TWENTY-SIX —— THE HOUR OF THE GHOSTS

109 AC, KING'S LANDING.

It feels like a sort of distorted dream to be back at the Dragonpit with Daemon, Morrigan thinks as the two of them make their way inside the large space again— it might even be the same one, she thinks as Daemon waves the two Dragonkeepers off, as four years ago.

Deep inside the space, Morrigan can make out the shadows moving and knows, even before she hears him, where Caraxes is. She thinks she might've even known where to find him without it. Something in her stretches and yearns with such a ferocity, it aches in her chest. A string pulled tight and she knows if she follows it she will find Caraxes at the other end.

As she slowly makes her way through the large arch inside, she notices Caraxes stilling, attention honing in on the intruders and behind her, she can hear Daemon talking to the Dragonkeepers in quiet High Valyrian.

It's odd to hear the language again, Morrigan thinks as she comes to a stop to wait for Daemon. She has not heard it in years— not more than passing commands to the dragons. Not more than trying to figure out how to teach her own son a language she's only been taught by her father— passed down from Baratheon to Baratheon solely by chance that Rogar Baratheon had learned the language before his wife had passed away only a few years into their marriage— at such a young age.

It's odd to hear High Valyrian again, but in a way, it is also comforting. It reminds her of home, and of family, more than anything else. Even if Daemon, if the Dragonkeepers like anyone else she has met that is not of her House, speaks it like a poem, like a melody.

After a few more exchanged sentences Morrigan can only half understand because of the volume of their conversation, she hears the footsteps of the Dragonkeepers as they retreat and leave the two of them alone with the large beast in the darkness.

She doesn't think she imagines the weight of their looks on her back, but she doesn't turn to meet their eyes. She has more important things to keep heirs on and he is in the dark, watching her in return.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Morrigan's lips as Daemon approaches her, footsteps stopping only once she can see him in her peripheral vision, can feel the heat of his body bleeding into her's, so close does he stand and for a long moment, they remain like this, side by side as Morrigan watches Caraxes from afar.

"You know," Daemon says eventually and Morrigan nearly jolts at the High Valyrian and not the common tongue coming from the prince. "Sometimes I wonder if Alyssa Velaryon did not just pass on our language to the children of her first marriage, but all of them. I never did get the chance to find out."

Morrigan turns her head to the side, finding Daemon already watching her, so close that she thinks she might just shift a little and they will be touching. She tilts her head as she looks up to him, their eyes locking. "I don't know," she says, almost as if challenge, and the High Valyrian feels foreign on her tongue. "Did she?"

A small grin tugs on the edges of Daemon's lips and Morrigan could swear there's something between satisfaction and delight glittering in his eyes as takes her reply in, recognising it for the confirmation it is.

He raises his hand and it hovers between them, palm up and fingers spread wide. "Shall we?"

Morrigan glances down at it and she knows— somewhere, in her bones, in her chest she knows— this is the moment she should turn and run for the hills and not stop until she is back in her private chambers. She knows this is the last chance she will get.

She looks up at Daemon and, with a smile, reaches out with her right hand, taking it in his. "We shall."

She can see the exact moment Daemon notices it— the smallest of hiccups in his demeanor as their palms meet and his warm fingers encase her right hand. There's a beat, a pause as skin meets skin and she can see it in his eyes that he's felt the large, pale scar running the entire length of her hand. If she curls her fingers together and peers down at her hand, one can even see a perfect continuation of the healed wound all over her fingers.

Morrigan stiffens a little. She doesn't know if he's noticed it before— she'd made no effort to hide it at any point today, knowing it was long since common knowledge to the court and the gossip mongers. There was nothing exciting about it, not after so long.

But, she'd forgotten that to Daemon— it wasn't common knowledge or an old sight or an ordinary thing. He'd not seen her in years.

She'd gotten the scar long after he'd left.

Daemon's head tilts to the side a little, eyes downcast as he reaches up with his other hand to turn her palm, displaying it in the dim light with such gentle fingers, her brain takes a moment to understand the touch is coming from him. It's so add odds with anything she's seen of him before.

His eyebrows pull together a little as he takes it in and Morrigan can see the question building like a storm brewing on the horizon.

She draws one of her eyebrows up. "I thought we came here for a reason."

Another challenge, another push.

