Roslin XVI
Roslin walked through the dim, winding halls of King's Landing, her footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. The castle, always alive with bustling courtiers and whispering conspiracies, felt unnaturally still. A cold shiver ran down her spine, but she pressed forward, unsure where she was heading. Eventually, she found herself standing before a door she didn't recognise, its heavy wood slightly ajar.
Hesitating only for a moment, she pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was soft and warm, bathed in the glow of candlelight, and she realised with a start that it must be a nursery. In the center, a delicate bassinet rested beneath a canopy of pale silk. Something pulled her toward it. She walked slowly, her heart thudding in her chest as she approached.
Peering over the edge, she saw a small bundle nestled in blankets. Her breath caught in her throat as she gazed down at the baby girl, who blinked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. Roslin knew, without a doubt, this child was hers—hers and Robb's. A wave of emotion flooded through her, overwhelming and fierce. She gently lifted the baby into her arms, cradling her against her chest, feeling the warmth and weight of her daughter as though it were the most real thing she had ever known.
"You're so perfect," she whispered, rocking the child gently. Tears prickled at her eyes as she gazed at her baby, feeling an overwhelming love and protectiveness bloom inside her. But as the sense of peace settled over her, a shadow stirred at the edge of the room.
"She's beautiful," a voice murmured from behind her, soft yet filled with venom.
Roslin froze, her entire body going cold. She turned sharply, her heart hammering in her chest, and there—standing in the flickering candlelight—was Joffrey. His face was pale, his expression twisted into a mocking smile. Blood poured freely from a jagged wound in his chest, staining the front of his royal tunic, just as it had when she stabbed him. The child in her arms was gone and was instead in his arms. He was dead, she had killed him, but here he stood, cradling her child as if he had never left.
"Just like her mother," Joffrey said, his voice a sickeningly sweet mockery. His fingers curled possessively around the baby as he held her too close, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Maybe I'll hurt her… like you hurt me."
"No!" Roslin gasped, stepping forward instinctively, her arms reaching out to snatch her daughter back from him. But her feet wouldn't move, as if the very ground beneath her had turned to ice.
Joffrey grinned, a cruel and twisted expression as the blood continued to spill from his chest, dripping down his arms. "You think you can be rid of me, Roslin?" His voice was thick with taunting mockery. "You may have killed me, but I'm not gone. I'll never be gone. I'll live on… in you… in Sansa… in my child."
Roslin's breath hitched in her throat as she watched the blood-streaked figure of Joffrey, holding her child with such a terrifying sense of ownership.
"Do you think the child will look more like me or Sansa?" he asked with a twisted grin. "Just imagine... Sansa spending the rest of her life raising a child with my face, a constant reminder of me. He'll be like me…my son…just like me."
"Give her back!" Roslin demanded, her voice cracking, but her feet remained glued to the ground, unable to close the distance between them.
Joffrey's lips curled into a sneer. "You'll never escape me, Roslin. You'll never be free. You may think you can hide from the things you've done—but I'll always be there, in your head."
Roslin's heart pounded violently against her ribs, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room seemed to grow darker, closing in on her as Joffrey's grip on her daughter tightened.
Suddenly, the baby began to cry, a thin, frightened wail that cut through Roslin like a blade. "No! No, please!" she screamed, her voice full of desperation. Her arms strained, reaching out into the void, but Joffrey's laugh echoed through the room—a haunting sound that clawed at her sanity.
"You'll never be free of me, Roslin Frey," Joffrey whispered as his eyes glowed with a sinister light. "Never."
With that, the world around her shattered. The room dissolved into darkness, and Roslin jolted awake, her body drenched in cold sweat, her heart racing as though it were trying to escape her chest. She sat up in bed, trembling, her hands gripping the blankets as though they could tether her to reality.
It was a nightmare.
Just a nightmare.
But the terror clung to her, and as she glanced toward the corner of the room, she could have sworn, for a fleeting second, that she saw a shadowy figure standing there, watching her—before it melted into the darkness.
Roslin lay back, her pulse still thundering in her ears. Joffrey might be dead, but his hold on her wasn't gone. He haunted her every waking moment, his ghost lingering in her thoughts, in her fears, in her very soul.
