Robb XII
The morning sun had barely begun to creep over the city walls when Robb made his way to the Tower of the Hand, the shadowy halls of the Red Keep still eerily quiet. He moved with purpose, though every step felt heavier than the last. The last thing he wanted was another conversation with Tywin Lannister. He would have much preferred to be gathering his family and ride for Winterfell, putting as much distance between them and King's Landing as possible. But Robb knew better—he understood the delicate game of politics. Keeping the Lannisters appeased, especially after the victory at Blackwater, was crucial for his survival.
As he walked, his mind raced with thoughts of the dangers they still faced. Stannis was no longer the immediate threat, his forces either destroyed or scattered, but Robb knew Joffrey all too well. The boy-king was volatile, cruel, and vengeful. It wouldn't take much for his attentions to shift—he was surrounded by flatterers and sycophants who could easily twist his fragile mind.
As Robb pushed open the heavy wooden door, the scent of parchment and wax filled his senses. Behind a large, imposing desk sat Tywin Lannister, every inch the calculating lord that Robb had come to expect. His silver hair gleamed in the soft light, and his sharp eyes barely glanced up as Robb entered, still fixated on a parchment in his hands. A towering pile of documents lay beside him, no doubt reports, letters, and strategies for solidifying the Lannister grip on the realm.
"Ah, Lord Stark," Tywin said, his voice cool and measured, as if Robb's presence were nothing more than a minor detail in his grander schemes. He didn't bother standing, merely acknowledging Robb with the faintest nod. "Thank you for joining me. We have much to discuss."
Robb forced himself to maintain his composure, though his instincts screamed at him to do anything but. There was something deeply unsettling about the man before him—Tywin had an air of indifference that made him all the more dangerous. He didn't need to raise his voice to command a room, and Robb could feel the weight of his calculating gaze as he finally looked up from the papers.
Robb inclined his head slightly in response. "Lord Hand," he replied, stepping further into the room. His eyes briefly darted to the papers scattered across the desk—maps of the North, troop movements, letters from lords sworn to the crown.
"Sit," Tywin gestured to the chair across from him without any warmth. It wasn't a request, more of an expectation. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat before he complied, lowering himself into the chair and keeping his posture straight, shoulders squared. He was here as the Lord of Winterfell, and he wouldn't let the older man intimidate him, even if the Lannisters held all the cards for now.
Tywin set aside the parchment he had been reading and folded his hands in front of him. "You've proven yourself a capable leader, Lord Stark," he began, his tone clipped but with an air of finality that suggested he was about to pivot to something far more important. "The realm is at a delicate juncture. With Stannis defeated and Renly dead, their claims to the throne is all but extinguished. That leaves us with an opportunity... to restore order, but also to eliminate any lingering threats to the crown." He let the words hang, watching Robb closely for his reaction.
Robb's jaw clenched, but he didn't let his face betray his thoughts. "Order?" he repeated carefully. "Or control?"
Tywin's lips curled into something resembling a smile, though it lacked any warmth. "What's the difference, Lord Stark? One cannot exist without the other. Joffrey is king now, and the realm needs stability. The North, as well as the South."
Robb's mind raced. He knew that Tywin wasn't just speaking of distant enemies. He was talking about consolidating power, about ensuring that no one, not even the Starks, would challenge the Lannisters' hold over Westeros.
"I've no desire for further bloodshed," Robb said, choosing his words cautiously. "My only wish is to return to Winterfell and to restore my lands."
Tywin leaned back in his chair, his cold gaze fixed on Robb, the hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips, though it never reached his eyes. "Of course," he said smoothly, his voice rich with calculated diplomacy. "I would be failing in my duties as Hand of the King, however, if I didn't ask you to consider staying here, in the capital." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the air between them.
Robb's brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"You've shown yourself to have a good mind," Tywin continued, his tone almost complimentary, though it carried an undercurrent of condescension. "Even if you are young and prone to certain... impulsive decisions. But that can be tempered with time and the right guidance. I can offer you a place on the King's council, where your voice might carry influence in matters that affect the realm. You'd be in a position to safeguard your family's interests."
Robb's mind raced as he weighed the implications of the offer. He could already sense the strings attached, the subtle manipulation that Tywin was weaving. A place on the council was no small thing—being tied to the capital, tied to the Lannisters, would grant him proximity to power, but it would also entangle him in the toxic politics of King's Landing, and worse, bind him to Joffrey's reign.
Tywin's sharp eyes studied his silence, a knowing glint in them. "Your sister," he pressed on, "seems to have grown comfortable here in the South. Sansa may have been unfortunate in her original betrothal, but I hear she has found a certain... acceptance among those who reside here. She could thrive, with the right arrangements and it wouldn't be hard for us to find her a more suitable southern husband. Your wife, too, seems to have made a few allies of her own."