Daemon looks up to meet her eyes and for a moment they stare at each other, at a stalemate, before he drops one of his hands and inclines his chin. A retreat. Then, he takes her right hand in his and begins to lead her towards where Caraxes is waiting— watching them in a way Morrigan knows does not miss a single thing about them.

An edge of nervous energy creeps into her chest as they approach him, Daemon leading the way just a small step ahead, and Morrigan takes Caraxes in once more. She can't exactly see a difference in the dragon that indicates the time that has passed— but she wonders if a thing so small as four years would even be visible for a grown dragon.

She's heard the theory that dragons never stop growing— that this is the thing that will kill them in the end— their bodies too large and too heavy for their heart to sustain— and it is like dying of old age for men. But, since Balerion is the only one to have died of old age since before the Conquest, nobody knows. Not really, anyways.

And for one of the hatchlings the years would be painfully visible— even in Syrax she can see the difference in size— but Caraxes is a grown, adult dragon and she doesn't think that a handful of years will make a difference to the plain eye. Certainly none she can recognize in the dark.

As they draw closer to Caraxes, their steps begin to slow and Morrigan can hear Daemon greeting the dragon in a quiet voice as the large beast shifts, his scales reflecting in the low light at the movement and the sight hits Morrigan with the old wonder with so much fervor, she feels like she cannot breathe for a moment and all she can do is watch as Caraxes' head shifts to them, eyes fixed on their forms— or maybe just Daemon or maybe just her, they're too close for Morrigan to be able to tell a difference.

Silently, she wonders if Caraxes even remembers her. While it's not as long for him as it was for her— she wonders if he remembers that star-fated, fleeting meeting between them years ago, in this very moment.

When they come to a stop, Daemon half in front of her, he reaches out with his free hand, running his palm over the dragon's scales in a movement that Morrigan thinks must be soothing for the dragon— even if he remembers her, Morrigan isn't his rider and will always be an intruder to Caraxes— and repeats the motion once, twice.

Morrigan doesn't know what Daemon is waiting for— what sort of sign he's looking for from Caraxes— but he seems to catch it and tugs a little at their joined hands in a silent request to come forward. She feels a little dazes as she does so, watching as Caraxes' eyes move to her and Daemon brings up their joined hands until Morrigan's palms rest against the warm scales of Caraxes' jaw.

A small smile spreads across her lips as she runs her palm over his scales, barely even noticing that Daemon's let go of her hand and she takes a small step forward, closing the gap between her and Caraxes just a little.

"Hello Caraxes," Morrigan whispers so quietly, she can barely make out the words herself and Caraxes lets out a soft huff, nostrils flaring a little as he shifts, still a little restless.

The smile spreads on Morrigan's lips as she runs her palm over his scales once more, relishing in the feel of them against her skin, warming at the contact.

She glances at Daemon, finding him watching her and it hits her again— that odd sense of time distorted.

Daemon offers her his hand. "Shall we?"

Morrigan grins at him, taking it without hesitation.

———————

Morrigan's head is tipped back, eyes closed as she inhales the night air, lungs filling with it as a soft breeze blows around them. By now, the creeping nausea— like a nightmarish memory from the ship earlier today— had subsidised again with the fresh air, leaving her with a clear mind. And she wonders when the last time that she'd been this content in the crownlands. When it'd last been this quiet, too.

She cannot think of a time. There's always some sort of noise in the Red Keep, even when she's awake in the deepest hours of the night, staring up at the dark in their bed, she can hear the echoes of the city. There's always some sort of noise— except now. Now, there's nothing but the wind and the echoes of Caraxes' body shifting softly as he grazes in the grass some feet away— almost like a lazy cat.

They're not far from the city. They'd crossed the city lines far above the Dragon Gate in the clouds, and had continued a small distance over hills and solitary fields. Morrigan thinks they might've flown some rounds to make up for the short distance, but eventually they'd made ground on a hill, and Morrigan thinks that she'd be able to make out the water in the distance if it had been day, and not the middle of the night.

There's the sound of footsteps, muffled by the grass, behind her a moment before she can feel Daemon's warmth, as he stops behind her, his head resting atop her's and one arm wrapped loosely around her hips.

Almost instinctively, Morrigan's body seizes up at the contact, spine stiffening, something cold and numb taking her ribcage like an iron fist, and it takes her a split second to mask the reaction, to force her body to relax into the touch. She'd never been particularly great at physical contact— but she used to be better at it.

