Northern lights

107. Last of the Starks

Rosalie sits up, the dim candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. Her mind is a storm of grief and despair, her heart heavy with the weight of Robb's injuries. She stares at the flickering flames, lost in her thoughts when Sansa's voice breaks through the silence.

"Sister," Sansa says softly, her voice tinged with a strange determination. It's the first time she calls Rosalie a sister. The Tyrell family has been wiped from existence like weeds, but Sansa can't allow Rosalie to feel as if she's all alone in the world. She remembers that loneliness for she had lived with it herself. Rosalie will not, as long as Sansa is breathing she will claim her as her family. It's why she can't allow her to sit here and waste time while Daenerys makes her move. Unlike her brothers, Rosalie has the strength and motivation to take matters into her own hands, and if she does, even the ground beneath her feet will quiver when she stakes her claim.

"You can't tell me you never considered aiming for the Iron Throne?"

Rosalie's head snaps up, her eyes meeting Sansa's with a mixture of shock and disbelief. She hoped she misheard her at first but she can't ignore it now. The very idea seems outrageous, almost absurd, in the face of the tragedy that has befallen her. She blinks, struggling to comprehend Sansa's words.

"The Iron Throne?" Rosalie finally manages to utter, her voice trembling. "Sansa, how can you even suggest such a thing at a time like this?" Standing up, she looks at Jaime for support, yet despite his bewildered eyes she finds no ally in him at this time. "Have you gone mad?!" Rosalie takes a step closer, her eyes wide at Sansa's suggestion. "It's the last thing I'd want to do!"

Sansa's expression remains resolute, her gaze unwavering. "I know it's a lot to take in," she admits, "but think about it, Rosalie. You have the strength, the intelligence, and the grace to be a remarkable queen. You could unite the Seven Kingdoms and bring us peace, and prosperity. You could be the ruler Westeros needs." Licking her lips, Sansa takes Rosalie's hand. "You're fair and just and if you were on the Iron Throne, there would be no need for bloodshed in the North. These people already consider you their Queen, and so do I!"

Rosalie's mind whirls with a tumult of emotions. She can't deny the appeal of Sansa's words, the vision of a better Westeros where she could make a difference. But all she can think of is Robb, lying injured and unresponsive mere steps behind her. The image of his pale face haunts her, his blue eyes closed to the world.

"You don't understand," Rosalie says, her voice breaking. "All I want is for Robb to wake up, for him to be well again. I never asked for any of this. I never wanted to be a queen. I just want him back."

Tears well up in her eyes, and she looks away, unable to bear Sansa's hopeful gaze. The world feels like it's ending for Rosalie, and the thought of plotting for the Iron Throne seems like a cruel joke.

"I know how much you love him, and I wish with all my heart that he recovers. But we must also consider the future. The North, and Highgarden, they look to you now. You have a duty to protect them, to lead them."

Rosalie feels trapped, torn between her love for Robb and the responsibilities that have been thrust upon her. She knows that Sansa is right, that she can't give up on her people. But the very thought of the Iron Throne terrifies her. Anyone foolish to sit on it has seen their lineage end.

"I can't think about that now," Rosalie whispers, her voice choked with emotion. "I just can't."

"You don't have to", Jaime interjects coyly. "Allow us to do the thinking for you."

Letting out a shuddered breath, she grimaces. "I have no rightful claim to the Throne nor want it. Sansa, I won't even be the Queen in the North when Robb passes! I barely have a hold on Highgarden. I'm not meant to sit on the Iron Throne and I certainly have no desire ever to come near it."