THIRTY-TWO ——
Memories Feel Like Weapons
110 AC, King's Landing.
There is a restless sort of energy humming just beneath Morrigan's skin and no matter how much she tries to distract herself— she cannot. It's a living, angry thing and it makes it nearly impossible for her to sit still.
Blood roaring in her ears, Morrigan dares to send a brief glance down the length of the table where Alden, Eric and Rodrik had taken a seat. Between them sit the Hightowers, and Morrigan does her best not to linger on Gwayne.
She had not seen Gwayne since Aegon's second name day.
It's like seeing a ghost of who she used to be— and she isn't sure what to make of him at all.
From his seat, Alden's pale eyes meet her own dark ones and there's a stab in her chest at the contact. A longing so vicious it takes her breath away.
She cannot bring herself to look at Eric and Rodrik, too.
She is a ghost, sitting in this hall with the relics of her past.
Morrigan lets out a shaky breath, forcing her attention back to the room at large, letting her gaze wander over the guests. A man half-way familiar is conversing with the King and a slight frown pulls her eyebrows together.
It takes her a long moment to remember his face, but then, with a slight jolt, she realizes it's one of Rhea Royce's cousins from the Vale— a man she'd only met that one time she had accompanied Edmyn to the Vale as part of a visit to Riverrun. They'd gone to the Eyrie... and to Runestone.
She stares at the man and something she cannot put her finger on chills her blood, settling in her stomach like a stone.
Rhea Royce had only died only days ago.
Morrigan's throat bobs as she watches Rhea's cousin and a pang of relief echoes through her when, at last, the sounds of the drums picking up reaches her ears and, then, Ser Harrold clears his throat as the doors open once more.
"Lord Corlys of House Velaryon. Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark." He announces into the hall as House Velaryon, lead by Lord Corlys and her father's cousin, make their entrance into the Great Hall. "And his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."
Morrigan sends a glance back to the table at the center of the festivities.
A single seat is still unoccupied.
"And their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, the future king consort."
Applause sounds throughout the crowd as House Velaryon reaches the King and Rhaenyra comes to greet them, a smile on her face as she offers her hand to Laenor. "My betrothed."
Laenor smiles. "My betrothed."
And as the crowd applauds again, as Laenor and Rhaenyra and Lord Corlys and Rhaenys and his brother take their seat at the king's table, something in her chest twists and turns, stinging painfully, making her throat close up.
It's the sight of them, she realizes— of Rhaenyra and Laenor giving each other smiles that seem genuine to her.
She tries not to choke on the emotion, her eyes stinging a little.
She never thought she would be jealous of Rhaenyra the day of her wedding.
And yet... and yet... it's not a foreign feeling.
The thought might be the worst of them all.
Her throat is still burning by the time the guests settle into their seats, falling silent, and King Viserys's speech is set to begin.
Except, it does not.
Instead, hushed whispers rise up throughout the crowd, the king's eyes fixed on the entrance and Morrigan thinks it must be Alicent finally joining them as she turns to look and finds Daemon descending the stairs inside.
The sight of him feels like her chest is being caved in with a warhammer.
Merciless.
She— she did not think he would be here. Did not even think to prepare herself for the possibility. He had not come to his brother's wedding, after all. She thought him to care as little about Rhaenyra's as well.
You had hoped, the treacherous voice in her head accuses. You had hoped he would care as little about her wedding.
Morrigan tries to clamp the thought down, feeling suddenly sick as she turns her gaze away from Daemon before he passes them on his walk to the table at the front.
He did not come to your wedding, either, the voice adds gleefully. Like a vulture delighting in the carnage of her heart.
She can barely breathe.
As one of the servants brings a chair and cutlery and Daemon sits down, the king rises from his seat to address them all.
She can barely see him.
"Be welcome, as we join together in celebration."
She feels like she did all these years.
"Tonight is only its beginning. We honor the crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon."
It is too loud, too much and she wants it to stop.
"Reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons."
She wants to disappear.
She wonders if anyone would notice— she's already bleeding into the fabric of the world, in the shadows. Unnoticed.
"With House Targaryen and H—"
It takes her a long moment to notice that the King stopped his speech mid-sentence. It's the murmuring of the guests that draws her back, really.
She follows the divided attention in the room, head still swimming, to the entrance once more, finding that Alicent is standing in front of the stairs, face straight forward, in a stunning dress of green velvet and golden jewels.
Only much later Morrigan will realize that this is the first time in a long while that she did not see Alicent in the colors of House Targaryen in public.
