Roslin XII

A/N: Warning for mentions of SA in this chapter. It's not explicit in detail and is spoken about after the fact.

"What about Jory?" Robb suggested, his hand gently stroking Roslin's hair, his touch tender as always. His gaze was soft as he looked down at her, lost in thought.

They had found a quiet spot deep within the palace gardens, away from prying eyes and the endless demands of court life. The secluded bench had become their sanctuary, tucked among blooming rose bushes and ancient trees, where the scent of flowers mixed with the warmth of the sun. They had been there for hours, basking in the tranquility of the afternoon. Roslin lay sprawled out on the bench, her head resting in Robb's lap, eyes half-closed as she soaked in the sun. The peace they found here was rare, and both savoured it.

"Why are you so certain it's a boy?" Roslin asked with a soft chuckle, opening her eyes and tilting her head to look up at him.

Robb smiled, his thumb gently tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. "I can tell already," he said with a playful gleam in his eye. "The way he kicks—strong, like a future Lord of Winterfell. And Jory... that's a strong name."

Roslin smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. "And what if, god's forbid, it is a girl?" she teased, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think she'd appreciate being named Jory."

Robb chuckled, his laughter warm and genuine. "Alright, you may have a point," he conceded, leaning back against the bench as the sun dappled through the leaves overhead. "But if it's a girl, what would we call her, then? Lyanna, perhaps? Or maybe something softer, like Bethany?" His voice softened as he spoke the names, as if the thought of having a daughter touched something deep within him.

Roslin smiled at the tenderness in his tone, reaching up to brush a stray lock of his auburn hair from his face. "Bethany?" she repeated, her eyes meeting his with a quiet, surprised warmth. "After my mother?"

Robb looked down at her, his expression earnest. "Yes," he said, gently running his fingers through her hair. "She gave you so much love, so much of who you are, Roslin. It would be an honour to name our daughter after her."

Roslin's heart swelled at his words, and for a moment, she was silent, her gaze drifting to the blooming flowers surrounding them. "I think she would've liked that," she murmured softly.

Robb leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Roslin's forehead, his lips brushing softly against her skin. "Then Bethany it is," he whispered, the warmth of his voice a gentle murmur against the calm of the garden. "A strong name for a little girl who'll have all the love we can give her." His hand rested protectively on her belly, and a faint, almost mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But I still think it's a boy."

Roslin smiled up at him, her hand covering his as they shared a quiet moment of hope and joy, imagining their future child. But just as she opened her mouth to tease him further, a voice from the path cut through the tranquility like a knife through silk.

"Lord Stark," came the call, its tone polite but far too familiar, too unwelcome for the serenity of the afternoon. "Lady Stark, how fortunate I am to come across you."

Roslin stiffened at the sound, her fingers curling instinctively into Robb's sleeve as she turned her head toward the source of the voice. Her contentment shattered the moment her eyes locked onto the figure striding toward them. Joffrey approached with his ever-present arrogance, a twisted smile playing on his lips. His arm was linked with Margaery Tyrell, her beauty radiant beside him, but the sight of Joffrey soured any comfort the scene might have brought.

Roslin's heart sank, her earlier joy evaporating like mist under the morning sun. The pleasant warmth of the garden seemed to fade as if winter had suddenly descended. She forced herself to sit up, instinctively moving closer to Robb, her protector, her anchor. Joffrey's mere presence was enough to turn the air cold, the garden no longer a haven but a stage for a confrontation.

Robb's jaw tightened at the sight of Joffrey, the light in his eyes dimming as his gaze hardened. "Your Grace, My Lady" Robb greeted, his voice steady but laced with the tension of a wolf ready to defend its pack.

Joffrey's smirk widened as he took in the scene before him. "Ah, don't let me interrupt," he said, his words dripping with insincerity. "You both looked so... comfortable."

Margaery offered a graceful nod, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She glanced between Robb and Roslin with the practiced ease of someone used to navigating dangerous waters. "It's lovely to see you both," she added, her voice smooth and honeyed, though a flicker of concern passed over her face as her gaze lingered on Roslin.

Robb's arm tightened around Roslin's waist, his protective instincts kicking in as he kept his eyes fixed on Joffrey. "What brings you here?" Robb asked, his tone sharp but controlled, as though he were speaking to a dangerous animal that might lash out at any moment.

