TWENTY-FIVE —— I THINK YOUR HOUSE IS HAUNTED
109 AC, KING'S LANDING.
The storm had been simmering below Edmyn's skin ever since Prince Daemon Targaryen had picked him out to rile up for fun. Morrigan had been able to see it in the gardens, had known it was only a matter of time and now, in the safety of their own chambers, it hits.
There's an ugly sort of sneer that discontorts Edmyn's face as he brings his City Watch uniform into place—his movements more tearing than anything else so much Morrigan thinks she might even be able to see them shake with the rage.
She can't quite make out the words he's saying to himself under his breath— not quite loud enough for her to make out every one, but not quiet enough for her to miss it— and all at once, she's glad that Deran not their bedchamber and that he at least won't hear this. He's already too attentive for his own good— and already at not even three years old, her son picks up on too many emotions and too many things they try to hide.
"—fucking— barely back and thinks we're all going to fall to our knees— can't fucking believe the king—" Edmyn mutters and Morrigan knows it's stupid— but she also knows that it's better to get this over with now than let it simmer for days, unresolved. Than letting him go out to his patrol duties in the city like this.
"Edmyn," she says softly and she doesn't quite think he can hear her.
"A fucking piece of shit that should've stayed exiled, is what he is— thinks we're all just fucking dirt to him—"
"Edmyn." Morrigan says again, louder and this time, he hears her.
The Commander of the City Watch spins around to her, cloak not quite fastened on his shoulders, forgotten, and points his finger in her face, eyes flashing. "And you— you're the worst of them—" His eyes flash. "Needed my wife to hold my fucking hand to run away from that fucker, did I?"
"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.
Softly, Morrigan frowns, and for a moment she's surprised that she'd been wrong and Edmyn had in fact returned to share the bed with her tonight, but he would not know and wait to an answer— would certainly not knock so silently as if to try and not disturb anyone else in her small household. Whomever is at the door doesn't want Rodrik or Deran or anyone else to know about their presence and that thought makes Morrigan's instincts rise like a sleeping wolf.
A knock at the door this late into the day is never a good omen. Only bad new can come from this.
But— Morrigan knows she cannot well ignore it. If it is a messenger, if it is something important— she can't ignore it.
So, Morrigan takes in a shallow breath and makes the short, solitary way over to the doors the noise had come from. She hesitates for a moment, hand on the round doorknob before she steels herself and opens the door.
It takes her mind a long moment to catch up with what her eyes are reporting.
When she heard the knock and thought bad mews were impending upon her like a sword ready to strike above her head— she had not thought it to be this sort of bad news. Maybe a messenger to report from a letter from home with urgent news the way it'd been that night the bird with news of her grandfather's passing had reached the Red Keep or— she doesn't know— someone to fetch her under command of the Princess or the Queen or the Hand or— she has no idea, in truth.
What she does know, most certainly, is that she did not expect Prince Daemon Targaryen to huddle in front of her door, cloak over his head like he's a thief in the night.
Morrigan stares at him.
Daemon stares back.
She thinks she must've gone mad sometime she did not notice because there's no way her eyes are not deceiving her.
When she doesn't speak, one of Daemon's eyebrows draws up, the hint of a smirk tugging on his lips. "Rather rude not to invite me in, don't you think, Lady Morrigan?"
Morrigan's eyes narrow on him and she closes the door a little. "What do you want?"
"I was looking to continue the conversation I had with the Commander of the City Watch in the gardens earlier today. Make my gratitude for his service to the crown and city clear. I'm afraid it did not quite translate in the conversation we had."
Morrigan gives him a flat look, not believing a single word that just left the prince's mouth. "He's not home."
Daemon smiles, walking past her inside. "Even better."
Nostrils flaring, Morrigan turns to find him taking off the hood of his cloak which had hidden his pale hair. "I didn't say you could come inside."
Daemon's eyebrows rise up as he turns to look at her. "Oh— you wanted to continue this conversation in the hall for everyone to see? I didn't think I'd need to lecture you of all people in this keep about the dangers of spies in these halls."
Morrigan's fingers twitch around the doorknob, longing for a candelabra in reach of her hands to wrap them around its handle and swing right at him for a moment.
But, alas— any candelabra in the room isn't in reach of her fingers at this moment. "I'm still not sure why you're in my private chambers in the middle of the night, Your Grace. It isn't seemly."
