Stormbringer, Daemon Targaryen.

Twenty-Five

TWENTY-FIVE —— I THINK YOUR HOUSE IS HAUNTED

109 AC, KING'S LANDING.

The storm had been simmering below Edmyn's skin ever since Prince Daemon Targaryen had picked him out to rile up for fun. Morrigan had been able to see it in the gardens, had known it was only a matter of time and now, in the safety of their own chambers, it hits.

There's an ugly sort of sneer that discontorts Edmyn's face as he brings his City Watch uniform into place—his movements more tearing than anything else so much Morrigan thinks she might even be able to see them shake with the rage.

She can't quite make out the words he's saying to himself under his breath— not quite loud enough for her to make out every one, but not quiet enough for her to miss it— and all at once, she's glad that Deran not their bedchamber and that he at least won't hear this. He's already too attentive for his own good— and already at not even three years old, her son picks up on too many emotions and too many things they try to hide.

"—fucking— barely back and thinks we're all going to fall to our knees— can't fucking believe the king—" Edmyn mutters and Morrigan knows it's stupid— but she also knows that it's better to get this over with now than let it simmer for days, unresolved. Than letting him go out to his patrol duties in the city like this.

"Edmyn," she says softly and she doesn't quite think he can hear her.

"A fucking piece of shit that should've stayed exiled, is what he is— thinks we're all just fucking dirt to him—"

"Edmyn." Morrigan says again, louder and this time, he hears her.

The Commander of the City Watch spins around to her, cloak not quite fastened on his shoulders, forgotten, and points his finger in her face, eyes flashing. "And you— you're the worst of them—" His eyes flash. "Needed my wife to hold my fucking hand to run away from that fucker, did I?"