She was screaming. That much Srelly knew.

There was also pain. Srelly knew that as well. Or, at least, she thought she did. Her thoughts weren’t the most coherent at the moment.

Dully (as dully as anyone can do anything whilst in the midst of birthing pains), she heard the calls of a midwife, or was it the Guðsrödd?, telling her to keep pushing, which she was because what else was she supposed to do?

You could, mayhaps, her mind provided, curse the man who made you this bloated in the first place.

It sounded like a reasonable suggestion, so Srelly did.

“Joramun þú kút sjúga kráka-bölvaður hórasyni! Eg sverja til okkar guði ef þú gerðu þetta til mín aftur ég mun borða þitt hjarta og spýta á þínum lík!”

It was cathartic, in a way.

Time passed. How much, Srelly could not tell through the pain. Distantly, she heard a commotion at the door, and ever through her haze she recognized her husband’s voice. The irrational anger she felt with him faded instantly.

If Srelly had been able, she would have told the midwife to let him. Another ripple of pain turned her words into another shrill grunt of pain.

“Push, my lady!” came the midwife’s voice. “The babe is crowning! A little more--!”

“A little more,” she sobbed, chanting to herself. “A little more. Just a little more.”

Srelly took a deep breath, then another.

And then she pushed, and the woman knew nothing but pain for a momentary eternity.

For a moment, there was nothing, and Srelly’s addled mind jumped to all the worst conclusions. Had she done something wrong? Had the babe come out the wrong way? The babe-- here babe--! Why couldn’t she--

The wailing of an infant halted those thoughts in its tracks.

Srelly did not think she’d ever heard a sound more beautiful.

“--a boy, Lady Magnar! Tis a boy!”

Just within her vision from where Srelly lay, the midwife held up a bundle-- a newborn swaddled in cloth. And, finding herself suddenly, blessedly free of the birthing pains, the spasms having dulled to a mere constant throb, Srelly found her voice.

“My… baby.. Bring him here.” Her words were like the wind, mere whispers, but the midwife (Olga, Srelly remembered) heard her nonetheless. And, carefully, gently, the baby was placed in her arms.

Her baby. Their baby-- hers and Joramun. They had made this, together.

He’s so small, and soft, Srelly marveled. The last time she had held a newborn babe had been when her brother had been born, years ago. He’d been bundled in furs almost immediately, so much that the boy she had held then was more clothing than flesh. Not here, though-- here, the room was heated, her baby warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” Srelly murmured, pressing a kiss to her baby boy’s head. The newborn who had fallen into a gentle sleep, shifted closer to her, and Srelly’s heart burned with love.

Then, to her left, the midwife moved for the door. “Shall I let the Magnar in?” Olga asked quietly, and the Lady Magnar nodded. “Y-yes. Let him--”

As if having been lying in wait for her express permission, the door flung open (being caught before it slammed into the wall, however) and Joramun strode in like a unicorn having set its sights on someone that had borne it a slight, though instead of anger, worry was painted all across his face. Knowing the tale of his mother, Srelly knew why.

“Jora,” she called out, a smile gracing her lips. “Over here.”

The worry disappeared when she called out to him, obviously alive, only to be replaced by a soft sort of awe as he stared at her, and the babe.

“Oh,” he whispered, the quietest Srelly had ever heard him. Carefully, as though sneaking around a slumbering bear, Joramun inched forward towards the bed, and Srelly was suddenly struck by how loving his eyes were, how soft his gaze was.

I am so happy I managed to steal you.

She had not moved since Joramun had entered, and only made to do so when he reached the side of the bed. As he knelt down beside it, she turned to face him, their child (their child!) offered to him. “Hold him, love,” Srelly bade, and Joramun stared. “I-- is it... Safe, for me to do so? He looks so soft, so fragile.”

“He is your son, Jora,” Srelly giggled. “You won’t break him.” Gently, she placed the newborn in her husband’s outstretched palms, and he let out a surprised huff. Then he pulled the baby to his chest, cuddling him gently, a soft smile overtaking his features.

The baby, rocking in his arms, curled deeper into Joramun’s, and Srelly's heart melts.

Oh, how she loved her husband so.

Her love looked back to her, then, his gaze an enrapturing reverent that Srelly had never seen so intensely. “What will we name him?” he asked, and Srelly stared.

“You… you want me to name him?” she asked, shocked. “But, he’s your son! The heir to the Stone Throne!”

“He is your son as well, my love” Joramun replied. Passing the babe back to her, he kissed the newborn’s brow, and then her lips, before smiling. “And there is no name in the world that I will not love should it come from you.”

…

Srelly wanted to weep.

What had she done to deserve such a husband?

Oh, my Gods. She closed her eyes. You will never know how thankful I am for him. For all of this.

She had been a wildling once. In her home, beyond the Wall, amongst her tribe in the True North. She had been content, there. But here? Here, in the Kinghouse, amongst the people who had taken her tribe in as their own? With her husband and her newborn child?

Here, she was happy.

And though she knew those happy times, those peaceful times, were nearing their end… Though she knew, come the morn, that Joramun would sail south for blood and death…

Srelly vowed to enjoy the time they had left.

So, she turned to her husband, and told to him her chosen name.

“...Let us call him Knut,” she decided, basking in the happy tears that only now escaped her, and in Joramun’s blinding smile which told her she’d chose right. “For home.”

Tis her husband that weeps, this time. “Home,” he whispers, before kissing her again, and Srelly returns the embrace. And, though she knows he will leave come the morn, and though she is loathe to be parted from him now, she bids her husband depart, so that the bed’s sheets can be cleaned, and they can finally sleep.

And, as the bed dips beneath Joramun’s familiar weight, and as Knut is carefully placed between them, Srelly turns to him, a sudden, desperate plea boiling within her.

“Come home,” she begs. “Swear to me, ‘Mun, that you will come home. Swear.”

Her husband takes her hand, then, and envelops it in his warm one. His smile is all-too-many things-- joyful and triumphant, mournful and sorrowful, but mixed within it all--

“I swear.”

--is hope.

Her husband will be gone, come the morrow, and her new family fractured.

But, just for tonight, it is whole.

And, with the two loves of her life, Srelly lets herself rest.