THE LUCKY ONES; house of the dragon

chapter 2

[act one; chapter two     -     with our names, we never forget]

    Rhaella figured her good-brother would have her husband's head. She had woken early that morning, just as the sun had risen into the sky, to lips against the length of her spine. She had breathed deeply, twisting her head to the side, resting against her pillow. Aerion had remained gently draped over her throughout the entirety of the night, his arms wrapped around her body, just as they were then.

    It would not take much for anyone to know what was occurring within the Prince and Princess' chambers, or what, over the last months, it had led to.

    Rhaella was, without a doubt, with child. Her belly had begun to swell once more, very lightly, as it had in the beginning with Braedon, though, this time, just slightly larger. More prominent, she supposed. With such a circumstance, it had, of course, resulted in ailments of her own. Nausea, lightheadedness, lack of appetite. But she had spent her recent days in the gardens with her boy, as well as Wylla, who had just birthed her own babes. Twin boys, Arthur and Willas Hightower. She was only the same age as Rhaella, herself, married to a man that fathered one of their dearest friends. The realization, constant and lingering, made her feel sicker than her pregnancy. And angry. More than she had ever wished to feel.

    She blinked lightly, eyes scanning the edges of her husband's face. Aerion lay on his back, Braedon atop his chest, the young man's hands splayed carefully, yet defensively over their boy's back. Reaching a hand out, she placed her hand on the back of her son's head, smiling as he lifted and turned his head, smiling gummily at her, his hands reaching for her.

    She lifted him, with Aerion's gentle, guiding hand, and settled him on her chest. Immediately, he curled into her body, his head resting just beneath her chin, his hand grasping a piece of her hair. He gurgled to himself, nonsensical sounds as a child of his age often does.

     From where he lay at her side, Aerion watched his wife with gentle love. The same kind that cradled her heart whenever it threatened to crack, the same love that would forever hold him up. When his anxieties grew so terrible that he could not breathe, when guilt ate him alive, it would be Rhaella's soft palms that would piece him back together, always. His eyes flickered from her to their son, observing little Braedon. He looked so like himself, with his pale blonde hair, not quite like the rest of his family's. With the color of his eyes, all Aerion's, and the purse of his lips. He was his mirror image, nothing like his mother.

    He held hope that their next child would look like Rhaella. That the babe would have her kind features and soft edges. That they would have her nose and slope of her brows. He supposed they would find out quite soon, with only a matter of several moon turns remaining. In that matter of months, they would have another child. Another product of the love neither of them had truly been expecting.