Robb's lips tightened into a thin line. His thoughts flew to Sansa, who had been forced to endure so much at the hands of the Lannisters and Joffrey, and to Roslin, who had been thrust into the viper's nest and somehow managed to survive, even thrive, despite the danger all around her. He could not deny that both women had adapted to their new realities, but that didn't mean they were safe. And it certainly didn't mean he wanted to remain here in this nest of treachery.
Tywin, sensing his hesitation, pressed further. "The North may be your home, but it is isolated. The Seven Kingdoms are vast, and those who refuse to engage with the rest of the realm... tend to find themselves isolated in other ways. You could build a legacy here, Lord Stark. One that ensures your family's safety and prosperity for generations to come. Leave your father to rule the North, at least for a short while."
"I appreciate your offer, Lord Tywin," Robb began slowly, carefully weighing each word. "But my duty is to the North. My people need me. Winterfell must be rebuilt, and the North requires strong leadership after the devastation it has endured." He paused, locking eyes with Tywin, letting the weight of his convictions settle in the room. "My family's place is in the North, and that is where we will return."
Tywin leaned back in his chair, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his lips, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. "I expected no different, Lord Stark," he said smoothly, his tone almost amused as though Robb's rejection had been a predictable move on a chessboard. "But you can't blame me for asking. It's the Hand's duty to explore all possibilities." He steepled his fingers, considering Robb for a moment. "Let us, then, consider other ways to unite our houses."
Robb's jaw clenched slightly. He knew there was always an angle with Tywin Lannister—always another route to power.
"Joffrey was a poor match for your sister," Tywin continued, his voice casual but sharp as a blade. "That boy is in need of a woman who can keep him in line, and I don't think your sister was up for the challenge. Margaery Tyrell however may just succeed where Sansa failed."
Robb agreed in silence.He didn't want to think about the future Sansa might have endured, had her engagement to Joffrey gone forward. The cruelty, the endless manipulation—it would have crushed her spirit.
Tywin shifted slightly in his chair, his sharp eyes never leaving Robb. "Sansa may be free from that particular arrangement, but her value remains undiminished. The Stark name carries great weight, especially now that your sister has shown a growing aptitude for navigating the intricacies of the court. Her future, Lord Stark, is something that requires careful consideration. There are still alliances to be forged." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "For instance, I have several nephews who remain unwed. Or even Jaime—perhaps it's time he settled down."
A chill ran down Robb's spine at the suggestion. Sansa wasn't free, her value as a political pawn had merely shifted. The Lannisters still saw her as a tool to secure their own power. Jaime Lannister, one of the very men who had caused his family so much grief, was now being suggested as a potential husband for Sansa? The thought made Robb's blood run cold.
"My sister is not some piece to be bartered or bargained with," Robb interjected, his voice low but firm, laced with barely contained anger. "She is my family, not a pawn for your games. Sansa will return to Winterfell with me, where she belongs."
Tywin didn't flinch at Robb's tone, but a cool, knowing gleam flickered in his eyes. He leaned back, his fingers tapping together as he studied Robb carefully, like a predator assessing the strength of its prey. "As you wish," he said coolly, but Robb knew the conversation was far from over. Tywin never let an opportunity for manipulation slip away, and Robb could see that glint now—the flicker of a predator circling its prey.
"But tell me this," Tywin continued, his voice smooth and measured, "will Sansa truly be happy back in the North? Winterfell may be her home, but the North is a far cry from the life she's experienced here." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "When the time comes for her to marry—and it will come sooner than you think—will she eagerly wed a forty-year-old Northern lord with five sons already from a previous wife? A man who can offer her nothing more than a cold castle and a life of duty?"
Robb's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. Sansa had already suffered so much. Robb knew she longed for the safety and familiarity of home, but Tywin was not wrong in suggesting that the life of a Northern lady would be starkly different from the glittering halls of the capital.
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, becoming almost conspiratorial. "The thing about girls of a certain age," he said, "is once they've tasted what it's like to stand beside power—real power—nothing else will ever suffice. She has seen the court, the way people bow and scrape, the way decisions made in a single room here shape the entire realm. And you cannot keep her locked away in Winterfell forever, Robb."
Robb stiffened at the sound of his name. He knew exactly what he was doing, needling at Robb's insecurities, making him question his ability to protect and provide for his sister.
"Sansa will be a woman within the next year or so," Tywin continued, his voice soft but laced with authority. "And a woman of her station requires a husband. Do you truly believe you can shield her from this fate forever? Sooner or later, she will need to marry, and the North may not hold the allure for her that it once did. Not after everything she's experienced here."
Robb's temper flared. Tywin's words were venomous, designed to twist the knife in his gut. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him—Sansa's future, her happiness, her safety. But he would not let Tywin manipulate him into making a rash decision. His sister had suffered enough, and he would not throw her back into the jaws of the political wolves for the sake of convenience.
"Winterfell may not be King's Landing," Robb said, his voice steady but firm, "but it is her home. Sansa deserves peace, not more schemes and manipulation. I won't let her become a pawn in someone else's game again."
