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 SALVE ME, FONS PIETATIS, lysa baratheon | misc
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Mar 17 2016, 12:00 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Aug 29 2016, 03:23 pm
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


MATURE CONTENT
It's Lysa. Pregnancy, childbirth, blood, infertility, sex will riddle this misc board.


EARLY SECOND WARRIOR


The linens provided no comfort. The kindling fire no warmth. The oppressive, heady quality of the surrounding air made it hard to breathe. Whatever herbs burned, whatever use the midwives attributed to them was lost on a Lysa that struggled to conjure the strength needed. With a loud, cracking screech she gave into her body's wretched impulses, trying her best, after hours of arduous labor, to push the stubborn child out of her feeble, tired body. "I can't," Lysa breathily whimpered, shaking her head as she leaned forth, laying her temple against the curve of the midwife's neck.

"You mustn't stop, your grace," a lively, motherly midwife reminded, brushing back wild strands of the queen's sweat drenched hair away from her reddened face, her sturdy, robust frame providing the very pregnant woman with the support she needed to remain in this position. Meanwhile, a younger midwife that stood at the other end of the bed, rolled her eyes, a sigh filling the air rather than accusations of blatant hypocrisy.

Early in the morning, they were called here. A young messenger had announced that she queen had broken her fount, that they were to arrive at the Thunderclap Stronghold at once. Upon entering the royal bedchambers, they stumbled upon a nervous queen, yet one that remained calm as her muscles clenched and released, as the child within stirred, seeking escape. They had thought that the Queen would enjoy an easy birth, but her previously calm demeanor deceived them. After hours of pushing, the child simply refused to budge.

More than anything, Lysa wanted to see her son again, for Robert to come through the heavy doors, smelling of musk and sweat, with the rickety noise of metal heralding his arrival; she would welcome his usual dramatics, and hopefully he'd be careless of how graceless she looked whilst on all fours, a bloodied gown having been raised well over her bum and lower back, her nether regions swollen, exposed for the midwives to prod and see.

"This means you are having a healthy baby, your grace. A big, healthy baby," the hopeful midwife tried to reassure, her large eyes following the motions of the other, who focused on the mechanical task of padding away the blood with worn linens, shaking her head away at whatever encouraging statement tainted the air with what she knew were lies that fell on deaf ears. Surely, the pregnant woman before them felt the same way she did about the matter.

The child's head, it was right there. She had been able to feel it descending for quite some time, but in the last few hours, no significant progress had been made. Lysa seemed to be pushing in vain. Her efforts were for naught, as were the other midwife's attempts at soothing a queen that was all too alert of the fact that this could mean the end.

"You have to push," the older midwife ordered, rubbing Lysa's tense neck.

"I cannot," the Storm queen frustratingly muttered between gritted teeth as her body tensed, the excruciating pain beginning to overwhelm her senses. She pushed.

"This time around, you will push as hard as you can."

"Get it out! Cut it out!" she wailed, her nails digging into the gentler woman's skin.

The eyes of the woman at the other end widened at the suggestion. "Are you certain you cannot push? One last time?" she inquired in a mocking, playful tone, but received no answer as the red haired woman's wailing filled the room, followed by a bout of ragged sobs. Could this woman really believe her a coward for wanting this to be over? I need this to be over. Whatever confidence she had that early morning had been shattered; whatever pride, disappeared. She wanted her friends. Petyr to congratulate her. Renly to smile down at her. Stannis to approve of the name choice she had discussed with Margaery. She wanted to see her only son one last time. She wanted to melt in her husband's embrace and forget all quarrel, all disdain she might have held against him. She wanted to be happy. She wanted to feel like she could be enough. A good mother, a good wife, a good queen. Never enough. Never enough.

Another ripple caused her back to arch, her muscles to push. The general effort caused her eyes to redden, but this time around, a vessel had burst within; a small pool of red filling her eye just next to her hazel iris, slightly blurring her vision. More blood seeped out from her nether regions. She could feel the linens being pressed against her opening, how quick the younger woman worked.

"I can't," she weakly breathed, followed by a silent cry, a steady stream of tears tainting her cheeks; racing thoughts drowning out all words of consolation that the woman that held her whispered.

Never had Lysa Baratheon been so afraid of the dark, of a definite end. A death in vain.

"There's too much blood," the young midwife warned, a hesitant declaration that made the older one rigid with worry.

