MAJOR note here: Emelise Wynch is 15 years old in this, and was 15 at the time she fell pregnant.
if this is uncomfortable or triggering for you, there's no obligation to read
Only frights had been consistent since it dawned.
Bearing children was sworn as an expectancy of women. A rite of passage expected of them, first and foremost by the men they called their husbands. When she was betrothed, Emelise knew what was to come, even if she was yet to have her monthly bleed. It united the realm in a strange sense, even the outlying Iron Islands shared this tradition with the Greenlands.
Her own restlessness seemed to have bled and twined with nature.
When she woke, the skies were a dour shade of grey, clouds clustered with a promise to unleash rain. But even that had been a little too demure.
By noon, the winds had started to scream and hailstones battered the castle from all directions.
Emelise saw her waters break as the waves embraced aggression, battering the sand and stones of the shoreline with merciless force. It was cold enough for her to shiver, in spite of the sweat gathering across her brow, heat smothering her skin as the ache began to spike in confidence. She knew it was only to worsen
On and on, the storm raged.
Her lady mother had departed to find Alton. The heir of Pyke was somewhere only the Drowned God knew, no doubt pledging each and every tendril of his mind to the deity. Damn them. An ancient idol needed not half the comfort Emelise longed for.
His Halls were frequented by his fallen sons; graceful mermaids with shimmering tails and a tenfold army of Ironborn, warriors and widows alike. There would be no discomfort there, the agony of warnings her nerves had been inflamed by, promising labour was setting in. That it was time for her child to grace the world.
She could never show her fear. You bid it back upon the islands, buried it with bravado, concealed it with your indifference. There wasn't time for nerves and doubts (and should they come, they were to solely be locked away in your mind, opposed to burdening your fellows. They weren't afforded time to offer comfort).
The iron of their blood was incompatible with weakness.
As a child, Em had been incapable of this. She cried at particularly vivid nightmares; hid behind her mothers' skirts when raucous feasts graced Iron Holt; and oh, the worst of them all, had wet the bed until after her fifth nameday, sometimes going as far as to leave the sheets out in the rain so her embarrassment might be concealed somehow (father knew, he'd let her sit on his knee and promised his daughter none would hear of this).
Brenys had held her shoulders firmly as the discomfort sharpened, building a greater burn through her, as if someone were twisting a blade into her groyne. While tears may have slid down her cheeks, some catching the tip of her nose as she tilted her head back or to the side, she refused to let wails break free; what would it do, other than challenge the gale, so fervent its shrieks pierced the stone.
Emelise had bit her lip so hard it nearly broke to bleed.
She'd had enough time to pin back her hair, yet it provided no reprieve from the few loose strands plastered to her cheeks and temples, their colour having failed as the flush from her cheeks seeped to redden her whole face. Em had always hated that, praying fervently that her wedding day would not be marred with her turning red as a tomato.
Her god had been kind enough to spare her that indignity.
One of His priests had arrived at the heels of Nelna, her goodfathers' steward, muttering a mantra she vaguely could say she knew. Mayhaps it was the one spoken when mother gave birth to Fynnock? Em had only been four at the time, and memories from such a tender age were near impossible to grasp. It did little to soothe her panic, only kept at bay by the pain of all things. At least the holy man was not to assist with the birth.
We were born of the sea. The Drowned God has blessed us, and should it be our time to descend to His kingdom, we will accept our calling. We need no maesters and their bleated lies.
"You need to pray, Lady Wynch." His eyes bore into her own, even paler in their green hue from how his hair had darkened beneath the lash of rain, seaweed almost blackened by the soaking of his travel; searching her for courage no doubt. Every wife of a Greyjoy was commanded to find her own bravery. "Seek the guidance of our god during this hour."
Mother made her return then - no sign of the heir, however it was not expected for a husband to watch his wife deliver their babe - and shooed the man from the room. Whoever he was - mayhaps some apparition, a figment of Emelies' imagination, an omen from the Drowned God - he'd found a glower good enough to curdle milk, yet Symone Sharp lived up to the promise of her family name.
