a song of ice and fire ⇾ got

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

"As you wish, Your Grace," said Ser Jorah.

"Well, Mormont, as brutish as this life is, I suppose it is preferable to beheading," said Viserys, and Ser Jorah stared suddenly uncomfortably. Daeron wished he could roll his eyes. "What did Ned Stark want you for? Buying from a slaver?"

"Selling to one," said Ser Jorah. "Some poachers I caught on my land."

After a brief moment of silence, Viserys broke into an odd grin. "Under my reign, you won't be punished for such nonsense. You can be rest assured of that," he told him before he walked off into the crowds of Dothraki, multiple of them doing chores, cooking meat, all getting ready for the night.

Daeron just stood there, feeling awkward and out of place. Until Ser Jorah said, "If you wish to rest, Your Majesty..." and Daeron looked at him, "I can show you to your tent."

Daeron hesitantly nodded, staying silent and Ser Jorah smiled before the two began their way through the crowd of Dothraki, the exiled Knight showing the exiled Prince to his tent.

༺ ♔ ༻

——— THE NEXT MORNING, was just like any other morning in Winterfell since Bran fell off the old First Keep's tower. The past thirty-seven days have been the same cold, bitter, horrible day that Bran still wasn't awake. Rosaline visited him every morning, and stayed by his side for multiple hours until she was forced to do some duties for her mother or to eat. But any other time, she was in Bran's room.

On this morning, Rosaline had many grievances built up inside her, fearful her brother would pass away. She didn't know what she would do if she lost one of her siblings. Her family was her entire world. Her fear was turning to anger, anger she didn't want.

To let out some steam, she fired arrows in the courtyard at the haystack targets. She pulled all her fear and anger into the targets, and with each arrow she shot — each perfect aiming — the emotions slowly decreased. Until all she felt was sadness. She could deal with being sad, at least for now.

She picked up all the arrows off the haystacks, tossing them into the arrow bins before she walked through the courtyard, heading back into the castle. That is until she heard an argument in the distance. But the voices sounded familiar;

"Your absence has already been noted."

"The boy means nothing to me — And I can't stand the wailing of women—"

The sound of a little girl's cry was heard. Like she had been hit across the face.

From that, Rosaline pondered closer to the sound, but straightened up when she found the little girl was actually Prince Joffrey. He was standing outside the wooden kennel for all the dogs of Winterfell, with those two sworn shields, standing in front of Tyrion Lannister; The Queen's younger brother. Tyrion was exceptionally... small.

Rosaline didn't know how else to say it without sounding rude. Tyrion Lannister was born a dwarf, born without the proper growth in his spine.

Though smaller than everyone else, he had a strong wit and was highly intelligent. Rosaline could just tell by any conversation he had with anyone. He also did not let anyone talk down to him, not even his 16-year-old royal nephew. Who he had slapped across the face just before Rosaline came across them.

Prince Joffrey was rubbing his red cheek, staring down at his uncle, and Rosaline could only imagine his stupid little face was absolutely offended.

"One word and I'll hit you again," Tyrion told his nephew.