinforcements, sweeping in from behind Stannis' men, that turned the tide. With the combined forces of House Stark, Lannister, and Tyrell, the attackers were quickly overwhelmed, caught between two deadly fronts.
Robb hadn't slept—not a moment since the battle ended. There hadn't been time, and even if there had, sleep was far from his mind. After the fighting had ceased and the last of Stannis' forces were driven back, Tywin Lannister had summoned him to discuss their losses, to tally the cost of their victory. It was a grim conversation, filled with numbers that weighed heavy on Robb's soul—thousands dead, wounded, or missing. Yet, as Tywin spoke of strategy and regrouping, Robb's thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the faces of the men who had fallen under his command, to the cries that still echoed in his mind.
When the meeting finally ended, Robb found himself walking the length of the bay, his boots dragging through the blood-soaked earth. The wreckage of the battle still lay before him, a haunting reminder of the price they had paid for King's Landing. Ships—what remained of them—still smoldered in the harbor, their once-proud sails now tattered remnants drifting aimlessly in the breeze. Men, injured and dying, lay scattered along the shore. For hours, Robb moved among them, helping where he could, kneeling beside those who still had breath in their bodies, regardless of whose banner they had fought under. Lannister, Tyrell, Stark, even Stannis' men—death did not discriminate, and neither would he.
The sky had begun to lighten by the time Robb realized dawn was breaking. His limbs ached, and his muscles screamed for rest, but he kept moving, driven by something deeper than exhaustion. He was scared—scared to stop, scared to face the silence that would come when the weight of everything finally settled in. Scared, most of all, to return to Roslin.
She was waiting for him, he knew. And though the thought of seeing her again filled him with longing, it also terrified him. How could she look at him the same way after what he'd done? After the man he'd become? Robb's hands were stained with blood, his soul burdened with the lives he'd taken and the horrors he had witnessed. The boy she had married was long gone, buried beneath the weight of war and loss. Would she still love the man who remained?
And then there was Joffrey. Returning to King's Landing meant facing him, the boy king who had spread rumors of Roslin carrying his bastard. Robb's fists clenched at the thought, his anger barely contained. Every fiber of his being screamed for justice, for retribution. But Robb knew he couldn't act on impulse. He had to tread carefully, for the sake of the alliance, for the sake of Roslin, and for the sake of the child she carried.
As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, Robb stood at the edge of the bay, staring out at the sea. The battle was over, but his war was far from done.
As Robb stood in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, his gaze remained fixed ahead, barely glancing at Roslin, who stood beside him. In the stark light of day, he felt at a loss for words. The chaos of battle still lingered in his mind, and though she was right there, so close he could feel her presence, Robb couldn't bring himself to face her just yet. He wasn't ready for that conversation—the one where he would have to tell her everything. His time away had been filled with grief, loss, and hard decisions. Renly's death, Winterfell's recapture, and Theon's betrayal—how could he begin to explain it all? And, perhaps more than anything, he wasn't ready to hear what horrors she had faced in his absence.
Beside Roslin stood Sansa, pale and wide-eyed, her bloodshot gaze betraying how little sleep she'd had. Roslin had told him that she'd spent most of the night rocking Sansa, comforting her through her nightmares. The guilt weighed heavily on Robb, pulling at him with each glance he stole toward them. He had not been there for them, not during the battle, not when the city was on the brink of falling. His duties had kept him away, and though he knew his role was necessary, it didn't lessen the ache of regret.
Across the aisle, Margaery Tyrell and her brother, Ser Loras, stood quietly. Margaery looked different than she had the last time Robb had seen her in Renly's camp. Her hair, once carefully styled and pinned up, now flowed freely down her back. It gave her a more youthful appearance, perhaps intentionally so, for Joffrey's sake.
Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne, his expression bored, his gaze pointedly avoiding Robb and Roslin. Perhaps it was fear, or perhaps arrogance, but the boy-king had not acknowledged them once since they entered the hall. Robb knew the rumors about Joffrey's supposed relationship with Roslin had spread like wildfire through the capital. He wondered if the boy feared what Robb might say—or do—regarding the slander. The thought of confronting Joffrey right there, in front of the entire court, burned in his chest, but Robb knew better than to act on impulse.
At Joffrey's side, Queen Cersei sat like a shadow, leaning in every now and then to whisper into her son's ear. Whatever she was saying, it kept his attention, though Robb doubted her words carried any real wisdom. She was likely soothing the boy's insecurities or reminding him to keep his distance from the northern lord who had become both ally and enemy. The tension in the room was palpable, and every word exchanged between the queen and her son seemed to widen the gulf between the two factions of the court.
