little hands, little face, little feet in my mind [closed: joffrey, myrcella, tommen] [flashback: december 2002]

Tommen’s juice is sticky and sweet and all over his shirt. He frowns and looks down, tugging at the material, brow furrowing as he sets down his cup on the floor. He’s careful to keep it away from his book, afraid the juice might spill again. Mummy just left with Daddy and his siblings are fighting, yelling about who’s in charge while they’re gone. Tommen stands up, leaving his cup and book where they are, and tugs at his shirt some more to keep it away from his skin.

He doesn’t know who he should ask about getting a new one. The shirts are in the second drawer of his dresser upstairs and he can’t reach; Cello or Joffy have to get one for him. He tries to wait for them to stop yelling so that one of them will pay attention to him, or maybe both, but they just keep fighting so he takes a couple steps forward.

“Excuse me,” he says, as loud as he dares. “Can whoever’s in charge help me?” He shows them his shirt, frowning, the sticky sensation making him feel like he needs bathtime now instead of later. “I need a new one. I spilled.” His frown doesn’t budge.