NINETEEN —— INNOCENCE DIED SCREAMING (II)

106 AC, KING'S LANDING.

There's something in her chest that's not quite right and it's slowly decaying over days upon days. It doesn't fit— sits all wrong in a way she cannot identify. Like her name. Like her family. Foreign— it doesn't belong.

Or, maybe, she does not belong to her own life and body anymore.

Morrgian can't tell the difference anymore. And when she tries to peel the layers away, to identify the ill piece, all she can think of is Alicent and her growing stomach. By now— a few weeks after the day of her wedding— the Queen's stomach has grown into a bulge undeniable by any and all and the entire realm knows that the King of the Seven Kingdoms is expecting another child before the year is up.

Morrigan's hands shake, throat closing up at the thought and she feels like she might die from lack of oxygen.

She presses her eyelids closed so forcefully, they hurt, pressing her lips together in an attempt to clamp down on the nausea at the train of her thoughts.

She's not even sure anymore what makes her feel so sick— Alicent's future, her future or everything else.

Morrigan presses her hands over her mouth, convinced for a moment, she will heave again as she covers on the floor of the latrine in her new home— the chambers she shares with her husband on the edge of the Red Keep— before a sob tears free and her entire body temples uncontrollably.

What had she told Rhaenyra that night?

It's easy to spot, eventually. If you know the signs.

Morrigan heaves again, but nothing comes out anymore as she wraps her arms around herself, sobbing, tears leaking from her eyes and running down her face. She's shaking so much her knees feel like they're chafing raw on the floor, curling in on herself. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to die.

Anything but this.

But the gods aren't merciful and they aren't kind and Morrigan had learned that lesson long ago— they don't listen to begging or prayer of mortals.

And so, Morrigan buries her misery, dries her eyes— and leaves the room to seek out Ser Rodrik.

———————

Which is worse, Morrigan wonders— to have death come swiftly upon you like a thief in the night or to march towards it slowly like the solitary walk to an executioner's block?

She'd known long before she'd ever stepped foot into Grand Maester Mellos's chambers and yet, hearing the words out loud— Congratulations, Lady Tully. You indeed are with child. What joyous news for you and your Lord husband.— feels like an anvil blowing into her ribcage. Another nail hammering into her coffin.

Now, days later, Morrigan feels like she is underwater— like a victim of a shipwreck on Shipbreaker Bay, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark, watching the storm raging over the surface far above.

She's a ghost walking and there's nothing she can do but wait for the gods to finish crafting her tomb over years and decades. They've already begun long ago— this is just another piece of wood added to her pyre.

The weight of Rodrik's eyes on her from where he is following like her own shadow is the only thing still tethering her to this body, keeping her mind from floating adrift like a lost ship at sea. She presses her lips together for a moment, hands folded together so tightly she knows her fingertips will leave purple crescent-moon bruises on her palms for days to come, she takes in a shallow breath.

"What?" Morrigan asks, sending a sharp glance at Rodrik when she cannot stand his silent scrutiny anymore.

Now more than ever she hates the way Rodrik looks at her like she's an open book displayed in front of him— seeing too much with too little effort.

"It's been three days," Ser Rodrik says evenly, unaffected by her tone. "What will you do now?"

Morrigan's body tenses up at his words and she looks away from him, gaze fixing on the way ahead of them as they make their way back from the gardens where they'd walked and had tea together to her new chambers.

She doesn't answer— what's there to say? She can't even think about any of it without wanting to scream and scream and scream until her body gives out.

"Morrigan," Rodrik says quietly, voice gentler than before and she thinks— if she'd bother to listen close enough— there might even be a note of desperation in his tone.

She doesn't care anymore.

What's the point?

"I don't see how this is any of your concern, Ser," Morrigan says, lips peeling back into a snarl for a moment— an animal backed into a corner, lashing out. She turns and continues her walk back to their chambers before she gets the chance to see his expression at her words.

She doesn't think she could stand to bear it, not when it feels like the slightest breeze might make her fall apart.

They're almost back at the chambers she'd moved into after her wedding to Edmyn when they round a corner and come face to face with the King and his Hand talking quietly, two members of the Kingsguard walking a few steps behind them.

Morrigan comes to a stop, jarred by the sudden appearance and the way it tears her out of the thoughts that'd been drowning her by the sheer fact that she had not expected to see either man today.

After a moment of surprised silence, Morrigan dips into a curtsey, looking at the floor between them. "Your Grace."

King Viserys gives her a smile as she rises into a standing position again. "Good day, Lady Morrigan. Marriage seems to become you."

Morrigan wants to scream at him— liar lair liar— but she only smiles at him. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Otto Hightower is watching her at the King's side. "I can only agree, Lady Tully," he says after a moment. "And I hear congratulations are in order."

