Roslin XIX

Act Two

It has been 5 Years since the Coronation of King Tommen I. The Realm is at peace.

Roslin hurried through the shadowed halls of Winterfell, her steps quickening with each passing moment. Panic fluttered in her chest as she scanned the dimly lit corridors. "Torrhen!" she called, her voice tinged with rising anxiety. She turned corners, her gown brushing against the cold stone walls as she peered into rooms, her heart pounding louder with every second her son remained unseen.

"Torrhen!" she called again, more urgently now, her eyes darting around in search of him, her thoughts racing. Where could he be? She needed to find him—had to find him.

As Roslin rushed through the halls, servants hurriedly passed by, offering quick curtsies before resuming their daily tasks. She barely noticed them, her focus solely on finding her son. "Torrhen!" she called again, her voice echoing through the stone corridors.

Finally, she reached the courtyard, her breath catching in relief as she spotted Torrhen perched on a low stone wall by the archery posts. "Torrhen Stark!" she called, her tone a mixture of exasperation and affection.

The boy, now five and full of energy, turned to her with a wide grin. "Mama!" he shouted back, waving enthusiastically. His adventurous spirit had only grown with time, and he often darted through Winterfell's halls, slipping away from his parents and grandparents with mischievous ease.

Standing beside him was Arya Stark, now a young woman of fifteen, her confidence evident as she held a bow in hand. She looked over at Roslin with a reassuring smile. "He's alright with me, Ro," Arya said casually. "He wanted to watch me shoot."

Roslin let out a relieved sigh, her heart slowing as she crossed the courtyard toward them. "Thank you, Arya," she said, her tone softening. Torrhen had always looked up to Arya, and it was no surprise that he'd found his way to her side.

"He's quite the little explorer, isn't he?" Arya added with a grin, ruffling Torrhen's auburn hair.

Roslin smiled, shaking her head fondly at her son's antics. "That he is," she replied, her heart swelling with affection. "Though he seems more determined to escape me every day. You had better get ready, Arya. People are set to arrive this afternoon." The air was thick with anticipation, as preparations for the evening's festivities had been in full swing for days.

Arya's expression shifted as she looked down, her brow furrowing. "I really don't want to do this, Ro." There was a heaviness in her tone, a reluctance that spoke volumes.

Roslin reached out, placing a comforting hand on Arya's shoulder. "I know it's not what you envisioned for yourself. But Alyn Umber is a good match, and your brother believes it will do us well to strengthen our ties with House Umber." The betrothal had been arranged two years ago, a strategic alliance that promised security for Arya. Alyn was the second son of the Great Jon, known for his solid character and loyalty, qualities that would serve Arya well in a world filled with uncertainty.

"But I'm not ready to marry, Ro!" Arya exclaimed, her voice rising in frustration. "I want to explore the world, to fight, to be free. I don't want to be tied down to some lord's expectations."

Roslin sighed, understanding her good-sister's desire for independence. She too had once felt the weight of duty pressing upon her, the expectations of their family and the political games that often overshadowed their lives. "I understand, truly. But sometimes, we must navigate through the paths laid out for us before we can forge our own."

Arya crossed her arms, her rebellious spirit flaring. "But what if I don't want to follow that path? What if I want to carve out my own?" Her fiery spirit was palpable, a reminder of the girl who had defied convention and fought for her place in a world dominated by men.

Roslin smiled gently, admiring her sister's tenacity. "And you will, Arya. You have that fire in you. Just remember, marriage doesn't mean you have to lose who you are. You can still be the fierce warrior you've always wanted to be."

Arya seemed to ponder this, her fierce gaze softening just a bit. "Maybe," she conceded reluctantly. "But it doesn't change the fact that I'm still not looking forward to it."

"Perhaps we can find a way to make the evening enjoyable," Roslin suggested, hoping to lift her good-sister's spirits. "We'll have music, dancing, and I'm sure there will be plenty of interesting lords and ladies to meet."

"Or we could sneak off and find some trouble to stir," Arya replied with a hint of a smirk, the spark of mischief returning to her eyes.

Roslin laughed, the sound echoing softly in the courtyard. "I wouldn't dare encourage such behaviour! But perhaps just a little fun before you fulfill your duties."

