Chapter Thirty-Four——
MAYBE I'M NOT BUILD FOR LOVE

110 AC, King's Landing.

There's a symphony of screams rising all over the room, chaos rippling out like a tidal wave and all throughout it, Morrigan is trying to make sense of what had just happened, of what transpired to make the festivities descend into this madness but the noise is drowning her, numbing her thoughts and she can hear nothing but a high ringing in her ears.

She's trying— she's trying, she's trying, she's trying— to make sense of it all, but her mind will not work. Her lungs take no air in. And all the while, people flee from the hall, people crowd together and she is jostled about and pushed and elbowed until she feels herself stumbling from one side to another.

She needs to make sense of it, she thinks. She needs to make sense of it all and fix it.

But she can't— she can't even think. She can't even breathe. She can only see blurring shapes anymore and she is drowning in the chaos.

Eyes wide, Morrigan glances around herself, unable to register anything but people, people everywhere, until a hand closes around her arm and the world wobbles a little around her, blurring, before she feels herself pulled against a tall body and a familiar scent and then, Alden's voice at her ear, "You alright?"

She can barely hear him over the screams.

Morrigan turns her head to look up at her cousin, his presence slowly grounding her a little and blinks once. Nods. I'm quite well, she tries to say. Swallows. Tries again. The words stick in her throat like something bitter and rotten.

Hands trembling, Morrigan wraps her arms around herself, trying desperately to collect her thoughts. Just moments ago, she'd been dancing with Daemon and he'd— he'd— and then, suddenly, someone had started screaming, high-pitched and horrified and everything had gone hazy in her mind. Pandemonium all around them.

But— how? They'd just been dancing. They'd just been laughing. How had it all fallen apart so fast?

"What's happening?" Morrigan tries to call over the noise, but Alden only shakes his head, expression grim and set, and begins to make his way through the crowd, Morrigan tucked against him.

"Alden— Alden, hold on—"

Her protests drown in the chaos around them, swallowed like movement in the night and Morrigan frantically looks around herself, trying to grasp a glimpse of a tall figure clad in black and red, with short silver hair—

Instead, she sees something else, for little more than a heartbeat and then the sight is swallowed by the crowd clustering around it again, but it's enough to make Morrigan stumble, nearly losing her footing and Alden's arm around her tightens. "Come on," he says against her hair, an urgent edge in his voice, and Morrigan can barely hear him.

She follows, feeling numb, as he forces their way through the crowd.

It'd only been a moment— just one second— but it'd been enough. The image is burned into her eyes and it's all she's able to see.

Criston— Criston, whom she'd known for years, who she had laughed with and spend so many afternoons with and who answered Deran all his different questions when he came running— Criston, who was her friend— kneeling on the floor, beating into what she thinks might've been a man once—

Morrigan thinks she might be sick, right then and there, in plain sight for all.

All the blood. The mangled shape, half hidden behind Criston bowed over it—

She tries not to gag, tries to wipe away the cold sweat across her palm on her dress.

She barely notices where they're going, can barely see, all her mind is chanting is Criston, Criston, Criston—

Morrigan half-stumbles up the stairs and later she will think how lucky she'd been that Alden had paid half of his attention to her and half to their surroundings, or she might've fallen and hurt herself upon the stone of the steps or the floor.

A moment later, the chaos around her begins to die off slowly and, at last, Morrigan feels like she can breathe again as Alden leads her through the halls outside the Great Hall until silence envelops them and they come to a stop.

From the side, voices come to her ears, sounding odd and distorted and then, Eric's form swims into her line of sight, lips moving. Morrigan blinks, mind still a little fuzzy, the ghost of the screams still ringing in her ears and then, Eric's eyebrows draw together, worry etched over his face before he reaches up and rests the back of his hand against her cheek, her forehead.

She closes her eyes and takes in a shallow breath, trying to sort out her thoughts, forcing herself to listen to what they're saying.

After a moment, she looks up again, staring at Eric and forcing her vision to focus again as he speaks again. "Are you hurt?"

Morrigan shakes her head a little. "I'm fine, I just—" She trails off, only now realizing that her limbs are trembling faintly and she's leaning entirely against Alden's body.

Curling her shaking fingers together into fists for a moment before stretching them again, Morrigan shifts her weight to her own legs again, and for a moment she is convinced she is going to sway where she stands but then it's over and the world around her begins to settle once more, falling back into place.

She looks at Eric again. "I'm fine. It was just a lot in there," she says again, this time with more conviction.

He still doesn't look convinced but doesn't press for more and Morrigan decides to take the victory before any of them think better of it.

Slowly, Morrigan turns her gaze to Rodrick, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "What are you doing here?" She asks after a moment.

He had not been due to return for a few more days. He should still be in Felwood.

Rodrik is silent for a moment, watching her before he says, "Because they are safe and at home. They do not need me there with them. You do, my Lady."

