The Road Not Taken

by cristine.harriet.01

Ned Stark is imprisoned, and his son Robb Stark is determined to rescue him. As he confronts the brutal might of the Lannisters, Robb grapples with the immense weight of leadership and the responsibilities that come with it. His first daunting challenge arises from Walder Frey, who insists that Robb marry one of his daughters without delay. Robb Stark x Roslin Frey. Ned Lives

64. Roslin XXI

Roslin XXI

It had taken Roslin and Tyrion a full moon to travel south from Winterfell to Dragonstone, much of it spent on a swaying ship cutting through the choppy, unforgiving waters of the Narrow Sea. Each day on the boat felt endless, the endless horizon offering little in the way of comfort or distraction. Ravens brought sparse messages from the world they'd left behind, each scrap of news a reminder of how much they'd risked by setting out on this journey.

The voyage was a trial in its own way. Roslin, unused to life at sea, found herself battling queasiness and a deep sense of disquiet. Tyrion, on the other hand, seemed at home amid the creaking timbers and salt-laden air. He adapted easily to the rhythms of the ship, often seated on the deck with a cup of wine in one hand and a book or map in the other.

Roslin spent much of her time with him, drawn by his sharp wit and the ease with which he navigated the tension of their journey. They played games to pass the time—games of wit, wordplay, and strategy. Though Roslin prided herself on her cleverness, she quickly realised that matching wits with Tyrion Lannister was no easy feat. He won more often than not, grinning smugly as he claimed victory, though he was gracious in encouraging her when she managed to best him.

In the evenings, after the sun had set and the ship rocked gently in the dark waters, they would sit together near the captain's cabin, warmed by lantern light and the occasional bottle of wine. Tyrion always seemed to have one at hand, and though Roslin tried her best to keep pace with him, she often had to set her cup aside long before he showed any signs of slowing.

These quiet moments, softened by wine and the isolation of their journey, led to unguarded conversations. Tyrion spoke openly of his past, painting vivid, often painful pictures of his life under the shadow of Tywin Lannister. He recounted stories of his father's coldness, his sister's cruelty, and the cold childhood he had lived in Casterly Rock.

"My birth was the death of my mother," Tyrion said one night, his voice unusually quiet as he stared out at the dark waves. "A debt my father never allowed me to forget. He carried her absence like a wound, and every time he looked at me, it was as if he were staring at the blade that had struck him."

Roslin listened intently, her heart aching at the vulnerability he rarely showed. "In that way, I think your father and mine are cut from the same cloth," she replied softly. "Walder Frey never saw me as his daughter, not really. I was just another pawn to be married off. My worth was measured by what I could bring to him—alliances, favors, power."

Tyrion raised his cup in a silent toast. "To surviving fathers who would sooner see us tools than people. And to carving out lives of our own despite them."

As they drank, Roslin found herself opening up about her own struggles. She spoke of her son, Torrhen, the joy and fear he brought her in equal measure. She admitted the guilt she carried for being unable to give Robb another child, something she knew he desperately wanted even if he never pressed her about it.

Tyrion's expression softened as he listened. "You know," he said after a moment, "if my father loved anything other than power, it was my mother. When she died, he became something else—cold and cruel, as though losing her carved out the heart of him. I think Robb would happily trade a dozen sons for a lifetime with you by his side. I doubt he's foolish enough to see you as anything but irreplaceable."

Roslin smiled at that, though a part of her still carried the weight of her self-imposed inadequacies. Tyrion's words, while comforting, didn't dispel the doubts entirely, but they did remind her of the strength she found in Robb's love for her and their son.

One night, the ship rocked gently under a canopy of stars, and Roslin and Tyrion sat on the deck with a bottle of wine nearly drained between them. The sea air was cool, carrying the faint scent of salt and wood. Both had drunk far too much, their cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the raw honesty it seemed to invite.

Tyrion leaned back against a coil of rope, his expression uncharacteristically somber. His cup dangled loosely from his fingers as he stared out at the horizon. Roslin could tell he was wrestling with something, the way his eyes flickered with indecision.

Finally, he broke the silence. "I love her, you know."

Roslin blinked, startled by the sudden confession. For a moment, she thought she might have misheard him. "Sansa?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He nodded, exhaling a breath that sounded more like a sigh. "Sansa," he repeated, as though saying her name aloud made it more real, more unbearable. "And I don't mean in the way you love her—like a sister, or a friend. I did once, at the beginning. Back then, she was just… something to protect. Someone innocent and pure who deserved better than being shackled to a man like me."

Roslin tilted her head, watching him closely. His usual mask of wit and self-deprecation was gone, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable.

"But now?" she prompted softly.

Tyrion hesitated, his gaze dropping to the wine swirling in his cup. "Now…" He paused, his voice thick with emotion. "Now, she walks into a room and I can't breathe. I spend my days waiting—hoping—for the briefest moment when I might see her. Hear her voice. And it kills me because I know—deep down, I know—that if she had any other choice, she would leave me without a second thought. And why wouldn't she?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm her last resort, her prison. Not her choice."