Roslin carefully helped Torrhen down from the stone wall, his small feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. As they began walking toward the keep, the air around them felt alive with the sounds of Winterfell—laughter, the clattering of hooves, and the distant echo of hammers ringing against anvils. Five years had passed since she first made this castle her home, and she couldn't shake the strange sensation that she had become a part of its very stones. She had only left once, for a brief trip to the Twins for her father's funeral the previous year, but even that felt like a distant memory.

With each step, Roslin struggled to recall her life before Winterfell. King's Landing now seemed like a dream, a hazy recollection of sun-soaked gardens and the oppressive weight of court politics. The court, the whispered conspiracies, and the chilling moments of betrayal felt like the echoes of a long-forgotten song. The price she had paid for those memories was steep, and she often wondered if the cost had been worth it.

She glanced at Torrhen, who was excitedly chattering about something he had seen in the courtyard, his small voice breaking through her reverie. His laughter was a balm to her soul, reminding her of the joy that had blossomed in her life since coming to Winterfell. Yet beneath the surface, a gnawing discomfort remained, a lingering shadow from her past that she couldn't quite shake.

When she had heard of Petyr Baelish and Shae's execution, a sickening twist had tightened in her stomach. Their deaths had been a punishment for the crimes she had committed, though she alone had been left to bear the burden. Her own punishment had been one of silence; she had been forced to take her secrets to the grave, forbidden from sharing the truth with anyone, not even with Robb. It felt like an iron shackle around her heart, tightening with every passing day.

As they approached the towering doors of the keep, Roslin forced a smile, pushing aside the dark thoughts that had threatened to cloud her heart. The solid wooden doors loomed before them, intricately carved with the sigil of House Stark, and she felt a sense of safety in their presence. "What were you talking about, my little adventurer?" she asked Torrhen, bending slightly to meet his bright, curious eyes.

"Papa told me that people are coming to see me!" Torrhen exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. His eyes sparkled with the thrill of anticipation, and Roslin couldn't help but feel a warmth spreading in her chest at his innocent enthusiasm.

"Not you, love, but your Aunt Arya," Roslin replied gently, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "It's a big day for her, and she'll need your help to protect her until her new husband arrives."

"I can help!" Torrhen declared, puffing out his chest in a show of bravado. "Papa said I'm the best fighter in the North, just like Uncle Jon!"

Roslin felt a mixture of pride and worry at his words. Robb often boasted about their son's swordplay, having started training with wooden swords just last year. "You certainly have the spirit of a Stark, my brave little warrior," she said, chuckling softly.

Jon Snow had made the odd visit in the years they had been back at Winterfell. His visits were often disguised as diplomatic ones, petitioning for more supplies and men, but everyone in the family understood the truth: Jon missed his family more than words could express. Every time he arrived, it felt like a breath of fresh air—a reminder of his bond with Robb and shared history, though it had been a few years since his last visit, Jon had made a huge impression on Torrhen.

Roslin remembered the way Jon's eyes would light up upon seeing Torrhen, the way he would ruffle his hair and share stories of his own adventures beyond the Wall. She could only imagine the lessons Jon had imparted to her son, tales of bravery and honour that would shape Torrhen into the kind of man they all hoped he would become.

"Uncle Jon is proud of you, you know," Roslin said, ruffling Torrhen's hair in return, feeling a swell of affection. "He believes in you, just as much as your father does."

Torrhen's face lit up at the mention of his uncle. "I'll be just like him!" he exclaimed, his confidence radiating. "When I grow up, I'll protect everyone!"

"Of course you will, my sweet," Roslin said, her heart swelling with hope. She took a moment to reflect on how quickly her little boy was growing up, how he was absorbing the lessons of loyalty and courage from the men in their family.

As they stepped through the grand doors of the keep, the familiar warmth of the hearth welcomed them. The sounds of clattering dishes and muffled laughter filled the air, signaling that the preparations for the day's events were in full swing. Roslin felt the bustle of life around her, invigorating her spirits despite the shadows that occasionally threatened to creep back in.

"Arya will need all the help she can get," Roslin said, her tone turning playful. "You'll have to keep all those lords and ladies in line!"