Morrigan stares at him and something in her chest dies. "Pardon me, my Lord?"

Otto Hightower gives her an expression like a smile— or what is the equivalent of a smile to her. "I hear His Grace isn't the only one expecting a child soon." His chin lowers. "Congratulations, Lady Tully. Such joyous occasions deserve to be celebrated."

Morrigan's eyes are fixed on him, burning. Her hands, hidden where they are folded together behind her back, are shaking again. The nausea claws its way up her throat.

King Viserys's face break into a smile as he looks from his Hand to her. "Oh— truly?" He laughs, nodding at her. "Congratulations, then, Morrigan."

Morrigan can't tear her eyes from where she is looking at Otto Hightower— gaze locked with his. She feels numb. "Thank you, Your Grace." It doesn't feel like she's saying the words, but distantly, she recognises that they're spoken in her voice, so it must've been her.

Mellos, she thinks as the men continue their way. Mellos—

She should have known better than to confide in a man she did not trust even on the best of her days.

She thinks Rodrik might be speaking to her as she stands rooted but there is something roaring in her ears and she cannot hear a thing beyond it.

She was drowning.

And now, she is raging.

Morrigan's hands are shaking with the force of it, her entire body trembling with the effort to keep the storm in her chest contained and then she jerks into motion again, her surroundings blurring as she crosses the final distance to her chambers, almost throwing herself against the door as she opens it— more stumbling inside than walking.

She can't breathe— is choking on the air as she tries to take it it.

Her mind feels like it's doubling over— roaring, and odd sensations of not belonging in her limbs.

Morrigan lets out a sob and then she is screaming, lashing out with her fingers, twisted like they're claws. She doesn't even know what is happening, doesn't really register it, but then there's a burning sensation in her knuckles and the mirror is broken all around her, blood dripping down onto the broken pieces reflecting from the ground and Morrigan is still screaming, still sobbing.

Mellos, she thinks, something ugly and insatiable rising within her. She is going to kill Mellos.

The Grand Maester had likely run to Otto Hightower the moment she'd been out of his presence and how, she will make him pay for it.

Without even thinking about it, Morrigan grabs the nearest piece of weapon from the floor— a large, jagged piece of the mirror— and the pain of the edge biting into her hand is like sweet wine, feeding her anger.

Her eyes flash as she turns to the door. She is going to cut Mellos open from groin to chin and watch as he bleeds out like a gutted fish.

Morrigan starts for the door, only to be stopped by arms around her waist— like iron bars— and she lets out a scream, clawing blindly at the person at her side restricting her and then there's a grip around her right wrist— so tight it feels like the bone might snap in two.

"Drop it," a voice commands, shaking her wrist.

Morrigan twists in his grip and then, Rodrik near throws her against the wall as he traps her between his body and the stone, rendering her moveless. "Drop it." He says again, voice sharper, grip tightening on her wrist until she does as told— the piece of the mirror clattering to the ground below and leaving nothing but piercing pain across her palm in its wake.

And, just like that, the pain dies away— and numbness streads in it's place, an agony that tightens her chest until she cannot breathe.

She hears Rodrik cruising, grabbing her right hand— she doesn't even feel the pain of the blood seeping from the wound, but she sees the red and feels dizzy. She thinks she might throw up. Or faint. She doesn't know.

As her legs give out and she falls to the floor— the impact only softened by Rodrik's arms around her, catching her— Morrigan lets out a sob, choking on it.

She clutches onto Rodrik as he holds her, weeping and fighting for oxygen and she thinks this is it— this is how it all ends. She will drown in this and it will never stop.

She doesn't know how much time passes— Minutes? Hours?— until she is curled into herself, staring at the mess she made, not remembering when Rodrik took care of her hand but there's a flash of white now between the red blood— a bandage around her hand— and feeling nothing but a large, all-consuming void in her chest when Rodrik takes her face in his hands, forcing her to turn her head and look at him.

"Listen to me," he says, eyes fierce. "Listen to me."

Morrigan stares back at him and sees nothing.

"You need to get it together, girl. Find your strength and dry your tears and face this world the way you always have— with your back straight and your chin raised high, do you understand?" When she does not reply, he shakes her head a little. "You're a Baratheon of Storm's End. You have the blood of the Storm Kings in your veins and no riverlord will ever have the power to break you."

His words are just colors to her, really.

"Do you understand me?"

Morrigan nods, feeling more exhausted than she ever has in her life.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
screaming crying throwing up i'm not ok

also!!! can i just say that i love ser rodrik and the tiny gremlin with anger issues he unwittingly adopted? mor's entire existence might stress that man into an early grave but the moment she's even the slightest bit distressed his Protective Dad™ mode activates and i love that for them