birthing; Leiland, Wrynn, Hestoni, any.

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Of course she wouldn’t know. Of course the roughness came unexpectedly; of course. Wrynn knows nothing, just as Scorch once knew nothing. For the first ten years of her life, Scorch did not know (did not know how she was raised a princess in the wrong kingdom; did not know that her mother was a kidnapper, a kidswitcher; did not know why her mother’s scorn was upon her). As Wrynn whispers an uncertain apology, Scorch glares into her beautiful eyes. So beautiful.

Wrynn’s begging is rough. The remainder of her life could be smooth, if only Scorch could hold herself to a higher stander of motherhood than Echion. It is all too clear to her that Wrynn is not of herself, is not of Hestoni, just as Echion knew that Scorch was not of herself. As the small girl clambers to her hooves, Scorch remembers how Crito had been the only source of vitality in her life. Yes, Echion fed them, bathed them, but aside from that, it had always just been them, tucked away, useless, hidden.

They had both turned out okay. No, better than okay. Wrynn would be okay too. Eventually, she would be.

Her mouth opens to reprimand her faux-daughter just as Hestoni arrives, his voice leeching the anger from her blood. He calls them beautiful, tells her to look at her eyes, tells Wrynn not to apologize. Like trees suffering beneath the wind, the mare’s ears tilt back until they are one with her skull. The anger, though subdued, boils beneath her thick skin.

“It’s... Not your fault.” The words come begrudgingly, sounding far harder than they ought to. Wrynn’s tiny nose against her shoulder causes the skin to ripple as though a fly had landed in the very same spot. Scorch looks watches her supposed daughter turn to Hestoni, asking him to fix her, to make the anger leave. Nice try, darling.

It is only then that she notices her son’s stance. He stands next to her, pressed to her in solidarity just as her husband and her ‘daughter’ stand together; two united fronts. Through her fury, a smile comes, though it is temporary. Leaning into the small boy gently, Scorch gives no attention to Hestoni or Wrynn, instead curling her neck around her son in a loving fashion. Her rough lips nibble his ears affectionately, curving around the name which the Khaleesi suddenly decides upon.

“Leiland. Mio figlio”

Eyes closing in determination, Scorch unravels herself from her silver boy, turning her coal-black gaze to the other members of her family. Her eyes meet Hestoni’s, disapproval buried within them, and perhaps pain, as well. She understands all too well how her decision to raise Wrynn will affect things. She remembers the pain of losing her first daughters; and yet...

“She is not of us. She should not be.”

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle