Rolund I sat upon the massive throne, his small little body looking tiny there above his subjects. Ralof stood off to the side of his fourth child and third eldest son, there to lend him a helping hand should he stumble in his daily rulings.
The boy had been fidgety that morning, his nerves were clearly getting the better of him. Stacked upon the grief of having lost his mother. But, if Ralof were being honest, he had always been around the children far more than Fadiya ever had. Nevertheless, she had still been his mother.
“Next petitioner!” Rolund I called out.
Ulfric stepped forward. “My King,” he said, kneeling down before the small boy. “My uncle’s farm has been besieged by a pack of bandits from a nearby camp, can the crown spare some materials to help them rebuild and to get by?”
“Of course!” Rolund I agreed eagerly. Ralof cleared his throat loudly. His son turned to look at him, and he shook his head a fraction. “Umm…” the king continued hesitantly. Ralof bent forward to whisper in his son’s ear. Rolund I scowled, and then said: “Our coffers are nearly empty, our food stores are running dry, all the crown can offer you is some wood to help rebuild.”
Ulfric’s once please face turned murderous as he glared from the king to his father. “You just gave Gorbak extra rations for a lantern festival,” hissed Ulfric. “How is there now not enough to spare for those who are actually suffering?”
“The king shall be attending this festival,” Ralof interjected, “it shall be his first public appearance for the people.” He waved his hand dismissively to his once-friend. “Move along, Ulfric. Move along.”
Inktober 2024, Prompt #22: CAMP🧡🖤👻🎃
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