Raymun was seven when Mara became pregnant again.
He learned because Ellyn announced it to the entire common room.
“Mama has a baby inside her!”
Silence.
A merchant slowly lowered his cup.
Mara closed her eyes.
Garran nearly choked on his ale.
Raymun stared at his sister.
“Ellyn.”
“What?”
“Maybe Mother wanted to tell people herself.”
“She told me.”
“She told you.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Mara raised a hand.
“It’s done.”
Ellyn looked pleased.
Garran wiped ale from his beard.
“Efficient girl.”
Mara turned toward him.
“You.”
Garran immediately became interested in his drink.
Raymun had complicated feelings about the pregnancy.
Happiness came first.
Fear followed.
He remembered Ellyn’s illness.
He remembered how little separated ordinary sickness from catastrophe here.
Childbirth was worse.
On Earth, Raymun had understood that pregnancy carried risks.
In Westeros, those risks lived inside the stories he’d read.
Women died giving birth.
Children died before they were old enough to have memories.
There were no modern hospitals waiting beyond the next road.
No emergency surgery.
No blood bank.
No monitors.
His knowledge offered fragments.
Clean hands mattered.
Clean cloth mattered.
Boiled water mattered.
But knowing several principles of hygiene did not make him a midwife.
That distinction had become almost sacred to him.
So instead of trying to become a seven-year-old physician, Raymun asked questions.
Mara eventually noticed.
“You’re hovering.”
“No.”
“You’re watching everything I eat.”
“I’m observing.”
“Hovering.”
Raymun looked at her stomach.
“Are you feeling well?”
“Yes.”
“No fever?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Raymun.”
He stopped.
Mara softened.
“I’ve done this before.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Mara studied him.
Raymun looked away.
Sometimes being a child was useful.
Adults assumed his fears were childish.
Sometimes they were.
This one wasn’t.
Mara touched his cheek.
“I’m all right.”
“For now.”
“For now,” she agreed.
That was all anyone ever truly had.
The pregnancy changed life at the inn gradually.
Mara worked.
Then worked less.
Then became furious whenever anyone suggested she was working less.
Garran quietly took over more tasks.
Raymun did too.
Not because of a quest.
There wasn’t one.
The System remained silent.
Raymun carried firewood.
Checked stores.
Helped with accounts.
Served meals.
Cleaned tables.
Ellyn attempted to help and somehow created additional work.
One afternoon, Raymun found her carrying a bucket nearly as large as she was.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping Mama.”
“That’s full.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t lift that.”
“I am lifting it.”
She had managed approximately two inches.
Her entire body trembled.
Raymun took the handle.
“I’ll carry it.”
“I can.”
“I know.”
“Then let go.”
“No.”
“Ray!”
They argued until Mara shouted from the kitchen.
“If either of you spills that water, you’re fetching another!”
Instant cooperation.
Raymun also began paying more attention to the household finances.
Another child meant another mouth.
More clothing.
More food.
Eventually another bed.
The Briar Hearth was doing better than it had during Ellyn’s illness, but the debt had not vanished overnight.
Progress was real.
So was vulnerability.
One bad harvest.
One serious illness.
One injured horse.
One failed supplier.
Raymun had begun thinking of those things differently.
On Earth, he’d known the phrase emergency fund.
Here, Garran called it having coin when something went wrong.
Same principle.
Different language.
Raymun created a Journal entry.
HOUSEHOLD RESERVES
Current objective:
Build enough reserves that one crisis does not require immediate borrowing.
No quest appeared.
Raymun waited.
Nothing.
“Fine.”
The System apparently agreed that not every sensible decision deserved a reward.
As Mara’s pregnancy advanced, a local midwife named Ysabel began visiting.
Raymun disliked her immediately.
Not personally.
Professionally.
She was perhaps fifty, with thick gray hair and hands roughened by decades of work.
She also dismissed his first question.
“Why do you wash your hands before touching Mother?”
Ysabel looked at him.
“Because they’re dirty.”
Raymun waited.
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
Raymun loved her.
He followed her around until she threatened to make him wait outside.
Ysabel knew things Raymun didn’t.
How to judge the baby’s position by touch.
Which signs worried her.
Which discomforts were ordinary.
Which herbs she trusted and which she considered old wives’ nonsense.
Raymun recorded carefully.
Not as universal truth.
Source: Ysabel, local midwife.
Experience: reportedly more than twenty years.
Direct observation: partial.
Confidence: moderate.
The System did not magically verify her medical knowledge.
That frustrated him.
Then he realized that was probably good.
People had survived for thousands of years without floating interfaces deciding who was correct.
He could learn to evaluate evidence.
The birth began at night.
Of course it did.
