The midwives carried him through the corridor, their footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor in a steady, uneven rhythm. As they moved away from the chamber, the air shifted, it was no longer heavy with the warmth of life and blood but crisp with the chill of loss. The small child felt the chilling change, the cold creeping into his limbs and nipping at his cheeks.
The woman cradling him had rough, calloused hands that gripped him securely but without tenderness. Her gray dress, worn and scratched against his delicate skin when he stirred, whispered of hard years and harder tasks.
Beside her, another midwife, shorter with her hair tied back in a tight knot, murmured words in a language he barely recognized. Their voices were low and clipped, carrying a rhythm of urgency and finality that left him more confused than comforted.
They passed beneath towering stone walls, where torches in iron sconces threw flickering shadows along the passage. Amid the distant echoes of their footsteps, his cries rose; a sharp, desperate sound that tore from his throat. Each sob was a testament to his fear, a raw reminder that this place was not his home.
Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden. He recalled a life before, a home of cracked walls and a dirt floor, filled with the sound of his sister's laughter before the bombs fell. Now, only cold stone and unfamiliar faces surrounded him.
His legs, wrapped in a thin blanket, felt fragile and weak. He tried to kick out, to muster strength, but his limbs betrayed him. They were too feeble, too unresponsive.
In a sudden, a memory flashes. A tall man stood over him in that first room, where the air smelled of blood. He wore dark clothes adorned with gold stitching, gloved hands that creaked with each movement. His eyes were green and cold, looking down at him like he was something broken.
The man's face didn't change; no smile, no frown, just stillness. He held him up with both hands, far from his body, then gave him back to the woman fast. The boy didn't know who he was, but those eyes stayed with him. He feels them now even though the man isn't here.
Was he one of the soldiers from his old life? The ones who shouted and took everything? His stomach tightens. He doesn't want that man near him again.
A word, hushed and reverberating in his ear, broke through his haze: "Tyrion." It was not the name he recognized from happier times for he had another, a simple name his mother had once called out in love.
But he can't hold it in his mind, it slips away, leaving him with this strange sound instead. Tyrion. It feels wrong, like it belongs to this weak body, not him. He hates it, but he can't say his real name. His voice won't work right, stuck in cries and whimpers.
The midwives turn a corner. The hall stretches long, with wooden doors on one side and more stone on the other. A gust of wind comes from somewhere brushing his face. He thinks of his mother, the one he lost.
She had dark hair, a soft voice and hands that held him when the ground shook. She's gone, crushed under stone. He wants her now, he wants her to take him from this place. But no one here feels like her. The woman holding him isn't warm and isn't kind.
He wonders about the mother of this body. Where is she? Did she leave him too? He saw a shape on the bed in that first room, still and covered, but he doesn't know what it means. His eyes sting, wet with tears he can't stop.
In that moment, he longed for the comforting presence of a father; the one who would laugh robustly and mend broken things with a strong hand, but that figure was absent. Instead, the memory of the cold, hard stranger with cold eyes lingered.
That man didn't care, he didn't hold him close. The boy's chest hurts, a deep ache. He doesn't have a father here, just a shadow from that memory, watching him with cold eyes.
He's alone now and surrounded by people who don't know him, who call him Tyrion.
His small body trembled, fighting between the urge to break free and the overwhelming fatigue that had settled over him.
A sudden warmth, faint and unexpected, seeped through his limbs, dulling the sting of pain for a moment, though it offered no solace. He pushed feebly against the woman's arm, desperate to escape and reclaim a fragment of the life he once knew. But strength was a luxury he no longer possessed.
The midwives finally stopped before a heavy wooden door. It creaked open to reveal a small room with a single wooden crib in one corner, lit by the steady glow of a solitary candle. They gently set him down on the crib, and his cries softened into quiet, trembling sobs.
He lay there, surrounded by cold stone and a thin blanket. The room was quiet, and the candlelight made the space seem small and empty. He felt the rough texture of the blanket and the cool air against his skin. His breathing became slow and uneven as fatigue settled over him.
His thoughts, simple and unformed turned to the few memories he had of warmth and care, a time when he was held close and comforted. The name "Tyrion" repeated in his ears, a name given to him by those who now cared for him.
His body grew tired, and his eyes began to close. Before sleep took him, a soft cry escaped him; a simple heartfelt word.
"Mama."
The sound was raw and unpracticed, a final expression of need before he drifted off. His eyes fluttered closed, and he fell into a quiet sleep, alone in the crib, as the room grew still and the last sounds of his cry faded away.