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Mother tells Joffrey of his impending marriage with the Stark girl, though Father, of course, is the one who arranges it. "I don't want to marry her," Joffrey says. "I don't like her."
At the moment, they're standing in his temporary room in Winterfell, which has an unobstructed view of the courtyard, and as if on cue, he hears his betrothed's laughter come in through the window, followed by a low bark of one of those wolves. During his time here, he hasn't seen much of her, but he already knows she doesn't belong in King's Landing. "You have to wed eventually," Mother says, as if that's to make up for it. "At least she's beautiful."
"But she's going to be my wife." Beautiful though she might be, it still doesn't negate her bloodline. He doesn't understand why Father is so insistent he marry her when no one cares about the North. Asking Lord Eddard to be Hand should be enough to show the friendship between their Houses.
"And one day she will be Queen," Mother says with a sigh, walking towards the window with her arms folded, holding her furs tight across herself. "You should do something nice for her, on our way home. The occasional kindness will make the future more bearable."
There's little point in the occasional kindness. It's not as though Joffrey cares for her, or as though he ever will care for her. Her happiness is inconsequential to their marriage, and his eventual time as King. Though this is his first time in the North, he's already noticed the Starks put too much value on their women; she shouldn't expect the same just because they're wed. "Such as what?" he asks, frowning. "What does she expect me to do?"
"I don't know," Mother answers, glancing back at him. "Give her something. Walk with her. Show her around King's Landing. You're smart, Joffrey, you'll think of something."
Again, he hears the girl laugh outside, and her brother call, "Not so fast, Bran!"
Joffrey is about to marry into this family. The injustice of it all is astounding.
A month later, on the day Joffrey and his father's Company are to leave from Winterfell, it snows, and the party is kept because Robyn Stark is late. "Sorry, Father," she says as she pulls herself onto her horse without help, kicking up a flurrying of snow and dirt with her riding boots as she does. "I was saying goodbye to Mother and Bran."
There are snowflakes in her dark red curls, and Joffrey doesn't care one way or the other about House Stark, but Mother's right, he supposes. She pretty, at least, so it could be worse, even if lateness on the day of the return journey doesn't bode well. What do girls like? Flowers? On ordinary occasion, he doesn't spare the subject much thought, but he has too now. Perhaps he'll just ask Mother.
This already seems like a terrible idea.
Within the first week, Lady Stark comes to Joffrey before he can go to her, greeting him at the riverside by his tent, dressed in a dark grey traveling dress so simply it would better belong to a servant than a daughter of a lord.
"It's terribly boring here," she says, and he agrees, but that doesn't mean he'll tell her that. "Father said I’m not to go for a walk without guard, but none of the men are much in the way of conversation. I think you must be suitable enough protection, though, if you would like to join me, Prince Joffrey."
There are worse reasons to be called upon for, he decides, than protection, and glances at the sword at his side before offering his arm. "Of course, My Lady."
She smiles, wider than any of Myrcella's, and threads her elbow through his. "Oh, please, My Prince, we’re to be married within the next four months, according to your mother," she says. A breeze sweeps by, blowing stray curls across her face. She's tall for a girl, barely a hair's width shorter than he is, and narrow. "There’s no need for formalities. Robyn will do, in privacy at the very least."
Though Joffrey has never been betrothed before, he doesn't think this is normal, but she's put him in a position where all he can answer is, "Then you may call me Joffrey, Robyn."
"We're very fortunate, you know, Joffrey," she says as he takes her towards the river because it's a better path than the forest. "Most betrothed don’t have a chance to speak until the day of their wedding, but we have several months to get to know each other."
That doesn't sound particularly fortunate to him, but he doesn't need to "get to know her." Any girl in the Seven Kingdoms would want to marry him, to have the chance to be Queen, but here, the feeling isn't mutual. "Most betrothed aren't a prince and the daughter of the Hand of the King," he says.
Lady says, "No, I suppose not," and the walk continues in silence.
It's probably better that way. Just because he needs to be nice doesn't mean he has to talk to her, after all.
By the time they reach King's Landing, Joffrey and Robyn spoken every day, and have yet to run out of words.
Over the past month, Joffrey learned Robyn didn't like jewelry much, so on her second day in the Red Keep they meet in gardens outside the Tower of the Hand, and he gives her flowers instead. "They're beautiful," she says, and when she smiles, he smiles too. "Thank you."
The sunlight shines through through hair, brightening its red color, and the shadows from the cypress trees darkens her eyes. Mother said Robyn had too much color for the North. "Anything for my lady," he answers, and she takes one of the blue flowers and tucks it in her braid. "Would you like to join me for a walk along the shore?"
As she takes his offered arm, she answers, "Of course, my love," and he thinks his mother is a paranoid fool for believing she's a threat.
When Joffrey told Mother he was going to show Robyn the Targaryen graves, she told him ladies weren't interested in those sorts of things, but he quickly finds she was wrong. Until now, Joffrey hadn't known it was possible to have an argument over which Targaryen death was more entertainment than another.
While he thinks the most obvious answer is Aerion's, Robyn continues to insist he's incorrect, which is a forwardness he's grown to expect from her. "Aegon the Fifth's death was much more interesting," she says, gesturing to his remains. They're in the Sept, which is empty save Mother and Lord Stark, who talk near the closed doors, angled away from each other. Robyn, ignoring them as surely as Joffrey is, says, "He died trying to bring back dragons."
This may be true, but during his childhood people called him Egg, supposedly, and to Joffrey that decreases the level of amusement found in his death—though perhaps it increases how much he deserved it. "Yes, but Aerion died trying to become a dragon," he says, because that's much better than simply trying to bring them back.
"He died from stupidity," she argues. "Aegon died for hope."
"Aerion hoped he'd be a dragon."
Robyn laughs, and says, "That's like you trying to become a lion, or me a wolf."
The comment bothers him, but it isn't until he feels her flinch that he realizes he gripped her hand too hard for a moment. Rather than apologize, he simply loosens it, and is relieved when she doesn't mention it either. "Baratheons are stags," he says.
With a shrug unbecoming of her status, she answers, "Stags are prey animals. Baratheons may spear you with their antlers, but if you had to really become something, lions would be the better advantage. It's the teeth. Come now, Joffrey, you promised me dragons."
During their time on the road, he said he'd show her the skulls in the dungeon, and she thought he was exaggerating how big they were. "This way," he says, and tugs her in the proper direction, leaving Mother and Lord Eddard behind. Once they reach them, he sees her absentmindedly rubbing her shoulder as if hurts, and decides not to comment on that, either.
The realization comes to Joffrey rather abruptly while taking dinner with her one day that he might be in love with his future bride. He always thought love was some abstract concept left for Myrcella or Tommen's songs, but as they talk over their wedding without anyone else joining them, he realizes that he would start a war over her, if he had to. "Your mother said over seven hundred people will be in the Sept that day," she's saying. Her dress is one Mother had designed for her, colored in greens and browns, and much more befitting of the future Queen of Westeros than the drab Northern garments she wore when she first arrived. "Aren't you nervous?"
Though he is, he also can't admit it, so he says instead, "I'm future King, Robyn. A wedding isn't going to intimidate me."
"I'd be less nervous if it were political decisions we were making in front of over seven hundred people," she says, and sips her wine. "There will be more than one disgruntled lord disappointed that it's not his daughter up there with you."
Lords will always be disgruntled; it's inevitable in King's Landing. That's something Joffrey learned before he could walk. "Let them be disappointed," he tells her. "They can go home and complain, if they like. If anyone speaks out again you, I'll be sure my father hears of it."
