Roslin XXII
The days after the battle blurred together in an endless cycle of grief, exhaustion, and duty. The North had been reclaimed, but at a terrible cost. It took them days to clear the keep and the battlefield of the bodies. There were so many of them—some ancient, their bones long decayed, remnants of warriors who had died centuries ago and been raised again for this final horror. Others were fresh, men and women who had fought by their sides, who had bled and died believing in the living's last stand.
They made the decision to burn them all. Even though they knew the dead would not rise again, no one was willing to take the chance. The fear of what had once been still clung to them, an instinct now burned into their souls.
Roslin worked alongside the others, her hands raw from labour, her lungs filled with the acrid scent of smoke and rot. She tried not to look too closely at the faces. It was easier to see them as bodies, not as people she had once known. But sometimes, she caught sight of familiar armour, a sigil she recognised, a hand that had once held hers in passing conversation. And in those moments, the weight of it all nearly crushed her.
They had agreed early on—there would be no individual funerals. There were too many lost, and to mourn them all separately would take a lifetime. Instead, they would hold a remembrance service, something for all the survivors to share in once the dead were gone from their halls and courtyards. A time to grieve together, to acknowledge what they had lost, and to try—somehow—to move forward.
But when it came time to burn Jon Snow, they couldn't just let him go so easily.
The courtyard, cleared now of the battle's remnants, became silent as those who had loved him gathered—Daenerys, standing tall but hollow-eyed; Robb, his face unreadable, though his hands were clenched into fists; Sansa, pale and composed but with unshed tears in her eyes. The men who had followed Jon beyond the Wall, the ones who had stood by him through the darkest nights, each stood stiff-backed and solemn, their grief unspoken but heavy in the air.
Roslin stood among them, her hands folded before her. She had not known Jon as long as some, but she had known him well enough. Well enough to see how much he had meant to those around him, how much he had been willing to sacrifice. She thought of the way Daenerys had fought to save him, the desperation in her voice as she pleaded for someone—anyone—to help. And then she thought of the way Jon had looked at her in his final moments, his eyes filled not with fear, but with love and acceptance.
The pyre was lit, the flames reaching toward the sky.
As the fire consumed him, Roslin turned her gaze to Daenerys. She stood motionless, watching the flames, her face streaked with tears but her expression unreadable. Roslin swallowed against the tightness in her throat, knowing that this was only the beginning. The battle against the dead was over, but the war for the living had just begun.
And Daenerys Targaryen, despite everything, would march forward.
They all would.
The task had fallen to her—a duty as necessary as it was cruel. Robb had entrusted her with recording the dead, turning loss into ink and parchment, grief into cold, unfeeling lists. She moved through the grim task with steady hands, though each name felt like a weight pressing onto her soul.
Some bodies had been unrecognisable, burned beyond recognition in the heat of battle or shattered when the wights fell. Others had been lost altogether, their remains buried beneath collapsed stone or burned during the battle with no records made. She did her best, piecing together what they knew, speaking with those who had survived. A name spoken, a fate confirmed.
Once the lists were made, the next step was even harder.
She called for the missing. Survivors who had not yet found their kin came forward, searching for names among the dead, hoping for news—good or bad. Some were lucky. A few wounded men and women, too weak to seek out their loved ones themselves, were reunited with those who had been searching for them. There were tears, cries of relief, hands clutching hands as if afraid to let go.
But for most, there was only silence.
The missing, one by one, became the dead. Their names were added to the final tally, their families given what little closure could be offered.
And then came the letters.
Hundreds of them, all bearing the same grim message. A husband, a father, a son, a sister—all gone. Many of the families had fled to Dragonstone, others were scattered across Westeros, waiting for news that would now break their hearts.
Roslin wrote them all.
She wrote to Alys Karstark, telling her that her brother was dead. That her father-in-law was dead. That her husband was dead. Three losses in one letter. She stared at the parchment, unable to imagine what it would be like to receive such a message, knowing it would change Alys' life forever.
She wrote to her own family—cousins, nieces, aunts, sisters. She listed the Freys who had fallen, who had met their end fighting a war none of them had ever expected. House Frey, once so vast, now left with too many empty chairs and too many unanswered prayers.
And then, finally, the last letter.
The only one she took satisfaction in writing.
To her sister, Tyta.
She took a steady breath as she penned the words—words that would set her sister free.
Roose Bolton was dead.
Roslin didn't know if Tyta would cry when she read it, if she would feel anything at all. But she imagined that somewhere, across the miles, her sister would feel the weight of her chains loosen, the ghost of a monster finally disappearing from her life.
She folded the letter, sealing it with wax. One last stroke of the quill. One final name to close the book on.
And then, at last, she let herself sit back in her chair, hands trembling.