Roslin's heart ached as she listened to Tyrion's words, each one weighted with self-loathing and doubt. His pain was palpable, etched into the lines of his face and the heaviness of his tone. She leaned forward, bridging the space between them, her hand brushing lightly against his. "Tyrion," she began softly, "Sansa has been through so much. More than anyone should ever have to endure. But you may not see what I see—you've been her anchor in a storm. And Damon? You've been a father to him."

Tyrion's lips quirked in a small, self-deprecating smile, but it faltered as his gaze dropped to his hands. "I didn't know what to do when Damon was born," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was terrified. Scared he would grow into Joffrey—a monster beyond anyone's control—and that I would be powerless to stop it. Every time I held him, I wondered if that darkness was lurking in his blood, waiting for its moment."

He exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening around his cup. "But now… now I look at him, and that boy is the kindest, most compassionate person I have ever known. How, Roslin? How can he be his son?"

Roslin's chest tightened at the raw vulnerability in his voice. She reached out, cupping his hand with her own, her eyes meeting his with unwavering certainty. "Because he's not his son," she said firmly. "Not truly. Damon is yours, Tyrion. Yours and Sansa's. Joffrey has nothing to do with him."

Tyrion shook his head slightly, as if struggling to believe her words. "But his blood—"

"Blood doesn't make a father," Roslin interrupted, her voice resolute. "Love does. Patience. Kindness. All the things you've given Damon, the things Joffrey never could have. Do you think Damon learned to be kind from his blood? No, Tyrion. He learned it from you. From the way you treat him, the way you guide him, the way you protect him."

Tyrion blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "But Sansa… She will never forget who his father truly is. She's never spoken of it, but I see it in her eyes sometimes. The fear. The shadow of it."

"And yet, she trusts you with him," Roslin pointed out. "That should tell you everything you need to know. Sansa may carry that shadow, but she doesn't see it in Damon. She sees you, Tyrion. She sees the man who raised her son to be better, to be good."

He was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words settling over him. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier. "Sometimes, I think Damon is the only good thing I've ever done. The only legacy I'll leave behind worth anything."

Roslin smiled, squeezing his hand. "That's not true. You've done more good than you realize, Tyrion. For Damon. For Sansa. Even for Robb and me, just by being here, by fighting for what's right."

A faint, genuine smile tugged at Tyrion's lips, though his eyes still glistened with unshed tears. "You're kinder to me than I deserve, Roslin. Truly."

"And you're harder on yourself than you deserve," she countered gently. "You're a better man than you give yourself credit for, Tyrion Lannister. And Damon is proof of that."

They sat in companionable silence for a time, the ship creaking gently beneath them and the stars shimmering overhead. Roslin hoped, deep in her heart, that Tyrion would one day believe the truth of her words. Because in her eyes, he already was the kind of man he doubted he could ever be.

As Dragonstone's dark silhouette loomed on the horizon, Roslin felt her breath catch in her throat. The castle was unlike anything she had ever seen—its jagged black towers clawed at the sky like the talons of a great beast. Worn but imposing, the stone dragons perched along its parapets seemed almost alive, their snarling faces frozen in eternal defiance of the sea's fury.

She gripped the railing of the ship's upper deck, her knuckles white as the vessel glided closer to the harbor. The salty tang of the air was thick here, mingled with the scent of charred wood and damp stone. Tyrion stood beside her, his eyes fixed on the approaching fortress, though his expression was far less awestruck.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" he said, his tone light. "Built with Valyrian skill, long before anyone on this continent could dream of such wonders."

Roslin nodded wordlessly, her gaze still fixed on the towers. Just as the ship began its final approach, a sound tore through the air—a deafening, bloodcurdling roar that sent chills down her spine. She froze, her heart pounding, as a shadow swept over the deck.

Above them, a creature unlike anything Roslin had ever imagined soared through the sky. Its massive wings, creamy white with shimmering gold patterns, beat against the wind with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Its long, serpentine neck turned, and its gleaming eyes seemed to study the ship below with keen interest.

Roslin stumbled backward, instinctively ducking as the dragon passed low overhead. The wind from its wings buffeted the ship, rattling the masts and scattering loose ropes across the deck. Tyrion, however, remained unmoved, his hands clasped behind his back as he chuckled.

"You'll get used to them," he said, casting a sidelong glance at her pale face. "I promise. Though Viserion does have a flair for the dramatic."

Roslin stared after the dragon as it disappeared toward the castle, its roar still echoing in her ears. "That's…Viserion?" she managed, her voice trembling.

"One of three," Tyrion replied, a hint of pride in his tone. "Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon. The children of our queen. Magnificent, aren't they?"

Magnificent wasn't the word Roslin would have chosen. Terrifying, awe-inspiring, and otherworldly seemed more fitting. As they approached the dock, she found herself glancing nervously toward the sky, half-expecting another of the dragons to appear.

"Do they always…fly so low?" she asked, still shaken.

"Only when they want to remind you who's really in charge," Tyrion said with a wry smile. "Daenerys may sit on a throne, but it's her dragons who truly rule the skies."

