FOUR —— OURS IS THE FURY

105 AC, KING'S LANDING.

Here is what haunts Morrigan's sleep: she knows what Rhaenyra feels like— to an extent at least.

Morrigan Baratheon is the eldest child of Borros Baratheon and his wife Elenda, who had been born to House Caron. She'd been born just before the second anniversary of their wedding day. She's the eldest of five daughters— Cassandra, Maris, Floris and Ellyn. She'd been nine when Cassandra had been born and fourteen when her youngest sister had come into the world.

But, before that, her parents had tried restlessly for a son— an heir— and they'd been given a child by the Seven four times more. Two of them had been called home by the Mother before they'd been born— or that's the way her parents told little Morrigan, anyway.

Not that it matters. What matters is the end of it all— they've all gone from cradle to grave and Morrigan remembers them all.

But, the two who'd made it haunt her the most. The first had been a girl who'd been named Tya and who had died mere hours after birth and a boy. The last before her sisters had come.

Deran, her parents had named her little brother. After her mother's beloved brother who'd died well before Morrigan had been born.

Deran had been strong and healthy and Morrigan had loved him with her entire heart, soul and being. She'd never thought she'd love anyone more than him— had not thought it physically possible for her body to contain more love for another being.

He'd been eight months old when a sickness had taken him during winter.

It's the memories of her brother; so tiny, so precious, in a shroud burning at the cliff's edge of Durran's Point that drives Morrigan out of the solitude of her room and to the accommodations of her House's delegation, which had arrived for the tournament, knowing that her grandfather had a habit of breaking his fast very early in the day.

He's already eating by the time Morrigan arrives, her father at the table with him and, to her surprise, a third plate is empty at the round table.

Neither look surprised when she makes her way through the door and inside the room.

Her father sends her a small smile, reaching out and squeezing her hand for a moment. "Good day, my love."

Morrigan smiles up at him. "Good day, father."

Her grandfather's eyes are on her— the same gray-blue, as her father's— before he motions to the third chair. "We've saved a seat for you, Morrigan."

"Thank you, grandfather," Morrigan replies as she makes her way around the table and takes the seat.

She's barely more than a few bites into her meal when she catches the silence, like a heavy weight between them. Her father's stiff shoulders, her grandfather's furrowed brows— the dark looks in their eyes.

Morrigan had always had an ugly sort of anger in her. As a child, they'd told her it was the blood of the Storm Kings in her veins. When she got older, they'd told her she had a temper that was unbecoming and that she needed to learn to keep in check. And Morrigan had— but it'd never went away. It'd just been caged.

It's easy to recognise the caged anger in the eyes of the men she'd inherited it from herself.

"What happened?" Morrigan asks, lowering her hands.

There's a beat of silence before her father turns to her with a frown Morrigan knows is pretense. "I'm not sure what you mean, my love."

Morrigan forces herself to not scowl, to keep her face smooth. "I know you two well enough, father," she points out. "Something happened and it's upsetting the two of you."

Her father smiles at her. It's a placating sort of smile and it's one Morrigan has hated for as long as she can look back. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Mor."

Hidden under the table, Morrigan's hands curl into fists as she looks to her grandfather. She thinks between the two, as much as her parents and grandfather adored her, her father had always seen her as his little daughter and her grandfather had recognised her earlier for whom she was becoming. Between them, in this very moment, she knows he's the one more likely to tell her what she wants to know.

"Grandfather." Morrigan says softly. "Please."

She hates that she's begging— knowing well enough that she's the firstborn, and if she were a boy, she'd be the heir to Storm's End and they wouldn't hide this from her. They would have discussed it with her already.

Boremund Baratheon watches his granddaughter for a long moment, before he sighs. "I was just grieving the death of Prince Baelon" He says. "The realm could have used with someone to take the place of the King's brother in the succession."

It's not that Morrigan is surprised about her grandfather's statement and his opinion about Prince Daemon— she really isn't— but, she also knows that it can't just be the Prince's character. Something happened, and recently.

"Is this because of what the City Watch did a few nights ago?" Morrigan asks.

Her father frowns. Her grandfather considers her.

"No," her grandfather says at last. "It's because Prince Daemon is a man hungry for glory and attention that lacks the patience for any power and should have been kept in check years ago. He's likely to sooner ruin the realm than he actually rules it."

Morrigan blinks. He's... not wrong.

"Father," Morrigan's father says slowly, staring at her grandfather, a silent warning in his gaze. To keep quiet.

Her grandfather's lips curl into a snarl for a moment before he shakes his head. "I'm sometimes convinced he's the child, and not the King's daughter."

"Father."

The two men stare each other down for a long moment.

Morrigan knows she's just adding wildfire to it all, but she asks, "What did he do?"

Her father makes a gesture of now you've done it.

Her grandfather regards her like he's calculating something.

Morrigan knows she's won whatever it is when he leans back in his chair, regarding her.

