πππππ πππ ππππ ππππππππππ πππ ππππ πππ πππππππβπ πππππ, and yet there she was again, borne aloft as though her warning had been no sharper thing than a ribbon cast upon the wind. There was some indignity in it, surely, some outrage she ought to summon from the old furnace of herself; some scalding word, some flash of teeth. Her pride stirred at once, dragonish and drowsing, lifting its head inside her breast as if to ask whether it had been called to war. And then Jacaerys looked down at her once more, and gods be good, it folded its wings. His face was too open for such ugliness; joy had broken every gate in him and come flooding through, bright as dawn over black water. Awe lived there. A child. ( Their child. ) Even now the thought stole through her like a blade drawn gently from its sheath. She could feel no quickening, no answering flutter beneath her palm; her belly was still flat beneath the silk, her body still outwardly her own, unchanged to any eye but hers, yet everything within her had changed. The realm had turned upon some hidden hinge, and she, who had flown through stormwinds and over boiling seas, found herself dizzy upon still stone. β Jace, β she warned, though there was no true blade beneath it now, only the bright shimmer of one. β Did I not just sayβ β Β The words faltered, abandoned by their own mistress. Her fingers curling into the cloth at his shoulder; the scent of him so familiarβclean linen, leather, smoke from the torches, that warm living nearness which had become as dear to her as dragonfire and sea wind. The corridor received them in hushed torchlight. Far below, the sea beat its fists against the cliffs, but its fury came muffled here, distant by thick stone and closing doors. She turned her face slightly against Jaceβs shoulder, hiding the foolish shine that threatened her eyes. A dangerous thing it was to be happy. A thing without armor. Sorrow, at least, came with weapons in hand. But happiness was a babe laid in the crook of the arm; it trusted the world not to bare its teeth, and Baela knew the realm too well for that. β You are fortunate, β she breathed, though the threat in her voice had softened into velvet, β that I find this excessive gallantry charming. At present. β
When they reached their chambers, the door gave way to warmth. A tray of wine stood untouched upon the table, dark and gleaming in its decanter like rubies drowned in shadow. One of Jaceβs cloaks lay abandoned over the back of a chair, black and red spilling in careless folds; nearby, a book she had been reading earlier remained open-faced and forgotten; its pages sighing faintly when the night wind pressed at the shutters. Baela looked upon it all with a sudden, foolish tenderness. These rooms had held quarrels and reconciliations, laughter low enough to hide from passing servants, kisses stolen with more hunger than caution, the silences that came when both of them were too proud to yield and too in love to walk away. And now their private quarters would know yet another sound. A childβs cry. The thought struck so vividly she could almost hear it. Some small furious creature, red-faced, protesting with all the strength of dragonblood in miniature. Linen cloths folded by servants. A cradle near the hearth, though not too near. A carved dragon set upon a shelf. Jace asleep in a chair with the babe against his chest, insisting he had only shut his eyes for a moment. Herself pacing, hair undone, pride bruised by exhaustion, fiercely refusing help until it was placed in her hands without choice. Rhaena at the door with eyes wet as rain. Rhaenyra smiling in that knowing, queenly, motherly way that would likely make Baela wish to laugh and weep in equal measure. And Daemon, of course, who would sooner bare his throat to a blade than let the world see his hands shake. Her father would receive the tidings with some sharp-tongued jest to be sure, something careless and cutting to keep himself from being seen too plainly. But Baela knew him well; the fault lines beneath his insolence. A grandchild would strike him through. She could imagine it already: his face turned away a fraction too late, his mouth hardening round some unspoken sentiment as his gaze lingered upon her belly.