Roslin turned her attention back to the castle, its gates now visible as they drew closer. She squared her shoulders, determined to compose herself. She was here to represent her family and her people, to secure an alliance that might save them all. She couldn't afford to be intimidated—not by dragons, and not by the formidable woman who commanded them.

But as the ship finally docked and the gangplank was lowered, Roslin couldn't shake the lingering tremor in her hands. Whatever lay ahead in Dragonstone, it was unlike anything she had ever faced before.

As Roslin and Tyrion descended the gangplank onto the weathered stones of Dragonstone's harbor, they were greeted by a figure standing in the shadows of the towering fortress. The sea breeze tugged at his robes, the muted gray and black fabric swirling around him like smoke. Varys stepped forward, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming with the usual sharp intelligence.

"Lady Stark. Tyrion," he said smoothly, his voice carrying easily over the sound of waves lapping against the dock. "Welcome to Dragonstone."

"Lord Varys," Roslin replied, inclining her head respectfully. "It has been so long."

"Five years, my lady," Varys said with a faint smile. "When I last saw you, you were but a girl on the verge of motherhood. And now I hear you have a son, as strong as his father."

"As stubborn as his father," Roslin said with a small laugh, though her smile wavered briefly at the mention of Robb.

Varys's gaze lingered on her for a moment, assessing. "Stubbornness is a virtue in these times," he said gently, before turning his attention to Tyrion. "And you, my lord, I trust the journey was not too arduous?"

"Arduous is an understatement," Tyrion replied with a snort, "but we survived, as always. Now, tell me, how fares our queen?"

Varys's expression tightened ever so slightly. "She has grown even more impatient since you last saw her," he said. "She struggles to understand why she must wait when victory seems so close at hand."

"Patience has never been one of Daenerys' strengths," Tyrion remarked, his tone dry but affectionate. "It's both her greatest flaw and her greatest asset."

Roslin's words faltered as movement drew her attention. At the far end of the dock, three figures emerged from the shadows of Dragonstone's formidable gates, their footsteps sharp against the cold stone that bordered the sea. They walked with purpose, each exuding an aura of authority, though their mannerisms differed greatly.

At the forefront was a young woman with sun-kissed skin that glowed warmly in the afternoon light. Her dark hair was intricately braided, each strand adorned with delicate shells and beads that shimmered as she moved. There was a quiet determination in her stride, her steps precise, her posture regal despite the simplicity of her dress. She carried herself with the air of one accustomed to both diplomacy and resilience.

Beside her walked a tall man with a lean, muscular frame. His salt-weathered features and the faint scars that marked his skin spoke of a life spent in battle. His stride was unhurried yet deliberate, as though each step was calculated. He wore a simple but well-crafted leather harness, his sword resting comfortably at his side. Though his demeanor was calm, there was an unmistakable intensity in his dark eyes, a readiness for action that seemed ever-present.

Trailing slightly behind them was an older man with a grizzled beard and hair streaked with silver. His armor, though slightly dulled with age, was meticulously maintained, each dent and scrape a badge of honor. His gaze swept over the group with quiet scrutiny, his steps measured and deliberate, as if every movement carried the weight of years of service and sacrifice. His bearing was that of a man who had stood before kings and queens and fought in battles long sung about in the halls of Westeros.

Noticing Roslin's focus, Varys turned his head slightly and offered a knowing smile. "Ah," he said, his tone shifting to one of smooth introduction. "Lady Roslin, allow me to present some of the queen's most trusted advisors."

He gestured toward the trio. "This is Missandei of Naath," he said, inclining his head toward the young woman at the forefront. "Her royal advisor and trusted confidante."

Missandei stepped forward with a serene smile, her voice soft yet confident. "Lady Stark," she said, her accent lilting slightly. "Lord Tyrion. It is an honor to welcome you to Dragonstone on behalf of Her Grace, Queen Daenerys Targaryen."

Roslin nodded, noting the grace with which Missandei spoke. "Thank you," she said warmly. "It is an honor to be here."

Varys's gesture shifted to the tall man beside Missandei. "This is Grey Worm, Commander of the Unsullied, the queen's elite army."

Grey Worm stepped forward with a curt nod. His expression was stoic, his voice quiet but firm. "I will ensure your safety while you are here," he said simply.

Roslin inclined her head in gratitude. "Your reputation precedes you, Commander."

Finally, Varys turned to the older man. "And, of course, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Queen's Guard."

Ser Barristan stepped forward, his expression softening into a faint smile as he inclined his head. "Lady Stark," he said, his voice resonant and warm. "You have your mother's beauty. She would be proud to see you standing here."

Roslin blinked, her breath catching at the mention of her mother. "You knew my mother, Ser Barristan?" she asked, her voice quiet but filled with curiosity.

"When she was a girl," he replied, his tone tinged with fondness and a touch of sorrow. "I fought in a tourney at Rosby Castle, back when your grandfather held it as his seat. It was a splendid event. Your uncle won the day, as I recall, and named your mother the queen of love and beauty."