"There will always be people who dislike their ruling family," she says, but she still does sound a bit pleased, or at least he thinks. "Unless it's something truly serious, I don't think you need to go so far."
When he was younger, Mother always taught him the best way to rule was through fear, and he knows people should be taught not to question them early on. At the same time, he also knows already that Robyn would disagree, and there's no reason to bring it up at dinner. "What I'm wondering about," he says instead, "is what the reception is going to be. My father hasn't said anything."
Knowing his father, it's going to be a tournament, which Robyn may not like. He has seen women faint during them before, after all. "Well, if the reception is boring," she answers, "then I suppose we just have to wait until everyone has had their fill of wine and leave early."
Her face is unreadable when she says it, and for a moment, he thinks she's serious. Then her mouth twitches, and he laughs, imagining his mother's reaction, and it isn't long before she's laughing, too.
Going for a stroll past dark along the shore with the woman who's not yet is wife isn't something Joffrey ever thought he'd be doing, but Robyn came and convinced him. It's not long before they wed, and guests are arriving daily, stealing her attention away. They walk for about a quarter hour before he steps up to settle on a cluster of boulders, and helps her do the same.
"We're going to be wed in a month," she says as they sit. "We can do this again, if you like, and no one would be able to call it indecent."
As her hair isn't so much as braided at the moment, she doesn't have the right to talk of decency, but they are to be wed, and it's not as though any of that will matter anymore. "We'll be busier once we're married," he answers, because Mother likes to talk about the duties of princes and kings.
Robyn says, "Oh, yes, because princes and princesses are so preoccupied," and he doesn't know what causes him to do so, but he kisses her. Her lips are soft, and taste of sea air and sweet southern wine.
When he realizes his mistake, he goes to move away, but she says, "I don't mind, Joffrey," so he kisses her again.
At the wedding reception, people shower Robyn with compliments, though even Joffrey, who cares nothing for clothing, knows that her white dress is incredibly plain. The reception is held outside, with the guests eating in low tables across the gardens, canapes erected to shelter everyone from the summer sun. "You look lovely, Robb," Lady Catelyn says. She sits at Ned Stark's side, two seats from their daughter. Joffrey wishes the Starks weren't up at the High Table, though he had no choice in the matter. "The blue roses were a nice touch."
As she takes his hand under the table, Robyn says, "I got the idea from Joffrey. He gave me a bouquet when I first arrived with blue violets in it. Finding real roses were difficult, but my handmaiden managed."
Her sisters both lean past their mother, staring. "Does this mean I have to call you 'Princess' now, Robb?" the youngest, most irritating one asks. If it were up to Joffrey, both would be gone, because he'd like his wife to himself.
"Oh, don't you dare, Arya," Robyn answers, and her sister rolls her eyes. Instantly, Lady Catelyn reprimands her. Her brother Jon has been silent and sullen the whole reception.
Robyn's normalcy is a miracle, given what she comes from.
"Well, I think Princess Robyn sounds like something out of a song," her other sister says. "Though you will be Queen some day. That means you're likely to get a song of your own after all."
Looking to him, Robyn says, "What do you think, Joffrey? It can be called 'The Wedding Pie is Very Dry.' And it's sequel, 'The Rains of Castamere Is Not a Proper Wedding Song.'"
As she says it, the musicians begin a new chorus. Father stands and calls, "Enough, enough with the music. Play something for a dance. It's a wedding, people are supposed to dance."
The musicians change tune to one more appropriate, and Joffrey stands. "Will you dance with me, Princess?"
Wordlessly, she accepts his hand and allows him to lead her away. He glances back at the table, and Father looks prouder of him than he has in his life, while Jon Stark's eyes are narrowed into a thinly veiled glare. Joffrey is unsure which is more satisfying.
Before Robyn and Joffrey were married, they argued. Now they fight, and though he's careful not to strike her face after their first real one, he's seen the bruises he's left on her skin. He doesn't mean to, but sometimes she just gets him so angry, because she's infuriating, and stubborn, and refuses to concede when she's wrong. That said, she's never actually admitted that he's hurt her.
Somehow, when she finally does, it's even worse than just knowing he has.
They're in their bedchambers, and it's a stupid argument to begin with, but she's gesturing as she speaks. For a moment his thoughts come to a halt, and he grabs her much harder than he intends just to get her to stop.
"Joffrey—" she starts, and tries to pull away, which only tightens his grip.
"I—"
"Joff—"
She doesn't get it, and it would all go away if she just stopped talking, this tightness and heat in his head, but she won't quiet down. "Robyn, you can't keep—"
"Joffrey, you're hurting me."
Whether it's her words, or her tone, he doesn't know, but something breaks, and he calms. The guilt rushes him the moment when he realizes what he's doing, and he releases her, letting her stand there and shake, her thin nightclothes doing little to hide the trembling. Whatever the argument was doesn't matter, and he hadn't meant to hurt her, or at least not this badly. There's already a redness on her skin where his hands were.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, folding her into his arms, and at first she flinches away, but eventually she calms enough to lean into him. "I'll never hurt you again, Robyn. I promise. You're mine—I shouldn't have—I promise."
Her body's still shaking, but she moves, wrapping her arms around him. "I know," she says quietly as he strokes her hair. It's late, so it's down, and some of it caught in his fingers when he grabbed her, which means there's a redness forming at her temple as well.
It was an accident, he tells himself. It won't happen again.
But everything was an accident. That's the issue. "You're mine," he says again, uncaring about the almost desperate edge to his voice.
Just as quietly as before, his wife answers, "I'm yours."
Dusk sinks to night beyond their window, throwing their room into relief of long shadows and flickering candlelight that highlights the hand print bruises forming against her white skin.
Joffrey and Robyn spend their days apart, but their mornings and nights together. Three months into their marriage, she enters their bedchambers laughing, already undoing the ribbons in her hair, to inform him the smallfolk have through of a new name for her. "Little Wolf, honestly," she says, and kisses him. "Your mother made it sounds so dangerous when she told me."
Though he doesn't understand the threat in a name, either, he answers, "My mother is known for being protective, Robyn," and adds, as an afterthought, "Keeping you in the castle isn't so terrible. There are fewer people for me to kill when I'm King."
"You can't kill everyone who slights their Queen," she says, the corner of her mouth turning down until he kisses her, and feels her smile instead. When he moves back, she continues, "If you killed everyone who laid eyes on me, my love, we wouldn't have much of a kingdom to rule."
"Then let me," he answers. "It will certainly make winter easier."
She sighs is exaggerated exasperation. "You have a Stark for future Queen and you're worried for the winter? I was born during a snowstorm."
As she's a woman, she won't have much input into affairs, but he decides it's not a day for an argument. "Enough talk, Robyn," he says, and when he kisses her again, his fingers find the complicated lacings of her dress.
"I can help when I'm Queen, if you'd like," Robyn says one day as she and Joffrey eat dinner on their balcony, a warm breeze delivering the smell of the sea. "I took most of my brother's lessons with him for years, so I know how to survive a winter. Politically, I mean."
Though she's mentioned her unconventional childhood curriculum, she's never exactly said it. It's uncomfortable, knowing she's had a man's education, but he can't do anything about it now. "Queens don't serve on the Small Council, Robyn," he says.
Without looking at him, she says, "Kings have their limits, of course, but I think you could change something as simple as whether or not the Queen is allowed to help in politics. This will be your rule. The only way to be remembered is to make changes. Think about what we could do together."
