THREE —— I'M ALWAYS RUNNING FROM SOMETHING

105 AC, KING'S LANDING.

It's late into the day, shadows stretching long, and still, Morrigan feels restless in her very bones— old haunts and ghosts following her around like her own shadow.

She takes in a long breath, trying to clear her head, hoping to at least settle down enough to get a few moments of sleep before she needs to rise again in the morning. Not that she has many hopes for it, but she supposes it is worth a try after all.

Taking a walk in the solitude of the Red Keep, avoiding any guards who might get her into trouble, is certainly better than tossing and turning in her bed, hating the room for the prison it is to her in that moment.

So, like a ghost, Morrigan is making her long walk through the halls of the Red Keep, no real destination in her mind other than the dawn of the next morning.

It feels endless. It feels like seconds.

Morrigan used to have many nights like this, kept awake by homesickness— now, it's something entirely else.

And the last thing she wants to think of are her ghosts.

Maybe it's that knowledge— maybe it's just the curiosity that'd driven her to explore all the crooks and corners of Storm's End as a young girl— that causes her to stop and turn her head, listening when she hears muted footsteps— walking closer.

Without thinking about it, Morrigan presses herself against the wall, ducking into an alcove, hidden entirely between the shadows behind the banner.

Only now, she notices how close she has come to the small council's chambers. It must've been them she'd heard.

Silently cursing, Morrigan moves to put distance between herself and the council— being found wandering in the dark like this right here could most certainly get her into trouble if she was unlucky— when her gaze catches on an edge in the alcove that does not quite add up. It almost looks like a small space to slip through into a narrow hallway behind the large banner— and Morrgian swears there's the edge of a human shadow on the small space of floor she can see from here.

She should leave. She should leave right now, she knows— and yet, Morrigan finds herself silently slipping through the opening.

Morrigan nearly jumps out of her skin when her eyes adjust to the dim light— shining through holes in the wall with no candles lit in the narrow way— and she finds herself face to face with Daemon Targaryen.

Her eyes widen in horror as they lock with Daemon's.

His head tilts as he looks back at her, a hint of surprise in his expression.

Gods be good— this is how she gets herself executed.

For treason, for spying— she doesn't even know. But she can see her head on a spike on the godsforsaken wall already or she'll be shipped in pieces to Storm's End or—

Morrigan takes a step back, but before she can get far, Daemon's hand shoots out and grabs her wrist with an iron-grip.

Oh gods oh gods oh—

The index finger of his other hand comes to his lips in a gesture for her to be silent and Morrigan gapes at him.

"—This is the last thing any of us wish to discuss at this dark hour, but I consider the matter urgent," Otto Hightower's voice sounds from the next room and Morrigan watches as Daemon lifts the index finger of his other hand to his lips in a gesture for her to be silent for a moment.

"What matter?" That's the king— Morrigan is gaping at Daemon.

"That of your succession. These recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir."

"The king already has an heir, my Lord Hand." Lord Corlys this time.

Morrigan stares at Daemon, and stares and stares— is he not going to reveal her?

"Despite how difficult this time is, Your Grace, I feel it important the succession be firmly in place for the stability of the realm."

With wide eyes, Morrigan shakes her head at him, pleading silently— for what she's not sure— and all she can think of is how, if they're caught, Daemon will get a reprimand and she will get the executioner's block.

Trying to back into the hallway again, Morrigan takes another step backwards.

This time, Daemon uses the grip on her arm to drag her to him, so close their bodies are nearly touching and Morrigan is certain she can feel the heat of his body at this distance, and he gives her a look of warning to stay put.

Morrigan might be a lot of things, but she's not entirely daft— no matter what her current situation might suggest.

She stays put.

"The succession is already set by precedent and by law."

In the other room, Lord Corlys takes his seat. "Shall we say his name? Daemon Targaryen."

"If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilize the realm," Grand Maester Mellos's voice comes.

"The Realm? Or this council?"

"No one here can know what Daemon would do were he king," Otto Hightower again, "but no one can doubt his ambition. Look at what he did with the gold cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him. An army two-thousand strong."

"An army you gave him, Otto. I named Daemon Master of Laws, but you said he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you said he was a spendthrift that would beggar the realm. Putting Daemon in command of the City Watch was your solution!"

"A half-measure, Your Grace. The truth is, Daemon should be far away from this court."

Morrigan looks up at the prince again, the fear gone this time— replaced by intrigue. It's him, they're talking about, after all. She's sure that's why he's here, listening like a little spider serving their spy master, in the first place.

"Daemon is my brother. My blood. And he will have his place at my court."

Their eyes meet again before Daemon glances back through the wall, watching the scene as Morrigan watches him.

"Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace but if the gods should visit some further tragedy on you Either by design or accident—"

"—Design?" The King echoes. "What are you saying? My brother would murder me, take my crown? Are you?" The King lets out a soft scoff. "Please. Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it."

Daemon's lips twist a little, a soft smile on his lips, and for a moment Morrigan is convinced he needs to repress his laughter to keep quiet.

And she has no idea what to make of that at all.

"The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power, Your Grace."

"Under such circumstances, it would not be an aberration for the King to name a successor."

"Well, who else would have a claim?"

There's a long silence and in it, Morrigan feels something she has not felt for a long time. Something much like the tales of Argella Durrandon naming herself Storm Queen a century ago. Then, "The King's firstborn child."