"Lysa, you have to push. Now. As hard as you can. Your baby needs to come out now."

But the fleshy tint of her quivering lips had already faded. As had her croaking voice, her breath reduced to a shallow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. Her unremarkable strength, absent. Her shrill cries, gone.

Lysa wouldn't hear the women calling out for the maester. In her state, she would not have felt how they turned her on her back, nor would she feel the unforgiving slice of sharp steel against her taut, swollen flesh, nor the relief that should have overcome her when the child was finally born. Pale, unconscious, she would not hear the baby boy's first cries. She would not hold him in her arms as a loving mother should, nor press its hungry mouth against her chest. She would not feel the prodding fingers of a furious maester as he pulled out the afterbirth, an uncharacteristically attached mass that heralded a new reality, one that countless of other women had dealt with for centuries; a fate a queen wouldn't have encountered had she consumed the moon tea he had dutifully provided months earlier.

But had she done so, there wouldn't be a lively baby among them.

Clean, silenced and swaddled, the child lay tranquil in the younger midwife's arms. After disposing of the afterbirth, the older one assisted the maester, pulling apart the queen's legs, bringing a candle close enough so that the elder man could see the gleam of steel that he pushed and pulled through torn flesh, after having patted it with a warm cloth.

"There's a crowd outside, they are waiting to know," the younger midwife noted, the growing murmurs of the people outside growing ever less discrete.

"They are probably placing bets," the maester bitterly commented, his eyes focused on the sickening task at hand, stuffing bits of fabric here and there in an attempt to soak up the blood, to stop the bleeding. That was his priority. Until he was able to find the source and stop it, there was only so much he could do. Nothing was certain. As a result, he would remain mum about his plans. He would not speak a word of the queen, and made the midwives and servants alike swear that news of her state would not leave the room they occupied.

"Jayde will hand the child to Renly Baratheon. If anyone asks about the Queen, you will say that her grace is indisposed." Woefully indisposed. Utterly ravaged. Torn. Broken. Not quite the same, he lamented once he stepped away, a critical, observant gaze surveying how the midwives stripped the ragged doll of a woman of her bloodied clothes, while servants quickly prepared her bed, fluffing pillows and tearing back layer after layer of sheets before finally laying her down, solemnly tucking the sheets underneath her lithe frame, brushing the auburn hair from her face with her preferred ivory comb.

The windows would remain shut. The fire would burn in the hearth. While the nobles would celebrate the birth of an heir, they would remain oblivious, at least for a time, of the war that the queen was likely to wage on her own, against her own body. It was not over, the silver chained man lamented as he tucked into a hidden, servant's corridor, intent on making his way towards the rookery.
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 14 2016, 12:52 pm
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image
Young Lysa Inspo - FC: Simone Simons
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 07:40 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image user posted image

user posted image user posted image
Young Lysa Inspo - FC: Rachel Hurd Wood x
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 07:41 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 08:18 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image

The Reluctant Bride
auguste toulmouche. 1866

LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 08:22 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image

Portia wounding her thigh
Elisabetta Sirani. 1664.
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 08:24 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image

Vengeance is sworn (detail)
Francesco Hayez. 1851.
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 08:37 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image user posted image

x
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 15 2016, 08:52 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image

“he was now in that state of fire that she loved. she wanted to be burnt.” - anaïs nin

x

LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 17 2016, 08:40 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 17 2016, 02:39 pm
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


QUOTE
                                 If I leash my hunger,
will you lead me home–
                                or hang my body like the flag
                                 of a burning country?
Tell me: will you drag me
by the throat
                       from kneeling
                       to noose?
excerpt of Letter from a Comfort Woman, to an Occupying Soldier
// h. yenna kim
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Oct 26 2016, 09:26 am
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline







Today, I’ve been married for seven years and am the mother of a little boy.
My pregnant neighbor came to see me for name ideas for her own son that would
go well with my son’s name, because “between half-brothers, it’s important”.

FML




LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Nov 05 2016, 12:35 pm
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image
madame louise-elisabeth with her two year old son (detail).
adélaïde labille-guiard. 1788.
LYSA BARATHEON
 direct link • Nov 09 2016, 05:57 pm
Quote
High Queen of Westeros
the southern swan
Sworn to the Seven Kingdoms
THE STORMLANDS
38 years
alma • she/her • 269 posts
Offline


user posted image
user posted image

allegories (sections)
carl otto czeschka. 1893.
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