Post by The Smith on Apr 4, 2008 0:05:28 GMT -5
The guards posted before the entrance to the Royal Solar of Sunspear had seldom looked so edgy as they did on this stifling afternoon; there seemed to be a mutual discomfort shared by all the men who paced anxiously just outside its entrance. There were roughly a dozen, who ranged in rank from Tower Guards to Knights to Generals. Women of a variety of stations swooped into and out of the massive oaken doors as fretful little birds from a rookery, carrying cool cloths and buckets of ice water, and though they rushed the doors shut as they passed through them, even at their slightest jarring, the sounds of shrieks and moans and weeping could be heard from just beyond.
The Dornish Sun burst through the large windows of the Royal Solar seemingly without effort, as though it too felt entitled to be a part of the occasion; it scorched the heavy silken linens which were strewn over the large plush bed in massive disarray, and clung tightly clammy skin; it warmed the large room to an uncomfortably hot degree. The air was stagnant, and though the windows were thrown open to their widest capabilities, no breeze stirred their heavy draperies, nor offered a single instant of relief for the young Dornish Princess.
Three midwives had been hired for the delivery, and they all took turns beside her, holding her hand patiently as she cried out in pain, unable to subdue her own overwhelming agony. They spoke kind words softly to her, and whispered encouragement in voices as peaceful as gales upon a tranquil sea, though she heard only the blood pounding against her ears, despite their good efforts.
The labor was not a long one, they told her when it was over, though she was strongly inclined to disagree; and it had been successful. She had delivered a healthy little boy. She neither heard nor saw any more before sleep claimed her, as her body and mind had been exhausted long before she had been thrown into an early delivery whilst in the middle of a conference with Lord Quentin Fowler concerning their local troops. Towards the end of her term of pregnancy she had gotten the distinct impression that the child she fostered was restless in some way—it kicked at her insides brutally, especially when she laid down to sleep. It told her with force that there was much to do, and that she must not sleep until it had all been done. She could no longer remember the last time she had slept, and when the child had at last found its way into the bright light and sickly warmth of the sun of its Kingdom home, she gratefully fell into a deep slumber, which ended only upon the first breezes of the early evening, which carried her gently into consciousness. The leader of her small team of midwifes stood, her back turned, near one of the great windows, which framed her silhouette in the rich, warm shades of sunset; Tristeza made an effort to speak, though no true words escaped, but rather only a weak, and generally undefined murmur. The gnarled old midwife heard her, though, and turned abruptly to face her, holding in her arms, a small bundle, which she offered immediately to Tristeza.
“He has been well, my lady; it was among our most successful deliveries.”
Tristeza nodded, suddenly joyful, and smiled at the small child she held in her arms. She found herself no longer overwhelmed by pain, or suffering, nor the constant worries of court, but rather with pride, and affection—the boy did not cry, though neither did he laugh nor smile, as she did. He gazed at her, as though cognizant; she felt he was considering her, memorizing her.
“So this is the young Theriot Martell,” the old woman mused tenderly, as she gazed at them, and left the Solar, allowing a mother time alone with her newborn child. Tristeza looked bemusedly at her as she departed, as though this remark had confused her, though she soon remembered she had stated ‘Theriot’ as her preferred name for a boy on several previous occasions; as she watched the babe, though, and as he watched her, she realized all at once that he was not Theriot Martell, and she shook her head slightly.
“Horas.” She muttered, loosening the child’s blanket some, thinking how dreadfully warm he must be. “I love you,” she whispered fondly to the babe, as she held him tight, close to her heart, and began to tell the story of his late lord father, who had saved both of their lives on a cloudy night, far to the North some five months before; “You are named for Horas Blackwood, the true King Regent of the Seven Kingdoms…”
Results:
Princess Tristeza Martell births a healthy baby boy.
The Dornish Sun burst through the large windows of the Royal Solar seemingly without effort, as though it too felt entitled to be a part of the occasion; it scorched the heavy silken linens which were strewn over the large plush bed in massive disarray, and clung tightly clammy skin; it warmed the large room to an uncomfortably hot degree. The air was stagnant, and though the windows were thrown open to their widest capabilities, no breeze stirred their heavy draperies, nor offered a single instant of relief for the young Dornish Princess.
Three midwives had been hired for the delivery, and they all took turns beside her, holding her hand patiently as she cried out in pain, unable to subdue her own overwhelming agony. They spoke kind words softly to her, and whispered encouragement in voices as peaceful as gales upon a tranquil sea, though she heard only the blood pounding against her ears, despite their good efforts.
The labor was not a long one, they told her when it was over, though she was strongly inclined to disagree; and it had been successful. She had delivered a healthy little boy. She neither heard nor saw any more before sleep claimed her, as her body and mind had been exhausted long before she had been thrown into an early delivery whilst in the middle of a conference with Lord Quentin Fowler concerning their local troops. Towards the end of her term of pregnancy she had gotten the distinct impression that the child she fostered was restless in some way—it kicked at her insides brutally, especially when she laid down to sleep. It told her with force that there was much to do, and that she must not sleep until it had all been done. She could no longer remember the last time she had slept, and when the child had at last found its way into the bright light and sickly warmth of the sun of its Kingdom home, she gratefully fell into a deep slumber, which ended only upon the first breezes of the early evening, which carried her gently into consciousness. The leader of her small team of midwifes stood, her back turned, near one of the great windows, which framed her silhouette in the rich, warm shades of sunset; Tristeza made an effort to speak, though no true words escaped, but rather only a weak, and generally undefined murmur. The gnarled old midwife heard her, though, and turned abruptly to face her, holding in her arms, a small bundle, which she offered immediately to Tristeza.
“He has been well, my lady; it was among our most successful deliveries.”
Tristeza nodded, suddenly joyful, and smiled at the small child she held in her arms. She found herself no longer overwhelmed by pain, or suffering, nor the constant worries of court, but rather with pride, and affection—the boy did not cry, though neither did he laugh nor smile, as she did. He gazed at her, as though cognizant; she felt he was considering her, memorizing her.
“So this is the young Theriot Martell,” the old woman mused tenderly, as she gazed at them, and left the Solar, allowing a mother time alone with her newborn child. Tristeza looked bemusedly at her as she departed, as though this remark had confused her, though she soon remembered she had stated ‘Theriot’ as her preferred name for a boy on several previous occasions; as she watched the babe, though, and as he watched her, she realized all at once that he was not Theriot Martell, and she shook her head slightly.
“Horas.” She muttered, loosening the child’s blanket some, thinking how dreadfully warm he must be. “I love you,” she whispered fondly to the babe, as she held him tight, close to her heart, and began to tell the story of his late lord father, who had saved both of their lives on a cloudy night, far to the North some five months before; “You are named for Horas Blackwood, the true King Regent of the Seven Kingdoms…”
Results:
Princess Tristeza Martell births a healthy baby boy.