The dead were counted. The missing were mourned. The letters were sent.
But the grief? The grief would linger far longer than ink on a page.
Time had not stopped for grief.
A week had passed, and with it, the conversations around Winterfell had shifted. Where once they had spoken only of what had been lost, now they spoke of what was to come. One war had ended, but another loomed on the horizon.
Robb Stark had never wavered in his promise to support Daenerys Targaryen. Even now, after all they had suffered, after the North had bled more than it ever had before, his conviction had not faltered. She was their queen, and he would fight for her throne as fiercely as he had fought for their survival.
And so, what had begun as mere talk—a ceremony to name the new Lords and Ladies, to bind them and those that had survived to both the North and Daenerys—quickly became reality.
The morning of the ceremony arrived, and for the first time in months, Roslin found herself swarmed by handmaidens. Their presence felt almost foreign. For so long, her days had been spent in the war rooms or the infirmary, her hands stained with ink or blood. Now, they fussed over her as if the world had not just burned around them.
They worked quickly, their fingers weaving through her hair, twisting it into an intricate arrangement that felt unfamiliar against her scalp. She had grown used to simple braids, to tying her hair back and out of the way. This—this was something else.
Then came the dress.
It was heavier than anything she had worn in months, a stark contrast to the simple, practical clothing she had donned throughout the war. The gown was grey—a shade befitting both House Stark and her own mourning. A rich velvet overdress lay atop it, trimmed with a thin lining of fur that brushed against her skin. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.
When at last she was ready, she sat in the quiet of her chambers, waiting.
Waiting for Robb.
He had not turned off since the war ended. The weight of it was still on his shoulders, pressing him down, pulling him away.
He came to bed long after she had fallen asleep and was gone before she woke. When she did see him, it was always the same—his expression unreadable, his mind somewhere distant.
The night after the battle, he had held her. He had buried himself in her as if he had feared he might never be able to do so again. There had been no words between them, only frantic hands, desperate mouths, the rawness of survival.
But since then? Nothing.
She felt the grief pulling him from her, stretching the space between them wider with each passing day.
And she feared, more than anything, that when the time came for him to return to her, there would be nothing left of the man she had loved.
The war had taken its toll on them all, but on Robb, it had settled like a stormcloud that refused to break. He had always carried the weight of duty, but now it seemed to drag at him like a phantom hand, pulling him further and further away. She saw it in the way he held himself, the exhaustion lining his face, the hollowness in his once-bright eyes.
She had told herself to be patient, to wait for him to come back to her in his own time. But as the days passed, she wondered if that time would ever come at all.
When he finally pushed open the door to their chambers, he was wearing his training armour, disheveled and sweat-soaked. His face was drawn, his jaw tight, his body coiled as though he had spent the morning fighting something he could not see.
Roslin sighed softly, trying to mask the ache of disappointment in her chest.
"Splash some water on your face," she told him gently. "I'll help you get dressed."
He didn't argue, only nodded before stepping toward the washbasin. As he leaned over it, she dismissed the handmaidens with a quiet word, preferring to tend to him herself.
She busied herself with pulling out his clothes, trying not to think about how much of him had been lost to the war. When he returned to her, shaking the water from his hair, she finally saw just how much had changed.
He was shirtless, the candlelight catching on the scars that marred his chest, new ones added to the old. His muscles were leaner, more defined—not out of strength, but out of deprivation. He had been eating less, sleeping less, pushing himself harder, and now, looking at him, she saw the evidence in sharp relief.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and beckoned him closer. She would not press him. Not today.
He stepped toward her, silent as she helped him into a fresh shirt, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders before fastening the clasps of his jacket. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, but her mind was elsewhere—on the man before her, on the distance between them that had once been so small and now felt insurmountable.
He fastened his belt and secured his hilt. She reached for Longclaw, running her fingers briefly over the pommel before passing it to him.
Robb took the sword in his hands, the weight of it familiar yet foreign. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the wolf's head on the pommel, his expression unreadable.
"He would have wanted you to have it," Roslin said softly.
She watched as his fingers tightened around the grip, his knuckles turning white. For a moment, she thought he might say something, might finally break the silence that had settled between them like a wall of ice.
But then, just as quickly, he exhaled, slipping the sword into its sheath without a word.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Robb did not speak as they left their chambers, and Roslin did not try to fill the silence. There were no words that could mend what had been broken, no comfort to be given when grief still weighed so heavily upon them. Instead, they walked side by side, the only sound the soft tread of their boots against the stone floors of Winterfell.
