Aella Targaryen wed on the anniversary of her father's death. To her cousin, nonetheless, continuing the long-standing tradition of her family to marry their relatives. It was a day that was meant to bring joy and overshadow the sorrow that had purs...
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It's not a metaphor, this ache
– Catherine Abbey Hodges
°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°
The night had barely retreated, leaving behind a cool grey colouring to the world, when the ground shook with a thunderous roar. It was not an unfamiliar sound, but Aella hadn't heard it in years. She shot up in her cot, wondering if she had misheard, because surely there was no way Morghul would be here. But then the roar sounded again, and she heard her dear Karnax respond with an excited chirp of her own. The already dim lighting in her tent darkened as something passed above her, followed by a whoosh that sent the canvas walls of her tent fluttering aggressively.
She sat in her cot, stunned into complete silence, until finally her mind started up again. Her muscles ached with how fast she pushed them, past every shot of pain her nerves sent up from her still-healing shoulder, past all the exhaustion and deadweight of tired limbs. She pulled a leather vest over her cream cotton shirt, pulling the laces closed as best as possible with how much her fingers shook.
Rhaegon was here. He had come for her. She was almost stunned by how her heart cried a feeble and weak 'at last'. Then the relief turned sour because he hadn't come for her for nigh on three years. For him to be here now... something terrible must've happened. Her heart stuttered to a painful stop in her chest and her breath stuttered. The names of her children flashed before her eyes as if the gods themselves had written them into the air with blood-red ink.
Aemon, Visenys, Viserra, and then perhaps the most bloody of all, Aeron. Her sweet boy, still so young with a body so feeble, so susceptible to infection and disease. She thought she would go half mad before she even made it out of her tent, hair wild and unbound and clothes hastily put on her.
Everywhere, she saw the names of her children. The smoke of campfires swirled and assembled itself into the shape of letters, the rocks and pebbles beneath her feet shifted and rearranged themselves, and even the odd twisting trees had their familiar names carved into the bark of their trunks a thousand times over. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears burning her eyes as she scrambled up the hill to the boulders where Morghul had landed.
She heard Rhaegon before she saw him, his deep melodic voice filtering through the air as he muttered something to Morghul in High Valyrian. Aella didn't stop her approach, even as the black beast's cat-like yellow eyes zeroed in on her and he bared his teeth. He wouldn't hurt her, she felt it in her bones. A hot gust of air pushed Aella's hair back as if she were walking through a storm. Then Morghul was shifting away, ignoring her as if he didn't care for her existence at all. As he turned his head from her, he revealed Rhaegon standing at his side.
Her husband was dressed fully in dark leather and chainmail riding gear, the silver shining against the black. His hair was tousled from the wind, which might've given him the look of a carefree boy had his jaw not been so tight. His gloved hand was pressed tight to Morghul's side, rubbing the jagged, rough scales there. When his eyes fell upon her, there was an unmistakable wave of relief that washed over him. The furrow between his brows deepened as his eyes fluttered closed and he exhaled shakily. His jaw went slack, and when he opened his eyes again, she swore he aged a dozen years.
