The wind howled like a dying wolf, tearing at the thatched roof of the small wooden hut in the heart of the Winter Town. Outside, the world was turning into a canvas of grey and white, the first true biting frost of the year settling over the North. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the herbal sting of boiled Tansy, and the agonizing screams of a woman fighting a battle entirely her own.
"Push, Serena! By the Old Gods and the New, you must push!"
Serena gripped the rough woolen sheets until her knuckles turned the color of bone. Her deep crimson hair—so unlike the dull browns and blacks of the typical Northerner—was plastered to her forehead with sweat, framing a face twisted in sheer, raw exhaustion.
"I… I can't!" she sobbed, her voice cracking as another wave of contraction seized her body, bending her spine like a bow. "It hurts… gods, it feels like I'm being torn in half!"
"You are a woman of the North now, girl! Don't you dare yield to pain!" The sharp, commanding voice came from Torra, a broad-shouldered woman from Bear Island who stood by Serena's head, wiping her brow with a cold rag. Torra didn't offer soft words; she offered strength. She was a warrior in her own right, with calloused hands that had held axes more often than embroidery needles. "The she-bear does not weep when the cub comes. She roars."
Beneath Serena, the village midwife, a withered crone with hands as gnarled as weirwood roots, worked with a grim focus. Two other local women were boiling water and murmuring prayers, their voices a low drone against the whistling wind outside.
"Mother, Maiden, Crone… give her strength… save the child…"
Serena screamed again, a sound that seemed to shake the timber beams of the hut. It had been hours. The sun had set long ago, leaving them in the flickering orange glow of the hearth fire and tallow candles. The shadows danced on the walls, stretching and contorting like restless spirits.
"I see the head!" the midwife croaked, her voice cutting through the prayers. "One last effort, child. Scream if you must, but push!"
Serena threw her head back, her throat raw, and poured every ounce of her remaining life force into the effort. The pain was blinding, a white-hot lance through her hips, but then—relief. A sudden, slippery release.
The room held its breath.
Then, a thin, high-pitched wail pierced the air.
"A girl," the midwife announced, her voice softening just a fraction. She quickly cleaned the babe with a warm cloth, revealing skin flushed pink and healthy. "Small, but fierce. Look at those lungs."
Torra let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for hours. "See? It is done, Serena. You did it."
Serena slumped back against the pillows, tears streaming down her face, a mixture of agony and overwhelming joy. "Let me… let me see her."
But the midwife didn't move to hand over the child. Instead, her eyes went wide. She pressed her hand against Serena's stomach again, her face paling in the firelight.
"Gods be good," the crone whispered.
"What?" Torra snapped, her hand instinctively going to the dagger at her belt, as if she could fight a medical complication with steel. "What is it, woman?"
"There is another," the midwife gasped. "Twins! She carries twins!"
The room erupted in hushed whispers. In the North, twins were rare—often seen as a blessing, sometimes an omen. Serena's eyes widened in panic. She had barely survived the first; she didn't have the strength for a second.
"No… no more," she whispered weakly.
"You don't have a choice!" Torra barked, grabbing Serena's hand again, squeezing it hard enough to bruise. "Focus, Serena! One more battle! For him! For the Lord!"
The mention of him—Lord Eddard Stark—seemed to spark something in Serena's fading eyes. She grit her teeth, a low growl building in her chest.
The second birth was harder. The baby was silent, not fighting to come out, almost as if he was waiting. The blood on the sheets spread further, soaking the straw mattress. The chanting of the women grew louder, more desperate, calling on the spirits of the earth to keep the mother's heart beating.
"Spirits of winter, hold her… Spirits of the stream, cleanse her…"
With a final, earth-shattering cry, Serena collapsed.
Silence.
Absolute, terrifying silence filled the hut.
The midwife held the second child in her hands. It was a boy. He was covered in blood, limp, and utterly silent.
"Is he…?" Torra asked, her voice trembling for the first time.
The midwife frowned, turning the boy over, rubbing his small back vigorously. "Breathe, little lord. Breathe."
Nothing.
Serena watched through half-lidded eyes, her vision swimming with darkness. My boy. My son. Please.
Suddenly, the boy opened his eyes.
They were not the hazy, unfocused eyes of a newborn. They were dark red, clear, and unnervingly calm. He didn't cry. He didn't wail or thrash. He simply took a breath—a long, deep inhale that seemed to suck the warmth from the very room—and exhaled.
"He lives," the midwife breathed, shivering as a strange chill ran up her spine. "He is quiet… but he lives."
She quickly wrapped both infants in furs and brought them to Serena. The mother, despite her exhaustion, reached out with trembling arms. On her left, the girl, squirming and vocal. On her right, the boy, still and observant, staring up at her with those impossible eyes.
"They are beautiful," Torra said softly, leaning over. "And healthy. A miracle, Serena."
"Names," the midwife prompted gently, wiping her bloody hands on a rag. "They must be named before the night takes the warmth."
Serena looked at the girl first. She had wisps of dark hair and a fierce expression. "Lyra," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "She will be Lyra."
"A strong name," Torra nodded. "And the boy?"
Serena looked at the son. He wasn't crying. He was just watching the flames dance in the hearth. There was something ancient about him, a weight that shouldn't belong to a child born seconds ago. Memories that weren't hers flickered in Serena's mind—dreams of a sun that never set, of a warrior who moved like a breath of fire.
"He… he is…" Serena hesitated. Her throat felt tight, as if the name was stuck, heavy with destiny. She swallowed hard, forcing the word out. "Yoriichi."
KRA-KOOM!
The moment the name left her lips, a deafening crack of thunder shook the entire Winter Town. It wasn't the rolling rumble of a storm; it was a single, violent explosion of sound, like a hammer striking the anvil of the heavens.
The women in the room screamed. The candles flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness for a heartbeat before the hearth fire roared upward, flaring with an unnatural intensity, casting long, monstrous shadows against the timber walls.
"Sorcery!" one of the washerwomen cried, backing away toward the door, making the sign of the seven-pointed star.
"Quiet, you fool! It's just thunder!" Torra roared, though her own hand was trembling as she relit a candle from the hearth.
But the old midwife wasn't looking at the sky. She was staring at the boy, Yoriichi. He hadn't flinched. While the other baby, Lyra, was wailing from the noise, Yoriichi lay perfectly still, his red eyes reflecting the roaring fire.
The old crone stepped forward, her milky eyes wide with a fear that went beyond superstition. She reached out a shaking finger, hovering it over the boy's forehead.