Now, her eyes are fixed on her friend in an almost desperate manner, latching onto the sight of her like a lifeline even when Alicent begins making her way through the Great Hall and the guests rise for the Queen and she can hear quiet whispers from her left. The ghost of a conversation, really. She's not even sure if she doesn't imagine it entirely and yet—
The beacon on the Hightower. Do you know which color it glows when Oldtown calls its banners to war?
Morrigan bows to Alicent as she passes them.
Green.
A chill sets into her bones as Alicent reaches the royal family and presses a quick kiss against Viserys's cheek before turning to Rhaenyra with a smile. "Congratulations, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you."
It's only when the Alicent sits and the rest of the gathered crowd follows her example and settles back into their seats at the encouragement of the king, that Morrigan's gaze catches on Daemon. He's lounging on the left corner of the long table, a set of cutlery hastily brought for him that's not part of the original arrangement and from this distance, it looks like one of his hands is fiddling with one of the utensils.
Before she can stop herself, she looks up and their eyes meet.
The last time she'd looked at him had been that day in the secret passage. Nearly two months past now.
The sight of him should not take her breath away. It should not.
And yet, for a moment, it's like she can't breathe, and it feels like her chest is caving in.
And he doesn't look away.
Not when his brother clears his throat, not when he continues to speak.
Look away, you fool, a voice chants in her mind. Look away, look away, look away—
She blinks rapidly at the sudden sound of applause in reaction to the king's speech, forcing her eyes to leave Daemon and fix back on the king in the center of the table. She tries her best to listen, but the words really only register and then vanish like smoke.
She could not recall any of it if you asked her in a moment.
Not when she can still feel Daemon's eyes on her.
Her skin feels too hot, too tight at the knowledge and he's right there, to her left and she nearly sags with relief when the king's speech ends and Rhaenyra and Laenor begin their dance. Their shapes are so blurred, her mind fogs with the effort to see them, and she nearly sags with relief when the dance ends and applause breaks out again and guests begin to move freely about the room.
She's too much of a coward to dare and look to her left to see what Daemon might be doing now.
Instead, it's another presence appearing at her side that tears her out of the roar in her head that she is drowning in, as jarring as being pulled out from underwater.
Morrigan blinks up at Gwayne, feeling a little disoriented as he looks down at her.
At her side, Edmyn stiffens at the knight's approach.
"Ser Gwayne," Morrigan says and pretends she doesn't notice the mournful, soft tone in her voice. "What a surprise."
Gwayne smiles at her and she could swear there's a tinge of sadness in the act. "My lady. You look absolutely stunning tonight." His eyes flit over to Edmyn for the briefest of moments before he holds out a hand to her. "May I ask for the honor of a dance before I greet my little sister?"
Morrigan's throat bobs and from the corner of her eyes she can see Edmyn's jaw ticking a little, can see Brandon watching them. Celia has fallen silent.
She pretends not to notice any of it, when really, it makes her stomach twist and she feels a little sick.
"Of course, good ser," Morrigan says and tries to sound like it's a lady's response to a knight's chivalrous request as she reaches up and takes Gwayne's hand before she rises from her seat at the table and follows after him.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Gwayne says with a slight nod to her stomach. "Once again, in fact."
Morrigan smiles. "Thank you, Gwayne," she says softly as they round the table, passing the edge of the table for the royal family and their most honored guests, just at the edge where Rhea's cousin is talking to Daemon and Morrigan swears that just for a moment— Daemon's eyes find her as they pass.
She must still be a stupid, stupid girl even after all of it.
She should hate him.
She does hate him.
And above it all, the pain that the sight of him makes her chest spasm in each time her eyes pass over him, would be enough to make her keel over if she had not long since become accustomed to the sensation.
She forces herself to turn away from Daemon and focus back on Gwayne.
The sight of him does nothing to ease the old, bleeding wound in her chest.
Why? She wants to scream. Why didn't you ever ask me to be your wife? Why did you look at me, and long for me and wait until it was too late?
"I hear Deran is an absolute delight," Gwayne continues. "Alicent tells me only the best about him."
"He is," Morrigan agrees. "He is the best thing I could have hoped for."
You could have saved me.
It's not fair, she knows. It isn't Gwayne's fault.
She made this bed all on her own, and now she has to lie in it.
And yet, as they begin to dance, a voice whispers in her mind, Why didn't you save me?
AUTHOR'S NOTE,
if this chapter seems all over the place for u, not it doesn't it just bcs it was written over the span of almost three weeks !!!! (clown shoes squeaking in the background 🤡)
anywho to distract from the mess of this chapter and the title i'm not 100% sure about a lil teaster forward: this wedding is gonna be FULL of drama and it really gets going next chapter. there will be a lot of dancing and some blunt truths and some feels 🤭