Torrhen grinned, his small stature exuding a sense of determination that was contagious. "I won't let anyone bother her! I'll scare them away if they try!"

Roslin couldn't help but laugh at his fierce resolve. "That's the spirit! But remember, sometimes a kind word is mightier than a sword."

Torrhen scrunched up his nose in contemplation, clearly weighing the wisdom of his mother's advice. "I'll try both!" he said after a moment, his smile returning as they moved deeper into the keep.

With her heart lightened by his exuberance, Roslin took Torrhen's hand as they made their way through the lively keep. The warmth of family surrounded them, and for now, the shadows of her past faded into the background, leaving only the promise of a bright future ahead.

Just as they rounded the bend, Roslin caught sight of Robb emerging from a room ahead, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He was no longer the young boy she had once known but a man of twenty-one, his features sharpened with age. A light beard now framed his strong jaw, giving him an air of maturity, and the last traces of his teenage softness had long since faded. Before Roslin could say a word, Torrhen's face lit up with excitement, his eyes instantly locking onto his father.

"Papa!" Torrhen shouted, his small feet pounding the stone floor as he bolted toward Robb. Without hesitation, Robb knelt, opening his arms wide to catch their son, who crashed into him with all the energy of a boy his age.

"Hello, my little soldier," Robb said, his voice warm as he scooped Torrhen up with ease. Torrhen giggled as his father lifted him effortlessly, his small hands gripping Robb's tunic. "Have you been terrorising your poor mother again?" Robb teased, raising an eyebrow at his son, though his gaze flicked to Roslin, full of affection.

Torrhen shook his head vigorously, his messy curls bouncing as he replied, "No, Papa!"

"Oh?" Robb said, glancing at Roslin, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is that so?" His blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he studied his wife, silently asking if their son's claim held any truth.

Roslin smiled, tilting her head slightly as she looked at Robb and Torrhen—her two loves standing before her. "He's been rather well-behaved," she admitted, though her tone carried a hint of teasing. "For today, at least."

Robb laughed, the deep sound filling the corridor, echoing off the walls. "Is that what we're calling it now?" He leaned in closer to Torrhen, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You've got to keep your mother on her toes, you know. It's part of the job."

Torrhen's face lit up with a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling as he nodded enthusiastically, clearly eager to accept his father's playful advice.

Roslin shook her head, though her heart was light. "You two are terrible influences on each other," she said, though there was no real accusation in her words, only love.

Robb stood, still holding Torrhen, and walked toward Roslin, his gaze softening as he reached her side. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "That's how it's meant to be," he murmured, his voice low and filled with warmth.

Roslin felt the familiar flutter in her chest at the touch of his lips, the weight of their shared life settling comfortably around her. "You'll both be the death of me," she said with a mock sigh, though she couldn't help but smile.

Robb chuckled, easily balancing Torrhen on his hip, the boy's small arms wrapped around his neck. "Not if I can help it," he replied, his voice low and playful. He shot Roslin a roguish grin, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief that always seemed to lighten the weight of their responsibilities.

Roslin couldn't help but smile back, her heart swelling at the sight of her husband and son together, their bond unbreakable.

Robb then turned his attention to Torrhen, his expression softening but still carrying a hint of playful seriousness. "Now," he said, raising an eyebrow, "are you ready for today's big event? You'll need to be on your best behavior, young wolf."

Torrhen straightened in Robb's arms, his little face taking on a look of determination. "I can do it, Papa," he said, his voice filled with a seriousness that belied his five years. "I'll be good, and I'll help Aunt Arya if she needs me."

Robb laughed, giving Torrhen's side a playful squeeze. "That's my boy. Remember, your aunt's day is a big one, and she might be nervous. It's your job to keep her smiling, alright?"

Torrhen nodded eagerly. "I'll make her laugh, just like you do, Papa."

Roslin's heart melted at the exchange, watching as Robb gently set Torrhen back down on the ground. Their son immediately took off running ahead, no doubt filled with excitement for the afternoon's events.

As Robb turned back to her, his grin softened into something more intimate, his hand slipping around her waist to pull her closer. "Think he's ready?" he asked, his voice quieter now, meant only for her.