"Oh, I was simply enjoying a stroll with my betrothed," Joffrey said, the words thick with pride, as if he needed to remind them all of his impending marriage. His gaze flicked to Roslin, a cruel glint dancing in his eyes. "I couldn't help but notice how lovely Lady Stark looks today. Motherhood seems to suit you."

Roslin swallowed hard, her hand gripping Robb's arm even tighter. She refused to let Joffrey see her fear, though the effort of keeping her composure in his presence felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on her chest. "Thank you, Your Grace," she managed to say, her voice quieter than she intended.

Joffrey's smirk twisted into something darker. "Perhaps one day, I'll have children of my own, wouldn't that be something?" he said, casting a sidelong glance at Margaery, who remained composed, though her smile faltered for the briefest of moments.

Robb's eyes darkened. "You and Lady Margaery will no doubt have many heirs," he said, his words polite but edged with a warning.

"Indeed," Joffrey said, clearly enjoying the unease his presence caused. He let his gaze wander back to Roslin, lingering for just a moment too long. "Though I can't imagine how dreadful it must be to carry such a burden in the middle of a war, especially when you were without your lord husband for so long."

Robb's patience snapped, though his tone remained dangerously calm. "My wife carries no burden, Your Grace."

Joffrey's eyes flashed with annoyance, but before he could retort, Margaery interjected smoothly, her voice as soothing as a cool breeze. "We mustn't intrude on their time, my love. Lord and Lady Stark deserve their peace, don't you agree?"

Joffrey's smirk faltered, just for an instant, before he quickly regained his composure. For a fleeting moment, Margaery's calming presence seemed to temper his need to provoke further. "Of course, my dear," he purred, lifting Margaery's hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her fingers, his gaze never leaving Robb. The gesture was charming enough on the surface, but beneath it, there was a cold calculation in his eyes. Then, Joffrey's voice brightened with a sudden burst of excitement, as if a new game had come to mind. "You've reminded me of something, love."

Margaery smiled, ever poised, though her eyes flicked warily between Joffrey and Robb. "And what might that be, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice as gentle as a breeze. "Shall we return to your chambers to discuss it?"

"No need," Joffrey replied, the cruel glint in his eyes returning. "This concerns Lord Stark as well." He shifted his attention to Robb, a twisted pleasure dancing in his gaze as he delivered the news. "I have offered your brother Willas a position on my small council."

Roslin stiffened beside Robb, her heart sinking as dread washed over her. She knew exactly what this was—Joffrey's move in a deadly game of chess. He had heard of the Tyrells' interest in Sansa, and now he was positioning himself to keep her in King's Landing.

Robb's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a tight line, but he remained silent, waiting for Joffrey to continue.

"You've spoken so highly of him, my love," Joffrey said, his voice almost sweet as he looked at Margaery. "How clever and capable Willas is. And as it happens, I am in need of a new Master of Coin." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, savoring the tension.

Roslin's mind raced, and before she could stop herself, the question tumbled from her lips. "But what of Lord Tyrion?" she asked, her voice betraying the worry she felt.

Joffrey turned to her with a thin smile, his eyes gleaming with malice. "My uncle will no longer be serving on the council after my wedding," he said, with a casual shrug, as though dismissing Tyrion's future entirely. "It seems my grandfather has named him his heir and wishes for him to return to Casterly Rock."

Roslin's heart skipped a beat. Tywin naming Tyrion his heir? It seemed impossible. The Lannister patriarch had never shown anything but disdain for Tyrion. Yet, Joffrey's smirk told her there was more to the story—there always was with the Lannisters.

Joffrey turned back to Margaery, a gleam of pride in his voice as he continued, "I thought you'd be pleased, my love. You've spoken so much about missing Highgarden. Now, I've brought a piece of Highgarden here for you." His tone softened, an almost sickening sweetness in it, as if he were offering her a gift instead of a ploy. "This way, you can continue building your friendship with Lady Sansa once she and Willas are wed. Or..." His smirk deepened, his gaze flicking briefly to Robb and then back to Margaery. "Was I not supposed to know about that?"

Margaery's expression remained perfectly composed, but the tightening of her grip on Joffrey's arm betrayed her unease. She smiled politely, though the air between them crackled with tension. "We had hoped to share the news with you at a more appropriate time, Your Grace," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "I'm certain Lord Willas will be honored by your offer."

Robb's silence was thick with barely restrained anger. His jaw clenched as he watched Joffrey play his games, his mind undoubtedly racing with the implications of the Tyrells' alliance growing stronger within the court. Roslin could feel the tension radiating from him, a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

Joffrey, sensing the unease he'd created, seemed to revel in it. "I thought as much," he said, his grin widening as he turned to face Robb fully. "And you, Lord Stark? Surely you must be pleased that your sister will be well cared for. A match with House Tyrell is a strong one, after all."

Robb's icy blue eyes met Joffrey's, his face impassive though fury simmered beneath the surface. "I'm sure Sansa's happiness is of great concern to you, Your Grace," he said, his voice low but steady. "As it is to me."

The words were laced with a warning, but Joffrey only smiled wider, leaning in ever so slightly as if testing how far he could push. "Of course. We all want what's best for Lady Sansa, don't we?" His gaze lingered on Robb for a moment longer before he straightened, returning his attention to Margaery. "Come, my love. Let us leave the Starks to their... peace."

With that, Joffrey turned on his heel, leading Margaery away, his laughter echoing faintly through the garden. As they disappeared from view, Roslin let out a shaky breath, her grip still tight on Robb's arm.

"I don't trust him," she whispered, her voice barely audible as the weight of Joffrey's words hung heavy between them.

Robb's eyes remained fixed on the path where Joffrey had gone, his jaw still clenched. "Neither do I," he replied, his voice as cold as the northern winds. "And I never will."

It was early evening when Roslin finally returned to her chambers, the sun dipping low in the sky and casting long shadows through the castle corridors. She closed the door softly behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she tried to catch her breath.

Robb had decided to train this evening, a routine he had adopted more frequently as their time in the capitol dragged on. He claimed it was to "maintain his edge," but Roslin suspected it was more of a necessary outlet for his pent-up energy and anxiety. With so much weighing on his shoulders, she knew that keeping physically active helped him to clear his mind, if only temporarily.

He would never voice it outright, but she could see the flicker of fear in his eyes during their more intimate moments—the way his brow would furrow slightly when he thought she wasn't looking. Robb was terrified of the future, and it weighed heavily on him. He often spoke of his worries about the Northerners' acceptance of him when they returned to Winterfell. Would they still see him as their rightful lord? Would they trust his leadership after everything that had transpired? Those thoughts gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn't quite reach, and Roslin felt helpless in the face of such uncertainty.

Then there was the matter of their child, who would soon be brought into a world fraught with danger. Would he be strong enough to protect them both? Could he truly live up to the mantle of a father when there were battles to fight and enemies to outwit?

She made her way to the small table in her chamber, where she had left some embroidery projects. Picking up the delicate fabric, she started to work on a piece for their baby, threading vibrant colors into the fabric with each stitch. It was a small comfort, a tangible reminder that amidst all the chaos, they were creating something beautiful.

Roslin was engrossed in her embroidery, the rhythmic movement of the needle soothing her racing thoughts, when a piercing scream shattered the evening's tranquility. "Roslin! Robb!" The urgency in Sansa's voice propelled her from her seat, her heart racing as she hurried toward the sound.

Bursting into the corridor, Roslin found Sansa stumbling towards her, panic etched across her face. The sight was jarring; the young girl's dress was torn, its delicate fabric hanging in tatters, and a vivid red mark marred her cheek, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Roslin's heart clenched at the sight.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sansa spotted her and bolted forward, throwing herself into Roslin's waiting arms. The force of the embrace nearly knocked Roslin off her feet, but she quickly steadied them both, wrapping her arms tightly around Sansa as if to shield her from whatever horrors lay outside.

"Shh, it's alright, Sansa," Roslin murmured softly, stroking the girl's hair as she tried to calm her racing heart. "You're safe now."

Sansa's breath came in rapid bursts, her body trembling against Roslin's. "He was… he," she gasped between sobs, "I didn't mean to be in the way!"

Roslin's chest tightened as she realized the implications of Sansa's words. "Who?" she asked, concern lacing her voice as she scanned the corridor for any signs of danger. "What happened?"

"Joffrey. I didn't mean to run into him, but he… he and I didn't mean to—" Sansa's words tumbled out in a rush, her distress evident as her voice quivered with fear.