The keep still bore the scars of battle. The air carried the scent of smoke and ash, the ghosts of the dead lingering in the halls. Servants moved quietly, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the castle in the wake of war.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the other lords and ladies had already gathered. The room was filled with the murmurs of noblemen, banners of houses both great and small standing side by side. Yet as Robb and Roslin stepped through the doors, those murmurs faded, heads turning to watch the last arrivals make their way forward.
At the far end of the hall stood Daenerys.
The Queen was dressed in black, her gown embroidered with the subtle patterns of dragons, the dark fabric swallowing the candlelight. She stood as still as a statue, her face a careful mask, but Roslin saw the grief in her eyes, the weight in her posture. She was not only a Queen mourning a war—she was a widow in all but name, standing before the gathered lords with the poise of a woman who had suffered loss before and would suffer it again.
Robb's pace did not falter as they walked down the long aisle, moving between the noble houses that had sworn their banners to more war. The room was heavy with expectation, with the understanding that this was the moment the North declared its allegiance not only to a Queen but to a future.
When they reached the dais where Daenerys stood, Robb dropped to one knee. Roslin followed suit, sinking to both knees beside him, bowing her head.
The hall was silent.
"I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," he declared, his voice carrying through the chamber, "do bend the knee to Daenerys of House Targaryen. I swear my loyalty and allegiance to her as my Queen, to her house, and to her heirs."
A breath passed, heavy and thick with meaning.
Daenerys nodded once, the gesture small but resolute. "Then rise, Lord Stark."
Robb stood first, turning to help Roslin to her feet, his grip firm but fleeting. The moment was ceremonial, but Roslin felt the finality of it settle deep in her bones.
They had made their choice.
Robb had bent the knee, and with him, the North had spoken. But they were not the only ones who had fought and bled for this war, nor the only ones who would see it to its end.
After him came the other Great Houses, each stepping forward in turn to swear their loyalty.
Edmure Tully was first, his movements stiff, his eyes shadowed from sleepless nights. The Lord of Riverrun had survived more than anyone thought he would. Yet still, he knelt, pressing his fist to his heart. "I, Edmure of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Warden of the Riverlands, do swear my loyalty and allegiance to Daenerys of House Targaryen, to her house, and to her heirs."
Daenerys inclined her head, accepting the oath, and Edmure rose, stepping aside as the next came forward.
Harry Hardyng followed, standing in place of young Robin Arryn, the sickly Lord of the Eyrie who had remained in the Vale. The boy-lord had not fought in the battle, but his knights had, and his banners had flown beside the Starks. Hardyng's voice was steady, though Roslin did not miss the way he glanced at Robb, as if looking for silent approval. "On behalf of Lord Robin Arryn and the Knights of the Vale, I swear fealty to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, to her house, and to her heirs."
A representative of Yara Greyjoy was next, a grizzled ironborn man with salt-weathered skin and scars from battles fought at sea. He spoke in the name of the Iron Islands, offering their fealty and their fleets, and though Roslin doubted the Greyjoys were ever truly loyal to anyone but themselves, for now, they stood with Daenerys.
Then came the new Northern Lords.
One by one, they stepped forward—not the fathers who had marched to war, but the sons and daughters who had been left behind, now carrying the weight of their names alone. So many familiar faces missing, replaced by children who should have had years left to learn, years left to grow before duty and loss hardened them into rulers.
Lyanna Mormont strode forward, her head held high, her small frame filled with the unshakable resolve that had made her a force to be reckoned with even among men twice her age. But now, she was alone. The last of her house.
Her voice rang through the hall with unwavering strength.
"I, Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, swear my loyalty and allegiance to Lord Robb of House Stark, to his house, his heir, and to his chosen Queen, Daenerys Targaryen."
Roslin swallowed. She had always admired the girl's fire, her unrelenting will—but now, as Lyanna stepped back, Roslin saw what she had always refused to acknowledge before. She was just a girl. A girl with no family left to stand beside her.
Alyn Umber stepped forward, his movements steady despite the weight of grief that clung to him. Beside him walked Arya, now known as the new Lady Umber—a title not given by birth, but by battle and loss.
Roslin's gaze flickered to Alyn's face, to the brown patch covering the wound where his eye had once been. Yet his voice did not waver.
"I, Alyn Umber, Lord of Last Hearth, swear my loyalty and allegiance to Lord Robb of House Stark, to his house, his heir, and to his chosen Queen, Daenerys Targaryen."
And then, the last.
Ramsay Bolton.
He moved with slow, deliberate steps, his face unreadable. Roslin's stomach twisted at the sight of him. She did not trust him, not fully, and yet here he was, kneeling alongside the others.
His words were careful, his voice smooth.
"I, Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, swear my loyalty and allegiance to Lord Robb of House Stark, to his house, his heir, and to his chosen Queen, Daenerys Targaryen."
A silence settled over the hall as Ramsay stood again, as if the room itself did not quite trust the sincerity of his vow.