Roslin leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder for just a moment, savoring the warmth of him beside her. "I think he's more ready than we are," she whispered with a smile. "He's growing up so fast."

Robb kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than usual. "Just like his mother," he murmured. "Brave and strong. He'll be just fine, Ro. We all will."

They had tried for more children after Torrhen, hoping to expand their little family, but despite their love and efforts, they struggled to conceive. Twice, Roslin had become pregnant, and twice, she had miscarried, leaving both her and Robb heartbroken. After the second loss, the maester delivered the news they had feared most: for Roslin's health, they should not attempt to have any more children.

It had been a crushing blow. Roslin wrestled with the weight of it, the deep sadness gnawing at her. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had failed—not just herself, but Robb, her family, and even her ancestors who had counted on her to help secure the future of the Starks. The thought of never giving Robb another child haunted her, and no matter how much he reassured her, a quiet sense of guilt lingered in her heart.

The news was still raw when a letter arrived from her niece, Alyx, only weeks later, announcing the birth of her third child with Edmure Tully in as many years. Roslin had read the letter alone in her chambers, her hands trembling as her eyes scanned the words. She had tried to feel happiness for her, but instead, the ache inside her deepened, twisting into something unbearable. The walls of Winterfell seemed to close in around her, and the pain she had kept hidden for Robb's sake overwhelmed her, sending her into a dark spiral of grief.

Robb had found her sitting on the floor by the hearth that night, her tears silent but endless. He didn't say anything at first, just knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her as if trying to shield her from the pain. She had sobbed into his chest, finally letting go of all the sorrow she had bottled up.

"I've let you down," she had whispered, her voice barely audible between her tears. "I couldn't give you more children. I'm not... enough."

Robb had pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his blue eyes soft but full of conviction. "Roslin, you could never let me down," he said firmly, his voice filled with nothing but love. "I have my heir, and he is perfect. But more than that, I have you. I don't need anything more than you and Torrhen."

She had tried to argue, to tell him he deserved more, but Robb shook his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You are enough, Ro. More than enough. Don't ever think you've failed me, or anyone else. I love you."

His words had been her lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of despair. Slowly, over time, she had begun to accept that their family—small as it was—was whole, complete in its own way. Torrhen was their pride and joy, and Roslin had come to realise that she didn't need more children to prove her worth or her love for Robb. He loved her as she was, and that was more than enough.

And every time she watched Robb with Torrhen—laughing, teaching him, carrying him on his shoulders—Roslin felt that love echo inside her, steady and unshakeable.

--

It had been a long afternoon, with the Northern lords and ladies arriving in a steady flow for hours. Each arrival required a formal introduction, a process that demanded patience and composure. The Stark family stood strong and unified, their presence commanding respect in the great hall of Winterfell. Robb and Roslin were at the forefront, the image of Northern strength and leadership, while Ned and Catelyn stood beside them, holding their own quiet authority. On the opposite side stood Arya, though she looked less enthusiastic about the formalities, her gaze often drifting away from the processions, along with Torrhen who was equally as uninterested.

The last few years had changed them all, reshaping their lives and testing their resilience. After finally dispelling the remaining Iron Islanders from the North, Ned Stark had relinquished his command completely, handing over the reins of leadership to Robb for good. He was more than content to retreat from the weight of power, embracing the simpler pleasures of life as a grandfather. He now spent his days with his family, the weariness of years in battle and governance finally lifted from his shoulders. Yet, though his titles and responsibilities had lessened, the wisdom and quiet strength that made him so revered remained.

Catelyn, on the other hand, had never truly recovered from the heartbreak of losing Bran and Rickon. Their disappearance had carved a wound so deep that even the passage of time could not begin to heal it. The search for the boys had spanned the North and even stretched beyond, but no trace of them was ever found. Weeks turned into months, and the family, one by one, had begun to mourn them as lost, believing the worst. Robb, devastated by the loss of his brothers, had lit a candle for them every day for a year, offering his prayers and silent grief to the Old Gods.