Morrigan stares at him, eyes burning. She tries to answer, tries to say something, but the words catch in her throat.

Blinking, Morrigan looks away, and it's because of that that she catches the exact moment Alden tenses up at her side, eyes fixed on something down the hall.

Her spine stiffens, posture straightening as Eric and Rodrik go still, a tense air spreading around them and without any of them needing to utter a word, Alden takes a half-step in front of her, Eric appearing at her side and she swears she can see the faintest of movements from the corner of her eyes as Rodrik reaches out and places his hands on the hilt of his sword.

Morrigan's lungs hollow out, mind going blank before she shifts where she is standing to look down the hall. Against her will, her muscles relax a little when she catches sight of the tall figure standing some feet away, just near the corner he must've only now rounded.

His silver hair is more tousled than it'd been when she had seen him last, she thinks even though she's not sure why she cares, and his expression looks like he has one eyebrow drawn up as he watches them.

"Caron," Daemon croons after a moment and he brings to make his way over to them, gaze fixed on her.

From her peripheral vision, she can see Alden watching the prince, eyes hard and jaw tense.

It's only when Daemon stops in front of their group that his eyes leave her to look at Alden.

For a moment the two are standing in silence, seizing each other up.

Daemon smiles slowly at Alden and the sight sends a chill down Morrigan's spine. It looks more like a threat than anything else. "Would you mind moving to the side, Ser Alden?"

Alden doesn't bother returning it. "I don't think so."

Daemon's jaw ticks a little, smile still fixed in place. "I don't—"

"Do you think I would let you get any closer to my cousin after your display there?" Alden cuts him off, eyes flashing. "And after all of it, you could not even be bothered to get her out of the mayhem."

"I think you should be careful," Daemon says slowly, "Who you are talking to."

Now, Alden's lips stretch into a smile. It looks like a snarl. "Oh, trust me, I do, prince."

The words sound like venom from his lips.

Slowly, Morrigan reaches out and rests a palm against Alden's upper arm and they exchange a glance. A silent request.

She lets her eyes drift back to Daemon. "What do you want, your Grace?"

Something flashes across his eyes for the briefest of moments at the title— so fast it's gone before she even has a chance to notice and Morrigan is half-sure she has imagined it entirely. Maybe she did. Maybe this is just her own imagination going wild. Because it means something to her— your Grace, my prince, your Grace— but perhaps it is all the same to him.

"I wish to speak to you, Lady Morrigan." He pauses. "In private."

Morrigan is pretty sure the faint sound she hears from her side is Alden trying not to snort at the words.

"About what matter?" Morrigan feels exhausted suddenly. Like she is stuck in a tug of war that just never ends. An eternal battle of wills and pride with no winner at the finish line.

Daemon lets his eyes go over the others for a moment before he says slowly, "None I would think you would like to discuss out here."

Now Alden does let out a snort. "I would tell you that it is not proper for you to demand to speak to her alone, but it is clear to me that you do not care about any of it." Any traces of the forged amusement dies from his expression, leaving his eyes cold and angry. "You do know what he would have the right to do to her if he found you two like that, don't you? It was one of you who made the law, after all. Six blows at the husband's wish."

"Queen Rhaenys imposed the law because a husband delivered a hundred blows to his wife and beat her to death with it. An improvement, wouldn't you say?"

Beneath Morrigan's palm, the muscles in Alden's arm tense and for the length of one heartbeat she is certain he will go for one of the blades strapped to his body.

Her fingertips dig into the leather of his coat, almost frantic, as she tightens her hold on his arm. "It's alright," she says quickly. "I'll talk to him."

Alden's nostrils flare for a moment, eyes snapping to her.

She doesn't like it at all, Morrigan knows— she can see it clear as day in his eyes. If Alden had it his way, Morrigan would not take a single step towards Daemon. Gods— if Alden had it his way in this very moment, he might just draw blood from Daemon and earn him a spot on the executioner's block come morning.

"It's fine," she says softly, looking up into Alden's blue eyes— the color so different from her own.

It's not— but there will be less risk of catastrophe if she talks to Daemon on her own than if they remain here, like this.

For a moment, they look at each other, suspended in the silence. Then Aldens expression twists— almost a grimace now— and she can feel him retreating at her side, leaning away just the smallest of distances.

Drawing her shoulders back a little, Morrigan forces herself to look back at Daemon. "Lead the way, your Grace."

Daemon looks at her like he wants to say something else, but only motions for her to follow him before he leads her down the hall, further away from the Great Hall.

After a short walk, he stops short and, a moment later, Morrigan catches sight of the entrance to one of the secret passages of the Keep. Swallowing slightly, Morrigan makes her way past him inside, Daemon following her before the entrance closes again and they're enveloped in the shadows.

It takes her a short while to get used to the sudden change. Morrigan blinks, trying to see the shapes and outlines she knows she'd be able to see one her eyes got used to such scarce sources of light— only really falling through small cracks in the wall, connected to an adjoining room, entirely vacated.

