ELEVEN —— INNOCENCE DIED SCREAMING

105 AC, STORM'S END.

There's a hollow feeling in Morrgian's chest by the time she finally leaves the library, mechanically making her way to the entrance to the massive drum tower and outside, letting herself close her eyes as the cold wind hits her face, pulling her back into the present with its intensity. She lets out a shaking breath, closing her eyes— relishing in the feeling of the biting wind that would bring tears to anyone unused to its sting.

They're nearing the end of the year— only a handful more more days and it will be the birth of a new one. And soon after that, Alicent will be married to the King.

And you will be, too, a voice says in her head and Morrigan's eyes snap open again, fingers curling into tight fists until she feels the sting of her fingertips biting into her palms.

"My lady?" A male voice to her side asks, vaguely familiar and Morrigan frowns, head turning to find a familiar face a few feet away.

Or rather, the face had been familiar once, when they'd been children and he'd been the closest friend she'd had. Her only friend, too. But then they'd both been twelve— nothing more than little children, really. Morrigan had been taller than him then by just a bit, and his face had still been rounder the way most children's faces were— now, he towers over her, face all edges and angles and jawbones. But, his blue eyes are still the same— like a clear sea.

A soft smile spreads across her lips. "Hello Eric."

Eric Knighton grins back at her. "I was worried you might not recognise me anymore."

Morrigan laughs softly. "Rather difficult to forget the boy who threw mud at me and my nice dresses on more than one occasion."

Erid laughs. "You used to despise those dresses. I was doing you a favor."

Fair enough, Morrigan thinks.

Slowly, her posture relaxes again, and there are tiny crescent moons in her finger's wake when she eventually uncurls them. She's a little relieved to notice she didn't draw blood— this time, anyway— because she remembers Eric's obsessive worry when they were younger and she got hurt in any way or form and bled or cried. The only one who'd been worse than her family when it came to her injuries or bad moods she'd ever meet was Rodrik.

"Is everything alright?" Eric asks, head tilting a little as he takes her in, giving her a once-over.

Morrigan quickly smiles. "Of course," she replies. "I hear you've taken over Ser Rodrik's duties last year and became my sisters' guard. That's quite a feat, given you've only recently received knighthood."

He'd still been sixteen then, with it happening shortly before Morrigan left for King's Landing. She had always thought that it'd happened so fast because he'd already been chosen as Ser Rodrik's replacement and her grandfather had wished for him to have the honor of knighthood before assuming his duty.

But she's never said it out loud— doesn't really feel any desire to do so. Eric might've been young— might still be young for a knight— but he deserved the title. Any who knew him would agree— Morrigan more so than most others, even with only the memory of twelve year old Eric Knighton in her memory and not the man he became since.

One of Eric's eyebrows quirks— just for a split second and she knows he's noticed the shift. She gets the sense that even after nearly six years, Eric Knighton knows her much too well for her own liking.

"Yes," he replies after a moment. "Considering how close we were as children, it seemed like a rather obvious choice." He winks at her. "The overall consensus was that if I could survive you— I could survive the other four girls."

Morrigan gives him an affronted look. "Thank you, good Ser."

Eric gives her a look, unperturbed. "You know I'm not wrong."

She did know— she had been reminded of the fact all her life, after all. But Morrigan refuses to give him the satisfaction— that old, indignant children's pride reading her head after years. It felt so easy being that little girl long gone with him again— a relic of a time long dead.

Instead of replying, Morrigan looks around, her eyebrows drawing together in a soft frown. "Where are my sisters?" She asks after a moment.

"They're with Ser Rodrik. I can bring you to them, if you wish." Eric offers.

Morrigan looks back at him, a tentative smile on her face, still a little hollow. "I'd like that," she says and means it. Few people had a habit of recognising her anger and pulling her out of it— Rodrik. Eric. She doesn't like letting people see the storm raging in her heart— much less when it boils over the edge— but they'd learned to read it without her even realizing it.

"Then let's go," Eric replies, motioning for her to walk first.

Morrigan makes her way past him, following the direction he had motioned for her to take and a moment later, Eric appears at her side, falling in step beside her.

Together, they make their way through the outer ring of Storm's End in silence, passing faces familiar and— a very small amount— who were not to her. All pause to bow their head, just a little, as she passes. They'd never given her this reverence before, but now she was their Lord's eventual heir returned after over a year— she supposes the distance and absence make a difference in a sense.

Not that she thinks it will hold on for long— she knows they all well remember her best and worst days. She'd been a reckoning even before her sisters were born, they'd always liked to say. The storm was in their Lady's veins.

Sometimes, she isn't entirely sure it's a compliment— even for their culture, sometimes a storm isn't a thing to behold, but just destructive.

Morrigan always thought it fit her rather well.

"So," Eric says after a long moment when they're in a more solidary corner of the castle— by now Morrigan has long recognized that they're making their ways to the gardens she had not seen in so long— and sends her a glance as they walk. "What just happened back there?"

