Stormbringer, Daemon Targaryen.

Twenty-Five

"There was no way this was going to end well and you—"

"So you make me look weak?" Edmyn bellows in her face and Morrigan flinches a little. "I'm the fucking Commander of the City Watch— not some fucking green stablehand and every single one of those men thinks I need my wife to hold my fucking hand!"

"You would not have—"

So fast she almost misses it, Edmyn reaches out, grabbing her jaw so hard, the contact makes spikes of pain jolt out as he draws her to him and Morrigan's entire body locks up. Her bones feel like iron— unbending and too brittle and about to break. "Don't ever fucking speak for me again, do you understand?" He says quietly, breath ghosting over her face.

He shakes her head a little when she doesn't reply. "Do you understand me?"

Morrigan blinks a little, nodding as much as Edmyn's hold allows her to and presses her lips together in a tight line.

If she opens it, she might scream. She might never stop.

Lips pulled back, exposing his teeth in a snarl like a rabid predator, this might be the ugliest Edmyn Tully has ever been, Morrigan thinks, her fingers shaking at her side. "Good." Edmyn hisses, pushing her away a little as he lets go of her and Morrigan doesn't move as he grabs his sword and leaves, hands still shaking and she curls them together until the pressure of her fingertips into her palms stings, bruises, draws blood.

Something in her chest is iron— unbendable but brittle and in the sudden, deafening silence of her bedchambers— it breaks.

———————

By the time Morrigan has long since finished watching the sun set through the windows of her chambers, Deran asleep in the large armchair, she knows it will be yet another night in a cold, lonely bedchamber. Another night where her husband does not come home. There weren't many of them— but she can recognise them all the same.

"My Lady," Rodrik's voice comes from behind her softly. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

Morrigan doesn't look away from the city below them in the distance— just visible through the window like she's a princess in a tower— and shakes her head a little. "That won't be necessary."

Behind her, she can hear Rodrik's quiet footsteps as he approaches her. "I could mind the lad for the night, if you want me to?" He says after a long moment. "You look like you could use the time— not worrying about the boy and instead about yourself for once."

Morrigan nods. "Thank you, Rodrik. I would appreciate that."

She feels hollow as she turns to Deran and crosses the distance between them, lifting him into her arms and pressing a soft kiss against his hair as Deran shifts in his sleep at the movement, but doesn't wake and she hands him over to Rodrik, who holds the boy like he's something precious— like her own grandfather did. Once.

She watches them go, retreating into Rodrik's own private chambers and the little warmth that had spread again in her chest at the sensation of holding Deran close dies again, leaving nothing but the familiar void of the barren, cold wasteland behind.

Morrigan stands at the window for a long time in the silence— so long, she's not sure anymore how much time has passed. Minutes? Hours? It might as well just be past sunset or well after midnight. She doesn't know. And she isn't sure she much cares, either.

She's so caught up in the statis— in the silence, in the fuzzing edges of her mind that it takes her a moment to notice the disturbance in it. There's a knock at the main entrance to her chambers, bringing an unwelcome party into her solitude.