Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
TWENTY-TWO —— TELL THE WOLVES I'M HOME (II)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
109 AC, BLACKWATER BAY
Morrigan has her eyes closed firmly, back of her hand pressed against her mouth and tries her best not to sway as the sound of footfalls approaching her reach her ears. At least they're too heavy to be Deran's— she's fairly sure the sight she makes at this moment would terrify her son to no end.
"Are you certain I should not get the Maester?" Rodrik's voice comes from her side, worry etched into his tone. "It would not be a bother."
Morrigan opens her eyes a little to glare at him, trying to ignore the nauseating sway of the ship. "Absolutely not."
Rodrik gives her a once-over. "You look like death warmed over, girl. Again."
"I don't need to talk to the Maester," Morrigan points out, hoping she does not need to heave over the railing she's leaning against for support merely from speaking. "It's pathetic for a Baratheon of Storm's End to get seasick like this."
Rodrik stares at her, unmoving.
Morrigan lets out a sigh through her teeth. "I already saw Maester Lyonel about it when we arrived at Storm's End a few days ago," she says. "I'll be fine. It's just godsdamned seasickness— I'm not dying, Rodrik. Leave it be."
Rodrik looks at her like the last thing he wants to do is leave it be, but before he can protest once more, Morrigan asks, "Where is Deran?"
Eyes narrowing, Rodrik stares at her for a moment before he relents. "Last I saw of the lad he was downstairs in the kitchens with a few of the crew, watching as they prepared tonight's stew."
Morrigan wishes he would stop talking of stew.
"It's likely a good thing the boy only got the idea now," Rodrik continues. "Or he'd likely not eat a thing on this ship anymore. Or he'd hang here, right next to his mother, looking just as out of it." He gives her a pointed look. Morrigan glares back up at him before a wave rocks the boat and her hands shoot out, gripping to the railing with a grip so tight, the blood leaves her fingers entirely.