Raymun woke to movement downstairs.
Garran was already dressed.
“Stay with Ellyn.”
Raymun climbed from bed.
“Is it happening?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mother—”
“She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
That answer frightened Raymun more than reassurance would have.
But it was honest.
Garran gripped his shoulder.
“Stay with your sister.”
Then he left.
Ellyn woke an hour later.
“Where’s Mama?”
“Having the baby.”
“Oh.”
She lay back down.
Then sat upright.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Father said stay here.”
“He told you.”
Raymun stared at her.
“You’re staying.”
Ellyn crossed her arms.
“You’re not my father.”
“Thank the gods.”
She kicked him.
Not hard.
Raymun sat beside her.
Time passed.
Too much time.
Every sound from below made his stomach tighten.
At some point, Ellyn stopped complaining.
She crawled beside him.
“Is Mama okay?”
Raymun wanted to say yes.
Instead he remembered Edwyn.
Sources.
Evidence.
Confidence.
He remembered Wat.
He remembered Ellyn’s fever.
He remembered that sometimes things simply went wrong.
“I think so.”
Ellyn leaned against him.
Raymun put an arm around her.
They waited.
Then a sound came through the floor.
A baby crying.
Ellyn jumped.
Raymun didn’t.
For several seconds, he couldn’t move.
Then he breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Ellyn was already at the door.
“Come on!”
Raymun followed.
Mara looked exhausted.
Completely exhausted.
Raymun had never seen her look so weak.
That frightened him even after Ysabel assured everyone she was well.
A tiny face appeared.
Red.
Wrinkled.
Angry.
Raymun stared.
Garran stood beside the bed looking as though he had personally defeated an army.
“Your brother,” he said.
Ellyn immediately climbed closer.
“He’s ugly.”
“Ellyn,” Garran said.
“What?
He is.”
Mara laughed weakly.
Raymun approached.
The baby opened his eyes briefly.
Raymun remembered another room.
Another woman.
Blurred shapes.
Helpless limbs.
Screaming.
Strangers speaking a language he couldn’t understand.
For a moment, he was six years in the past.
Then the baby moved.
A tiny hand escaped the blanket.
Raymun offered one finger.
The hand closed around it.
His throat tightened.
“What’s his name?”
“Ronan,” Mara said.
Raymun smiled.
“Hello, Ronan.”
The baby began crying.
Ellyn covered her ears.
“He’s loud.”
“So were you.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“You don’t remember.”
Raymun froze.
Ellyn was right.
As far as she knew, he couldn’t possibly remember her as a newborn.
He recovered quickly.
“Mother told me.”
Mara looked toward him.
She hadn’t.
Fortunately, she was too tired to argue.
The next weeks were miserable.
Ronan cried.
Then slept.
Then cried because he’d slept too long without eating.
Then ate.
Then cried for reasons nobody understood.
Raymun had forgotten how useless babies were.
One night, Ronan’s screaming woke the entire household.
Raymun stumbled downstairs.
Garran was walking around the common room holding him.
“Why is he crying?”
“If you figure it out, I’ll give you the inn.”
Raymun appraised Ronan.
RONAN
Age: Infant
Health: No obvious abnormality detected.
Current state: Distressed.
Raymun stared.
“Very helpful.”
Garran looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Raymun closed the interface.
Ronan screamed louder.
Raymun tried rocking him.
Nothing.
Garran tried humming.
Worse.
Mara finally appeared at the stairs.
She took Ronan.
The baby stopped crying almost immediately.
Raymun and Garran stared.
Mara smiled smugly.
“Amateurs.”
Months passed.
Ronan grew.
Ellyn became fiercely protective of him despite continuing to call him ugly.
Bran declared that babies were boring.
Raymun agreed.
Then Ronan learned to smile.
That changed things.
One evening, Raymun sat near the old hearth with his brother in his lap.
Ronan grabbed his finger.
Again.
Raymun watched the flames.
There were great events somewhere beyond the Briar Hearth.
Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne.
The Greyjoy Rebellion was already becoming a story people exaggerated over ale.
Across the Narrow Sea, pieces of the future Raymun remembered were slowly moving into place.
Someday the realm would break apart.
Someday winter would become more than weather.
But Ronan knew none of that.
He knew warmth.
Milk.
His mother’s voice.
His father’s arms.
Ellyn’s terrible singing.
Raymun’s finger.
That was his entire world.
Raymun looked around the common room.
Perhaps that was what he was actually trying to protect.
Not history.
Not Westeros.
Not some grand future.
This.
A child who could grow up believing tomorrow was ordinary.
The thought settled somewhere deep inside him.
Raymun didn’t write it into the Journal.
Some things did not need the System to remember them.