Contrary to how his father perceives him, Joffrey isn't simple. He knows that his parents don't like each other, which is why they sleep in separate rooms, and that there are people in Westeros who doubt them both. Whenever he's protective of her, Robyn treats it as a jest, but he doesn't want people to doubt her, too. Perhaps she's right, and they would be better together, though he doesn't know how helpful she could be outside suggestions on how to withstand winter.
"We have some time before we take the throne," he says, and she leans her head on his shoulder. "Maybe we won't be responsible for the it."
For some reason, the moment he says it, he already knows it's a lie, and the thought terrifies him.
Six months into Joffrey and Robyn's marriage, Lord Eddard and Uncle Jaime fight, resulting in the Hand becoming bedridden, and his uncle fleeing the city. Joffrey's anger doesn't last long, because Robyn sends Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell "for their own safety" before her father is even awake, and he's so ecstatic to finally have her nearly all to himself that he barely cares about the brawl.
The night that her sisters leave, she cries, first quietly, trying to hide herself, and then into his shoulder. "They're highborns. They have guards," he says, wiping away her tears. It's late, but they're out for a walk along the shoreline, and the water is black and silver in the moonlight, frothed waves breaking against the rocks. "No one will harm them on the road."
She hugs him, and he tries not to appear too pleased at their departure. Now if only Lord Eddard would leave, too. "I know. You're right," she says, voice steady. "I'm sorry, I hadn't wanted to see you like this."
"As your husband, I think I was bound to see you crying eventually."
"It's just—Well, for years my family was all I had, I suppose." A wave breaks higher than the others, wetting his boots the hem of her dress. Together, they move away, further up the slick boulders. She sighs, tears abated now, and says, "And now I have to tell my father I sent his daughters away before he could say goodbye."
"He'll understand," Joffrey says, and privately hopes this causes enough tension for them to drift apart. Like his mother, he doesn't trust the Starks (the fight between Lord Eddard and Uncle Jaime proves he's right not to), but Robyn isn't like the rest of her family. She's more like him, and it's a wonder she gets on with her father and sisters at all.
Her tears have stopped entirely, though her eyes remain glassy and her cheeks flushed. "You're right," she says again. "He's their father, of course he will."
Not all fathers would. Robyn should be thankful she doesn't understand that.
Eventually, Joffrey and his wife do fight, a week later in the privacy of their bedchambers late in the evening. It's remarkable how often she forgets how much easier it would be on both of them if she ever stayed silent.
"Your uncle attacked my father unprovoked," she says, and crosses her arms. "Now he's fled. Is that the act of an innocent man?"
He starts to say, "My mother said—" but she's already interrupting him with, "What your mother says and what the truth is aren't necessarily one in the same. Would your father really keep mine as Hand if this was his doing?"
Joffrey doesn't have much of an answer to that, but he also knows his mother wouldn't lie. "Your father must have tricked him," he says. "It's his word again my uncle's, and my uncle—"
"Yes, his word against your uncle's, because Ser Jaime killed all my father's—"
"He wasn't going to just let them attack without defending—"
"He stabbed a man I grew up with through the eye, Joffrey."
Uncle Jaime is a knight of the Kingsguard; he wouldn't attack without reason. If this was anyone but her father, then she wouldn't be so emotional about it, and remember that. Joffrey says, "He wouldn't have had to if your mother hadn't taken Tyrion hostage."
Robyn frown. "She wouldn't have done it without justification," she says, insistent as always on the honorable goodness of the Stark nature as though it were an infallible truth. "Someone must have given her false information."
"What could possibly have prompted that?"
"How would I know? I'm a Baratheon princess. No one tells me anything."
If she considers herself a Baratheon now, she shouldn't be so quick to defend her mother and father's mistakes. "He's the Queen's brother, this is treason," Joffrey says, but his wife continues to look skeptical. "If anything happens to him, your father will be—"
With her voice sharp, she says, "And if my father's wounds had festered and he died? He's the Hand of the King, Joffrey. Now imagine what would happen to both your uncles then."
As she goes to turn away, he grabs her by the arm, but before he solidify his grip, she's already ripped herself away. "You have no right to threaten—" he starts.
"It's a fact, Joffrey, not a threat."
They don't speak for the rest of the night.
When Father returns from a hunt just a few weeks after the brawl in the streets, he's injured, and Maester Pycelle says he's going to die before the day is through. "I'm sorry, Joffrey," Robyn says, sitting close at Joffrey's side on a stone bench in a deserted corner of the gardens under a honeysuckle bush. He lets her hold him, though princes don't cry, and kings certainly don't, and his father didn't pay him much mind to begin with. "It will be all right. You'll all right."
Tomorrow he'll wake up and be made King, because his father will die. They'll be the King and Queen through winter. Are you ready? he wants to ask her, but doesn't. Mother says kings can do what they like, but Robyn says they can't. He knows who he wants to be right, but the thinks he knows who really is, too.
"We can figure it out in the morning," Robyn says, pressing her cool, soft lips to his hair, and Joffrey grips her so tightly he doesn't care how much it must hurt.
Just the next morning, Joffrey learns Ned Stark conspired to kill him, his brother, and his sister in his bed under the charge that they were born of incest. The throne room is tense with anticipation, his men and Stark's awaiting orders. Though Joffrey knows the order will hurt his wife, he calls for Stark's imprisonment and his accomplices' deaths without hesitation.
Robyn jolts as though to run, her red braid entwined with its blue ribbon swinging like a rope behind her at the movement.
"No, Joffrey, please—"
"Seize him, seize the traitor!"
The first of Ned Stark’s men is stabbed through the chest, and before she can move to do anything, Joffrey grabs his wife around the waist and covers her eyes, pulling her back to him. Regardless of what her father is, Robyn doesn’t need to bare witness to an act like this.
In the aftermath of Lord Stark’s capture, Robyn is too emotional, but that was her father, so Joffrey forgives her for not thinking objectively, as she normally does. "He wouldn’t do this unless a third party confirmed you weren’t the true heir," she says later that night, pacing as he sits at their balcony's round, mosaic table. She's refused to let the subject drop all day. "Northerners like facts, and he was already injured. And I’m his daughter, why would he do that to me?"
If Joffrey’s not the true heir, then Robyn was wed in disgrace so, he can’t quite figure out why Ned Stark did this, either, but he can’t think of anyone else who would want to harm his family. "You seem very certain," Joffrey says.
"I’m his daughter," she says again. "I’m a Lady of Winterfell. I know the way my family thinks. Just let me speak to him. I’ll find out who—"
"No."
"But—"
"Robyn, it’s better if you don’t."
Though she clearly wants to think the best of her father, Mother expressed enough concerns over Lord Stark early on that Joffrey doubts the man needed much of a reason. And if he was willing to put his eldest daughter in that position in front of the entire Court, then there’s a likely chance he'll try to get inside her head and turn her against them. Against Joffrey, her King, her husband.
"You can’t just hide me from him," she says, and crosses her arms. "I want to know why."
Sometimes, he genuinely can’t understand how she doesn’t see he’s doing this to help her. Robyn is better off without any of them. "We have more important things to focus on," he tells her. "Our coronation is in a week. You can speak with him after."
This doesn’t calm her as he intended. "I can’t just leave him alone down there," she answers, coming to a halt before him. "Joffrey, please don’t do this."
"After the coronation," he says, because he’s not changing his mind. "There’ll be enough people wondering why I’m letting a traitor’s daughter be crowned."
