TWO —— A WOMAN IS A CHANGELING

105 AC, KING'S LANDING

"—Did you hear?" Alicent's hushed voice cuts through the silence as she reaches Morrigan, who is on her way to greet the delegation from Storm's End, which had arrived just an hour ago.

Morrigan blinks at her. "Huh?" She asks, still a little tired as she shields her eyes from the early sun shining on them and watches her friend settle into step next to her. 

"About last night?"

The Baratheon girl shakes her head. "What about last night?"

Alicent looks around as she leans towards her, a conspiratorial look on her face. "Prince Daemon and his City Watch went out and rounded up all sorts of criminals in the city. They pulled people out of their beds even. And then they punished them for the crimes." She shudders. "I heard my father say they needed two wagons to carry away all the body parts they cut off at the end of it."

Morrigan's eyebrows shoot up. "You're joking."

Alicent shakes her head. "I'm really not. Father's furious. Apparently the whole Council is in uproar. Most of them didn't even know he was in the city at all. They want to demand Daemon answer for his actions but nobody's really sure what to do with him because they can't agree on whether or not they condone what he did."

Gods, Morrigan thinks, imagining the scene of the dark, dirty streets of the city below the Red Keep, crawling with criminals and then— the gold cloaks swarming in the streets, rounding up everyone they can find and Prince Daemon in the midst of everything like standing in the eye of a storm.

Something crawls up her spine, drawing out goosebumps.

She'd noticed that there was a sense of restlessness, of nervous energy in the halls and hushed conversations, but she'd attested it to the King's tournament looming over them. There’d been an air of excitement all over the Red Keep the closer the tournament— and the birth of the King’s child— drew.

She hadn’t bothered to listen to the whispers as she made her place to one of their favorite spots to spend the morning, but now she silently wishes she had.

“No wonder Rhaenyra isn’t here yet,” Morrigan says after a moment, still caught up in her thoughts, a soft frown on her face. Since Rhaenyra held the position of cupbearer for the King and the small council, she’d likely be attending the meeting they’d have this morning to discuss the tournament upon them— and last night’s events.

Morrigan wonders if Prince Daemon— at last— might attend a meeting for once after last night.

Considering what she’s heard of him, she wouldn’t bet on it.

“It makes sense, father wanted to call the small council together immediately when he left this morning and he said he was heading straight to the King. I do hope this won’t affect the tournament.” Alicent’s brows draw together in a soft frown before she shakes herself out of it and she looks at Morrigan again. “Are you on your way to visit your family?”

Morrigan nods. “I just got word that they arrived.”

“Father mentioned it.” Alicent tells her before sending her a bright smile. “I’m on my way to visit my brothers and wish them good fortune for the tournament.”

“Are they participating?”

“Last I heard they were planning on it.”

She sends her friend a small smile. “Then I shall wish them the best, too, when I see them next.”

“Gwayne will be very happy about that,” Alicent gives her one of her looks.

Morrigan’s body stiffens, locking down on instinct at the comment but she makes sure to not let any of it show, instead forcing the carefree smile to remain on her face, expression easy.

Alicent reaches out and links their arms together as they walk. “I wonder if he’ll ask you for your favor at the tournament…”

———————

“Be welcome!” King Viserys’s voice echoes from where he is addressing the crowd behind the row of seats Morrigan, Alicent and Rhaenyra— who still had not yet arrived— had been seated in. “I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise you, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories.”

At Morrigan’s side, Alicent straightens a little, eyes flitting over to the side for a moment and Morrigan follows her line of sight, noticing Rhaenyra as she quickly makes her way to them, sitting down in the free seat saved for her.

The three of them exchange a brief look before Rhaenyra settles back in her chair— looking for all the world as if she’d been here before anyone else.

“... And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share,” King Viserys continues behind them. “Queen Aemma has begun her labors! May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!”

The crowd cheers at the words, whistling and cheers sounding across the spectators as King Viserys settles back into his seat.

Moments later, the tournament begins and Morrigan lets out a quiet, sharp breath through her nose before her attention eventually catches on the familiar sigil of a black stag on a golden field just before his name and title is announced— and moments later, her grandfather comes to a stop in front of the tribune.