"My uncle?" Roslin repeated, astonished. She had always known so little of her mother's life—her memories were not her own, but fragments of stories passed down by others. Her mother had died bringing her into the world, leaving a hole that no tales could truly fill.

Ser Barristan nodded. "He was a skilled knight, one of the finest on the lists that day. I remember the way your mother smiled when he placed the crown of flowers on her head. She had a light about her—kind, gracious, but strong in spirit. News of his death saddened me greatly, and even more so when I later heard of hers."

Roslin's chest tightened. "I never knew her," she admitted softly, her gaze dropping to the stone beneath her feet. "She died giving birth to me. All I have are secondhand stories, and even those are scarce."

Ser Barristan's expression grew solemn, his gaze steady as he regarded her. "I am sorry for your loss, my lady. I cannot begin to imagine the pain of such an absence. But I can tell you this: your mother was a woman of great strength and grace, and though you may not have known her, she lives on in you."

Roslin's throat tightened at his words. "Thank you, Ser Barristan," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The introductions complete, Varys extended a hand toward the towering gates of the fortress. "Shall we proceed?" he said smoothly. "The queen is eager to meet with you, though I must caution, her patience is wearing thin. She has much to discuss, and her mind is ever focused on her goals."

As the group made their way toward the castle, Roslin couldn't help but marvel at the individuals surrounding her. Each of them carried the weight of their roles with grace and determination. This was not just the court of a queen; it was the assembly of a force poised to change the fate of Westeros. Yet, as they entered the shadowy halls of Dragonstone, Roslin couldn't shake the feeling that this meeting would test not just alliances, but the very foundation of trust between these powerful figures.

The air in the Great Hall of Dragonstone was heavy, as though the stone walls themselves carried the weight of the island's tumultuous history. The echoes of footsteps on the blackened floor only seemed to deepen the oppressive silence. Scattered across the ground were banners bearing the burning heart of Stannis Baratheon, discarded and trampled, their once-proud sigil now nothing more than tattered cloth. In their place, resplendent and unyielding, hung the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its crimson embroidery stark against the dark, cold walls.

At the far end of the hall, near the imposing throne that seemed to rise naturally from the volcanic stone of the island, stood two pairs of figures. Each duo seemed a world apart from the other, yet both exuded a sense of power and presence that could not be ignored.

To the left, a man and a woman gave off the impression that they had stepped straight off the deck of a pirate ship. The man, broad-shouldered with a weathered face, had the look of someone who had spent his life battling the unforgiving sea. His coat, though fine in cut, bore the salt stains of countless voyages, and his boots scuffed the floor with the weight of years spent on rocking decks. Beside him stood a woman with fiery eyes and a defiant stance. Her clothing, practical but adorned with subtle touches of wealth, hinted at a life lived both in luxury and hardship. Her hand rested casually on the hilt of a dagger at her hip, her posture daring anyone to challenge her.

To the right stood another pair, their appearance a striking contrast. The man had the sun-kissed skin of Dorne, his features sharp and his bearing regal despite the understated simplicity of his attire. His gaze was steady and calculating, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he held himself. Beside him was a young woman with golden hair that shone like sunlight, her presence as striking as it was unexpected.

The tension between the two groups was palpable, the room charged with the unspoken weight of alliances and rivalries. As Roslin and Tyrion entered, the four turned their gazes toward them, their scrutiny intense and unyielding. It was clear that each pair had their own agendas, their own loyalties, and their own stakes in the unfolding game.

The advisors of the Queen guided Roslin and Tyrion through the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone as they approached the foot of the throne. The towering chair loomed ahead, carved from the island's black stone, and they paused, waiting as the advisors moved to take their places at either side of the throne. The room, filled with the hum of whispered conversation, seemed to hold its breath.

A side door creaked open, and the silence in the hall deepened. Through the threshold stepped a woman, her presence like a storm rolling in across a calm sea. She was no older than Roslin, but there was a power in her that seemed to stretch back through the ages, a strength that demanded attention without a single word. Her white-blonde hair cascaded down her back like a river of moonlight, sharp and striking against the black and red gown she wore. The gown was a masterpiece, as beautiful and intricate as a ballgown, yet there was an unmistakable edge to it—armor-like in its design, cut to allow for both grace and strength. The colors of her house—black and red—were woven into the fabric like blood and fire, reflecting the Targaryen legacy in every stitch.

Roslin couldn't help but feel a sense of awe as she gazed at the woman before her. There was something electric in the air, a raw intensity that seemed to radiate from the Queen, a force that commanded more than just respect—it demanded submission.

The woman's piercing purple eyes swept over them, cold and calculating, yet there was warmth in their depths, a fire that seemed to burn with a will of its own. She held herself with an effortless regal grace, every movement deliberate, yet as fluid as a river's current. She was a queen in every sense of the word, as though the title had been written into her very bones.

Without a word, she took her seat upon the throne, her gaze never leaving the visitors. The advisors stood in silence, their posture almost as rigid as the throne itself.

Missandei, standing at the foot of the throne, raised her voice, clear and unwavering. "You stand in the presence of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, and the Breaker of Chains."