She just shakes her head, and the tension in her shoulders loosens. "But I’m not—"
"I know," he says, and places his hands on her arms. It’s not often that she seems scared, but she’s wide-eyed and trembling, and her mouth is tight around the edges. "Robyn, you’re mine now, their Queen, and if anyone says a word against you, I’ll be certain they regret it."
Then she kisses him, and he finally knows she's his and his alone.
On the day she writes to her brother, Robyn convinces Joffrey to keep her father alive, and to dismiss Petyr Baelish from the Small Council. She makes a valid point when she says the man is a proven oath breaker, but it isn’t until the coronation when Joffrey sees Baelish lean over to Mother and say, "Even her crown isn’t gold," that he truly agrees with his wife.
The septon crowns her second with the one designed specifically for her, with its open silver band and golden leaves. What does it matter that her dress is ivory and blue? It’s only clothing.
"And Robyn of Houses Baratheon and Stark," the septon says, name kept despite its disgrace, "Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Lady of Winterfell. Long may she reign."
As the man slips the crown into her hair, the Court says, "Long may they reign," but it’s Joffrey who Robyn looks to when she smiles.
When Robyn tells him she started attending Small Council meetings casually during their walk down the beach, Joffrey scarcely knows what to think. Of course, she mentioned assisting in politics earlier, but he hadn’t thought she was serious about it.
Finally, he says, "Why?" because that seems the only question to ask.
With a slight shrug, she answers, "I don’t trust Lord Baelish, and the Small Council cannot run on two men alone, especially now, as Stannis called the banners to challenge your claim."
That raven they received within hours after their coronation, which was so ill-tiled Joffrey had wondered if his uncle planned it. "There isn’t going to be much you can do," he says. "Leave that to my grandfather planning his battles."
"There’s more to war than swords and spears," Robyn says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "We need the smallfolk and noblemen in our loyal territory to want us to be here. Your claim has already been brought to question by—m-my father, and Stannis won’t be the only one wondering now that it’s out in the open. If they dislike us, if they fear us, how long until they decide Stannis is the rightful King after all?"
Though Mother says fear is the only way to rule, Robyn has steadily proved his mother isn’t always right this past year. To him, it’s ridiculous anyone could ever even think to question his claim, because that questions his mother and she would never do what the rumors accuse her of, but people believe it anyway. "What have you been doing?"
As she takes his hand in hers, she says, "Well, historically, crime decreases when smallfolk are occupied, so I collaborated with Varys to create work within the city reinforcing houses, roads, and the outer walls for the coming winter. Pay isn’t much, but it’s enough that they should feel acknowledged for what they do, and the work isn’t useless, either. This winter is going to be a long one, and we should be prepared. You should attend. Meetings will be much better with the King there, as we’re still missing a Hand."
Even having her come to terms with her father’s treason hasn’t been enough to strip her of her Stark leanings, but it does have its advantages. "I have other responsibilities," he says, which is sadly true, because nothing is worse than hearing the smallfolk whine all day, "but if you need me, I’ll come. And yes, where is my grandfather? I made him Hand. He should be here by now."
"Burning his way through the Riverlands for fun, or so I assume," she answers, taking her hand in his. "The Small Council would run much easier if he applied that enthusiasm to King’s Landing’s politics."
While Joffrey understands the war is important, and this is retribution for Lady Catelyn’s abduction of his uncle, the real battles will be with Stannis, who’s still in Dragonstone. Considering that Dragonstone is not located in the Riverlands, it would probably be best if Grandfather was fulfilling the role given to him. "I’ll recall him officially," Joffrey says, annoyed that it’s going to take a royal signature to get him here. "Any attack that comes will be to King’s Landing, not Riverrun."
"No, that would be Ser Jaime attacking Riverrun," she says. "Besides, I’m half Tully. Unless my mother declares allegiance to Lord Stannis, stopping their homes from being destroyed will assure us the Riverlands’ loyalty."
Joffrey may have been angry about the fight between Uncle Jaime and Lord Stark, but truthfully, he doesn’t see how anyone likes Lord Tyrion enough to ignore a real problem. "I’ll come to the next Small Council meeting and deal with that," he says, and thinks that maybe they can finally get around to finding a replacement for Baelish. Normally Joffrey doesn’t care much about what people do, but he doesn’t like the way the man looks at Robyn.
She smiles, and kisses his cheek. Once she said that together they could build something great, and though she has too much of that womanly gentleness to ever really run the kingdom, Joffrey thinks that maybe they can.
They receive a raven from Grandfather saying Jon Stark has called the Northern banners, too, and they’re riding south to retrieve his sister and father. At hearing the news, Joffrey is so angry he can hardly see straight, and Robyn isn’t helping matters. He manages to keep hidden exactly how angry just long enough to get back to their room, crowding her against the wall so she can’t walk away this time.
"What did you write to him?" he asks, because he can’t see any other way Jon Stark would demand a legally married woman returned to him.
Shaking her head, she says, "Nothing, I swear. It was just about my father."
"Then why does he seem to think you’re in trouble?"
"I don’t know," she says. "I swear, Joffrey, I really don’t."
"You said he would swear fealty."
She flinches. “I didn’t expect him to do anything that would ever put me in danger. Jon would never—Joffrey!”
That’s what she said of her father, too. Joffrey doesn’t understand how her plans for the city can be working so well, but she can be so blind to her own family. "Just, stop defending them, Robyn," he snaps, and her breath comes in as a stuttering gasp. "Look at what they’re doing to you."
It’s obvious her family is only bold because she’s Queen, and they think that must afford them some security. They’re taking advantage of her, and she hasn’t noticed. "I’ll write to Jon again," she says. "I’ll explain—just don’t kill—"
"If he didn’t want to be executed, he shouldn’t have started a war."
There’s a long beat of silence before Robyn says, "Joffrey, that hurts."
He looks down to where he’s gripping her arms to keep her against the wall, and realizes both the flinch and gasp were from pain. He only meant to hold her in place, not hurt her, and he doesn’t understand how he keeps doing this. "I’m sorry," he says as he releases her, backing away, and the words are beginning to sound overused. "I just—"
"I know," she says, and steps forward to hug him as though to absolve him. He pretends she’s the only who’s shaking. "It’s all right. You didn’t mean to."
There are red marks the shape of his hands on her upper arms that she’ll have for weeks, and he knows this with certainty because this isn’t the first time it’s happened. "He has my Uncle Jaime, too," he says, quieter this time, because they were just yelling and he doesn’t think she needs that at the moment.
"We can use my father as a hostage of war, put him in spare quarters used for lesser noble guests," she says, looking up at him. "The only other option is me, and I don’t want anyone to think of me as one."
Executing Lord Stark would send a stronger message, but if he dies, then either his son will kill Uncle Jaime, or he’ll begin trying to negotiate using Robyn, and she’s right—she’s not a hostage. She’s his wife, the rightful Queen. Calling her anything else is diminishing her importance, but her family doesn’t seem to care much about that.
He says, "We’ll tell the Small Council of our decision in the morning," and promises himself for not the first time that he’s never going to hurt her.
Fortunately for Ser Dantos, Robyn’s plan to get the smallfolk to love them is working, so Joffrey couldn’t kill him, no matter how irritating he is. Instead he sent him to the cells to rot until morning, at which point he decided to send him to the Wall, which sounds worse than death anyway. That should have been sign that the day was going to be a good one, but instead here he is, dealing with Uncle Tyrion when this is the last thing Joffrey wants to do.