It's only as Morrigan glances to the wall that a jolt of recognition shoots through her.

They're back in the small, hidden chamber that's connected to the chambers of the small council. Morrigan hadn't even noticed the familiar halls on their way here.

The relics of another lifetime— all around her tonight.

She makes herself look back at Daemon, but the sight of him causes her chest to tighten even more.

The moment of silence seems to stretch on for a small eternity, and in the dark, in the solitude, as she stares at Daemon, her mind begins to retrace their conversation only minutes before.

And just like that, the only anger, the bitterness, the resentment that had festered in her chest for the past weeks, returns.

It would look even better on you if it were mine.

Her jaw tenses, teeth gritting together for a moment, before Morrigan's eyes sharpens, an edge to her expression. "How was your visit to the Vale, your Grace? Rather successful, I heard."

Daemon doesn't reply, only watches her in the silence.

"I met your wife, you know," Morrigan continues even though she is not entirely sure why. "I was rather fond of her."

Daemon's head tilts just a little, a small grin tugging on the corner of his lips. "Of course, you would be."

What had she expected really? A confession? An apology? From him?

Her eyes flash a little, and she tries to find the words that seem to come so easy to him— the ones that cut like blades into flesh.

"But on the matter," Daemon continues. "My recently acquired status as a widower means that my marriage is dissolved." He watches her closely with a look that leaves a restless energy burrowing just beneath her skin. "Which means I am free to marry again."

Morrigan doesn't allow her expression to change at the words. "Congratulations."

She wonders if she will wake tomorrow and Alicent will tell her about the wedding— like she did about the night in the Street of Silk. Tears of desperation in her eyes, begging her to mediate between them.

She wonders why the fuck he wants to twist the knife further than he has already plunged it into her chest.

There is something unreadable in his eyes. "Did you hear me?" He asks. "I am free to wed— if we leave now, we can take to Dragonstone on Caraxes and be wed before the sun comes up."

Morrigan stares at him for a long moment. "You might be free to marry," she says eventually. "But I am not."

Daemon shakes his head, an almost frantic gleam of excitement in his eyes as he closes the gap between them, reaching up to cradle her face in his hands. "But— you could be. I could make it so."

Something oily and cold spreads in her stomach as she looks up at him— as she realizes what he is saying, what he is offering and the knife twists. The rotting, old would in her chest throbs with such veracity, she cannot breathe for a moment.

She thinks she can hear the crack, like thunder splitting the silence of the night above the sea, as something in her chest, at last, breaks apart.

Morrigan's lungs burn, unable to take in air, and she stares up at Daemon and it feels like she has been pushed into cold water. Like she is seeing for the first time.

She'd thought— maybe— after everything...

But he doesn't understand, does he? Not really.

He has never learned the lesson of it all. Mistakes made a debt. Debts demanded a price. And the Gods collected— every time. Without fail.

Every mistake had to be paid for.

But Daemon never did— did he?

He never learned the lesson she has. To him, it was all still a game of chess. To her— the game was so much more. So much different.

He paid for his mistakes in grievances and reprimands. She paid them in blood and in tears.

Every time, without fail.

"You can be," Daemon whispers, leaning forward a little. "You can be."

"No. I cannot." She says quietly, voice like a grave.

She looks at him and her eyes burn.

"There is no love in marriage. There is no room for it. It doesn't belong there." She says. "Marriage isn't some romantic notion. It's a contract." She shakes her head a little and a tear spills over her eyes, making a slow trail down her cheek. "And I will not break it with who would be left to pay for my mistakes when I have run off on my own desires."

There's a look like heartbreak in Daemon's eyes. It's unlike anything she has ever seen from him before. "If you stay with him," he says it quietly, beseechingly— a final stand. "It will break you."

Morrigan's lips pull back in a soft snarl. "Then let it break me."

Because there is no price she would not pay. Not when it comes to them.

Daemon looks at her like he can't recognise her at all.

And she thinks it's fitting that he looks at her like this now. If he truly knew her, he would have never made the offer in the first place— not this one. Not from him. Not to her.

He doesn't say anything at all, and slowly, his hands lower from her face until they're hanging limp at his side.

Another tear spills down her cheeks.

Slowly, she reaches up and lets her fingertips trail over the shapes and curves of his face, before she retreats her hand.

"Goodbye, Daemon," Morrigan whispers softly, letting herself taste the syllables one last time.

Then, she leaves the secret passage.

Before the month is up, they both will have turned their backs to the city they used to call come.

Half a year after the wedding, as Morrigan Baratheon gives birth to a daughter she names Jeyne in her chambers at Riverrun, Daemon Targaryen is across the narrow sea, bedding his new wife.

Two years later, as Morrigan is carrying her third child, Brandon Tully's wife passes away. Within three years, he has a new wife and an heir.

And the house of cards comes down.

END OF ACT TWO