All around them, courtiers murmured and whispered, their eyes darting between Robb, Roslin, and Joffrey, as though they were waiting for a confrontation, for something to break the uneasy quiet. But Robb remained still, his jaw clenched, his thoughts locked away. Today was not the day for reckoning, though he could feel it looming, like a storm on the horizon.
The grand doors of the Great Hall swung open with a resounding thud, silencing the murmur of the court. All eyes turned as Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, rode in atop a majestic white steed. His armor gleamed in the morning light, and the soft clatter of his horse's hooves echoed through the vast chamber as he advanced, unmoved by the stares that followed him.
Joffrey, seated on the Iron Throne, rose to his feet, his voice ringing out with regal pretense. "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, the Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do hereby proclaim my grandfather, Tywin Lannister, the savior of the city and the Hand of the King."
A servant, standing nervously beside the throne, stepped forward holding the infamous Hand of the King's pin. The golden hand glimmered in the servant's trembling grip as he passed it carefully to Lord Tywin. Yet the Lord of Casterly Rock remained seated atop his horse, towering over the court with an aura of unyielding dominance.
Without dismounting, Tywin took the pin and, with practiced ease, affixed it to his jacket, its golden sheen stark against the deep crimson of his attire. He spared a brief glance at Joffrey, offering only the slightest nod of acknowledgment to his grandson, the gesture just enough to be considered respectful, but coolly distant. His mere presence alone spoke volumes—Tywin Lannister was now the true power behind the throne, and all in the hall knew it.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Tywin said curtly, turning his horse and exiting the hall without another word.
Joffrey then shifted his gaze, his cold eyes settling on Robb. "Lord Robb Stark, step forward," he commanded. Robb moved forward, kneeling before the Iron Throne, his head bowed.
"For your commendable service and resourcefulness in uniting the houses of Lannister, Stark, and Tyrell," Joffrey began, his voice echoing through the Great Hall, "once the crown has fully vanquished my treacherous uncle, I pledge 10,000 men to help you secure the North. Furthermore, I will grant you the finest builders in the capital to assist in the restoration of Winterfell."
The room remained silent, all eyes on the kneeling lord, waiting for his response to the king's generous, if politically laden, offer.
"You are too kind, Your Grace," Robb said, lifting his head to meet Joffrey's gaze. "I am most eager to return home, with my wife and our child."
Joffrey's smile barely reached his eyes. The meaning behind Robb's word hung in the air, though unspoken. The boy-king simply nodded, a silent dismissal, making it clear that he had no more interest in Robb for the moment.
"Ser Loras Tyrell," Joffrey continued, waving his hand to summon the knight forward. Loras approached the throne, kneeling in the same manner as Robb had before him. Robb could see the tension in Loras's movements—the knight clearly loathed the man sitting on the throne, but his face remained composed, his distaste hidden behind a mask of duty.
"Your house has come to our aid," Joffrey proclaimed, his tone grandiose. "The whole realm is in your debt, none more so than I. If your family desires anything of me, ask, and it shall be yours."
Robb could sense the weight of the moment as Loras Tyrell hesitated, his voice steady but the emotion behind it unmistakable. "Your Grace," Loras began, carefully choosing his words, "my sister, Margaery… her husband was taken from us before -" His voice faltered briefly, the pain evident. "She remains… innocent. I would ask that you find it in your heart to honour our house by joining it with yours."
The entire hall seemed to hold its breath as Joffrey's gaze shifted to Margaery. His expression, while still smug, softened slightly as he addressed her. "Is this what you want, Lady Margaery?"
Robb noticed Sansa beside him begin to fidget, anxiety flickering across her face. She had good reason to be nervous—this was a delicate moment, one that could change everything. But before Robb could act, he saw Roslin gently take Sansa's hand, offering a silent reassurance. Sansa stilled, holding herself with the composure expected of her.
"With all my heart, Your Grace," Margaery responded smoothly, her voice sultry and composed. "I have come to love you from afar, and the tales of your courage, wisdom, and strength have reached me long before I arrived in this city." Her eyes gleamed as she spoke, each word dripping with calculated affection. "Those tales have taken root deep inside of me."
Margaery's tone was laced with seduction, and the hall seemed captivated by her performance. Even Joffrey appeared momentarily flustered by her beauty and grace, his usual arrogance softened in her presence. It was a masterful play, one that Robb could see had already swayed the king's favor toward the Tyrells.
"I too have heard tales," Joffrey replied, his voice taking on an oily charm, "Of your beauty and grace, but the stories fall short, my lady. You are even more stunning than they claim. It would be my honor to return your affections." He paused, his expression darkening as he glanced at Sansa, his gaze filled with venom. "But… I am promised to another. A king must keep his word."
