“It was not your decision to make. My life is my own.”
Robb pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. He can feel the beginnings of a headache at the base of his neck. It creeps up his skull, the slight discomfort becoming sharper the higher it rises. He knows Sansa does not like his decisions; on that, his sister has been quite clear. But at some point, he’s realized he has to stop caring about that fact. Being a king has brought it with a layer of responsibility he had not known before; a king cannot, it seems, please everyone.
“But it’s not, Sansa,” he says, his patience wearing thin, his tone tinged with an annoyance he hates to use, even with his sister at her most frustrating. “Your life is not your own. Just as my life is not my own.” Robb sucks in a breath, his gaze moving to the crown that lays on the table in his solar, thrown haphazardly as if it is not a symbol of his current responsibilities.
“You are a princess of the North,” he finally states, his voice tired, weary, so sick of fighting with her. “Your life belongs to the North. We are wolves of Winterfell and that means something.” Robb looks her in the eye and his tone becomes more commanding, that of a king. He hates the sound of it on his lips but he hates the thought that Sansa wants nothing to do with the North even more.
“You are a Stark. You are part Tully. Family, duty, and honor should mean something to you.” His gaze narrows. “And no matter how hard you try, you will never be a Rose of Highgarden, much as you might wish otherwise.”