But not Catelyn. She refused to accept the notion that her sons were gone. While the rest of the family carried on with the weight of their grief, she clung to hope with a stubborn fierceness that had come to define her. "I know they're alive," she would say whenever the topic arose, her voice unwavering despite the strain in her eyes. Her heart seemed caught in a place between hope and despair, and no amount of reasoning could sway her conviction. Even now, as she stood beside Ned, greeting each noble and lord who passed, there was a distant look in her eyes, as if her thoughts were forever somewhere else—somewhere out there, searching for her lost boys.

The announcer's voice boomed through the grand hall, cutting through the lively chatter of the gathered lords and ladies. "Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa Lannister, with their son Damon!"

As the heavy doors swung open, Roslin's heart quickened in anticipation. Tyrion Lannister stepped through, and despite the five years that had passed, he appeared much the same as she remembered. His features were still sharp, his stature modest, yet his presence radiated confidence and wit. His signature half-smile played at the corners of his mouth, a testament to his resilient spirit and enduring charm.

But it was Sansa who truly captivated Roslin's attention. No longer the timid girl she once knew, she was now a poised young woman of nineteen. Her auburn hair was expertly braided in intricate designs, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves that caught the light. The Lannister red of her gown hugged her form beautifully, adorned with delicate gold embroidery that shimmered with every step she took. It was a colour that spoke of power and status, yet it did nothing to overshadow the grace with which she carried herself.

Following closely behind them was Damon, their son, who appeared to be only a half-year younger than Torrhen. He had inherited the golden hair and striking green eyes of House Lannister, the vivid hue reminiscent of a summer's day. Roslin tried to search his features for a hint of Joffrey, but all she could see was Sansa. It was in the set of his jaw, the shape of his lips, and the mischievous spark in his eyes—a reflection of his mother's resilience and warmth.

As they moved deeper into the hall, Roslin felt a swell of emotions. Sansa had endured so much, and yet here she stood, a formidable woman and a devoted mother, unyielded by her past. Damon reached for Sansa's hand, looking up at her with a mixture of admiration and adoration, reminding Roslin of Torrhen's own affection for her. In that moment, the shadows of their shared history faded, leaving behind the promise of new beginnings and the hope of brighter days ahead.

The trio moved forward, and as they approached, Roslin couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and kinship.

"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," Tyrion greeted warmly, his voice carrying a mixture of formality and genuine fondness. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect that came naturally to him, before allowing a playful grin to break across his features. "Thank you for hosting us. It's a privilege to be welcomed into your home once again."

As he spoke, Roslin noticed the twinkle in his eye, a glimmer of mischief that suggested he was already contemplating a witty remark or a light-hearted jest. His presence had a way of lifting the atmosphere around him, and Roslin felt the tension in the hall ease just a bit at his arrival.

Robb stepped forward, extending his hand to clasp Tyrion's forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "It's good to see you, Tyrion. The North has missed your company," he replied, his voice rich with sincerity.

Sansa, standing beside Tyrion, offered a gentle smile to Roslin and Robb, her blue eyes sparkling with joy. "It's wonderful to be back at Winterfell," she said, her voice steady yet laced with an unmistakable excitement, she hadn't been home to Winterfell since she had first left for King's Landing a lifetime ago.

Sansa smiled brightly, her eyes shimmering with gratitude and relief. "It feels wonderful to be back, Roslin. I've missed you all so much," she said, her voice tinged with genuine emotion.

As the group moved further into the hall, Sansa and Tyrion took their time greeting each member of the Stark family, their smiles and laughter echoing warmly against the stone walls. Sansa embraced her parents tightly, the bond between them palpable. After spending half a year in Casterly Rock helping Sansa after Damon's birth, Catelyn radiated joy as she held her daughter close. Their hug lingered, both women savouring the moment, sharing silent words of encouragement and love.

Damon, a timid boy darted away from Sansa for a moment, a gleam of mischief in his gaze, before rushing into the welcoming embrace of his grandmother. Catelyn knelt down, her arms open wide, and the boy melted into her embrace, a broad smile stretching across his face as he nestled against her. "Grandma!" he exclaimed, laughter bubbling from his lips.

Roslin watched this sweet exchange with a gentle smile, her heart swelling at the sight of the family reunited. It was a bittersweet reminder of the joys and sorrows they had all faced over the years, but the happiness that filled the hall was undeniable. Catelyn's eyes glistened with love as she hugged Damon, her fingers tangling in his hair, a moment of pure maternal affection that warmed the room.