Her words echoed through the hall, each title falling with weight, like the toll of a bell, marking Daenerys Targaryen's claim to the Iron Throne and to the hearts of her people. The air seemed to thicken with the sheer force of her identity, as if the room itself recognized the power she wielded.

Roslin's breath caught in her throat. This was no mere claimant to the throne, no desperate rebel rallying for support—this was a queen who had earned each title, who had fought and bled to bring them into being. The room felt smaller under her gaze, yet at the same time, it expanded as if filled with the energy of dragons, storms, and fire. Daenerys Targaryen was a force of nature, and Roslin could not help but wonder if the world would ever be the same once she had finished reshaping it.

The room was still as Daenerys spoke, her voice carrying through the hall with a regal calm that was impossible to ignore. "My Lords and Ladies," she began, her gaze sweeping over the gathered assembly, "I welcome you to Dragonstone. I am grateful that you have chosen to join me for this homecoming."

Her words, while gracious, were heavy with purpose, and the atmosphere in the hall seemed to tighten in response, each noble feeling the weight of her resolve. She turned to Yara Greyjoy, the woman's presence undeniable. "Lady Greyjoy, I've heard of your fleet's strength and the victories you have won on the seas. Your forces are much respected, and your loyalty is invaluable to my cause."

Yara stepped forward with the ease of someone accustomed to being in command. Her dark eyes locked onto Daenerys' with a steady gaze, and she nodded slightly, the barest flicker of respect in her features. "Thank you, your Grace," she said, her voice firm but not without a trace of admiration. "And I must say, it is an honour to see another woman taking her rightful place. Too many have been denied their birthright, but you… you are different."

There was an unspoken understanding between them—two women in a world where men so often ruled unchallenged. Yara's expression softened just a fraction as she spoke, her voice tinged with something more personal, more earnest than mere formality.

Before Daenerys could respond, Varys, ever the observer, stepped forward, his gaze shifting slightly toward the man standing next to Yara. His voice, as always, was soft yet sharp, like a whisper carried on the wind. "It seems, my queen, that Lady Greyjoy has brought a guest with her," he remarked, his tone almost teasing, though there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Daenerys' attention followed Varys's gaze, and her brow furrowed ever so slightly as she regarded the man standing beside Yara. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a hard set to his face that spoke of a life spent in the harshest corners of the world. His features were weathered, as if the sea had shaped him. He had the look of a man who had seen much but had little care for what others thought of him.

"This is my husband," Yara said, her voice betraying no warmth, "Greydon of House Goodbrother." She spoke the words like they were nothing more than a formality, her eyes cold as they flicked toward him. It was clear from the lack of affection in her tone that her marriage to this man was not a love match, nor even a bond of friendship. There was something far more pragmatic about it, an arrangement forged by necessity rather than desire.

Daenerys' lips pressed together for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she took in the man who stood beside Yara. Her tone was measured, but there was a slight flicker of surprise in her voice. "I was unaware you were married, my lady," she said, her gaze never leaving Yara.

Yara's reply came swiftly, with a sharpness that could not be mistaken for anything but the truth. "Needs must, your Grace," she said, her gaze flicking briefly to Greydon before returning to Daenerys. "A sentiment, I think, you understand. Not all alliances are made with the heart."

There was a weight to Yara's words, and Daenerys nodded slightly, her understanding clear. She had forged many alliances in her own life, some born of necessity, others from a desire to see her vision realized. The burden of leadership often meant making choices that were not of the heart, but of the mind, for the sake of something greater.

"Indeed," Daenerys replied, her voice calm but knowing. "The realm demands sacrifices from us all. But we are here now, and we must ensure that the sacrifices we make will bring about a world worth living in."

Greydon's presence, though not overtly welcome, was tolerated by the Queen for now. There were far more pressing matters to address, and Yara's alliance was too important to be marred by the personal nature of the arrangement. Still, the subtle tension in the room was not lost on anyone, and the atmosphere grew heavy with the weight of their unspoken understanding.

Daenerys, ever the queen, did not allow the moment to linger, her commanding presence dispelling any tension. Her gaze shifted to the young man standing to her left, his golden-brown skin and sharp features a clear mark of his Dornish heritage. "Lord Trystane," she greeted, her voice carrying warmth but also an undercurrent of expectation. "Did your uncle not wish to join us?"

Trystane Martell stepped forward, inclining his head respectfully. Though young, he carried himself with a dignity that belied his years. His dark eyes met Daenerys' unflinchingly as he replied, "I commanded my uncle to remain in Dorne, your Grace. Since the death of my father and my ascension as Prince of Sunspear, I did not want to leave our lands unprotected."

He hesitated for a moment, then added with a faint, confident smile, "But he told me to assure you that he is with you in this endeavor—and in everything you seek to accomplish in the future."

Daenerys regarded him for a moment, her piercing violet eyes measuring his sincerity. Then, her gaze shifted slightly, landing on the woman standing beside him—a vision of golden beauty with hair cascading like sunlight and a composure that seemed almost regal. "So instead," Daenerys said, her voice taking on a lighter, conversational tone, "you brought your beautiful wife, the Lady Myrcella?"