Had Alton sent him?
Did it even matter if he had?
All she wanted was to curse His name. How he denied women a reprieve from the torment of welcoming a child. She had died, hadn't she, as every Ironborn did? Then why have her closeness to Him questioned by the sharpest reminder of which plane she was on. These were not the glorious Halls, but the birthing chamber of Pyke. Where salt had settled upon the tapestries, fighting with the ashes of the hearth to turn her further into nausea.
It hurt so bad she wondered if she might vomit...
No, anything but that. A great humiliation to mark her as unfit to serve as Lady of House Greyjoy.
Lord Staron ruled now, yet when he was laid to rest in the sea - if Alton had not been struck down amidst battle, be it charging the Stepstones or yet another clash with the Greenlanders - there would be more sought from Emelise. And the child, who she was about to see into the world, would depend on her in so many ways. It was awe inspiring. It was terrifying. It was a mantra drilled into her mind, but facing it now felt almost unreal.
As if she were still in some winding dream.
Men sought battle as fish did water. Em had no doubt her husband would kill half a dozen foes by the time the year ended. When she wed him - spoke her vows in a higher pitched voice, watched her hands intently to ensure they did not tremble, felt the eyes of the island upon her - Alton had already shed blood with his own blade.
And now her thighs were stained too, to match his hands.
New screams met the air - not her own, her voice had been drowned first by the storm, then it had been stolen as gasping for air became her priority (the relentless burning, the harsh tearing, how she felt as if she were never to heal, that part of her had been clawed away) - as mother helped her upwards, carefully wrapping her arms' about Ems' shoulders to ensure she didn't collapse.
A dull ache was settling once more, however with it came the reality she had been sapped of her strength, exhaustion a blow to the head as the room span somewhat. Through her blurring vision, she could make out the golden kraken of Greyjoy.
"You've done it, Emmy." Oft the sweet perfume her mother favoured was welcomed - sugar grass and cinnamon blossom; echoes of days playing among the rock pools and having her hair splendidly braided so she could recount the days House Wynch had emerged victorious from the Kingsmoots' - yet it merely made the girls' stomach roil. Too strong, too sweet, too much. "You have a son."
It was all so much.
"Here, my lady." Sherryn - the youngest of the servants to assist in her labour, barely a year older than Em herself, sporting a fresh crop of pimples (they always accompanied stress, and the poor girl had gone pale as ice when the announcement of her pregnancy was made) - held the infant as if he were a priceless vase.
Furs and thickly spun wool bracketed her child - black and bronze, with a tinge of deepest grey, bearing golden tendrils - causing his skin to pale further. As he let out cries, slashing at her exhaustion in a mimic of lightning, his tiny hands raised into the air, reaching upwards.
Would the priests call this his first act of prayer?
She needed her mother to remain by her side, propping Emelise upright for how her bones begged for reprieve - sinking back into the bedding where she could happily fall into slumber - but there was no hesitance once he was in her arms. As she pressed her lips together, the salt of tears and sweat made her wish to grimace, but the urge was pushed back. This wasn't what her son was first to see.
His hair was jet as hers' was flaxen; the bridge of his already nose slim while hers' was somewhat snubbed, and she had no doubt that when his eyes opened, she would be greeted by Greyjoy black opposed to the navy of her own (shades varied for the Wynches', yet blue was a constant). He had her round cheeks and small mouth though, pausing merely to suck in more breaths so he might voice his discomfort. But what did it matter?
Whose blood won some archaic war to signal the heritage of their son?
He caught her index finger with a tiny hand, and warmth mingled from both of them. Em felt the smile press to her cheeks, so firm she knew it would likely start to sting.
But what did it matter?
This wasn't the Drowned Gods' work. He was hers'.
can you tell i've never written a childbirth scene before?