The only thing that makes this remotely bearable is that Robyn is here, but he would prefer it if she didn’t smile at his uncle as if she doesn’t mind he’s unannounced arrival. They meant in the corridor leading to the Small Council's room, the tension thick even as tries to dissipate it. "I know our families aren’t on the best of terms right now, to put it mildly," she says with her smile. Joffrey can at least admire her attempt to make herself seem pleased about this. "But it really is good to see you alive, My Lord."
"What happened with your mother was a…misunderstanding," Uncle Tyrion says, and Robyn looks over his head to Joffrey, smirking. Just because she was right about her mother doesn’t mean she’s right about her father, he thinks. "Now, Your Grace, my father sent me here to act as Hand in his stead."
Before she can take the paper from Tyrion’s hand, Joffrey steps forward to snatch it away, and circles around to stand next to her again. The letter is short, but addresses all necessary titles and practices. "Does my grandfather really think he’s in a position to jest?" he says. With the mess Grandfather's made of himself in the Westerlands and Riverlands against Jon Stark, he’s lucky Joffrey’s even allowing him to stay to try and correct his mistakes.
Robyn lightly touches the back of his neck, fingers playing with his hair, and the pressure there lessens. "We’ll call the Small Council for a meeting this evening," she says, already implying he’ll be there too, but he won’t, because he doesn’t feel like seeing his uncle day after day, "so you have some time to rest, My Lord."
"Thank you, Your Grace," he answers. "And please, just Tyrion. We are related now, after all."
With another smile, revealing her nice, straight teeth and dimples, she says, "Of course, but only if you call me Robyn," and Joffrey puts an arm around her slim waist. He knows how his uncle is, and he wants him to understand—she’s his, and no one else’s.
In one Small Council meeting Joffrey didn’t attend, Robyn turned King’s Landing around, allowing peasants into the city as long as they can bring their harvest or some other useful craft, and creating temporary places for them to both receive free (leftover) food, and find work in, in unused alleys. By now, they’ve been husband and wife for a year, and he recognizes after some thought that this is her way of avoiding the war. The Starks, he decides, are too dependent on one other, and while her Northern heritage is sometimes an advantage, it’s ultimately more often a bad thing. Once he thought he’d fight a war for her if he’d have to, and now he is.
Now they're in the bedchamber, as they always are come night, and have only just ended an argument about her decision to send criminals to the Wall despite the route’s current situation, so she’s acting more physically affectionate than usual. He’s not expecting it when she suddenly says, "Joffrey, I need to tell you something, and I need you to not be angry."
She’s never said anything like this before, not even in regards to returning her sisters to Winterfell. They sit side by side on the edge of the bed, knees touching and fingers entwined. He never liked touch until he met her.
Tense, frowning, he asks, "You haven’t done something with your brother, have you?"
To his relief, she just shakes her head and pressed herself against his side. "I’m with child," she says. "I know you try hard not to be rough me, but I need you to try…more, I suppose."
This isn’t the terrible news he expects, and feels himself redden at the knowledge that she expects him to be angry over it. "How long have you known?" he says, moving away to look at her.
"A week, about," she answers, and avoids his eyes, side of her face hidden by her hair. "I spoke to your mother first, yesterday. My own family legitimized Jon because the Greyjoy rebellion happened when she only had daughters, and she had three incomplete pregnancies before that. Birthing Arya nearly killed her. Then her own mother died on the birthing bed. My family doesn’t have a particularly good history with childbirth, so it’s probably better if we’re careful."
He’s already certain without really being certain that she won’t die. He isn’t sure how, but he won’t let her. "We’re going to have a child."
Finally she looks at him, and her smile is small, but there. "If we’re fortunate."
That fear doesn’t melt away when he kisses her forehead and gathers her close, but he swears to himself he won’t aggravate it. If they’re fortunate, she said, but Joffrey doesn’t believe in luck.
Somehow, Joffrey allows Robyn to convince to make Uncle Tyrion Master of Coin during her sixteenth name day ball, and afterwards decides to take his mind off it by asking, "What will we name him? Or her."
She reaches behind her, undoing the back lacings of her dress alone, and answers, "I know he’s your father, but I refuse to name my child Robert. It’s much too similar to Robyn."
As his father close to ignored him his entire life, Joffrey has no compliant, and it’s almost laughable that she agrees. "Your family is one of traitors,” he says, because as much as she tries to deny that, it’s still true. "We’re not using a Stark name."
Sighing, she says, “But some of the women’s ancestral names are so beautiful. I can understand not for a son. For a daughter?”
Having a daughter first isn’t terrible, but it’s better for both of them if they have a son. "What’s wrong with Baratheon names?"
"My love for you doesn’t make Cassana any less terrible."
Honestly, he doesn’t care much for the sound of the names, but what it represents. Mother explained the importance of family legacy enough for him to understand that. "Minisa isn’t much better," he says, lighting the bedside candle.
"I never said it was," she says, slipping out of her dress. He supposes it doesn’t matter, because that’s a Tully name. Still, the Tullys have allied with the Starks. "I think your mother would slit my throat if I named my daughter Lyanna. What of Lyarra? That’s nice."
He doesn’t even remember who Lyarra is, that it's could be worse, he thinks. "My mother wouldn’t be that drastic," he says, and he doesn’t understand where the reputation came from that she is. "I like Joanna."
She’s silent for a moment before she says, "That’s a lovely name. We’ll name a second daughter Joanna."
"Robyn."
"I want a Stark name for someone, Joffrey."
Though Starks have traitor’s blood, he knows she won’t relent, and he promised to be on his best behavior, so he says, "Fine, but only if you swear to have a Baratheon or Lannister name for a son."
With a shrug, she says, "All right, though with both Renly and Stannis in open rebellion, too, a Lannister name would best."
Regardless of what his surname is, she's correct. Also, his father is dead, so what does it matter what he would think? Mother would like it if he used a Lannister name. "What about Tywin?" he asks.
"No!" Robyn says, turning heel to look at him, rejecting the suggestion faster than she did Robert. "Since I’ve been married to you, he’s done nothing but fail in battle. Clearly the two of us together are cursed."
If this is some silly Northern superstition, it’s the most ridiculous he’s heard so far. "Then what do you suggest?" he asks, thinking about how large his family is, and how even he admits some of the names are just unfortunate.
Again, she’s silent before she says, "What about Jaime?"
"He was captured in one battle."
For some reason, she seems to think this a less severe crime. Between the two of them, though, Joffrey’s always preferred Uncle Jaime’s company for a reason he’s never been able to place, so he doesn’t mind. "He may be known as the Kingslayer, but he’s still one of the best swordsmen in Westeros," she says. "That seems as good a reason as any to reuse the name."
"Jaime or Lyarra," Joffrey says, and desperately hopes for a son even more than ever. "How long?"
"I’ll need to speak with Maester Luwin first, but seven months? Six?" she answers, slipping under the comforter beside him. "Perhaps having this child means we can end this war before the year is through. Blow out the candle, Joffrey, it’s late."
This he doubts, but if the idea makes her feel better, Joffrey can humor her for now, so he leans over and blows out the candle without a word. And maybe she’s right, at least for one side. Renly seems the sort soft enough to end a war over a baby.
She settles in next to him, curled up against his side, and it isn’t long before he falls asleep.
Jon Stark’s official peace terms come, and Joffrey is pleased to see Robyn irritated by the demands. "He’s my brother, and I don’t want to be on the opposite side of a war with him," she says when she joins him in the throne room, alone, to hand over the letter, "but I’m not a hostage. I’m your wife. He’s young, but at least my mother should understand that."