“I would like to ask for the favor of the most lovely of all the ladies in the crowd,” he announces before turning to her with a wink. “Lady Morrigan, if you would be so kind?”

Cheers erupt and a small smile spreads across Morrigan’s lips, a slight brush creeping up her cheekbones as she stands and tosses her wreath to him. “I wish you good fortune, grandfather.” She calls down to him, even if she does not think it will do him much good— after all, Boremund Baratheon, Head of his House and Lord of Storm’s End, would celebrated his fifty-eight name day this year.

He sends her another smile before he rides off to meet his opponent.

Morrigan is proven right when a knight she has never seen before unhorses him and she winces as little when her grandfather’s body makes impact with the ground— as much as Morrigan liked the idea of combat or not, she’d always had a distinctive distaste for tournaments like these.

When she’d been eight, there’d been a tournament for the tenth anniversary of her parent’s wedding day. It’d been an exciting, spectacular thing— right until first blood came and after that, when the fights had begun breaking out and two riders had been badly injured, Morrigan had refused to see another tournament until she was ten and could not talk herself out of it anymore.

Now, she bites her tongue until she draws blood and does her best to chase away the old terror of a child, having taken root of her no matter how hard she tries to scare them away.

Her vision blurs as the tournament continues.

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!” Morrigan’s head jerks up at the familiar voice— she could recognise it anywhere, out of a million— and she finds her father on his steed in front of their tribune, looking up at his cousin. “I would humbly ask for the favor of The Queen Who Never Was.”

Cheering breaks out all over the crowd and Morrigan smiles at her father with a sweet smile, close-lipped because she can taste copper on her tongue by now. She had always hated the title they’d given to her.

Rhaenys gives him a polite smile as she tosses her wreath to him. “Good fortune to you, cousin.”

“I would gladly take it, if I thought I needed it.”

Morrigan shakes her head a little, the ghost of a smile still still across her lips as her father rides off and takes his spot.

His opponent is the same rider who’d bested her grandfather, Morrigan notices and takes in another breath.

In and out, she reminds herself. Let the noise wash over you but don’t let it become a force that can drown you.

Out of her peripheral vision, Rhaenyra watches her, attention still mostly on the tournament, before she nudges her softly with her elbow— a gesture unnoticed by most, but Morrigan recognises the gesture of comfort for what it is.

She tries not to look as the riders clash, and her father is thrown off his horse by the lance, body colliding with the ground.

Morrigan isn’t sure if she imagines them or not— but her father's groans of pain echo in her ear.

Another nudge at her right arm. Morrigan forces herself to stop digging her fingernails into her palms before she accidentally ends up drawing blood.

"Lord Stokeworth's daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire," Rhaenyra says at her side.

Alicent's head turns towards her a little. "Lord Massey's son?"

"They're to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood."

One of Alicent’s eyebrows draws up. "Best get on with it," she mutters before giving them the same look she always likes to give them when it's interesting gossip— including about princes causing ruckus in the city. "I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress."

Seeing their astonished looks, Alicent gives them a nod in confirmation.

Rhaenyra, eyebrows still a little high, leans back in her seat again before she motions for Ser Harrold.

"What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?" She asks as soon as he kneels behind them.

There's a beat of pause as Ser Harrold watches the knight on his horse, a frown on his face for a moment. "I'm told Ser Criston is a common-born, son of Lord Dondarrion's steward." He shrugs. But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say."

There's a hint of intrigue on Rhaenyra’s face as Ser Harrold leaves them again and her blue eyes find Ser Criston once more just as the drums begin playing again— and everybody in the crowd knows who’s next even before the still competing contestants begin filing out in a row.

Morrigan straightens as the herald announces, “Prince Daemon of House Targaryen! Prince of the City will now choose his first opponent!”

Her dark eyes turn to watch Daemon ride along the line of knights, the cheering of the crowd a near-deafening noise— and it still nothing to when he stops in front of his chosen contestant.

“Prince Daemon chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Old Town, eldest son of the Hand of the King.”

