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NINE —— ARE WE TOO YOUNG FOR THIS?
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105 AC, KING'S LANDING.
Morrigan Baratheon is fairly certain that Ser Gwayne Hightower, the eldest son of the Hand of the King, intends to marry her— or at least propose the possibility of a betrothal to her grandfather as head of her House. Alicent's brother had always been taken with her— as his sister liked to tease her about— and despite only being back in King's Landing for just over a week, he had successfully managed to invite her to two walks along the gardens.
Morrigan isn't a fool. She's known from girlhood what a man looks like when he looks at her and sees something he wants to own; sees a bride to further his own standing in life. She's been a piece on the board of chess of the politics in this continent since the day she was born. The notion is nothing new to her.
It's that knowledge that tells her that the way Gwayne Hightower has looked at her the past year, is not that.
It's that knowledge that scares her more.
Being a chess piece, nothing more than a title and a body to bear children— she had spend her entire life preparing herself for that fate. Most days, she can lie and pretend she has come to peace with it.
She cannot handle another's genuine affection when she knows she cannot return it.
To be miserable for being nothing but a nameless, voiceless wife, or to be miserable because you are drowning in another's love— Morrigan doesn't know which is worse.
She thinks, with the first one, at least maybe there might be some sort of understanding one day.
With the latter— she isn't sure she was made for the kind of love men like Gwayne Hightower wish for.
She thinks at least the hate might keep her very soul alive. The love would numb and choke her one day.
They're just on the way back to her chambers from the second walk— Morrigan pondering the two splitting paths in front of her in silence— when a figure with red, curly hair and a golden cloak over his back rounds the corner, coming to a stop in front of them.
