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TWENTY-ONE —— MY WOUNDED WINGS STILL BEATING
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109 AC, STORM'S END.
The echo of wind blowing against stone seeping through the thick walls of stone might be the most soothing thing Morrigan Tully has heard in years as she sits in the Round Hall of the drum tower. Even if there's grief festering in her, old and rotting that will not stop aching. The last time she'd been in the castle she'd spent her entire childhood, half a year ago, it'd been to watch her grandfather's body being paid his final respects.
She'd not been back in Storm's End since Lord Boremund Baratheon's funeral, and her father's subsequent ascension as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and now there's something cold about the very halls she'd grown up in. Something less. A piece missing.
Silently, she wonders if it will ever return.
"—the walls of Blackhaven are unscalable vassalstone. And the castle is surrounded by a deep, dry moat. It is well fortified against any future Dornish incursions. And though my seat may be lesser in size, it is situated most pleasingly." Lord Dondarrion clears his throat, coughing slightly as he pauses in his speech to pour himself a goblet of wine and take a drink.
In the following silence, Morrigan sends her father a look from her seat at his right, knowing fully well that he'd never even so much as entertain the thought of any of them as a suitor for her for any other reason than displaying respect to the House they're from.
Which is likely the only reason Rhaenyra is still here.
To Morrigan, the entire ordeal has been not what she'd call successful— from all and any minor and mayor lords under the Baratheons sending their best suitors, many of whom she's sure had already made a try for her own hand before she'd been wed, she knows that not one of them will stand a chance. The one who'd be the most likely to gain even so much as a moment of Rhaenyra's attention had been Alden— although Morrigan knows for a fact that her cousin has not a single spark of personal interest in marrying the princess.