And with that, it was done.
The room stood in heavy silence, the weight of oaths sworn and futures decided pressing upon them all.
Daenerys took a step forward, her voice clear and steady despite the grief she carried.
"I thank you, my lords and ladies," she began, sweeping her gaze across the gathered faces. "I know you are still reeling from the losses of the battle we have just survived, as am I. And yet, I stand before you now, once again asking you to march into war." She paused, letting the words settle. "But know this—the dead were not the only evil we faced as a kingdom. The Lannisters and their tyranny pose the same danger to our way of life. Their greed, their cruelty, their thirst for power has cost us all too much. They must be destroyed so that peace can finally return to Westeros, so that we may have the time to grieve and honour our dead, without the threat of more war looming over us."
She let her words echo in the hall before stepping back.
Robb took her place. His voice carried the firm resolve of a man who had fought too many battles but had no choice but to fight again.
"In honour of the peace our Queen will bring to Westeros, I have an announcement to make." He turned his head. "Gendry, and the remaining brothers of the Night's Watch—step forward."
A hush fell over the hall as three men emerged from the crowd. They walked with quiet reverence, hardened by what they had faced beyond the Wall and again on the fields of Winterfell. Among them was Gendry Waters, his head held high as they knelt before the Queen and the rulers of the North.
Robb regarded them for a long moment before speaking. "Your bravery knows no bounds. You faced the dead at the Wall, and when the call came, you rode south to face them again. The fact that you have lived to tell the tale is nothing short of remarkable." His gaze softened just slightly, and then he continued, his tone firm with finality.
"So today, I officially declare the end of the Night's Watch."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the hall, some in shock, others in quiet understanding.
"With its end, you are pardoned of whatever crimes led you to take the black in the first place," Robb continued. "You are free men, bound no longer by ancient oaths, but by your own choices. In time, when our Queen's throne is won, we will rebuild the Wall's defenses. But to defend the North should be an honour, not a punishment."
Roslin watched as the kneeling men slowly lifted their heads, their expressions shifting as the weight of their pasts was lifted. No longer bound by the oaths they had once sworn, no longer exiles in the world of the living, they were free men now. And for the first time in years—perhaps ever—possibility stretched before them.
Gendry's gaze flickered up to Daenerys, unreadable but heavy with emotion, before he bowed his head once more. Daenerys did not let the silence linger. "Gendry," she called, her voice ringing through the hall.
The other two former Night's Watch brothers shuffled away, leaving him alone before the Queen. He looked uncertain, his strong, smith-worn hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"I have something else for you," Daenerys continued, stepping forward. "The late Jon Snow believed you to be a great commander, and we can all now see that he was right." Her tone was steady, regal, but there was something else beneath it—something almost personal. "There is much bad blood between our families, but I intend to prove that I am not my father, and I hope that you would say the same about yourself."
Gendry's brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly in surprise. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied, his voice respectful but uncertain.
"I believe that your house is ruled by an imposter—a Lannister bastard wearing the name of Baratheon," Daenerys said, her words cutting through the hall like a blade. "I would like to rectify that."
A murmur rippled through the assembled lords and ladies, but no one dared to speak out of turn.
"Please, kneel," Daenerys commanded.
Gendry hesitated for only a moment before dropping to one knee, his head bowed.
Daenerys turned to Robb. "Lord Stark, your sword?"
Robb glanced at her, then at Gendry. He said nothing, but Roslin saw the flicker of understanding in his eyes. This moment should have belonged to Jon. He would have given anything to be here. And so, without hesitation, Robb unbuckled Longclaw from his belt and handed it to Daenerys.
The Valyrian steel caught the light as she lifted it. It was heavier than it looked, but she bore the weight with ease.
"I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do proclaim that you, Gendry Waters, shall henceforth be known as Lord Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Warden of the Stormlands."
She placed the blade lightly on his right shoulder, then his left.
Roslin could see the way Gendry's chest rose and fell with a deep, measured breath, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as if grounding himself in the moment.
Daenerys lowered the sword. "Do you accept, Lord Baratheon?" she asked, her violet eyes locked onto his. "And do you swear yourself to me as your Queen?"
Gendry lifted his head. For a moment, the weight of history hung between them—House Baratheon had once stolen the throne from the Targaryens, had hunted them to the brink of extinction. But that was a different war, a different time.
"I do," Gendry declared, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his new title and the legacy he was about to forge.
Daenerys studied him for a moment, as if ensuring the oath had truly settled in his heart. Then, with a decisive nod, she turned to Robb and returned Longclaw to his grasp.
"Then let us begin," she said, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Without another word, she swept from the hall, her black gown sweeping behind her like the wings of the dragon she had become.