WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT
There are no words for what she feels.
In a sense, iron flows through her veins. She has conquered the trials of motherhood five-fold now; two more children is not even half of what she has already gone through. And yet, as she remembers her first attempt at motherhood, she remembers the largest difficulty: there being two of them. Twins. Double trouble. Anxiety gnaws at her edges, but no one will see; her girth hides any chips in her skin. Her weight conceals the fear which grows alongside her coming children.
You are fire, she breathes to herself. You are strong. And she could not have thought any later, for in the coming hours, the pangs of birth begin their advances upon her body. She meets them with determination, refusing to find the thicket where she has borne each child, save Rain. Instead, the Khaleesi finishes her patrol of the border stubbornly, gritting her teeth with each contraction. By the time she reaches her destination, the first child has practically squirmed his or her way from Scorch’s womb. The little devil.
Falling ungracefully to the well-trodden earth, Scorch clenches her jaw and slips into the terrors of birth. The Jungle’s magic is ever-present, aiding her with invisible fingers and comforting her with silent encouragement. The sensation is unlike anything Scorch has experienced, and perhaps one of the few things which give cause for excitement at times like these. Alas, it does not last forever, for eventually, two wet bundles decorate the thicket.
Heaving her mighty body to her powerful legs, the Khaleesi first shakes off the twigs and dead vines which have attached themselves to her hairless body. Droplets of sweat are flung as well. With a sudden weight in her throat, Scorch pivots slowly to face her newest children, unsure of what she will feel when she first sees them.
Of course, affection greets her first, directly followed by the need to protect them. Leaning down, the mare begins cleaning her children. The first looks uncannily like Ea, a little bay boy, all roan and silver. He smells sweetly, and she is glad. Boys have always, always been her forte, despite the fact that she literally has dozens of sisters. Ironic, I know. Nibbling her ears affectionately, Scorch searches her soul for a name. When one does not come, she simply exhales warm air atop his wet little head, deciding to let that responsibility fall upon Hestoni’s shoulders.
The next child is unlike any others she had, including the twins with their eyes, Simeon with his normalness, Shahrizai without his tail, and Ea with her traits. This girl is bay. Solely bay. She should be roan. And her hew of bay is frightening, for Scorch has seen it before. No. It cannot be. Clenching her jaw, Scorch cleans the girl quickly and with little attention to gentleness.
As the final scraps of birth have been disposed of or consumed, Scorch pulls back her large head to gaze at her progeny. “Fucking hell!” The curse comes out incredibly suddenly, for it is only now that she notices the girl’s eyes change colours. But they do not move constantly like her Dragon eyes; they simply shift very slowly and accordingly. Wrinkling her nose with sudden revelation and disgust, Scorch spits out her youngest daughter’s name not dissimilarly to the way she just swore.
“Wrynn.”
Woe be to the bringer of these children.
Scorch
Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle