TWELVE  —— SHE WAITS, SEETHING, BLOOMING

105 AC, STORM'S END.

It's odd, Morrigan thinks. To sit here at the table in the Round Hall with her family— right in the very spot she'd always sat with them all these many years. Only now she is not quite that girl anymore she'd been when she left; this place, this moment is achingly familiar but also— not. There's a distance that had never been there before in her heart and she feels so infinitely far away from them all.

For the first time, the months away from them feel like an unbridgeable gap.

It might be the worst thing she has ever felt.

Silently, Morrigan watches her grandfather and the others gathered around him. Her younger sisters have long since run off to play with each other when they'd finished their meal and when they'd asked her, Morrigan had opted to stay and listen to the conversations instead. For a moment, she'd thought she saw some sort of approval in her grandfather's gaze when she had chosen to stay.

This was where the important things were discussed, after all— at the table with her grandfather and his lords.

Morrigan thinks that if she is old enough to be betrothed— because she is now, the raven went out just this morning— she is old enough for the talk of politics and wars.

Her husband is going to be the current head of the City Watch in King's Landing after all— for better or for worse, she'll be exposed to violence in some way, even if just from vague comments by him.

If he thinks her important enough to even make those, that is.

Morrigan's grip around her goblet tightens, clenching. She will make herself important enough to be told these things— if not by Edmyn Tully, then by some other source. Rhaenyra, Alicent— she doesn't care. She will not idly sit at the side. Morrigan thinks she might be able to endure many things but not being made small, silenced— the very fate awaiting so many wives.

Her mother's father— Lord Royce Caron, Lord of Nightson, Lord of the Marches and Head of House Caron— is scowling at the turn their conversation had taken just now— from the king's announcement of his bethrotal to Alicent to the war his younger brother and the Seasnake had started only recently. "It is an absolutely ridiculous spectacle, that's what it is. He is running around the Stepstones, playing at war like a little child throwing a tantrum. I've seen newborns with better impulse control. It's not even the first time and the king is doing nothing about it."

Her father shakes his head. "Good thing, too, this time, or half the continent would be at war because Daemon Targaryen felt slighted about being tossed aside as heir to the throne."

"I'm telling you right now— we have not seen the end of this." Royce Caron announces, pointing at her father with his index finger. "That man is reckless and impulsive and will not just let his niece take the throne he'd been promised."

"That boy's not been promised a thing," her other grandfather— Lord Boremund Baratheon, the host of their family's gathering— points out. "He just cannot stand the idea that the toy he'd wanted for himself was taken from under his nose."

"And yet, it still will not be the final say. That man is not made of the fabric to sit aside. This will be bloody and it will be ugly if the king does not find another way."

"Maybe his new wife might bring forth a son and settle this entire shitting contest once and for all," her uncle says.

"I would not be so sure about that, Davos," the Lord of Storm's End replies. "That girl might be young, but her father is certain in his desire to put her first in line to the throne by right of age. Besides— already at fifteen, that girl is much more suited to the role than her uncle ever will be."

Her uncle shakes his head, leaning forward. "It doesn't matter if she's more suited— she will bring unrest to the realm. The Lords will never accept her as ruling Queen without quarrel— much less if that Hightower girl will bear a son to the king. Look at what's happening in the Stepstones. There's already trouble, and it has not even been a year since she was named heir."

"One might argue that the blame for the matter of the Stepstones is to be put at Daemon Targaryen's feet. Viserys might have a weak back, but he does do his best to be a just king. No man could ever dream of saying such a thing about his brother. That boy would not know how to handle an issue at court if it were to save his life." Her grandfather leans back, folding his hands together. "So I ask you, which is worse— to bring unbalance to the realm by becoming ruler, or by the way one rules?"

There's a beat of silence at their table.

"Precisely," Lord Boremund says, staring them all down. "As for the Prince's new war— the issue with the Stepstones has been for months and, according to the news from the east, it will still be in months," he points out. "It will end up being a matter of endurance, rather than strength. Already they've had to resort to sieges and long-term planning."

Morrigan frowns. "But they have Caraxes," she says before she can think better of it.

The entire table turns to her and Morrigan forces herself not to shrink away at the sudden attention.

Her grandfather inclines his head at her, a silent permission to continue and she straightens a little.

"They have Caraxes, a grown dragon experienced in battle, not to mention that Laenor Velaryon, Lord Corlys's son, is a dragon rider as well. His dragon may be a lot younger than Caraxes, but he's still old enough for battle, I think." She shrugs. "Combined with the Velaryon ships, that should be enough to tip the scales of the conflict, should it not?"

The Lord of Storm's End considers her from his seat at the head. "Perhaps," he says after a moment. "But the islands have an extensive system of caves and tunnels, which the Crabfeeder and his men have no doubt utilised even before the Prince's forces got there. Even a dozen Targaryen dragons will do no good if they cannot get to the enemy."

There's a soft frown between Morrigan's brows. She finds a reality where the massive beasts she'd seen firsthand are useless against an enemy hard to imagine.

Her father takes a sip from his wine. "We'll have to prepare for the eventuality of another war, it seems."

Morrigan looks at him. "The Kingdoms are not at war." She points out, even though she knows they know.

Technically, the conflict at the Stepstones is none of their business. They're under no obligation to get involved.

"Not that it that matters," Her mother's older brother, announces with a huff, waving dismissively. "Sooner or later the king will run to his brother's aid and it will be us who will have to pull them out of the pile of shit the Prince has gotten himself into and suffer the consequences."

While, traditionally, the Stormlands were not the most heavy in their marine forces, their ships— and crew— were said to be amongst the most robust of the Seven Kingdoms due to the countless storms on their sea. This, combined with the location of their realm made them the likely choice for those sent to help the Velaryon forces.

Morrigan's dark eyes move to the elder child of the Lord of Nightson. "I wouldn't be so certain about that, uncle," she replies.

There's a bark of laughter as they stare at each other and it takes Morrigan a moment to register that it's from her grandfather, Lord Royce Caron.

She gives him a brief glance, finding both her grandfathers watching her with a sort of fondness in their eyes— although, they mostly just look amused and for a moment, Morrigan is certain that she's made a fool of herself before her mother's father laughs again, nodding at her. "I see the soft-bellied snakes in the pit of the Red Keep have not yet beaten the stormlands out of you, girl," he announces loudly, grinning.

"Do you know the king's brother that well to sound so certain, cousin?" A voice says softly from across the table and Morrigan turns to Alden— his eyes, a mixture of gray and blue inherited from his father, fixed on her, watching her in the way he'd always watched her as long as she can think back. Like he might just peel back her skin and look inside her brain without effort.

Alden Caron had always been able to see too much of her.

Ser Rodrik would tell her it's because the two of them are so much alike; they could read each other like an open book because they both spoke the same language.

He draws up a blonde eyebrow, just a little. A challenge.

Morrigan stares back at him, chin high.

"I don't— I've only seen him a few times during his visit to King's Landing, but the Princess Rhaenyra told me stories of him. Besides— he is not that difficult to figure out, if one bothers to pay proper attention," she adds after a moment. "So yes, I do think I can sound as certain as I please in this matter."

She's pretty sure someone lets out another choking laugh as they stare at each other.

Alden's eyes narrow. "Do tell, cousin."

Morrigan looks back at him, unflinching at the flash in his eyes. She won't back down and she won't cower— not from him. She is made of the same blood and sinew as him, after all. They are the same. "Daemon Targaryen started this war without his brother, or the kingdoms, to prove a point. He wouldn't make it if he'd accepted the king's help— no matter if tomorrow or in five years." She explains. "And the day the king sends his men to support the Prince's war is the day the conflict in the Stepstones ends. Prince Daemon will not let himself be undermined by his brother— he will make sure that the war is done long before the reinforcements arrive, whether be it by death or victory."

Because there are no other ways for this to end, Morrigan is as sure of it as she knows her own name. Daemon will not accept his brother's help and he will not accept defeat. He would rather die.

"To prove what point, exactly?" Her father asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

Morrigan turns her head to him. "The same one he wanted to prove in the round–up during the tournament. Daemon has always stood in his brother's shadow, and now he's been removed as heir. He will want to remind the whole of Westeros and beyond that he's still a power player in his own right. He will want to ensure we all remember him and his skill and his worth. He wants to remind us all— and himself— of his power."

Her grandfather sighs, looking at his guests for a moment before he turns back to her. "Be that as it may, I still wish he would find a way to do all that without making it our problem, too."

Morrigan supposes Daemon could.

He just doesn't want to.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
so today we had this annual thing where we hike around our village (a route of like 9-ish kilometres) and there are stops in between sponsored by the various wineries in our village and we just,,, walk and drink the local wine and that's what i've been doing like half the day so forgive me if this chapter's really bad i'm just really motivated to write rn 💀 anywho i'm about to take a little break and then i might write some more for this 🤭 i'm in the type of mood where i either fall asleep in 30 mins or write two more chapters tonight

one more chapter and then we're back to king's landing ahhh

also according to my phone stormbreaker ranked 9 in #gameofthrones earlier today?? wild

A little background info of people referenced in this chapter:

- Lord Boremund Baratheon is Mor's grandfather on her father’s (Borros Baratheon) side.

- Lord Royce Caron is Mor's grandfather on her mother's (Elenda Baratheon, born Caron) side. He's also the father of Davos Caron, who is Mor's uncle and her mother's elder brother.

- Davos Caron is Alden's father. Alden is about 2-ish years older than Mor.

The Caron's often have various shades of blonde hair and blue to grey eyes. This is where Davos, Alden and Ellyn (Mor's sister) get their blonde hair from. Ellyn's is more light blonde while Davos's is dark blonde and Alden's is somewhere in-between (depending on the eventual fc I'll choose for him lmao). The Baratheon's have grey eyes and dark hair; this is where the other Baratheon sisters get their hair and eyes from. Mor's inherited her dark eyes from her mother, Elenda, who takes after her own mother who had dark eyes as well.