Cersei, ever the schemer, stepped in smoothly. "Your Grace, the judgment of your small council is that it would neither be proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man stripped of his titles after committing treason. While Lord Robb has fought valiantly for you," she said, her eyes briefly flitting to Robb, "we may forgive Eddard Stark's crimes, but we cannot forget them. In the interest of the realm, and with Lord Stark's permission, your council would ask that you consider setting Sansa Stark aside."
Joffrey's face twisted in a mix of satisfaction and cruelty as he acknowledged his mother's words. "I understand your wishes, Mother," he said, though his eyes flickered with mock reluctance. "But our betrothal was made before the gods."
Maester Pycelle hobbled forward, his voice rasping through the hall. "You are right, Your Grace. A betrothal made before the gods is sacred. However, I have spoken with the High Septon, and he has agreed that the betrothal can be annulled, provided the Starks accept this as their penance for Lord Eddard's treason."
All eyes turned to Robb as Cersei's voice rang out, "What say you, Lord Stark?"
Robb stood tall, though a storm of emotions swirled within him. He had to play his part, he had to play that this hurt him, "I understand my father's crimes may never be fully forgiven. Though it pains me and my sister, I accept the gods' punishment and agree to the annulment of Sansa's betrothal."
A smug smile spread across Joffrey's face as he stood. "The gods are merciful, and now I am free to follow my heart. I will gladly wed your sweet sister," he said, turning to Margaery with a look of false devotion. "You will be my queen, and I will love you from this day until my last day."
The hall erupted into applause, a show of forced enthusiasm that echoed off the stone walls. Robb glanced at Sansa, who stood rigid, her face a mask of quiet resignation. But then he noticed Roslin squeezing her hand tightly, offering silent support. A faint smile appeared on Sansa's lips—small, but it soon disappeared.
The court was dismissed, and Robb wasted no time. He turned sharply to Sansa, his voice low and urgent. "Keep walking. Keep your head down. You need to look devastated. He has to believe he's wounded us."
Sansa gave a small nod, her face already adopting the expression of a heartbroken, defeated girl. She moved beside him, her steps slow and faltering, playing the part perfectly. Roslin, walking on her other side, offered subtle but steadying support as the three of them made their way toward the exit, careful to avoid any lingering eyes.
They hadn't made it far when Petyr Baelish stepped into their path, his presence as slimy as ever. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark, Lady Sansa," he greeted with a polite smile, his tone a mockery of sympathy. He took Sansa's hand, pressing a kiss to it with a soft murmur. "My deepest condolences, my lady. Such a tragic turn of events."
Sansa, keeping her eyes downcast, played her part well. "Thank you, my lord," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But the Queen is right. I'm not good enough for the King." Her tone was perfectly measured, a hint of sadness with a dash of humility—exactly what Baelish would expect from a girl scorned.
Robb, not wanting to linger, stepped forward. "If you'll excuse us, Lord Baelish," he interrupted, his voice firm, "my sister is understandably upset, and I'd like to return to our chambers. We have much to prepare for our journey north."
Baelish's smile widened ever so slightly, his eyes glinting with the hint of a game only he knew the rules to. "Leaving so soon, Lord Stark?" he asked, his tone smooth but laced with something more. "I imagine the King will be most upset to see the Lady Roslin go. He's grown rather... fond of her company. But I understand. Home calls, and I'm sure Winterfell is a balm to a weary heart."
Robb's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the veiled implications. "We've been away too long," he said curtly. "Winterfell needs its Lord and Lady."
Baelish's eyes flickered between them, his smile never faltering. "Of course. But if I may, Lord Stark, I would caution patience. There are opportunities here in the capital... unexpected ones. Perhaps a conversation before your departure?" His gaze lingered on Roslin for just a moment longer than necessary, though his face remained unreadable.
Roslin instinctively moved closer to Robb, her discomfort palpable. Robb stepped between them, his voice as cold as the Northern winds. "My family comes first, Lord Baelish. Always."
Baelish's smile widened, as if amused by the response. "As it should," he said lightly. "I only mean to serve, my lord. A wise man never turns down good counsel... but I'm sure you already know that."
Robb gave a short, dismissive nod, his patience wearing thin. "Good day, Lord Baelish."
With that, Robb, Roslin, and Sansa continued their march through the hall, leaving Baelish behind. But as they walked away, Roslin couldn't help but feel the weight of his eyes on their backs, like a predator watching its prey.
Once they stepped into the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep, Robb's tense silence filled the air between them. The distant sounds of clanking armor and hushed whispers echoed, but Roslin could tell that Robb's mind was elsewhere—focused, determined, yet burdened.