And as she watches the knights clear out, as Prince Daemon and Ser Gwayne take their positions, Morrigan can’t help but wonder if Alicent had been right— would her brother have asked for her favor if her grandfather had not done so already?

Morrigan’s gaze flicks over to Alicent for a moment, finding her friend gone rigid, picking at her cuticles in a near frantic motion before Rhaenyra reaches out and squeezes her hand. She sends Alicent a smile, too, before she turns back to the tournament.

Fiddling slightly with a tread of the embroidery on her dress— she makes a mental note to remind herself to get it fixed as soon as she can— Morrigan watches as the jousting commences.

To her surprise, Alicent’s brother manages to stay in his horse two rounds, even leaving Daemon to lose his lance in the process once— until, on the third go, Prince Daemon's lance dips just before impact, hitting Ser Gwayne's steed in the lower legs.

Morrigan flinches at the sound of rider and horse violently making impact on the ground and, in that moment, she’s eight again, watching a boy not even ten and seven die in a jousting tournament. She only looks up again once the crowd's cheering commences and joins Rhaenyra and Alicent as they make their way to the edge, greeting Prince Daemon as he stops in front of the tribune.

"Nicely done, uncle," Rhaenyra calls down to him, hands resting on the railing.

"Thank you, Princess," Daemon turns to Alicent, presenting his lance. "Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it."

A small, genuine smile appears on Alicent's lips— the horror of seeing her brother injured abiding by the request for her favor— and she turns to retrieve her wreath before throwing it to Prince Daemon. "Good luck, my Prince."

Morrigan watches as he rides away, before she turns and follows Rhaenyra and Alicent, her gaze catching on Alicent’s father, Otto Hightower, quietly talking to the King and she frowns a little as the two men silently leave together.

The unease that creeps into her bones at the sight is long forgotten by the time the first fight breaks out.

———————

"Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!"

Morrigan leans forward in her seat, eyes fixed on the opponents as they begin. And— while Morrigan has a personal distaste for jousting tournaments, she's been enough to know this— both of them are good. Ser Criston holds out longer than any other of Prince Daemon's opponents, until—

Morrigan takes in a sharp breath, her lips parting, as she watches Ser Criston unhorse Prince Daemon.

And Morrigan can't tear her gaze away from him as the crowd cheers and screams for Ser Criston.

"—Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!" The herald announces, Daemon already marching towards Ser Criston with his sword in hand.

She can't see his face— not with the helmet— but she can see the fury over the defeat in his movements, in the way he batters against Ser Criston with all his strength until he hurls his shield at Ser Criston, creating an opening to beat him to the ground.

And this time, Morrigan is watching Ser Criston as Daemon turns to the crowd, already celebrating.

It gives her the perfect view of the moment when Ser Criston Cole rises again and beats Prince Daemon to the ground with one swift hit.

Within moments, it's over and Alicent and Rhaenyra are grabbing her, dragging her with them to the railing as Ser Criston approaches.

Alicent lets out a quiet gasp as Ser Criston takes off his helmet. "Gods, he's Dornish," she whispers to them as Ser Criston comes to a stop below them.

"I was hoping to ask for the Princess's favor." He calls out, eyes locking with Rhaenyra’s.

A small smile plays along Rhaenyra’s lips as she reaches out to grab the wreath before she leans over the railing and tosses it into his arms. "I wish you luck, Ser Criston."

His chin dips. "Princess."

Before she can stop herself, Morrigan's eyes find Prince Daemon again, just for a moment, as they remain at the railing before she forces herself to turn away and back to Rhaenyra and Alicent.

As she does, she watches Alicent’s father return and approach each of the members of the small council, whispering something to them.

And as they all stand and leave— almost as one— the chill creeps back into her bones, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

The next morning they're gathered at the shore, lighting the funeral pyres.

AUTHOR'S NOTE,
writing this chapter i have learned that not only do i absolutely hate writing tournaments i am also really bad at them skfjsk this chapter is bad let's ignore it an move on. i've already started writing the next chapter a bit and ajdhs i'm excited! we'll see an angry mor soon (and i'll leave you one guess who made her angry lmao)