Morrigan stiffens again— she'd known this was coming. Eric knew how to read her. He'd learned it all from experience, after all— back when she was young and could not mask her emotions as well, he'd already been at her side, inseparable at times. He'd learned as a boy, how to spot her anger and her misery and her joy and all her other emotions.

She should probably not have been surprised that he'd not unlearned the skill. Eric Knighton had always been a fast learner and gifted child. There was a reason he'd so fast risen to knighthood long before Morrigan had departed for King's Landing— and it had little to do with his new role as guard to her sisters. He'd always been fast approaching his knighthood. She would not be surprised if it'd been set to happen soon, regardless of the date of her departure.

Morrigan presses her lips together for a moment, hands clasped together behind her back as they walk, posture straight and poised in the way she'd grown to walk the past years— and most especially in the Red Keep— before she lets out a sigh, watching their surroundings, trying to soak them all in as much as she can and burn them into her memory so they're still there when she leaves again. "I'm to be betrothed and married soon."

At her side, Eric lets out a choked sound she recognises from the years they've known each other as a surprised bark of laughter he's trying to keep silent. "Poor bastard," he mutters.

Morrigan's eyes fix on his, sharp and narrowed.

Eric doesn't look particularly afflicted by her reaction. "Don't give me that look, Mor," he replies, shrugging. "I've known you for all my life— as long as my memory goes back, you've been in it. And I know you. Better than most, I dare say. I know what you're like. I know that you don't belong to the Red Keep or anywhere else— not really. You belong right here. And I pity the man who dares to try and tame you."

There's a deep-seated sorrow in her chest at his words, aching and clawing at her heart.

She cannot imagine a man who would not hold her down with all his might if she were bound to him in the holy bond of marriage. She cannot imagine a man who would not think it his gods given right to do so, to choose for her, to dictate her life.

She wouldn't just be tamed— she'd be caged.

She's already choking on the very thought of marriage— the idea of spending her entire life with someone who does not truly see her, who thinks her lesser than himself, who cannot see her flaws and even someone who sees her the way Gwane Hightower does— with so much adoration in his eyes she does not think he sees her but who she is supposed to be in his mind. Perfect and smiling and holy— the very picture of a maiden, worshiped in a Septa.

If she is ever worshiped she does not want it to be for this.

Like the storms of Shipbreaker Bay, like the dragons, she wants to be worshiped for what is raging under her skin— both magnificent and ugly, a thing to marvel at and a thing that wreaks havoc.

If there were ever someone on his knees before her like a believer at an altar of the Seven, this is what she wants him to worship her for. And nothing less.

She doesn't think she wants it, if it is for anything less.

"Do you already know to whom you will be betrothed?" Eric says and Morrigan looks up to him, feeling dizzy for a moment.

She shakes her head. "Not yet." She answers, but there's a grim feeling settling in her stomach— like a man fated for death, deciding to face his executioner head on.

———————

The sun is setting by the time Morrigan knocks at her grandfather's private study and enters once he calls for her to come inside.

There's a look of surprise on Lord Boremund Baratheon's face when he sees her. "Morrigan?" He asks. "I was not expecting you, dear."

"Forgive me, grandfather. I know you were not and I know it is time for dinner soon, but I was hoping you had just a moment to hear me out."

Silently, he motions for her to sit down at the chair across his old oak desk.

She thinks she might be sick as she settles into it.

"What brings you here, my dear child?"

Morrigan takes in a breath. She thinks if she does not say it right away, she will storm out of the room and run and hide until they find her and drag her back by force. Or she might scream and never stop. Or she might truly be sick. "I have made a decision about what we talked about earlier."

She wants to swallow the words again, and yet, at the same time, she hates the relief they bring her— they're out, at least. They're out.

She wants them to still be eating her up, inside out.

Her grandfather straightens, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "You do not have to make that decision yet, you still have time to—"

"But I have made it," Morrigan says quickly, knowing the courage that brought her here is quickly fading. "Please, hear me out."

Her grandfather falls silent.

"I have thought about it. About the families' positions and about the men I was offered to be wed." She takes in a deep breath, trying to calm the blood rushing in her ears, the way her vision is blurring and tilting. Something is screeching in her head, and she does not know what. "And I would like you to send a raven to Riverrun, letting Lord Tully know I would be overjoyed to wed his younger brother."

She does not know Edmyn Tully the way she does Gwayne Hightower— it's a higher risk. She'd know what to expect of a bond with Gwayne more than with him. But, she thinks, Edmyn Tully at least sees her better. Maybe he will learn to truly see her one day, too.

(She should have let another's love choke her.)

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
oop—

a lil heads up: the next few chapters after the end of the lil storm's end arc will happen rather quickly. these are mostly to bridge a bit of the gap in the recent timejumps so that once we set into the *new* time setting you all have a little background knowledge of all the important stuff that would've just been dumped at your feet otherwise since i think this way it's easier and also less confusing <3

next chapter: dinner with the stormlanders that feels a lil like reality tv (or just to me idk i have not yet written it but the ~idea~ does) and we'll be discussing some....... overseas politics