with RÓSFRÍÐUR ERROL, @rosfridr
a nostalgic feeling lingers around him as he walks through the halls of the red keep, steps echoing loudly against the stone floor as he chooses the path that would take him to his quarters. perhaps it is the fact the few times he has been there was with his older brother and (it doesn’t matter how long it’s been) he feels his presence there more than he does in storms’ end. possibly, it could be because most of karl’s happiest memories involved those walls and his plans to go to the king’s landing even if it wasn’t to stay long. different from what he would’ve expected, however, it isn’t a bad feeling that runs through him that day—it has been a good afternoon that far, and the idea of ending it by seeing his son is an endearing thought.
it is a common habit of his, even at home, to take the end of the afternoon to see his child—and, most of the times, see his wife as well, if she was with the toddler. there is no need to check on him all that much, he has heard his advisors saying since his child’s birth, not when he is so small and young. it comes with little surprise, though, how klaus do not hear or bother to consider their opinion on this, as his adoration for his son grew each day. he does not wish to lose one day of his childhood unless extremely needed—like the days he had to travel and spend the night out.
it is with the thought of the curly haired boy that klaus doesn’t help his smile the closer he got to their quarters; weird it could be—to see the serious scarred man looking like this when he is on his own, amused with his own mind—had anyone seen him. crossing paths with little people on his way, he doubts he’s been noticed by anyone, even acting unusually.
there is no knocking or announcement coming from his lips when he crosses the door, finding his wife, the nurse, and little brynden together—the latter, active as usual, running around the place until he sets eyes on him. before klaus manages to even call out for the child, he sees as his heir almost trips on his feet when he starts running to him, to which he reacts easily and expectedly, hands coming to the boy’s sides and picking him up. “are you already wrecking your poor knees, birdie?” he comments, incapable of not see how dirty the knees of his trousers and just thinking on the small bruises his skin might have. only then looks at the boy, feeling the little hand on his shoulder and watching as the toddler tries to mumble something—not hard to take a laugh out of lord errol.