After Mother read the terms, she said that anyone in King’s Landing could see that Robyn isn’t a hostage, before she purposely doesn’t act that way. She still wears her House colors, and her hair like a Northerner. A hostage try to would blend in, Mother said.
"We need to send a reply," he says, and grabs her around the waist from behind when she tries to turn away. "Robyn, we can make them understand."
She twists in his arms to look at him. "You can send back my father in return for Ser Jaime as an act of your good faith," she says, surprising him. "I can announce that I’m with child to the public as expected as he’s leaving so he hears. What better way for them to understand than to hear it from him? Besides, Lord Stannis is going to attack soon, and there’s no one in the Kingsguard better than your uncle."
"There are still people who want your father’s head on a spike," he says, and scowls, because he also knows there’s some vein of truth to her logic. "Sending him back will make us look weak."
"Or we may end the war on the Northern front before it even nears King’s Landing," she says. "A child will bind our families through blood in a way a marriage won’t. I’ll make my father agree first, and he can convince Jon. It won’t make you look weak, but diplomatic."
Both Mother and Uncle Tyrion (though Joffrey cares little for his desires) want Uncle Jaime back, but even Robyn made the point to say how good of a hostage her father was. "We can discuss it with the Small Council when they arrive," he says, because he doubts it will go anywhere, but at least it's clear now she wants her brother to realize she’s not held captive as much Joffrey does. For that, he’s willing to open the conversation. Her few correspondences with Jon Stark so far have proved a letter in her hand won't persuade him.
Robyn says, “I just don’t want our son or daughter growing up in a war. Winter is bad enough,” and doesn’t press the issue any further.
On the day Robyn announces that she’s with child on the Sept of Baelor, Ned Stark is there, delayed as he’s leaving. It’s a warm, cloudless afternoon, and the sunlight makes her hair glow brighter than any color than is found in the North. After, her father is taken away, and she doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t seem miserable either, and the expression on Lord Stark’s face is nothing short of devastated. Joffrey can’t help but be appreciative at the sight of it.
You’re mine, he thinks as he moves as close to his wife as is considered publicly decent, and no one is taking you from me.
Even though she’s with child, Robyn still tries to help with politics. If Varys, Pycelle, and Uncle Tyrion find it as ridiculous as Joffrey does, they don’t comment.
"With Renly dead, that leaves the Reach open to ally with either Stannis, or us," she tells him after returning from a Small Council meeting to join for dinner on the patio outside the godswood, because they just received of news. "The Stormlands are also open territory with its men flocking to Stannis. We worked out an arrangement that the Tyrells can have one half of the Stormlands, and we the other. There’s little else to offer them."
If the Tyrells had anyone younger, they could barter a marriage—even Joffrey knows that—but Margaery, their youngest, is even older than he is. And everyone knows of Loras’ disagreeable disposition. King or not, Mother would never allow that arrangement to happen. "What did Pycelle have to say?" he asks as her new handmaiden pours them each a glass of wine.
"That we were giving the Tyrells too much power," Robyn answers after thanking the woman, and eats another slice of orange. "While that may be true, it gives us access to their navy, as well as the harvests of smallfolk who live in the territory we’re to claim. In return, the men we send in to make that claim official will let them know they have protection of the Crown both through the war, and through the winter."
"Will you ever stop using winter as an excuse?"
"Not until its convenience runs its course," she says with a smile that, for the first time, reminds Joffrey unnervingly of a wolf.
The sun disappears behind a cloud, lighting up the sky in reds and gold that accents the lack of color in her lips and cheeks. "You shouldn’t walk around so much," he says, putting the thought of her smile out of her mind. It was a trick of light, is all. "You look paler than usual."
There’s a short silence before she says, "Do I?" and when he says she does, adds, "I feel all right, but I can ask Maester Pycelle to check me for any…complications tomorrow."
Something Mother told Robyn has already made her more cautious than she was before about the tea she drinks, and he doesn’t want to worry her any more, but it's unavoidable. "I’ll find him in the morning," he says, motioning for the handmaiden to pour another glass of wine. "He never goes far."
Then she nods, too, and spends the rest of the night unfortunately anxious.
Come morning, she had a cough that left her bedridden for a week, and in that time, Uncle Tyrion negotiated a marriage between Myrcella and Trystane Martell without consulting any of them. By the time she’s set to leave, Robyn insists she’s well enough to see her sister by law off, and even Maester Pycelle says she can make the walk, so Joffrey reluctantly agrees.
Myrcella cries, and Tommen too, but kings and princes aren’t meant to, so Joffrey doesn’t. He doesn’t care enough to, anyway—he’s the King, and he’ll have a son or daughter in a few months time, so it’s not as though it’s the last he’ll see of her. The rower knocks the narrow wooden ship away from the shore, pushing with his bow against the rocks; Myrcella sits with her hands in her laps under a lace canopy, shielded by the sun with her hands folded in her lap. Though they don't interact much, he likes her better than Tommen, and would rather he leave than her, if one had to.
Joffrey folds his arms, and watches his sister float away. He doesn't understand why Uncle Tyrion decided Dorne was the safest place to send her when the Martells swore vengeance on their family for winning a war, and thinks fleetingly that he'll send Uncle Jaime to kill every one of the them if he hears Trystane Martell hurt her.
The thought is gone as quickly as it came.
"She’ll come back when your brother and I publically name our child," Robyn tells Tommen, who drowns himself in snot and tears, and strokes his hair. "We won’t forget her in our invitations."
Mother says, "Oh, sweetling, aren’t you just perfect?" and Robyn’s shoulders tense. Out on her boat, Myrcella raises her hand in one final wave that everyone on the pier returns.
During the returning walk to the castle, the smallfolk call out, “Your Grace, Your Grace!” and stretch their arms towards them. Joffrey tries to move away, not wanting their filth on his clothes, but Robyn brushes their hands against hers as she passes, touches the face of a smiling child at one point, and eventually, he follows her example. To his surprise, he even recognizes some faces in the crowds from when the people of the city beg audience days he hosts them rather than Uncle Tyrion.
"I told you they would love us," Robyn says quietly once they’re back within the walls of the Red Keep, taking his hand. It's dirty from where they touched him. In the reflection of window to the greenhouse, he sees his face is flushed from the heat of his first walk through the city he's made in years. She says, "They loved us."
In truth, Joffrey never quite believed it would work. Perhaps it’s time he admit his wife might know more about this than she should.
Not long after Myrcella leaves for Dorne, a raven comes from Grandfather that reads, Jaime is with me. The handwriting is sloppier than usual, as though written in a hurry, and without care.
"This completely ruins the purpose of the trade," Joffrey says when he reads it, sitting at the head of the Small Council table with Robyn at his right and Mother standing on his left. They recently learned from Lord Varys that it won’t be long before Stannis attacks. "I didn’t release Ned Stark just so father can have Uncle Jaime at Harrenhal."
Mother grabs the raven away from him to read it herself. "You’ll have to write back, Joffrey," she says. "He should have come straight here.
Varys, who sits on Joffrey's left, folds his hand on the table, fingers slotted together. "With Stannis nearing by the day, Your Grace," he says, "we need every man we have. Ser Barristan cannot command the entire army at once after the battle breaks out."
Before Joffrey can answer, Robyn says, "This means my father has reached Jon by now. We should have received a raven about that, too."
If Jon Stark hasn’t sent a reply, then he must have denied their new peace terms. The only other option would be Grandfather finally won a battle as he promised, but they would have received word if that were true. This whole war is one failure after another, or at least on the Northern front. It's turning Grandfather's army into an embarrassment.