Tywin's eyes flickered, as if amused by Robb's resistance. "Peace," he mused, his voice low and contemplative. "A rare commodity in this world, Lord Stark. You should ask yourself if it's something you can truly offer her. Winterfell may seem like a refuge, but the North is hardly safe. The Ironborn still threaten your lands, and who knows what other dangers lurk in the shadows?"
Robb clenched his fists, his mind racing. Tywin was right about one thing—the North was far from stable. But the very idea of Sansa being manipulated by the Lannisters for the rest of her life was unbearable. His sister had already been a pawn in their games, and he was determined to put an end to that.
Tywin, ever the master strategist, seemed to sense Robb's inner conflict. He arched an eyebrow slightly, as if amused by Robb's turmoil. "But it is your decision to make," Tywin finally said, his tone smooth and calculated, as though he was willing to grant Robb this one victory for the moment. "If you truly believe that Sansa is safest at Winterfell, then of course that is where she should be."
The conversation, at least regarding Sansa, was over. Tywin's voice held no room for further discussion, and the elder Lannister rose from his seat. He walked toward the large window behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over King's Landing. The sun's rays filtered through the glass, casting an ominous golden glow over the room as Tywin turned his thoughts to another matter entirely.
"Now," Tywin began, his voice taking on a more formal, businesslike tone, "the true purpose of this meeting. Let us discuss the men that the crown has promised you."
Robb straightened in his chair, his attention now fully captured. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the resources he needed to reclaim his home, to drive out the enemies who had taken it from him. The prospect of bolstering his forces brought a brief surge of hope, one that he clung to amidst the uncertainty of his position.
"As agreed, the crown will provide you with 10,000 men to help resecure the North," Tywin began, his words measured. "This is in addition to the 2,000 men already on their way to Winterfell as we speak."
Robb felt a sense of relief wash over him. With those numbers, he would have a real chance of restoring order and reclaiming Winterfell from any forces that dared oppose him. His grip on the North could finally be strengthened, the Starks could rule their lands once again—but then Tywin spoke again, and the flicker of hope dimmed.
"However," Tywin continued, turning slightly from the window to glance at Robb, "the men are tired. They have fought hard and will require rest before they march north again. Therefore, the crown humbly asks that you remain here in the capital for a few months."
Robb's relief evaporated. His jaw tightened as he instinctively began to protest. "But—"
Tywin held up a hand, cutting him off. His voice remained calm, though there was an undeniable finality to it. "Tired men will not win battles, Lord Stark. You would be sending them to their deaths if they marched immediately."
Robb swallowed the lump of frustration that was rising in his throat. He understood the logic behind Tywin's words, but the idea of lingering in King's Landing, surrounded by Lannisters, while his home remained vulnerable was maddening.
Tywin continued smoothly, his tone as unyielding as stone. "The King's wedding to Lady Margaery Tyrell will take place in two months' time on the first day of the new year. Once the festivities are over, you may take your men and return to Winterfell."
Robb's stomach churned at the thought of staying here for another two months, but Tywin pressed on. "The realm needs something to celebrate, Lord Stark," Tywin said, his voice laced with an odd sort of condescension, as though explaining something to a child. "Moving straight from one war to another will serve no one. This wedding will bring stability to the realm, and you will have your men in the best condition possible to reclaim the North."
The pragmatism in Tywin's argument was difficult to refute. War-weary men could not fight effectively, and the North would be a treacherous campaign. Even Robb knew that. But the delay still grated on him. He had been so close to seeing a clear path home, only for it to be snatched away yet again.
Tywin, sensing Robb's resistance, offered one final point to sweeten the deal. "In the meantime, your wife can assist Lady Margaery in learning the ways of the court. It will give you the opportunity to solidify your alliances here, and you will be able to return to the North in time for your child's birth."
The mention of his unborn child caught Robb off guard, stirring something deep within him. The desire to protect his family, to bring them home safely, was all-consuming. Tywin had masterfully woven a plan that played on Robb's deepest instincts—the need for his men to be strong, for his family to be safe, and for him to fulfill his duties as both a lord and a father.
Robb took a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts. His instinct was to leave King's Landing as soon as possible, to get far away from the Lannisters and their manipulations. But Tywin had effectively tied his hands. If he wanted the full strength of the crown's forces, he had to wait. And two months, though frustrating, was a small price to pay for the security of his family and the future of the North.
"I understand," Robb said, his voice tight but controlled. "We will stay until the wedding."
Tywin inclined his head slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as if he had expected no other outcome. "Very wise, Lord Stark," he said.
Robb gave a stiff nod, the weight of Tywin's words settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew this was a game of politics and power, and for now, he had no choice but to play along. But in the back of his mind, one thought remained clear: he would not let the Lannisters control him any longer than necessary. Two months. No more, no less.