Β A mother, she thought, almost with disbelief, and a laugh escaped her once more.Β
β Put me down before I begin to believe you mean to carry me everywhere until the babe is born, β she chided, β and before you say you would, know that I can see the thought already forming behind your eyes. β When her feet touched the floor, the stone felt oddly distant beneath her, as though she had not quite descended from his arms, one hand remaining upon him; the other stayed where it had gone of its own accord, splayed lightly over the quiet place where the babe slept in its first dark kingdom. She looked down. β It is strange, β she admitted. β I feel no different and entirely altered. β Her mouth curved faintly, but the smile trembled at its edge. β I keep thinking I ought to feel wiser. More solemn, perhaps. β A breath of laughter escaped her, thin and wondering. β Instead, I feel as though I have been given something I would burn the world to keep . . . and I have only just learned it exists. Gods, β she breathed, half laughing still, half undone by the sound of her own voice. β There is truly a child in me. β She looked up at him then, eyes bright, astonished, almost accusing him of the miracle. β Ours. β
A smile broke over her, and it touched her mouth, her eyes, the whole astonished architecture of her face, until she had to press her fingers over her lips as though joy itself might spill out of her and wake the castle, and for one suspended instant, she was nothing but radiance. And then, traitorous as any courtier, her stomach turned all at once. Β At first, she mistook it for the swell of emotion. Joy, she thought, absurdly, had made her light-headed. Joy had climbed too swiftly into her blood and left her body bewildered beneath it. She drew breath through her nose, as though nausea were some unruly beast beneath her saddle that might yet be brought to heel. But it did not obey. Their private quarters seemed suddenly too warm. Smoke curled from the fire in a faint dark ribbon, and though it was no more than it had been any other evening, Baelaβs senses caught upon it with brutal attention. Smoke. Wine. Wax. Leather. Salt damp in Jaceβs cloak. The faint sweetness of some oil the servants had used upon the polished wood; each scent separated itself from the next and came at her like a host beneath different banners.Β
Her fingers pressed lightly into silk as if she might soothe whatever small, sovereign creature within her had already begun making its preferences known with the imperiousness of a dragon demanding tribute.
β Oh, β she whispered.
The chambers lurched with the sudden, dreadful certainty that if she did not move, and swiftly, she would disgrace herself upon her own chamber floor before the father of her child, the heir to the Iron Throne, and every old Valyrian ghost surely watching from the walls with intolerable judgment. Her pride, which had only just folded its wings in the face of his adoration, rose shrieking from its nest. ( Absolutely not. )Β
β Do not look so pleased with yourself, β she managed, though the words were thin as drawn silk and not nearly as sharp as she intended. β This is your fault. Entirely. β
She pulled back from him with what dignity she could salvage, though dignity proved a slippery thing when oneβs stomach was staging rebellion. One hand remained over her middle. The other reached blindly for the edge of the table, found only air, then the carved back of a chair. She clutched it as though it were the rail of a ship in storm-tossed water. The wine did not help. Seven hells, the wine.
β Have that taken away, β she said, with sudden, wounded authority. β At once. I cannot bear the look of it. β
Baelaβs hand flew to her mouth, and the basin near the washing stand became suddenly the most important object in all the realm. She reached it with a haste that would have shamed a retreating army and bent over just as the sickness took her. Her silver curls slipped forward, and she caught at it with one shaking hand too late to be useful.
A laugh nearly broke from her between one sick breath and the next, because if she did not, she feared she might weep.
β Do not, β she gasped, before she even knew whether Jace had moved to help her, one hand lifted blindly, palm outward, the command unmistakable even in its weakness. β Do not fuss. I beg you. If you fuss, I shall be forced to take a knife to your throat, and then our child will be fatherless before supper has gone cold. β
The threat might have been more persuasive had she not immediately retched again.
When the worst of it passed, Baela remained bowed over the basin, breathing carefully through her mouth. Her fingers tightened along the rim until her knuckles blanched. The room was quiet save for the fire, the sea, and the uneven sound of her breath. Humiliation burned hotter than fever beneath her skin. Happiness had left her open. Sickness had found her there. She swallowed, grimaced, and reached for the cloth folded beside the basin. Her fingers found it only after an ungainly search that would have made her bristle on any other night. She wiped her mouth, then pressed the cool linen briefly to her lips, her eyes still shut as she gathered what remained of herself. The chamber tilted a little, and though she would rather have thrown herself from the cliffs than admit weakness with any neatness, her hand sought the edge of the washstand for balance. Her other hand returned to her stomach, gentler now, contrite despite herself, moving in a faint circle over the silk.
A strange tenderness followed the nausea in its wake. It came softly, almost shyly, as mist rising after rain. Baela looked down at herself, breathing shallowly.
β I suppose this is your greeting, then, β she whispered to her stomach, voice roughened by sickness and awe alike. β A little cruel for a first courtesy, but I shall endeavor not to take offense. β