She knew it wasn't over. Not yet.
The morning after the funeral, Robb and Roslin made the decision to seek an audience with Tywin Lannister. His absence during the post-funeral gathering had not gone unnoticed, and Robb had grown weary of waiting. They needed Tywin's permission to leave King's Landing and return to Winterfell, especially now that Joffrey was gone. Though Robb had hoped to receive the promised reinforcements for the North, his patience with the political games of the capital was wearing thin.
As they prepared to visit Tywin, Robb noticed the quiet determination on Roslin's face. She had been distant since the funeral, avoiding any real conversation about Joffrey's death, but today, they would face Tywin together. Steeling themselves, they walked through the halls of the Red Keep, aware that their request might not be well received, but determined nonetheless. It was time to return home—before King's Landing devoured them both.
Robb and Roslin walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, the morning light casting long shadows as they made their way toward Tywin's chambers. The usual hustle and bustle of the castle had been muted in the days since Joffrey's death, the air heavy with grief, suspicion, and whispered rumors. Servants glanced at them as they passed, but no one spoke. Roslin clutched Robb's arm tighter than usual, her face pale but composed.
Robb, though resolved, felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He was no longer the rebellious Young Wolf. His focus was on securing the North, returning to Winterfell, and protecting his people. Joffrey's death, though something Robb might have privately celebrated, had thrown the political landscape into chaos. Now, he and Roslin had to navigate that chaos carefully.
They reached the doors to the Tower of the Hand. Two guards stood at attention, their gazes cold and unyielding as they recognized the Stark lord approaching. Robb raised his hand in a signal to knock when they reached the council room, but the door opened slightly before he had the chance. A familiar figure stepped out: Ser Kevan Lannister, Tywin's brother, his expression as severe as ever. He looked the couple up and down, his eyes lingering briefly on Roslin before turning to Robb.
"My lord, Lady Stark," Kevan said, inclining his head, though it was clear his greeting was more out of formality than respect. "Lord Tywin will see you now."
Robb nodded and followed Kevan inside, Roslin at his side. The chamber was dimly lit, the smell of parchment, ink, and dust heavy in the air. Tywin sat at a large oak desk, surrounded by papers and maps, quill in hand as he scratched something across a sheet of parchment. He didn't look up immediately, finishing his writing before acknowledging their presence.
"Lord Stark. Lady Roslin." His voice was steady, cold, devoid of any emotion that might suggest they were anything more than pawns on his chessboard. He placed the quill down, finally lifting his gaze to meet theirs. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this early visit?"
Robb didn't hesitate. "Lord Tywin, I am here to request permission to leave King's Landing. With the King's death, the North needs me more than ever, and my wife and I must return to Winterfell."
Tywin's gaze flickered, his sharp eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, a gesture that seemed more calculating than relaxed. His fingers steepled in front of him, creating an air of authority as he studied Robb and Roslin with cold intensity.
"You are asking to leave?" he repeated, the disbelief in his voice subtle but unmistakable. His brow furrowed, and the corners of his mouth tightened into a grim line. "The city is on lockdown following the death of the King. No one is to leave until his killer has been found and punished."
The words hung heavy in the air, a thinly veiled warning. Tywin's tone carried the weight of not only law but also an unspoken threat—a declaration that no one, not even the Lord of the North, could flout his authority or the crown's need for justice.
Robb felt the subtle tightening in his chest as Tywin's cold gaze pinned him in place. The implication was clear: any attempt to leave now would be seen as suspicious. And perhaps worse, it would be a direct defiance of the Lannisters' iron grip over the city in its time of mourning and chaos. The news of Joffrey's murder had thrown King's Landing into a state of paranoia, and Tywin wasn't about to let the North's most powerful lord walk out of the city without scrutiny.
Roslin, standing beside her husband, could feel the tension in the room rise. She shifted slightly, her eyes flicking between Tywin and Robb, knowing how dangerous it could be to push too hard.
"I understand, my lord," Roslin began, her voice steady and respectful, though she chose her words with deliberate care. She met Tywin's piercing gaze, knowing full well the delicate game they were playing. "But with all due respect, you cannot suspect our involvement in the King's death. Robb didn't leave the feast all night, and I was with Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa when the King was discovered."