From his spot behind her, Daemon reaches out around her and takes her right hand in his own hands again, turning it over the way he'd done it in the Dragonpit.

Morrigan doesn't think he can make out the line of the silver-healed skin, not in this darkness— Morrigan can't even make it out herself— but she can feel his fingertips seeking out the long healed wound, following its path over her palm.

She can feel the question coming, the conversation it will bring and the answers she will have to give once he opens his mouth and speaks the first syllable— and she still doesn't know how to give them. Doesn't think she is ready for it. The mere idea makes her feel like she is standing at a cliff and he is about to push her off it. The moment he sets it in motion, there's nothing to do but fall and brace for the impact that will shatter her.

So, instead, Morrigan speaks before he can.

"You know," she says quietly and can feel Daemon's body shifting just a little behind her as he listens. "As nice as this is, I'm not seeing you prove much of anything."

It's a challenge. It's a painfully obvious challenge, she knows. But it's the only thing that might change the course they'd been taking to the conversation hovering over them.

She can practically feel the hit of a smile against her skin as Daemon shifts his head from resting above her's to her neck, almost as if he's nuzzling against it. "And here I thought I might've lost the girl who didn't have the good sense to be intimidated by the prospect of being had for lunch by a grown dragon."

Morrigan's head turns to the side just a little so she can look him in the eyes. "Did you now?"

"Well— I must admit, I was a little worried back there." Daemon continues and Morrigan narrows her eyes on him, giving him an unimpressed look as he reaches out to brush a few wayward strands of her dark hair over her shoulder and to her back. "A boring marriage has beaten the fire out of many a good man and woman in history."

Morrigan almost scoffs in response as she turns her head again to look into the dark ahead— easy for him to say. His marriage is one in name only.

Almost as if he can feel her retreating, Daemon wraps his other arm around her, slightly tugging her against him. "I am glad to say I was wrong about this one."

Morrigan huffs. "Did you come here to insult my life?" She asks, eyes flashing where they're fixed into the distance. "I thought you had something to prove."

There's a pause. "I lied."

Morrigan almost jolts a little in surprise, caught off guard by his words. "What?" She asks quietly into the silence.

"I lied. I don't think I need to prove much of anything," Daemon continues. "Edmyn does the work for me."

Morrigan's jaw tightens a little and she pushes away from him, turning to face him. "I didn't come here for you to make fun of my life like it's a play being put on in the streets for a good laugh on my expense—"

Daemon catches her hand, reeling her back in. "Stop," he sighs. "That's not how I meant it."

Morrigan's eyes flash as she looks at him. "Then how did you mean it?"

One moment, he is holding her hand to pull her back to him and then she is right where she was only moments before, so close she'd only need to shift a little and she would be leaning against him entirely and then his hands are cradling her face like something precious. "Tell me you didn't feel more alive in the past hour than you did in the last three years."

Something in Morrigan's chest twists at his words, and her throat burns, closing up.

Daemon's head tilts towards her until his forehead meets the side of her head. "Tell me I'm wrong." He whispers. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stop."

She wants to— wants to scream at him at the top of her lungs to stop this madness. And she tries until her eyes burn, but the words lodge in her throat, her chest throbbing like a clawed-open wound at the thought of leaving, of stopping, of going back to her cold bed— at letting this slip through her fingers again.

Morrigan's head turns until their noses are brushing and something withers in her. Something comes alive. "Don't stop." She breathes against his lips.

And then, she bridges the final distance between them and kisses him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
what is this gif? idk. what is this chapter? idk. where did it come from? idk either. it's part 1 am here and my brain left the building some time ago lmao. the caraxes reunion ended up so much longer than planned i nearly ended up splitting this in two chapters 💀

so, just to be clear: i don't think i will ever be a full-out smut writer, it's just not something i'm comfortable with writing out so at this point in time. so,,, yeah i'll let you all connect the dots of what happens next. 🤷‍♀️ if that's a deal breaker for u i guess find another fic where that's different?

also, i've already said this on my profile but you all... the edits for this fic (and my others tbh) i would make if i had any idea how to properly make fic edits... the yt videos... the tiktok edits.... i'd literally do nothing else when the brainrot hits. but since that's not the case i'll live with them in my imagination and bring out mediocre aesthethtic edits & quotes every two months sdkhfsk

EDIT: Since people will not stop asking, despite how many times I've answered this: Yes, what was written above in this AN means that they slept together just now.