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TWELVE —— SHE WAITS, SEETHING, BLOOMING
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105 AC, STORM'S END.
It's odd, Morrigan thinks. To sit here at the table in the Round Hall with her family— right in the very spot she'd always sat with them all these many years. Only now she is not quite that girl anymore she'd been when she left; this place, this moment is achingly familiar but also— not. There's a distance that had never been there before in her heart and she feels so infinitely far away from them all.
For the first time, the months away from them feel like an unbridgeable gap.
It might be the worst thing she has ever felt.
Silently, Morrigan watches her grandfather and the others gathered around him. Her younger sisters have long since run off to play with each other when they'd finished their meal and when they'd asked her, Morrigan had opted to stay and listen to the conversations instead. For a moment, she'd thought she saw some sort of approval in her grandfather's gaze when she had chosen to stay.
This was where the important things were discussed, after all— at the table with her grandfather and his lords.
Morrigan thinks that if she is old enough to be betrothed— because she is now, the raven went out just this morning— she is old enough for the talk of politics and wars.
Her husband is going to be the current head of the City Watch in King's Landing after all— for better or for worse, she'll be exposed to violence in some way, even if just from vague comments by him.
If he thinks her important enough to even make those, that is.
Morrigan's grip around her goblet tightens, clenching. She will make herself important enough to be told these things— if not by Edmyn Tully, then by some other source. Rhaenyra, Alicent— she doesn't care. She will not idly sit at the side. Morrigan thinks she might be able to endure many things but not being made small, silenced— the very fate awaiting so many wives.
