Warmth.
It was the first sensation that returned to him, gentle and all-encompassing.
It was not the dry warmth of a hearth, nor the pleasant heat of a summer’s day beneath the sun.
It was softer than either, a living warmth that wrapped itself around him so completely that, for a fleeting instant, he knew nothing else.
Then it was gone.
Strong hands lifted him from that comforting embrace, and the world greeted him with a cold so sharp it stole every coherent thought from his mind.
It bit through his skin like a thousand tiny needles, and before he could even comprehend what had happened, his body answered for him.
A loud cry burst from his lungs.
The sound echoed through the chamber, raw and indignant.
Several women chuckled.
“A healthy voice,” one of them remarked as she wrapped him in thick wool.
“He’ll make himself heard.”
“He already has,” another replied with a smile.
Ethan would have protested that screaming had seemed an entirely reasonable response to being introduced to northern winter moments after enjoying perfect warmth, but his newfound vocabulary consisted solely of crying.
An unfortunate limitation.
His eyes fluttered open.
At first the world was little more than blurred light dancing against shadow, but slowly shapes emerged from the haze.
A low ceiling of dark timber rested above walls of dressed stone, while a roaring fire cast long orange shadows across the chamber.
Despite the blaze, the cold lingered stubbornly in the air, clinging to every corner not claimed by the hearth.
The room smelled of smoke, wet wool, herbs and fresh blood.
Women moved about with practiced confidence.
One cleaned him with warm cloths while another changed bloodstained linens upon the bed.
They spoke rapidly in the tongue of the First Men, yet every word came to him as naturally as breathing.
There was no strange sensation of translation.
No whisper placing meanings into his mind.
It was simply…
his language.
The promise had been kept.
Only after the women stepped aside did his attention settle upon the bed.
A young woman lay there, pale from exhaustion.
Damp strands of dark hair clung to her forehead, and every breath seemed to demand an effort.
She looked as though the strength had been drawn from her body and left somewhere upon the bloodstained sheets.
Yet the moment her eyes found him, all that weariness seemed to retreat.
Not disappear.
Simply lose its importance.
She smiled.
It was not the composed smile of a noble lady receiving congratulations, nor the courteous smile expected of a queen.
It was a mother’s smile.
Small.
Tired.
Filled with a joy so complete that Ethan found himself unable to look away.
For the briefest moment another memory surfaced.
His own mother waiting awake long past midnight while pretending she had not been worried.
It vanished as quickly as it came.
He hoped, strangely enough, that he would never forget it.
The sound of heavy footsteps upon stone drew every eye in the chamber.
The women bowed their heads and stepped respectfully aside as an older man entered.
He was well beyond his youth, though age had done little to diminish him.
Broad shoulders still filled the heavy wolfskin cloak draped across his frame, and his beard, thick and carefully kept, was streaked with lines of grey that only added to the authority he carried.
His face had been carved by long winters and harder years, yet there remained a strength in him that no passing season had managed to steal.
He looked every inch a king.
Yet the stern expression he carried into the room vanished the instant his gaze fell upon the child in the wet nurse’s arms.
Relief washed across his features first.
Then pride.
Then something Ethan had not expected from a man who looked capable of ordering armies into battle without raising his voice.
Love.
The old king crossed the chamber in measured steps and accepted the child with surprising care, as though he feared rough hands might somehow break so small a life.
For a long while he simply stared.
Then he laughed.
It was a deep, hearty laugh that filled the room and seemed to chase away even the lingering chill of winter.
“The old gods have smiled upon our house.”
His voice carried easily through the chamber.
“My daughter-in-law has given the Winter Kingdom its heir.”
His eyes never left the infant resting in his arms.
“The blood of the Winter Kings remains unbroken.”
He lifted the child ever so slightly, enough for every woman in the room to see.
“In memory of the greatest king our people have ever known, the builder of Winterfell and the Wall itself…”
A smile creased his weathered face.
“…this child shall bear his name.”
He rested one weathered hand gently upon the infant’s brow.
“Brandon.”
The name lingered in the chamber like a blessing.
“Brandon Stark, heir to the Winter Kingdom.”
Around him, the women bowed their heads in quiet reverence.
One whispered a prayer to the old gods beneath her breath, while another smiled through tears as she looked toward the exhausted young mother.
Ethan listened to the name settle over him.
Brandon.
A name that had echoed through songs and histories for thousands of years in another life.
Now, impossibly…
It belonged to him.