Her tone was measured, a calculated attempt to reason with Tywin without appearing defensive. She had seen the way the Lannisters worked, how accusations could easily turn into traps, and how a simple plea for fairness could be twisted into guilt. She needed to tread lightly.
Tywin's expression barely shifted, but his eyes remained cold and unyielding. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not one to be swayed easily.. He was a man who valued results and power over sentiment. For a moment, silence stretched between them, tense and fraught with the weight of unspoken suspicions.
"The truth is often irrelevant in the eyes of those seeking a scapegoat," Tywin finally said, his voice as cold as winter's breath. "The city whispers, and those whispers could easily become accusations, true or not. You are outsiders here, both of you—northern wolves in a city full of lions. There are those who might see your departure as an admission of guilt."
Robb stiffened slightly at Tywin's words, his pride urging him to argue, but Roslin quickly laid a hand on his arm, her touch subtle but calming. She knew they couldn't afford to anger Tywin, not now.
"We understand that, my lord," Roslin continued, her voice gentle but unwavering. "But the longer we stay, the more we are exposed to these suspicions and dangers. We've done nothing wrong, and we only wish to return to the North to prepare for what lies ahead. Lingering here serves neither us nor you."
Tywin opened his mouth to speak, but Roslin stepped forward, cutting him off with a deliberate, emotional plea.
"My lord," she said, her voice trembling slightly but steady with conviction, "I ask this not just as Lady of the North, but as a woman asking for mercy. I was torn from my home, thrust into a war I never asked for, married to a man I barely knew, and brought to King's Landing—a city that never felt like home. My husband was sent to war on your command, only days after we learned I was carrying his child."
She paused, the intensity of her gaze never faltering. "Let me see Winterfell. Let me bring my child into this world surrounded by family."
Tywin's eyes remained cold, but Roslin wasn't finished. She took a breath, her next words soft but determined, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. "If, in six months, a year, however long, you believe we had any part in Joffrey's death, you'll know where to find us. We won't hide. We'll be in Winterfell, with no reason to flee, because we are innocent."
For a moment, there was silence. Tywin's sharp eyes studied her, searching for any sign of deception or weakness. Robb stood beside her, his jaw clenched, clearly bracing for Tywin's response. But Roslin kept her gaze steady, refusing to look away. She had spoken her truth, and now it was up to him to decide.
Finally, Tywin leaned back slightly, his fingers steepling once more. His expression remained unreadable, though something in his eyes shifted, a flicker of understanding perhaps, or at least acknowledgment of her words.
"You are brave, Lady Stark," Tywin said, his voice low and measured. "Few would speak so candidly in front of me, and even fewer would do so wisely. You ask for peace, for the chance to raise your child in Winterfell, far from this city's dangers. It's a reasonable request."
He paused, his calculating gaze flicking between Robb and Roslin. "But know this: if I agree, it is not out of kindness. I will grant you leave to return to Winterfell, but not because I trust you. Should any evidence arise, any whisper of your involvement in Joffrey's death, I will bring the full force of the crown down upon your house. I do not forget betrayal, nor do I forgive it easily."
Roslin inclined her head respectfully, relief flooding through her veins, though she kept her expression calm. "Thank you, my lord. That is all we ask."
Tywin gave a curt nod, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Then go. And pray that none of these whispers lead back to your door."
As they left the room, Robb and Roslin exchanged a glance—a mixture of relief and apprehension in their eyes. They had been granted their passage home, but the weight of Tywin's warning lingered, a shadow over their future.
Robb wasted no time once they left Tywin's chambers. The moment they were out of sight, he was already giving orders, his voice low but urgent. He had no intention of lingering in King's Landing any longer than necessary, not with Tywin's words still hanging in the air like a threat. They were to leave today, before Tywin could reconsider or before anyone else could find a reason to stop them.
Servants were summoned within minutes, bustling into their chambers and setting to work with swift efficiency. Dresses were pulled from wardrobes and folded into trunks, the soft rustle of fabric filling the room as belongings were bundled up. Roslin watched them move with a sense of detachment, the reality of their sudden departure sinking in slowly. The weight of what had just transpired—the confrontation with Tywin, the promise of their return to Winterfell, the looming suspicion over Joffrey's death—pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe.
Robb, however, was a man of action, his focus unwavering. He moved through the room with purpose, speaking with their attendants and making preparations as if he were back on the battlefield, commanding his soldiers. He was determined, that much was clear. They would not give Tywin or anyone else in King's Landing the chance to interfere. Not now. Not when freedom was within their grasp.
"We leave as soon as everything is packed and the men are ready." Robb said, his voice low as he spoke to Roslin. His blue eyes met hers, filled with a mixture of urgency and resolve. "There's no telling who might try to stop us once word gets out that we've been granted leave. We can't trust anyone here."
Roslin nodded, her heart racing. The city that had once felt immense and imposing now loomed over her like a prison they were desperate to flee. The shadow of Joffrey's death clung to the air, heavy and ominous, like a storm gathering on the horizon. She could feel its weight pressing down on her, knowing what she had done and the secret she now carried. Robb couldn't know. He mustn't ever find out. It was safer for him this way—for both of them.
As the servants packed away the last of their belongings, Roslin took a moment to steady herself, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. The journey back to the North would be long and treacherous, but the thought of Winterfell—her new home—brought a small sense of peace. Away from the games and schemes of the capital, away from the shadows of Lannister power, they might finally find safety.
Robb approached her again, his expression softening as he noticed the tension in her face. He placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "We'll be home soon," he promised, his voice gentle, a contrast to the hurried chaos around them. "No more secrets, no more danger. Just us, in the North."
Roslin managed a small smile, grateful for his strength in the face of so much uncertainty. "I can't wait to see Winterfell," she said quietly. "To be far from this place."
Robb nodded. "We'll be gone before anyone knows it. And when we're back in the North, we'll finally be safe."
But even as they made their final preparations, Roslin couldn't shake the feeling that King's Landing would not let them go so easily. There were too many eyes in this city, too many ears listening for the slightest misstep. And Joffrey's death had left a power vacuum—one that could pull them back in at any moment.
"We need to say goodbye to Sansa," Roslin urged, her voice soft yet insistent. "It's important. We can't leave without letting her know."
Robb hesitated, torn between the urgency of their departure and the weight of familial duty. He glanced toward the door, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He knew they were leaving a world filled with danger behind, but the thought of not seeing Sansa for what could be an eternity gnawed at him. "You're right," he finally conceded, though his voice held a hint of reluctance.
"Let's find her," he added, determination creeping back into his tone. "I won't leave her without a proper farewell." With a resolute nod, he led Roslin through the halls of the Red Keep. Each footstep echoed, amplifying the silence that enveloped them. As they approached Sansa's chambers, Robb couldn't shake the unease that settled in his stomach. The loss of Joffrey had shaken the very foundation of the castle, and he feared the toll it had taken on his sister.
They reached Sansa's door, and Robb raised his hand to knock. Before he could rap his knuckles against the wood, the door swung open to reveal Sansa, her face pale and drawn. Relief washed over him momentarily, but it quickly shifted to concern as he took in the dark circles under her eyes.
"Sansa," he said softly, stepping inside with Roslin close behind. "We've come to say goodbye."
Sansa's expression brightened slightly at the sight of them, but it was tempered by the weight of grief still lingering in her heart. "You're leaving?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," Roslin said softly, her tone filled with empathy. "We need to return to Winterfell now, if we're going to leave at all."
Sansa nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I understand. I wish you could stay." Her voice trembled, betraying the emotions she was struggling to contain.
Robb stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Sansa's shoulder. "You'll be leaving soon, once this is all over," he promised, hoping to instill some confidence in her.
Sansa looked up at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty. "Tyrion said he's going to speak to his father," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "He's going to tell him I'm pregnant and that he wants to take me to Casterly Rock. He thinks Tywin will agree."
As she spoke, tears began to glisten in Sansa's eyes, and she fought to hold them back, but her composure was slipping. "I just don't want to be alone," she admitted, her vulnerability breaking through the façade she had carefully maintained. "I don't know what will happen next."
Robb could see the weight of her fear, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. He crouched down to her level, trying to meet her gaze. "You won't be alone, Sansa," he said earnestly. "Tyrion cares for you, more than you might realise. He's not like Joffrey or the others. He'll do everything in his power to protect you."
Sansa nodded slowly, but the doubt still lingered in her eyes. "What if he can't?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What if Cersei tries to take me away again? What if they realise it's not Tyrion's baby? I can't go back to that."
Robb's heart ached for his sister. He felt an overwhelming urge to shield her from all the pain she had endured. "You're stronger than you think, Sansa. And you have me, and Roslin, and soon, you'll have a new home. We'll make sure you're safe."
Sansa took a deep breath, trying to find solace in her brother's words. "But what if I lose everything again?" she murmured, the fear gripping her heart.
"You won't lose us," Robb reassured her, his voice steady and firm. "We're family, and family sticks together, no matter what. Just hold onto that thought."
Roslin stepped closer, her heart heavy for both siblings. "We'll find a way to make sure you're protected, Sansa. We'll fight for you if we have to," she added, her eyes filled with determination.
"Thank you," Sansa whispered, her voice shaky yet sincere. "I just wish I could believe it."
Robb tightened his grip on her shoulder. "Believe it, Sansa. You deserve to be happy, and I won't let anyone take that away from you."
With a small, grateful smile, Sansa finally met their gazes, finding a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty. Together, they would face whatever darkness lay ahead.
Roslin longed to ride beside Robb, to lead the Northern army as they marched home. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair and the reins in her hands, to share in the triumph of their departure from King's Landing. But her condition made that impossible. The weight of the child she carried, along with the exhaustion of the last few months, kept her confined to the carriage. As much as it pained her, she had to accept that this was how it had to be for now.
From the window, she watched as the towers of the Red Keep and the crowded streets of King's Landing slowly disappeared behind them, shrinking into the distance until they were nothing more than a silhouette against the horizon. With each mile that passed, the tension in her chest eased, just a fraction, but it was enough to make her aware of how tightly wound she had been. The suffocating weight of the city—the eyes that watched, the whispers that followed, the danger that lurked in every shadow—was finally behind her.
Only she knew what she was truly running from.
Roslin's fingers trembled slightly as she rested them against the soft fabric of her cloak, absently tracing the pattern of the embroidery. She was running not just from the Lannisters, not just from the court and its deadly politics, but from the secret she carried deep within her—the blood she had spilled in the dark of the night, the life she had taken. Joffrey's face, twisted in pain and shock, still haunted her thoughts. The image of his cold, lifeless body, sprawled across the floor, would never truly leave her.
Perhaps she would be safe in the North. Perhaps the windswept walls of Winterfell would shield her from what she had done, from the eyes that might eventually see through her carefully crafted facade. But even as she clung to that hope, a part of her knew that safety might only be an illusion. The Lannisters had long arms and a thirst for vengeance. If anyone ever pieced together the truth, if they realised that she was the one who had killed the king, they would come for her. And when they did, there would be no mercy.
For now, though, she could breathe. For now, she was leaving the city behind, and with it, the web of lies and danger that had nearly suffocated her. The carriage bumped along the uneven road, the Northern banners fluttering in the wind, and Roslin felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: relief. She was going home. Home to a place she had never truly known, to a life that still felt like it belonged to someone else, but home nonetheless.
Winterfell.
A name that had become synonymous with safety in her mind, even though she had never set foot in its halls. Robb spoke of it often, describing the stone walls, the warmth of the hearths, the familiar scent of pine and snow in the air. She had imagined it so many times that it felt almost real to her, more real than the gilded prison of King's Landing had ever been.
Roslin rested a hand on her stomach, feeling the faint flutter of movement within. The child she carried, Robb's child, would be born in the North, far away from the poisonous court and the secrets it kept. It was a small comfort, but one she clung to as the road stretched out before her, taking her further from the city and closer to the unknown future that awaited them all.
The North. It was a place where people would fight for family, for honour, and for survival. But she knew it was also a place where secrets had a way of coming to light, no matter how deeply they were buried. She had escaped King's Landing, but she wasn't sure if she had truly escaped her fate. And as the carriage rocked gently beneath her, Roslin wondered how long it would be before her past caught up with her.