"Any letter sent today will reach Harrenhal in a week," Uncle Tyrion says, looking from Mother to Joffrey. "Given the possibility that Father will even send Jaime back in a day or two, then he’ll reach here in, what, a fortnight? A bit more than that? Stannis might already be here."
"Well, we have to at least try," Mother says, and Robyn nods in agreement, though they never agree on anything.
"Someone get me paper," Joffrey tells them, annoyed that nothing ever goes as planned. "I’m the King. He has to listen to me."
Maester Pycelle hands him paper and a quill. Kings don’t traditionally write anything personally, but he’s irritated, and knows his grandfather won’t listen to anything written in Uncle Tyrion’s hand. It was Mother who convinced him to make Grandfather Hand of the King. At the time, it seems like such a good idea, too.
A few weeks before Stannis’ estimated time of attack, Robyn falls ill again, leaving her bedridden. Mother says she might give birth too early, which it isn’t entirely unheard of but still dangerous. Joffrey spends more time with his wife than he should, which says during the rare times she's awake. With Uncle Jaime still suspiciously absent, battle preparations are left largely to Uncle Tyrion, which may end in disaster, but Maester Pycelle is acting as though she might not survive.
On the fifth night, the fever finally burns itself out. "She said her family has a history of this," Mother says, standing next to Joffrey as he sits at his bedside watching his wife breathe unevenly, as if that’s going to reassure him. "Maester Pycelle likes to exaggerate. I’m sure she’ll be all right."
Joffrey thinks about Father, who bled out from a hunting wound at his side, and Jon Arryn, who he didn’t care much about, but died of fever. He’s beginning to think Maester Pycelle’s age might be turning him addled, and it's time to think of a replacement.
War comes to King’s Landing and of course that’s the day Robyn goes into labor. Joffrey lasts a full six hours up on the silent walls, surrounded by tense, frightened soldiers, before Lionel Lannister runs forward and says, "It’s the Queen, Your Grace. The midwives are saying there’s too much blood."
There’s a long moment where he doesn’t know what to do before Uncle Tyrion says, "Just—go," and Joffrey runs.
In the end, Robyn gives birth nearly a month early, and Joffrey doubts that the midwives would let him into the birthing room if he weren’t the King. "We’re trying, Your Grace," the oldest one says when he sees exactly how much blood there is, "but the Queen needs to give birth before we can stop the bleeding."
The room's thick with the metallic smell of blood, which stains the skirts of her white shift red. Her curls stick flattened to her forehead and cheeks, and there are tears slipping down her face. Robyn must hear the woman because she lifts her head, trying to find him with dazed, watery eyes, and he abandons the midwife to take an empty place at his wife’s side. He’s seen her in pain before, but never like this.
"It’s all right," he tells her, and though she doesn’t seem to be focusing on much, she still manages to grasp his hand. "You’re not going to die."
Unfortunately, her head must be clearer than he thought, because she starts to say, "You’re s-supposed to be, you’re—" and he shakes his head because the midwife said it will easier if she doesn’t talk.
"It’s done," he lies, and she doesn’t notice. "King’s Landing stands. Stannis went scurrying back to Dragonstone with his tail between his legs."
Suddenly she screams, body stiffening, and squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt him. "What are you doing to her?" he asks, turning to the other women. "What are you doing?"
The midwife answers, "It’s the baby, Your Grace," before adding, "You need to push."
Again, his wife screams, and Joffrey doesn’t how long the birth takes, but it feels endless. The child is born wailing as Robyn finally stops, and the lead midwife says, "Your Grace, Your Grace, I need you to hold him so we can stop bleeding," while another says, "Mind the head."
Then he’s holding his son, this chubby faced, red baby wrapped in cloth and crying still. Robyn gives him a weak smile, pale and trembling, and the room is quiet as the midwives work to save her.
Jaime Baratheon is small, but healthy, and Robyn is going to make a quick recovery, Maester Pycelle says. Now that they have a son, it doesn’t matter what Jon Stark or Stannis tries to say about his claim; an heir solidifies his position as King. The victory, reluctantly credited to Uncle Tyrion regardless of what Grandfather tries to pretend (Joffrey saw the trick with the wildfire with his own eyes, and it’s his grandfather’s fault they didn’t at least have Uncle Jaime here to begin with), certainly helped.
"Born in the middle of battle," Robyn says when she finally has the chance to hold their son two days after his birth. She's still bedridden, sitting propped against pillows with the comforter pulled to her waist and her hair loosely braided over her shoulder. "I didn’t know it could get much worse than the first day of winter."
Already Joffrey can see a little of her in Jaime, though perhaps he’s just imaging it. He goes to say that at least the battle was done once she was awake, but a knock on the door comes before he can. "Come in!" Robyn calls before he can do the opposite and yell for the person to leave them alone.
Mother enters, dressed for the day already, and holding a letter in her hand. "You need to see this," she says as Joffrey climbs off the bed to take it from her. "It’s from Jon Stark."
Robyn sits a bit straighter, Jaime still asleep in her arms, and winces. "What does it say?"
"He called for a ceasefire," Joffrey answers, "and a meeting in person to officially end the war. All we do is give him one hostage and he’s already willing to surrender?"
"I think Jaime might have helped that," Robyn says, and their son sighs in his sleep. "He might have ended a war and he’s not even a week old." Then she glances over to Mother and adds, "Has Lord Tywin seen this yet?"
Shaking her head slightly, Mother answers, "He’s speaking with Jaime."
In the course of a few hours, Grandfather’s troops managed to fight back Stannis’ men, but Jon Stark has been ruining him for nearly two years now. Joffrey doesn’t know which man that’s more embarrassing for—Grandfather, or Stannis.
"Then we’ll have a Small Council meeting about this later, or tomorrow," he says, looking to Robyn, whose focus is once again turned to Jaime. "He’s Hand of the King. It’s time he starts acting like it."
Though Mother looks as if she wants to say something, she keeps it to herself. That’s probably a good idea, because King or not, the last thing Joffrey wants to deal with at the moment is politics. Not when the city’s still celebrating survival of a siege, and his wife sits comfortably in bed with their son in her arms, recovering and alive.
The conversation with Grandfather never comes. In the morning, before the Small Council meeting, they receive another two ravens—one from the Eyrie about their first snowfall, and the other from the Stark banners calling off any potential peace treaties. Joffrey’s seen Robyn angry, but this is new.
"We learned just yesterday that there was a chance this war would be over before the month is through," she says, taking a seat and putting the letter on the table. "Instead I receive this, addressed directly to me, from Theon Greyjoy, that the possible meeting was no longer an option. And don’t bother saying he’s lying. Theon would never lie to me."
Grandfather looks from the paper to her, and says, "You seem very certain."
"Don’t turn this into a question of my loyalties," she says. "You had my mother murdered under a sworn oath of hospitality." While Joffrey has no love for her family and wouldn’t mind seeing them dead, Catelyn Stark was far from the worst of them. It’s not as though Grandfather succeeded in getting her husband killed, or her son. "What was the purpose? Was the great Tywin Lannister truly that afraid of facing a boy of seventeen on a battlefield, or did you just intent in destroying everyone’s trust in each other?"
Though Joffrey doesn’t understand what’s so terrible about breaking an oath of hospitality to get the deed done, he does find it confounding that his grandfather resorted to those measures and still failed. Regardless of silly rumors, Jon Stark is just a man; he shouldn’t be this difficult to kill. Before Grandfather can answer, though, Uncle Tyrion says, "What do you think your brother will do now?"