At the mention of her name, Myrcella Baratheon—or rather, Myrcella Martell—offered a gracious smile and a small curtsy. Her green eyes sparkled with intelligence and charm, but there was a steeliness behind them that spoke of someone who had endured far more than her delicate appearance might suggest. "It is an honour to stand before you, your Grace," she said, her voice soft but clear. "Prince Trystane thought it fitting that we both lend our support to your cause."

Before Daenerys could respond, Grey Worm, ever vigilant and direct, stepped forward. His voice, though quiet, carried a pointed question that cut through the formalities. "Tell me, Lady Martell," he said, his gaze unwavering as he addressed Myrcella, "does your brother not currently sit on our queen's throne?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as Myrcella's expression shifted, her smile fading slightly into something more somber. She glanced briefly at Trystane, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of reassurance. Turning back to Grey Worm, she answered with steady resolve, "Tommen sits on the Iron Throne, yes. But I am not blind to the circumstances that placed him there, nor the forces that manipulate him."

Her voice gained strength as she continued, "I have no love for the Lannisters who wield power in his name. My loyalty lies with my husband, my new family, and with the future of this realm. I believe that future is with Queen Daenerys."

Daenerys observed the exchange in silence, her expression unreadable as she considered Myrcella's words. At last, she inclined her head slightly, a sign of her acceptance—if not yet full trust. "It is a rare thing," Daenerys said, "to see someone acknowledge the complexities of loyalty and power so plainly. I hope your actions will prove as steadfast as your words, Lady Martell."

Myrcella nodded, her golden hair catching the light as she did so. "They will, your Grace."

The exchange left a lingering tension in the room, but Daenerys quickly moved to reclaim the focus of the gathering. "Prince Trystane," she said, her tone shifting back to one of command, "you and your house have long been allies to the Targaryens. I hope that alliance will be as strong now as it was during the reign of my ancestors."

"It will be stronger," Trystane promised, his voice steady and sincere. "Dorne stands ready to fight for you, your Grace. Whatever you need, we will provide."

Daenerys nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Good," she said, her tone carrying the weight of expectation. "We will need every ally and every sword if we are to take back the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys' violet eyes fixed on Roslin, her gaze sharp yet curious. "Lady Stark, I presume?" she said at last, her voice regal and measured, carrying the weight of both greeting and expectation. "I must admit, your presence here surprises me. I was expecting your husband."

Roslin stepped forward, her chin held high and her voice steady. "We decided I would come on behalf of our House, your Grace," she replied, inclining her head respectfully. "My husband is a Northerner through and through. The South has never held much appeal for him."

Daenerys studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing her words, before her lips curved into a faint smile. "And yet, here you are, Lady Stark. I wonder if the North has underestimated its strength in you."

Roslin returned the smile, though she sensed the subtle test within the Queen's words. "The North understands strength comes in many forms, your Grace."

Daenerys's expression softened slightly, her attention shifting to the figure standing beside Roslin. "And I see you've kindly returned my Hand of the King to me," she said, gesturing to Tyrion with a raised brow.

Tyrion, ever quick with his wit, stepped forward with a theatrical bow. "Your Grace," he said, his tone laced with dry humor, "while I am delighted to be back in your esteemed company, I must confess it wasn't entirely voluntary. Lady Stark is rather persuasive."

Roslin turned to him with a faint smirk. "I prefer to think of it as being efficient, Lord Tyrion."

Daenerys chuckled softly at the exchange, though her sharp gaze didn't waver. "Efficiency is a quality I value," she said, addressing Roslin once more. "But tell me, Lady Stark, why should I trust you? Your house has long been a symbol of loyalty to the North. What compels you to venture south and seek me out now?"

Roslin took a steadying breath, her eyes locked on Daenerys's sharp, piercing gaze. She had prepared for this moment, knowing that words alone might not be enough to sway the Dragon Queen. Yet, she stood firm. "Because the war for the Seven Kingdoms will not be won by any one region, your Grace," Roslin said, her voice steady and filled with conviction. "The North knows winter better than anyone, and with it comes a darkness that will consume us all if we remain divided. I am here because I believe you possess not just the strength, but the vision to unite us—not simply to claim a throne, but to defend the realm."

Daenerys tilted her head, her expression unreadable, though a spark of curiosity flickered in her violet eyes. "Defend the realm?" she repeated, her tone carrying a mix of intrigue and skepticism. "Defend it from what? The Lannisters?"

Roslin opened her mouth to reply, but Tyrion stepped forward with a somber nod, his voice low and deliberate. "The dead, your Grace," he said, breaking the uneasy silence.

Daenerys raised a brow, her skepticism giving way to confusion. "The dead?" she echoed, her gaze shifting between Tyrion and Roslin. "What game is this, Lord Tyrion?"

"It's no game," Roslin interjected, her tone firm. "There is a force rising in the North—a force unlike any you've faced before. The dead do not care for crowns or banners. They serve no house, no king. They serve only death itself."

Daenerys's brows knitted together, doubt flickering in her expression. "And you expect me to believe this tale of walking corpses and winter phantoms? Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I did not build my armies on fables."