"Sansa, go straight to your rooms and pack everything," Robb ordered in a low, firm voice, barely glancing at his sister. His eyes remained fixed ahead, sharp and unyielding. "We're leaving before the end of the week."
Sansa nodded, not questioning her brother's resolve. She cast a brief glance at Roslin, worry etched in her features, before she hurried down the hallway with Shae following close behind.
As their footsteps faded, Roslin felt the weight of their situation pressing down on her. Her heart raced, not only from the tension of the moment but from the growing fear that Robb wasn't telling her everything.
"Robb," she called softly, trying to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. "Do you truly think Joffrey will let us leave? Just like that?"
"He doesn't have a choice," Robb replied curtly, his voice hard. He didn't slow his pace, his eyes locked ahead as though he could will them out of the Keep by sheer force of determination.
Roslin quickened her steps, struggling to match his urgency. "Robb, please talk to me," she pleaded, frustration seeping into her voice. "What's going on? You're not telling me everything."
"Not here," he muttered, his tone clipped. He marched forward, his eyes scanning the darkened halls for any prying ears or lurking eyes.
The walk to their chambers felt longer than usual, the silence between them heavy and laden with unspoken fears. When they finally reached their rooms, Robb slammed the door behind them with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. He locked it swiftly, ensuring their privacy. Roslin stood by the door, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched him pace the room.
"Robb, what is going on?" she began again, her voice trembling with worry. She took a step closer, but before she could say more, Robb turned on his heel, striding towards her with an intensity she hadn't seen in him before.
Without a word, he crashed his lips against hers, his kiss urgent and desperate. It was a kiss that spoke of frustration, of fear, of love all tangled together in the mess that was now their lives. Roslin barely had time to respond before Robb's hands were on her, pulling her closer, as though he needed to feel her against him to remind himself that she was still there—that they were still alive.
Roslin gasped against his lips, surprised by the suddenness of his passion. She kissed him back, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, but the intensity of his need caught her off guard. His grip was almost too tight, his desperation too palpable.
"Robb," she whispered, pulling away just enough to catch her breath. "Talk to me. Please. What's happening?"
He rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving with each breath as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders. His eyes, dark and stormy, locked onto hers. For a moment, he didn't speak, as if he were gathering the strength to say the words he had been holding back.
"I don't deserve you," Robb whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "One day, you'll see me for the man I really am… and then… then I'll lose you."
Roslin's heart clenched at the raw emotion in his words, the weight of the guilt he carried evident in every syllable. She reached up, gently cupping his face in her hands, her thumb brushing over his cheek with a tenderness that was almost desperate. "You're not going to lose me," she whispered fiercely, her voice steady even as her heart ached for him. "But you have to talk to me, Robb. Let me help you. Please."
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of everything he had been holding onto was finally crushing him. His hands dropped to his sides, and for a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking. "I've killed, Roslin," he began, his voice low and rough. "Men who were fighting for what they believed in. Fighting for their king. And I cut them down. Every one of them had families, lives… people waiting for them. And I took that away. And the whole time…" His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists. "The whole time, I was thinking of you. Of our child."
"Robb…" Roslin began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.
"It's war," she tried again, her voice gentle but firm. "You can't possibly blame yourself for doing what you had to do. You fought to protect us, to survive—"
"And I left you here, alone with that monster," he said bitterly, his eyes darkening as he spoke. "I've heard the things they say. About you. About him. Joffrey. I know it's not true, but the thought of him being anywhere near you… of him claiming you, of him calling our child his—" His voice broke, and he turned away, as though the very thought was too much to bear.
Roslin's heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to let the fear in his eyes consume her. She stepped closer, taking his hands in hers and guiding them to her stomach, where their child grew. "This is your child, Robb," she said softly, her voice unwavering. "And I am your wife. You came back to me, and that's what matters. Nothing else."
Tears welled in Robb's eyes as he gazed at her, the intensity of his emotions almost too much to contain. Roslin reached up, brushing a stray tear from his cheek before leaning in to kiss him gently on the lips, a kiss filled with the promise of love, hope, and the future they would build together.
"Nothing else matters," Roslin whispered again, her lips brushing against his.
Robb closed his eyes, savoring the closeness, but her next words pulled him back to the harsh reality they faced.
"I don't believe for a second that Joffrey will simply let us leave," Roslin said, her voice steady but filled with concern. "We're not done here yet. But as long as Sansa is safe and we're safe, I will do anything to get out of here."
"That sounds like a promise, Lady Stark," Robb replied with a soft laugh, a glimmer of warmth cutting through the tension.
Roslin gave him a small, determined smile. "As long as you promise to take me home, Robb Stark."