Daemon lets out a soft snort. "What's not seemly is that you're alone here in the first place."
"Excuse me?" Morrigan says softly, an edge to her voice, taking a few steps towards him like a predator stalking towards another.
Daemon gives her a look as she approaches. "What's fucking unseemly is that your husbands partol duties ended an hour ago and he's still not back with his wife." He says again, slower this time and meets her strides, closing the distance between them until he is right in front of her, towering over her with his height.
Morrigan almost peels her lips back into a baring of teeth at him, the angry, hungry thing in her stirring like it's waking, opening one lazy eye.
Daemon looks at her and whatever he sees in her face makes him go on. "You can't seriously believe he'll still come home tonight, do you? What were you going to do— wait all night by the window, lonely in the dark until sunrise or whenever the fuck he deigns to come back?"
"I don't see how this is any of your business." Morrigan hisses.
Daemon laughs under his breath and it sounds almost like a scoff. "Of course you wouldn't."
"What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?" She says, an edge in her voice and when he doesn't reply her eyes flash. "This isn't any of your business. You're not my cousin, or my father, or my brother, or my husband."
There's a bitter laugh coming from Daemon. "No, I'm not."
Morrigan's nostrils flare. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you'd know it if I were your husband."
"I think you should leave," Morrigan says quietly, staring at Daemon like she might eat him whole with her anger and indignation at his intrusion.
Daemon looks at her like he might just let her.
He gives her a look, huffing. "So you can do— what? Wait more? Woefully stare at your window while that idiot is off fucking whores in the city?" He laughs. "Might be for the best, though. I don't think he quite knows what to do with you."
Morrigan's chin lifts, challenge flashing in her eyes. It's the wrong thing to say, she knows, but the words still leave her lips before she can stop them. "What— and you would?" She asks with a laugh.
There's something dark in Daemon's eyes— a shift in tone so light, she almost misses it as he leans forward. "Yeah. I think I would."
Morrigan mirrors his movement, rising up to on her toes a little to stare him down. "I don't believe you for a second."
Daemon looks like she just delivered him the victory blow on a silver platter. "Then let me prove it."
She rears back a little. "What?" She asks, more caught off guard than anything.
Daemon's smile widens and it's like he's just another dragon, circling prey— knowing he's got the treasure he hunted right at his fingertips. In that moment he reminds her more of Caraxes than he ever did. "Let me prove it." He says again, slower— like he's relishing in the taste of the syllabes as they leave his mouth.
"I don't think so," Morrigan says quietly— knowing even the slightest hint of faltering, of weakness will mean defeat. She's got no intentions of raising a white flag in front of Daemon Targaryen— she's been forced to do it too many times these past years.
His head tilts as he takes her in and then— unfathomably, incomprehensibly— he takes a step away, retreating. "If that is your wish." He reaches up, tugging the hood of his cloak over his head again, pale hair vanishing beneath. "You can sit here like a good, miserable wife and wait for your husband to fucking realise what he's got right in front of him." He says and looks like he means it. "Or, you can come with me to the Dragonpit. It's your choice."
Morrigan stares at him and it feels like the world is underwater, a storm shaking the waves, making it impossible to move. To think. She must have fallen asleep. It's the only explanation— this is a dream, or a nightmare, she doesn't know. But it is just a figment of her imagination. Maybe he isn't even back at all and she's still in Storm's End— alone and with more distance and more graves.
She waits too long to answer— she can see it in his face when his expression changes and he dips his head as if in deference. "As you wish. I shall not bother you anymore, Lady Morrigan." before he begins to make his way to the doors.
Something is screaming in her head.
She must be dreaming.
She just doesn't know if it is a dream or a nightmare, but— something is screaming and something is dying in her chest and the ugly void— the all-consuming hollow thing eating her inside out, throbbing like an open wound starting to rot— spreads, aches again.
Her hands shake as they curl together— fingertips about to dig crescent moons into her palms before, almost unconsciously, they brush the long, silvery line. Almost like velvet— a scar stretching over her entire right palm and the line continuing until the end of her fingers. A relic of another time really, she thinks as she brushes her fingertips across it. Sometimes she even forgets it's there.
This might be a nightmare.
But she knows she is not dreamwalking.
Maybe a nightmare is better than being a ghost.
"Wait."
AUTHOR'S NOTE,
so uhm,,, how are we all doing?