"Look at you, my brave little knight," Catelyn said, her voice soft and tender as she crouched down to meet Damon at eye level. "You've grown so much since I last saw you. Have you been practicing your swordplay?"

Damon shook his head vigorously, his golden curls bouncing with the movement. "No, I've mostly been reading with Papa," he replied, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "He's been teaching me about dragons!"

Catelyn raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Dragons? Oh, my! That sounds very intriguing. Tell me more, sweet boy! What have you learned?"

Damon's face lit up, clearly thrilled to share his newfound knowledge. "There were these huge, scaly beasts that could breathe fire!" He gestured animatedly, his hands mimicking the flapping of wings. "Papa says they used to fly all over Westeros, and they were so powerful that everyone feared them. But they were also beautiful! He says the biggest one was named Balerion the Black Dread!"

Catelyn listened intently, nodding along as Damon spoke, her heart swelling with pride at his enthusiasm. "Oh, I remember hearing stories about Balerion," she replied, reminiscing about the tales of old. "He was a fierce creature indeed, and one of the greatest dragons to ever live. Did your father tell you about the Targaryens and how they rode those magnificent beasts?"

Damon's eyes widened even further as he continued to relay what he had learned. "Yes! He said the Targaryens used to ride dragons into battle, and that they could control them with a bond! Can you imagine that, Grandma? Riding a dragon high above the clouds?"

Catelyn chuckled softly, enchanted by his imagination. "I can only imagine how thrilling that must be. But you know, dear, just because you're not wielding a sword doesn't mean you're not brave. It takes courage to read about those who came before us and learn from their stories. Maybe one day, you'll be both a knight and a scholar."

Damon beamed with pride at Catelyn's words, his youthful enthusiasm lighting up his face. "That's what Papa says! He says knowledge is power, and the more you learn, the stronger you become!"

At that, Catelyn's expression softened, a bittersweet smile gracing her lips as her thoughts turned to Tyrion. Memories of his resilience and intelligence flooded her mind, reminding her of the many challenges he had faced and overcome in a world that often underestimated him. "You know, dear," she said gently, "maybe you should tell your cousin Torrhen all about the dragons. I'm sure he would love to hear your stories."

Damon's eyes widened with excitement at the idea. "Oh, yes! We can play knights and dragons, and I can show him the pictures in the books! Papa has so many stories!" He jumped up and down, his golden curls bouncing wildly. The thought of sharing his newfound knowledge with his cousin filled him with glee.

Catelyn chuckled softly, imagining the two boys together, their laughter echoing through the ancient halls of Winterfell. "I think that would make both of you very happy. You could teach him about Balerion the Black Dread and all the other dragons your father has told you about. Maybe even how to draw them!"

Damon's face lit up even more at the thought of drawing dragons. "Yes! I can make a whole book of dragons! Torrhen can help me, and then we can have a dragon adventure!" His eyes sparkled with imagination, picturing the two of them racing through the snowy woods, battling imaginary foes with their swords while dragons soared above them.

Catelyn smiled, her heart swelling with warmth as she watched Damon's enthusiasm. It was a beautiful reminder of the joy that childhood could bring, even amidst the shadows of the past. "Just remember, little knight," she said, kneeling to meet his gaze, "adventures are best when shared with friends and family. And your cousin will cherish every moment you spend together."

"Can we find the dragons in the woods?" Damon asked, his voice filled with innocent wonder. "I want to be brave like the knights in Papa's stories!"

Catelyn laughed, the sound light and melodic. "You never know what you might discover in those woods."

With a newfound determination, Damon nodded eagerly. "I'll be the bravest knight ever! And Torrhen can be my squire!" His excitement was infectious, and Catelyn felt a wave of hope wash over her. Perhaps, in their innocence and imagination, the next generation could weave a brighter future—a future where the shadows of the past would not dictate their destinies.

As the two continued their conversation, Roslin looked on, her heart swelling with affection for both her son and the child of Sansa and Tyrion. In moments like these, surrounded by family and laughter, she felt a flicker of hope that the bonds they were forming would outlast the trials of their past.