it's not too late - birthing (yronwood, ephrelle, any)

[Dorne]

Forget stardust - you are iron.

Your blood is nothing but ferrous liquid.

It’s early, but there are two of them, and so Dorne is not surprised.

She spends most of the night in motion, pacing beside the riverbank.

As the dawn breaks so does her water, and a few hours into the morning she is lying beside two small foals. Neither has the golden coloring of their father, but they do both have her spots. Dorne smiles proudly as she gets to her feet. “Your name is Yronwood,” she tells the boy, running her dark muzzle along the red spots on his white blanket. “And you’re Ephrelle.” She tugs the mane of the black filly gently, pleased when the girl responds with a nibble of her own at Dorne’s long mane.

Dorne has spent a long time thinking of these names (since she had realized she was pregnant, really). They are longer than her own, a mouthful of syllables, and she’s decided that she will give them nicknames. Nicknames are adorable – nearly as adorable as her children – and they will appreciate them when they are older. “I’ll call you Ellie,” she says to the varnish roan filly as the girl struggles to stand for the first time,before turning to the chestnut colt. “And you’ll be Roe.”

Dorne

You are iron. And you are strong