Tyrion sighed, stepping closer to the throne. "Your Grace," he began, "I, too, was skeptical when I first heard these stories. But the reports from Castle Black are undeniable, as are the testimonies of those who have seen the White Walkers and their army firsthand. The North does not frighten easily, yet they are united in their fear of this threat."

Roslin took the opportunity to press forward, her voice urgent. "My husband, Robb Stark, has sent ravens to every corner of the North, rallying the bannermen not for a battle of men, but for survival. The Wall has seen the dead rise. Even now, the Night King marches toward us, and every soul he slays joins his ranks."

Daenerys leaned back in her throne, her fingers drumming against the armrest. Her expression was thoughtful, but her wariness remained. "And what would you have me do, Lady Stark?" she asked. "Abandon my rightful claim to the Iron Throne to chase shadows in the North?"

Roslin shook her head, her voice steady but imploring. "No, your Grace. I would ask you to see the larger battle ahead. The Iron Throne will mean nothing if the living are wiped out. But if we stand together—if your dragons fight alongside the North's armies—we have a chance to defeat the dead and reclaim the Seven Kingdoms for the living."

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of the conversation pressing down on everyone present. Daenerys' piercing violet eyes remained fixed on Roslin, as though searching for even the faintest hint of deception. The young Lady Stark stood her ground, her posture resolute, her expression unwavering. She met the Queen's gaze head-on, the fire in her own eyes a reflection of the unshakable Stark determination.

Daenerys' gaze finally shifted, flickering toward her advisors. Tyrion gave a slow, measured nod, his face etched with the weight of the truth he had come to believe. Varys, ever enigmatic, stood impassive, his hands clasped before him and his face unreadable. Grey Worm and Missandei exchanged a glance but said nothing, their loyalty to Daenerys steadfast.

After what felt like an eternity, Daenerys leaned forward, resting her elbows on the arms of her throne, her hands steepled beneath her chin. Her voice, calm but edged with steel, broke the silence. "And if I were to believe this," she began slowly, each word deliberate, "if I were to halt my campaign and join you in this fight—say we win—what happens then?"

Roslin didn't hesitate, her voice steady and clear. "Then you will have the full support of the North to claim your throne, your Grace. My husband and I will bend the knee, and we will call on every bannerman and ally to do the same. Together, we will ensure you sit on the Iron Throne."

Daenerys raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Just like that?" she asked, her tone laced with a hint of incredulity. "You would so willingly yield to a Targaryen?"

Roslin's expression softened, but her conviction did not falter. "The North remembers, your Grace," she said. "We remember the cost of division, the price of war. We also remember the strength of unity when it is forged for a greater cause. My family has suffered more than most in these wars, but we know when pride must be set aside for survival. The North needs a queen strong enough to lead—not just through winter, but beyond it."

Daenerys leaned back slightly on her throne, her gaze narrowing as she scrutinized Roslin with an intensity that felt as piercing as dragonfire.

Roslin drew a measured breath, gathering her courage before speaking. "Your Grace, if I may speak frankly," she began, her voice steady but tinged with the weight of her words. "We come from very different worlds, you and I, but I believe we share more in common than it might seem at first glance."

She paused, meeting Daenerys' unwavering gaze before continuing. "Six years ago, I was no one—just one of many Frey children, a girl lost in a sea of siblings, with a father who cared more about his power than his own blood. He sold me to the highest bidder without a second thought. I was fortunate—beyond measure—that the man he sold me to turned out to be my soulmate. Robb saved me from a life of obscurity, something I think you can understand, given the bond you shared with your first husband."

Daenerys's expression softened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through her eyes as she nodded.

"But my story didn't end there," Roslin continued. "When war came, I was left to fend for myself in a strange city surrounded by strangers while Robb fought to secure our future. I endured horrors that haunt me to this day. I was assaulted and humiliated, stripped of my dignity, and barely made it out alive. I killed a man to survive." She hesitated, glancing briefly at Myrcella, who stood nearby. Now was not the time to confess the true weight of that act—not here, not yet. "I gave birth to my son in the aftermath of it all. He is my greatest joy, the light of my life, but I have also lost children—babies who will never take their first steps, who will never grow into the people they were meant to be. That pain never fades."

Roslin's voice grew more resolute as she pressed on. "Through it all, I have adapted, changed, and endured. I have become a leader in a world where men refuse to see me as their equal, let alone their superior. I have stood by my husband as he has endured loss after loss—his father, his brothers, his mother—and I have stayed strong, because that is what women do. We endure. We fight. We survive."

She stepped forward, her eyes glistening but determined, her voice trembling with emotion. "And now, I stand before you not as a Lady of a castle, but as a mother—a mother who is begging you, as one who has also loved and lost, to save my son. Without you, your Grace, he is as good as dead already. The dead do not discriminate between kings, queens, or children. But you—you have the power to stop them. You have the power to save him."

The hall was silent, the weight of Roslin's words hanging in the air. Daenerys's expression shifted, her eyes softening as she regarded the woman standing before her. The tension in the room seemed to ebb, replaced by an undercurrent of understanding—a shared bond of pain, loss, and unyielding strength.

