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⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ❛͟❛ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my hand was the one ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ you reached for ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ all throughout ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑹 ﹗ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ┈━━ ༺ ㆍ⚘ㆍ ༻ ━━┈ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ༶ @kostobaperzys ༶ ⠀ ⠀

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» A wry, breathless chuckle ghosts past her lips, brittle as autumn leaves crushed beneath a boot. She shakes her head, resting her forehead against his, allowing herself the briefest moment of reprieve in the sanctuary of his warmth. “ . . . Jace? “

» smoothing instead over the fabric, a touch no longer laced with fear, but acceptance. “ . . . I wanted to be certain before I told you ,” she admits, voice dipped in quiet reverence, “ I did not wish to speak of it before I knew it must be true. “ »

» This is something that has no name in all the songs of old; it is vulnerability and invincibility entwined, it is the forging of something beyond even herself. She dares to meet his gaze, her fingers loosening their desperate hold upon his tunic, »

» between past and future, between uncertainty and the terrifying, wondrous inevitability of what is to come. Baela has always known war, has always understood what it means to fight, to bleed, to bear the burden of her lineage. But this? This is 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕. »

» The confession spills forth like a dam breaking, like wildfire licking hungrily at the edges of an untouched forest; it quivers in the narrow breadth between them. And for a moment—just a moment—she is weightless, untethered, suspended in the breath »

» vast as the sea. She watches him, his hand still braced against her stomach in unconscious protectiveness, a silent guardian to the secret she has yet to name. “ It is not an affliction that weakens me . . . Jacaerys, is it not evident? 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑. “ »

» You need not fear for me. “ But oh, how 𝒔𝒉𝒆 has feared. Her fingers curl into his collar, the knuckles whitening with the effort of holding herself upright. She sways, ever so slightly, underneath the truth that has lodged itself within her—small as a whisper, »

» She must give it shape, give it life. She must set it free. “ I am not unwell. “ Again, she steels herself, presses the words into the marrow of existence with a force of will that borders on desperation. “ There is no fever, no ailment that a maester can cure. »

» But she cannot allow herself to be swallowed by his worry, cannot yield to the aching tenderness in his touch—𝑛𝑜, she must gather the breath in her lungs, summon the truth from the marrow of her bones, and loose it like an arrow upon the wind. »

» thick as the silvered fog that clings to the moors at dawn, dense with meaning, with longing, with 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓. It is devotion and dread entwined, a wild, ceaseless rhythm that speaks of love too deep for words, of a silent plea he does not dare voice. »

» The words unfurl like a blade kissed by firelight, slicing through the hush between them—𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, a quiet rebellion clothed in the trappings of reassurance. Beneath her palm, his heart thrums with a desperate, fevered cadence, »

⠀⠀⠀“ 𝑱𝑨𝑪𝑬— “ His name escapes her lips in a breathless sigh, spilling across the restless sea, more fragile than the hush of wind through forgotten ruins. Her hands weave themselves into the fabric of his tunic, anchoring her to the solidity of him. “ I am not sick. “ »

» Still, Baela’s thoughts churned, circling the question she could not banish. Could it truly be? 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔.

» before it could take shape. A knot of fear and hope twisted in her chest, pulling tighter with each passing second. She dared not speak the truth aloud, dared not give form to the possibility that lingered on the edge of her thoughts. »

» her balance faltering. When she reached the sanctuary of a shadowed alcove, Baela leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, her eyes falling shut as she drew in shallow, measured breaths. Her lips parted, a denial trembling on the tip of her tongue, but it withered »