"Some of the Knighton boys were out in the city last night when they stumbled upon a brothel that'd been rented out for the night. When they looked inside they found the prince and men of his City Watch, drinking and celebrating. According to them, Prince Daemon was asked to speak, and when he did, he toasted to Prince Baelon."

"What did he say?" Morrigan asks quietly and something inside her twists when she notices her father's expression across the room— something both agonized and full of rage.

Morrigan's grandfather looks her in the eyes— gray meeting near-black— when he says, "He styled him The Heir for a Day."

————————

Morrigan had loved her brother more than anything in the world.

And after him, she had refused to love any other child. She'd refused to acknowledge her mother's pregnancies; had refused to even so much as look at Cassandra when she'd been born. She'd hated the sight of her. She'd been terrified of the sight of her.

She'd loved Deran. She had not been able to love Cassandra because of it.

Eventually, her mother had taken her by her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. If you cannot love her easily, you must make the choice to love her, she'd told her. She'd told her to choose to love Cassandra— for her sister needed her the way Deran had needed her once. She was the oldest after all.

Morrigan likes it better— thinking she wasn't just handed her sisters to love but that she chose to love them. She chose them by her own will. And it has nothing to do with gods or blood.

But, still, sometimes she thinks her parents might have made a mistake after all with it.

Where else would the ugly things come from?

Deran had been the first love she'd given away, and the first one she'd lost. And now, there's something monstrous in Morrigan, with edges and claws, and it's willing to face down the gods themselves if she must. They'd already taken Deran from her, forced her to watch helplessly as they did— they would sooner have to take her, then she would watch it again.

And what's a second son to the gods?

Nothing, Morrigan thinks. He is nothing to the gods.

And she knows, she will not care what blood that second son has— she will pit herself against him, Blood Wyrm or not. She will try to find out who outlives each other— the storm or the dragon. And so, Morrigan instead takes care to stay far away from the royal chambers, from the council chamber— anywhere where Prince Daemon might be.

The heir for a day— the heir for half a year— where's the difference? They're all children, dead.

This time, it is not her who finds him— Daemon finds her.

Morrigan knows it's disrespectful when she sees him in the deserted hallway just before nightfall and turns and marches the other way again. Especially since she saw the recognition in them when they landed upon her.

Morrigan just doesn't care.

She thinks it's probably better to be disrespectful than what that dark rage in her wants to do to and so, Morrigan retreats.

She doesn't get very far until Daemon's voice— closer this time— stops her.

"Lady Baratheon."

Morrigan wants to scream. Instead, she takes in a breath before she turns to him and curtseys. "Your Grace."

Daemon's eyes narrow on her as he walks to her, stopping only a short distance away— just far enough to still be appropriate, really. If they both reached out, their hands would easily touch before they'd have to stretch her arms. "Have I aggrieved you somehow, Lady Morrigan?"

Morrigan's hands, folded in front of her stomach, twitch. She curls them together tighter. "Of course not, Your Grace."

"Your Grace?" Daemon echoes. "Last night it was my Prince."

Morrigan wants to break something. "Well, Your Grace," She says with a smile still fixed on her face that feels like a snarl, "Last night was a night for extraordinary titles, was it not?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

And she thinks, this— right this and last night— it's why she will always know she was right about him when she told him he wasn't fit to wear his brother's crown.

She wants to claw at him until he draws blood. She wants to make him flinch with her words. She wants him to feel any semblance of what she feels when she thinks about her brother. What Rhaenyra feels about her brother.

The heir for a day.

"I suppose that's not a surprise then, with how deep you must've been in your cups last night." Morrigan's eyes flash. "But then again— that's not true, is it? You didn't need to be drunk to be cruel. To be hateful." She shakes her head with a cold laugh. "The heir for a day."

Something in Daemon's eyes shift at the title he'd given his nephew last night, spoken again in the halls of the Red Keep in daylight by her.

Morrigan points at him. "It disgusts me, what you did. That you're standing here, pretending not to know—"

"Careful, Lady Baratheon. You're talking to your Prince. Your future king."

Morrigan's chin lifts and she stares up at Daemon. "I don't see my future monarch anywhere here."

Something flashes in Daemon's eyes. "I am the King's heir."

He doesn't say it like a reminder, but a threat.

That dark, hungry thing inside Morrigan preens at the cadence and she knows then, it is time for her to go.

She looks at him for a long moment, before her head tilts and she gives him a cold, cruel sort of smile— just for a moment. "Do you really think that after this, you still will be for long?" Morrigan says quietly before she descends into a curtsey in front of Daemon and leaves him standing there.

By the end of the day, Daemon Targaryen is denounced as Heir to the Iron Throne by his brother and Rhaenyra is the heir instead.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
not sure AT ALL what to think about how this chapter turned out but i'm tired and i have a massive headache so i'll just leave it here for tonight and maybe revise it sometime this week

anywho i hope you're having a good day <3 as always, please consider leaving a comment or two 💗