Finally, Daenerys spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "You have suffered much, Lady Stark, more than anyone should ever have to endure. I will not promise what I cannot yet give, but you have my word that I will consider your plea—not just as a queen, but as a woman who understands the lengths we go to for those we love."

Roslin inclined her head respectfully, though the weight of her plea still hung heavily in the air. A flicker of hope ignited in her chest as Daenerys acknowledged her. "Thank you, your Grace," she said softly, her voice steady but charged with the raw emotion of the moment. "That is all I can ask."

Daenerys turned her piercing gaze to Tyrion. "I presume you have a plan, Lord Tyrion?" she asked, her tone edged with a mixture of curiosity and expectation.

Tyrion stepped forward, clasping his hands before him. "Of course, Your Grace," he replied. "The North cannot prepare itself for the true threat—the dead—because it is already dealing with a more immediate and mortal danger."

"Tywin Lannister," Roslin interjected, her voice laced with quiet fury. "He attacked Castle Black, our first line of defense against the darkness. He killed my father and brother-in-law—two good men who we desperately needed for the fight to come."

"The last word we received," Tyrion continued, "was that my father had left the Wall. He's marching south, currently headed toward Last Hearth, but his ultimate destination is no mystery."

"Winterfell," Daenerys said, the word sharp and final.

"If Tywin reaches Winterfell before the dead," Roslin said grimly, "we'll lose many brave men—men we cannot afford to lose. And without them, we won't stand a chance against the dead. If we survive long enough to face them, that is. We need to stop Tywin before he ever sets foot in Winterfell."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Daenerys asked, her skepticism apparent.

Tyrion stepped closer to the throne, his voice measured but purposeful. "We need to draw him back to King's Landing. We must make him believe the crown is in peril."

"That may be easier than you think," Trystane Martell interjected from where he stood with Myrcella. All eyes turned to him.

Daenerys's brow furrowed. "How so?"

Trystane folded his arms, his expression darkening. "Before we departed the Baratheon court, there was an assassination attempt. A man tried to kill the King and his newborn children. He did this in your name, your grace."

"In my name?" Daenerys asked sharply, her voice filled with incredulity.

"Your Grace, I can assure you," Trystane said quickly, "we know you would never order such a thing. But the man claimed he acted for you. If one man felt so inspired to take such a reckless action, it's likely others might do the same."

Daenerys's lips pressed into a thin line, her frustration evident. "I would never stoop to such dishonour."

"Of course not, Your Grace," Tyrion said smoothly, "but this can still work to our advantage. Chaos breeds opportunity, and if we stoke the fires just enough, the capital will erupt on its own."

"How?" Daenerys demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Myrcella stepped forward, her voice calm but deliberate. "My mother," she began, before correcting herself, "the Dowager Queen, informed me before we left that she is planning the most extravagant naming day celebration ever seen—for the twins."

Roslin's eyes widened slightly. "A public parade for the children?" she asked.

Myrcella nodded. "A feast, a tourney, and endless displays of Lannister wealth, all while the realm is at war. The people are starving, and their own children are dying. If the crown flaunts such excess during their suffering…"

"They'll rise up on their own," Tyrion finished. A spark of cunning lit in his eyes. "Lady Roslin and I had devised a plan to send food parcels into the city, inspired by the claimant Queen Rhaenyra during the Targaryen civil war. That small act of generosity then caused unrest, as it will now. When the people see that while the Lannisters would starve them for a party, their true queen offers them sustenance…"

"It will ignite a rebellion," Daenerys murmured, piecing it together. "And Tywin will have no choice but to abandon the North to restore order in the capital."

"Yes," Tyrion confirmed. "But the riots will also complicate your claim to the throne, Your Grace. Tywin's return will draw more focus to the crown's stability—or lack thereof."

Daenerys tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp. "And you expect me to sacrifice my campaign for the sake of the North?"

Roslin stepped forward, her tone firm but respectful. "Your Grace, with all due respect, if the dead take the North, the South will fall next. They will keep coming until there's nothing left but ice and death. If we do not stand together now, there will be no Iron Throne to claim—only ashes."

For a long moment, the room was silent, the weight of Roslin's words sinking into the cold air. Daenerys leaned back slightly, her lips pressing into a firm line as she weighed the gravity of the choice before her.

Daenerys rose from her throne, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Her expression was resolute, her voice steady with authority as she gave her command.

"Do it," she said decisively, her gaze sweeping over her advisors and guests. "Missandei, ensure our guests are provided with suitable accommodations. They are to be treated with every courtesy."

Missandei inclined her head gracefully, already making mental notes to see the arrangements through.

"Grey Worm," Daenerys continued, turning her attention to her loyal commander. "Prepare the Unsullied and Dothraki to move. I want every man ready for deployment. As soon as Tywin Lannister sets foot back on southern soil, we march north."

Her words were a declaration, a vow not just to her allies but to herself. The room was still as the magnitude of her decision settled over them all. There was no turning back now; the course was set.