Roslin's protective instincts kicked in. "Come on, we need to get you inside." With one hand gently guiding Sansa, she maneuvered the two of them into her chambers, shutting the door behind them with a firm click. The heavy oak door felt like a barrier against the world outside, a temporary sanctuary from the cruelty that lurked in the shadows.

"Sansa, I need you to be very clear with me," Roslin said gently, but firmly, as Sansa's sobs echoed in the room. "I know you're scared, but please, I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Did he hurt you?"

Roslin's heart raced as she recalled her own terrifying encounter with Joffrey. She could still feel the weight of him pinning her down, the suffocating fear that had gripped her when Tyrion had intervened just in time. The thought of that nightmare happening to Sansa made her stomach churn. She prayed that Joffrey hadn't succeeded with Sansa, where he'd failed with her.

"At first, he was kind—at least for Joffrey," Sansa began, her voice shaky as memories tumbled back, dark and tumultuous. "He congratulated me on my betrothal and then he…"

Roslin leaned closer, her heart pounding as she sensed the weight of Sansa's hesitation. "What did he say, Sansa? You can tell me."

Sansa took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she gripped Roslin's tightly. "He asked me if I was doing it on purpose… playing with him on purpose," she whispered, her voice wavering. "He said that he wanted me, and every time he saw me, he thought about…" Sansa couldn't finish the sentence but she didn't need to. Roslin knew exactly what he had said because Joffrey had said the same thing to her only a few months ago. A wave of protective anger surged within her.

Sansa continued, her voice trembling as she spoke. "He told me that he was going to keep me in King's Landing, that Willas wouldn't be able to protect me—nobody would." Tears streamed down her face, each drop a testament to the fear and despair that threatened to swallow her whole. She struggled to keep her composure as she continued, "Then he said that on my wedding night, he would come to me first before Willas, that he would put his bastard in my belly, and that I would always be his." The cruel weight of his words hung in the air, chilling Roslin to the bone.

Sansa's gaze dropped, the despair settling heavily on her shoulders. "Then he kissed me," she said through sobs, her voice breaking. "I pushed him away, but that's when he hit me. He called me a whore." Each word dripped with pain, and Roslin felt her heart shatter for her friend.

"And then he said he'd changed his mind," Sansa continued, her voice trembling as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. "He said he didn't want to wait." The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, a leaden shroud that suffocated the fragile sense of safety they had shared just moments before. Roslin felt a wave of sickness wash over her, her stomach churning as she braced herself for what was to come. She could already anticipate the dark turn the conversation was taking, and the terror in Sansa's eyes mirrored her own growing dread.

"He dragged me into his room, tore my dress…" Sansa's voice faltered, and for a moment, she seemed to retreat into herself, struggling against the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. "I tried to stop him but— " Her words broke off, the emotion choking her as she buried her face in her hands, unable to finish the sentence.

Roslin reached out, pulling Sansa into a tight embrace, feeling the tremors of her body against her own. She could sense the horror that Sansa had endured, and each shuddering breath her friend took was a reminder of the fragility of their situation. "It's alright," Roslin murmured, her own heart pounding in her chest, "you're safe now. You're with me."

Sansa leaned into her, seeking comfort in her warmth. But the weight of her words was heavy, and as she spoke, Roslin felt her heart sink further. "And then when he was finished," Sansa managed to choke out, her voice barely a whisper, "he said no one would want me now and that if I was lucky, I'd be carrying his child, and I should pray that I am."

The cruelty in Joffrey's words cut through the air like a knife, leaving a chilling silence in its wake. Roslin felt a wave of rage and protectiveness swell within her, mingling with her sorrow for her friend. She tightened her grip on Sansa, as if by sheer will, she could shield her from the lingering shadows of what had just happened. She held Sansa tighter, whispering reassurances while her mind raced, plotting ways to protect her friend from the monster lurking in the castle's shadows. "We'll figure this out, I promise," she vowed, determination fueling her resolve. "You're not alone in this, Sansa. I won't let him hurt you again."

Then the doors to the room swung open with a loud bang that made both girls flinch. Robb stood in the doorway, breathless and clearly alarmed; he must have heard their cries echoing through the halls. As he took in the sight before him—Sansa and Roslin huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth faces streaked with tears—his expression shifted from confusion to concern. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.