THE LUCKY ONES; house of the dragon

chapter 1

[act one; chapter one     -     a weeping flower in a burning field]

    Rhaella Targaryen despised the Red Keep. She hated everything about it. She hated the way it felt so...fantasized, the way that Viserys had changed so much about it, claiming he was bringing it back to the glory of Old. It all felt so false, she could feel it in her blood and bones.

    Aerion shared her thoughts; he expressed them often. In the darkness of the night, more often than not, he would whisper it into the air, almost as though it was a secret kept between them. Just them. That was how most life was, now, after the beginning of their marriage. It had been more than a year since they had been married before the eyes of the Sept, and nearly only several weeks since their son, Braedon, had been born.

    The small, baby boy, with his fathers pale blonde hair and his mothers deep blue eyes, was the light of their lives. He was a small thing, really, with a large smile and incredible wit for a mere babe. He clung to his mother, always craving her affection and attention. Rhaella was only ten-and-six, as was Aerion.

    It was on days like this, the ones where time ticked by slowly, that Rhaella relished in such a fact. She clutched her boy to her tightly, wandering the halls or the gardens. On most days, she would visit Aemma, but now that she had reached the very end of her pregnancy, Rhaella knew to give her space. Some room to breathe effortlessly, without having to look at her. A girl, half her age, with one successful birth, and, if Lord Baratheon had his way, another soon to come, no matter how much Rhaella wished for something other.

    That was how she found herself in the gardens, sitting below a tree with her dearest friends, the Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Alicent Hightower, and the newly married Wylla Hightower, once Stark. They were talking of the old stories and all that they entailed. But, as usual, Rhaenyra did not care, nor did Rhaella. Wylla, ever the intelligent, paid attention, listening to the words and old stories. Two would try to stop it, while the other two encouraged it.

    Even after Rhaenrya and Alicent had parted, and soon, Wylla would, too, Rhaella remained.

    (As she always would).

    It was where Aerion found her, hours later, as the sun had begun to set in the sky. He smiled as soon as he saw her, his white-blonde hair curled underneath his ears, grown longer than it had ever been, reaching to the top of his jaw.

    "And what are you doing out here at this hour, my Princess?" He teased, kneeling in front of her. He reached for her hand, clasping it between the two of his. Her hands were always much warmer than his, hot to the touch. Like the flames from a fire.

    Rhaella smiled tiredly. "Escaping the hollering of Viserys' court. It is much too loud for my liking." It did not take a genius to see how tired she was. How drained she had become. Circles, as purple as his Targaryen eyes, had taken residence below her eyes, her hair near limp, forced into curls that were not her own. She had spent most nights awake, trying to coax their boy into a slumber, as he often only found comfort in his mother's arms. He was her boy before he was anyone else's; not an heir or a first-son. He was her child. And Aerion's. That was all.