"Rhaenyra? A girl? No queen has ever sat the Iron Throne."

"That is only by tradition and precedent, Lord Strong."

"If order and stability so concerns this council then perhaps we shouldn't break a hundred years of it by naming a girl heir."

"Daemon would be a second Maegor, or worse. He is impulsive and violent. It is the duty of this council to protect the King and the realm from him. I'm sorry, Your Grace, but that is the truth as I see it and I know that others here agree."

"I will not be made to choose between my brother and my daughter."

"You wouldn't have to, Your Grace. There are others who would have a claim."

Lord Strong laughs at that. "Such as your wife, Lord Corlys? The Queen Who Never Was?"

"Rhaenys was the only child of Jaehaerys' eldest son. She had a strong claim at the Great Council and she already has a male heir."

"Just moments ago, you announced your support for Daemon!"

"If we cannot agree on an heir, then how can we expect—"

"MY WIFE AND SON ARE DEAD! I will not sit here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses!" Morrigan's gaze snaps back to the right for another moment as she hears the crack in the King's voice and she watches as King Viserys rises from his seat at the head of the table, storming out of the room.

She isn't sure how long the two of them stand in the dark in silence, Daemon's grip around her wrist, tethering her in place, watching as the rest of the council slowly vacates the room until they're the only souls left and Morrigan can feel the full weight of Daemon's eyes on her.

She forces her gaze from the council's chamber back to the King's brother. And waits.

When she cannot stand it anymore, she says quietly, "Would you be so kind as to remove your grip from my arm, Your Grace? I fear it might bruise if you do not."

It's a lie— she has no idea if it will bruise, does not care much if it does, but she thinks it's as good an excuse as any to set her plan of getting out of this tiny corner as soon as she can before this goes as horribly wrong as she fears it will.

One of Daemon's eyebrows draws up. "So you can run off and resume your little spy work?"

Morrigan's nostrils flare. "Spy work?" She echoes, indignant. "I wasn't spying."

She knows the evidence is against her— but by the Seven, he is here, too, when he has no business being here and listening to conversations he has no right to listen to.

"Interesting. It certainly looked like this to me," Daemon replies.

Morrigan raises her chin a little, giving him the best imitation of the look she'd once given the nobles who'd been rude or dismissive of her and her sisters— it'd started out as a six-year-old's version of her grandfather's unimpressed lordly stare morphed into something full of bravado and confidence she did not feel. She has no allusions to who would come out on top of it between the two of them if she did not get out of this situation right this instant.

"What were you doing here, my prince?"

Daemon's eyes narrow on her, but he doesn't answer and Morrigan get the sense they're at an impasse— while he holds the power, neither can excuse their presence should push come to shove.

She decides the smartest course of action is to pretend yielding. "I couldn't sleep," she says, before giving Daemon a half-shrug. "It isn't anything unusual— I have had troubles with falling asleep and nightmares at night the entire time I've been in the Red Keep. It's not an unknown fact."

She'd, in fact, once ended up seeking out Grand Maester Mellos about four months after she'd first arrived when Alicent and Rhaenyra had gotten wind of her discomfort and had urged her to visit the Maester. Nothing had come of it— other than that Mellos had patted her shoulder and told her that she would have less troubles once she adjusted.

Morrigan had wanted to strangle him on the chains he wore.

Eventually, she'd convinced Rhaenyra and Alicent that she'd overcome her issues just as the Grand Maester had promised. And she had— for the most part anyway.

"Now, Your Grace, please unhand me." Morrigan adds in a quiet voice and slowly, Daemon releases his grip.

He leans forward, bringing them face-to-face. "If I ever find out you are a spy, Lady Morrigan, I'll feed you to Caraxes," Daemon whispers.

Morrigan smiles. "If I am ever caught as a spy, I think I'll be dead before Caraxes has a chance to claim his pound of flesh."

Something like a grin tugs on the edge of his lips. "Let's pray we won't find out, then," Daemon replies as Morrigan takes a step away from him.

"I wasn't aware you were fond of prayer, my Prince," she points out, thinking she'd never once heard anyone talk about the King's brother visiting a sept. Not to mention, the Faith she'd been taught by her family was not the faith of Old Valyria. Morrigan doesn't even know what faith House Targaryen follows now— much less whom Daemon Targaryen would choose to pray to.

That is, if he prayed to anyone, of course.

Daemon shrugs. "I am not."

Morrigan cannot blame him, she thinks silently and the young girl she'd been screams in her head, hoping the Seven don't strike her down for the thought.

She's almost at the end of the tiny hallway when Daemon asks, "Do you believe them?"

She stops, her head turning back to him. "Believe who, Your Grace?"

Daemon's chin jerks towards the empty chamber next to the narrow way and Morrigan understands. The small council had argued in grandeur about Daemon's worth as an heir and king— or lack thereof. Daemon would be a second Maegor, or worse.

She hesitates for a moment— she's survived tonight this far, what's another jest at tempting fate?— before she asks, "Do you want me to spin you pretty words or tell you the truth?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "Because you're a lot of things, my Prince, but you're not fit to wear your brother's crown. And you know it as well as I do."

He doesn't react, and Morrigan leaves him in the silence.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
as always, please consider leaving a comment or two if you enjoyed this chapter/fic so far! 💗  i really means a lot to me to interact with you all and ?? i'm kind of blown away by the readers/votes this fic has been getting?? what is going on lmao