Without looking away from Grandfather, she says, "Ally with Stannis Baratheon. My mother raised him as surely as she did me, and now my father is with him. They’ll give up autonomy if they have to."
Joffrey remembers something Robyn told him when he threatened to kill Lord Stark, that "the lone wolf dies but the pack survives," and he would risk King’s Landing facing the one army that knows how to fight in the snow if he did it. "You should have come when we wrote to you the first time," he says, less angry about Catelyn Stark’s death and more that his orders were ignored.
His grandfather settles back in his chair. "I was delayed," he says, "fighting your war."
"I am the King, I don’t care that—"
"No man who needs to say ‘I am the King’ is a true king."
"He’s not reminding anyone that he’s King," Robyn says, voice sharp, which is good because Joffrey is too shocked at his grandfather's insolence to answer. "He’s reminding you that you aren’t." Then she stands, and puts the second letter on the table as she adds, "Winter is here, Lord Tywin. I hope you’re ready for what you started."
As Robyn predicted, Jon Stark allies with Stannis. They found out during a rainstorm, when everyone is shut inside and the city uncharacteristically quiet. She and Joffrey spent the day in their quarters with Jaime, watching him giggle at their faces and try to reach for her hair.
"Now you’re never going to meet your uncle," Joffrey hears her tell their son with a sigh when he steps away to call for his manservant to bring them lunch. "And you’re certainly never going to meet your grandmother. You’re going to grow up in a country ripped apart by war, and it’s all my fault."
It’s not her fault, it’s her father’s, and now Grandfather’s, too. Joffrey never wanted Robyn to be anywhere near her family again, but he doesn’t want her to blame herself, either.
Though it’s about the last thing Joffrey wants to do now that Jon Stark and Stannis have joined forces, the Small Council urges him and Robyn to go ahead with the public naming of their son anyway. Everyone says how it would help the lords loyal to them, as well as the smallfolk, remember what they’re fighting for as a kingdom if they have something to celebrate. "For all we know this war may last another year, Your Grace," Pycelle says when Varys broaches the subject. "Tradition dictates it needs to happen before his first name day."
They’ve twisted tradition enough that it’s likely they could do the same with this. "This will also be the most well protected event King’s Landing has seen since your wedding day," Uncle Tyrion adds before Joffrey can say this. "And regardless, neither Stannis nor Jon Stark seem to sort to start killing babies."
That doesn’t mean their son is the only person their enemies may try to kill. Perhaps Robyn is right when she says her brother would never harm her, perhaps she isn’t, but there’s still Stannis involved. "If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it outdoors," he says, "so no one can get any ideas of locking us inside anywhere."
Expectedly, Grandfather ignores him. Though it’s been a week, Joffrey still hasn’t forgiven him for saying he isn’t a true king. "It shouldn’t be too extravagant, either," Robyn says. "Between the war and the debt, it’s not as though we have an endless supply of money to spare on a single day."
"I doubt that will difficult," Mother says. "This isn’t a wedding, or a coronation. With two armies advancing on the city, we won’t have many guests."
"Well, that’s no one from Stannis’ territory, or the North or Riverlands," Robyn says. "The Vale was just hit by its first winter snow, and I don’t know much about my aunt, but I doubt she considers me important enough family to come."
When Lysa Tully lived in King’s Landing, Joffrey never interacted with her much, but what he did see of her he didn’t like. Her, or that son of hers. If she doesn’t come, then they’re all better off for it.
"And many of the Tyrells are already here," Grandfather says, resting his hands on the table. "Our biggest problem will be Dorne, depending on who comes. They haven’t kept their grudge against the Lannisters a secret."
Joffrey narrows his eyes. "You just said this is going to be a well protected event," he says.
"You’re the King, Your Grace, no harm will come to you," Varys says quickly. "That’s a concern for anyone bearing the House name Lannister."
That still doesn’t help his mother, but that’s a worry for a different day because if it were up to Joffrey alone (and likely Robyn), the invitations would end with those already in King’s Landing. "Well, then what about the Westerlands?" he says.
They spend the rest of the meeting discussing the lords and other Lannisters in the Westerlands, and what to do with them.
"Joffrey, it’s all right, I’m all right, it doesn’t even hurt anymore."
It was another fight, another one of their stupid fights, and now he has Robyn so close against him he can’t even tell which of them is them is shaking. “No, no, it’s not all right,” he says, and means it, because he keeps telling her he’ll never do it again, and means that too, but then it happens anyway. “I’m sorry, Robyn. I didn’t mean—”
"I know you didn’t." Though they’re the same height, she feels small in his arms, her thin nightclothes diminishing the volume of her body further, and he just doesn’t understand why. "It’s all right, really, and it’s been a while."
But she shouldn’t have to just be all right, though, not when he didn’t for eight months, when he proved he could avoid it. "I would never," he starts, and then realizes that’s wrong, because he clearly he is. "I can be better," he says. "I’ll do better, I swear, I will. For you. I love you."
She nods against his shoulder. “I know,” she says again. “And I love you. Just remember that.”
Of course he does, and that’s it, in the end—this war’s fought for a lot of things, but she’s undeniably one of them. He already thought once, unknowing it was true, that he’d fight a war for her if he had to. Now he is, and still the only one who ever hurts her is him.
He wonders if she’s realized it yet, that he would burn his legacy to ash if it meant keeping her safe.
As decided upon, the ceremony is outside, with a shorter High Table that only needs to accommodate half a royal family, and fewer guests than their wedding. Jaime isn’t present past naming, taken away by a nursemaid they barely use. Half the people who address Robyn express sympathy "for her loss" after saying what a lovely son they have, which sours the occasion, but she never stays on the topic long.
"Is this when we’re supposed to make a toast to national unity or something?" Robyn says about an hour into the feast after servants deliver new cups of wine to those at the High Table. His and Robyn’s goblets don’t look the same, but his and Mother’s, who sits on his other side, do, which presumably means the man made a mistake. It's not the first mistake made today; with the exception of Robyn's gown, House Stark's colors are suspiciously absent.
With a slight shrug, he answers, "I didn’t know we even know we’re supposed to make toasts."
Robyn smiles at him, and brushes their hands under the table before standing. "Lords and Ladies," she calls as he rises, too, "I hadn’t the chance to speak to all of you individually, but whether I have or have not, please know we’re all very pleased you made it here today. With Westeros still at war and certain lands already experiencing snowfall, your presence here is all the more appreciated. I propose a toast, to unity through dark times."
As she raises her glass, so does the crowd in the pavilion, echoing a cheer of agreement. "Was that too short?" she asks quietly as they all take a sip. "Too long?
"I think everyone’s had too much wine to care," he answers, and takes a bigger gulp because suddenly his mouth feels dry and his throat hurts.
Then Robyn says, "Cersei, are you feeling well?" and when Joffrey turns, he can’t breathe and his mother is touching neck as though she can’t either. "Oh, someone—they’ve been poisoned!"
He falls back, elbow banging against the table and knocking over twin goblets that clearly didn’t go to the proper people, and Robyn catches him before he hits the ground, falling with him onto her knees. His vision blurs as pain ripples down his body, and all he sees is a mess of a dark red and white and blue brighter than the sky.
"You’re going to be fine," he hears Robyn say. "I’m not going to let you die."
Then, like that, King Joffrey dies, and his Queen doesn’t make as sound when she begins to cry.