- 266 A.C. -
- Unknown Location -
"Aaaaaah!" In the highest peaks of an unknown castle, the sounds of a woman wailing could be heard echoing through the air.
"Push, my lady, push," urged a man seated at the foot of a bed, his robes damp, the chains across his chest shimmering in the moonlight.
"WHAT IN THE SWAMPY HELL'S DO YOU THINK I'M DOING, MAESTER?" the woman's shout roared through the room.
The man flinched yet kept his composure, accustomed to the ferocity of women in labor. The room was thick with the scent of sweat and herbs, yet the air not far was heavy with anticipation. Outside, the wind howled, as if the very land was responding to the struggle within.
"My lady Qetsiyah, you must keep going," the Maester urged, his voice gentle. He wiped his brow, the strain of the moment evident in his furrowed expression. The woman lying in this dimly lit chamber was Qetsiyah Blackthorne, Lady of House Blackthorne. Her usually striking and regal appearance was softened by the weariness of labor. Her long, dark hair, typically woven into intricate braids, now thrashed around matted and tangled from her efforts.
Her emerald-green eyes, usually sharp and alert, now glistened with both exhaustion and fierce determination as she brought new life into the world.
The elaborate tribal markings on her face—symbols of her connection to the jungle and her people—were slightly smudged from sweat, but they still added a touch of mysticism to her appearance. The emeralds and beads that adorned her jewelry, usually glowing with vitality, seemed to take on a softer hue, echoing the flickering torch light in the chamber.
Around her neck, a black and emerald gemstone necklace still hung, a symbol of her status maybe or a legacy. The once vibrant patterns on her ceremonial dress, made of finely woven jungle fibers, were now clinging to her body as she labored. Despite the disarray, there was an undeniable beauty in her appearance—a raw, elemental grace that shone through even in her most vulnerable moment.
She clutched the beds sheets, the veins in her hands bulged, exhaustion fought continuously to consume her completely, and yet the fight was not one sided. She was a warrior, a lady of the jungle, and a soon to be mother.
The room's only other occupant, a midwife with experienced hands, moved to support Qetsiyah, murmuring words of encouragement. "It's almost over, my lady. god is with you."
Qetsiyah let out a low, guttural cry, her body tensing with the effort. The Maester leaned closer, his eyes focused intently. The shadows, escaping the taunts of fire, seemed to mix with the moonlight seeping through the high windows, glinting off of something nearby, a relic of some sort, waiting for the right moment perhaps.
Out of Qetsiyah a final scream tore, she pushed and the room fell silent. Qetsiyah's scream gave way to the weak, gasping cries of a newborn. The Maester carefully lifted the child, wrapping it in soft cloth, his hands trembling slightly.
"It's a boy, my lady," he whispered, his voice filled with awe as he presented the child to the exhausted mother. "A strong, healthy boy."
Qetsiyah, her face pale but determined, reached out with trembling hands to take her son. The baby's cries softened as he approached his mother's arms, his tiny fists clenched as if already grasping something that awaited him. She reached out to take him, her heart swelling with love and pride.
But before she could fully embrace the moment, she shrilled, pain filled her once more, the maester's expression changed. His brow furrowed, handing the baby to the midwife he turned his attention back to the bed.
"My lady…" he began, his voice tinged with both surprise and urgency. "There's another."
The mother's eyes widened in shock as another wave of pain gripped her. She pushed, having thoughts of nothing else, and with a final effort, a second cry filled the room—softer, but just as determined.
"A girl," the maester announced, astonishment coloring his voice as he gently lifted the unexpected child. He wrapped the baby girl, carefully cradling her in his arms. "A beautiful, healthy girl."
The mother, still reeling from the shock, stared at the tiny figure in the maester's arms. Her breath came in shallow gasps as the reality of what had just occurred settled over her. Twins, she had birthed twins.
The midwife now holding both children brought them to Qetsiyah, laying them gently in her arms then went back to assist the Maester with stitching. Qetsiyah, her strength waning but her heart full, looked at both of her children, marveling at the miracle of their birth.
"Lucian," she whispered, naming her firstborn with pride. Then, turning to the unexpected gift of her daughter, she smiled through her tears. "And Amara. Lucian and Amara Blackthorne."
The winds outside seemed to calm as the names were spoken, as though even nature recognized the birth of those destined.
Then abruptly, the door to the humid room swung open, nearly ripping from its hinges. A tall, lean man stood in the doorway, his body adorned in intricate green and black tribal regalia. His skin marked with dark, swirling tattoos echoing patterns of the jungle.
He wore an intricate headdress, crafted from long feathers that fanned out behind him, with streaks of black and green shimmering in the dim moonlight. The headdress was crowned with a carved wooden totem at the front: a black panther. His face was partially painted with dark markings, giving him a fierce and almost otherworldly appearance.
Resting against his chest was a large, circular medallion of polished emerald, etched with ancient symbols. Green and black armbands adorned his arms and wrists. From his waist hung a traditional breechclout of dark tan hide, its edges trimmed with patterns in greens and blacks, secured by a worn leather belt adorned with small carved beads and bone charms. Matching hide leggings ran down his legs, laced along the sides and marked with the same patterned trim.
The Man spoke; his voice filled with authority and an undercurrent of urgency. "Qetsiyah," his eyes shot to his wife, his body moving just as fast. "Our cubs?" he asked, his tone gentle as the clothes around them.
"Alaric, my love, our son Lucian, and our daughter Amara, our new cubs." Qetsiyah, having yet to fully regain her strength, still managed to sit up and present the wailing babies to him. Her gaze, though weary, was filled with pride as she looked at her newborns.
"Cubs?" Maester Orwyn's face held a bewildered expression. "My lord, you referred to them as 'cubs.' Did you know we were expecting twins?" A palpable silence swept through the room, the maester's eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Alaric standing next to his wife turned his head, looking back at the Mester his hand instinctively reaching down his side reaching for a blade hidden beneath his attire. Yet Qetsiyah, looking at her husband, reached out grabbing his arm. "Alaric, don't you want to hold them?"
A sigh broke the tension, "ah, just a slip of the tongue, not something to overthink, Maester Orwyn," Alaric said, his voice carrying a hint of defensiveness but quickly shifting to a more relaxed tone. An awkward silence enveloped the room, the tension palpable.
"Ha ha, anyway, let me see my children. Lucian and Amara—the Black Hand has blessed our house once again," Alaric continued, his voice softening as he extended his hands to the babes. His gaze was filled with a fierce, tender pride as he looked upon his children, the legacy of House Blackthorne now resting in their tiny hands.
The maester, sensing the gravity of the moment and the importance of the occasion, offered a respectful nod and withdrew quietly, leaving the new parents to savor these first moments with their children.
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Thank you for reading! As a somewhat new writer, I'm always happy to improve and grow, so any constructive criticism is more than welcome. Also, if have any questions, notice any mistakes or have suggestions on how to enhance the story, please let me know. Your feedback is greatly appreciated!