4th Moon of 284 AC – The Red Keep, King's Landing
The screams that tore through Maegor's Holdfast were not those of a dying queen, but of one bringing forth life into a realm newly forged from the ashes of rebellion.
Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms for mere moons, gripped the carved bedpost until her knuckles shone white. Another contraction ripped through her, fierce as a lion's claw. Sweat plastered her golden hair to her brow, and in the haze of pain she cursed Robert Baratheon the drunken oaf whose seed had taken root so swiftly after their wedding, whose touch she had endured only for the alliance that bound Lannister gold to the new crown.
"Push, Your Grace!" Grand Maester Pycelle urged, voice quavering beneath his concern. "The babe is crowning!"
Midwives darted about with steaming basins and clean linens. The chamber reeked of blood, sweat, and fear. Cersei had heard tales of women who never rose from the birthing bed. She was no such woman. She was a lioness. A Lannister.
With a final, guttural cry that seemed to shudder the ancient stones, she pushed.
A new sound answered sharp, outraged, full of fury at being thrust from warmth into cold air and light.
"A boy your Grace!" a midwife gasped.
Pycelle moved swiftly, chains clinking, to take the wailing infant and examine him. Cersei fell back against the pillows, chest heaving, strands of hair dark with sweat. She should have felt triumph. She had done her duty. Given the king an heir so soon after the crown was his.
All she felt was bone-deep weariness.
"Your Grace," Pycelle said, and something in his tone made her eyes snap open. The old maester stared at the child with an unreadable expression. "Your son is healthy. Strong lungs. Strong limbs."
"Let me see him," Cersei commanded, arms trembling as she reached out.
The midwife placed the cleaned, swaddled bundle in her arms. Cersei looked down at her firstborn.
Red-faced, furious, tiny fists flailing. But it was the hair still damp, plastered to the small skull that stole her breath.
Black. Black as a raven's wing. Black as Robert's.
For a heartbeat, ice settled in her chest. Undeniable proof that she belonged to him, that his claim had taken root in her womb almost before the wedding sheets had cooled.
Then the babe opened his eyes.
Emerald green. Lannister green. They fixed on her with an uncanny intensity no newborn should possess. And despite herself, despite the resentment and the ache, something cracked open inside Cersei.
"Lyonel," she whispered, the name rising unbidden. "His name is Lyonel."
The doors burst open with the force of a storm.
Robert Baratheon strode in, still in mud-spattered hunting leathers, reeking of horse, sweat, and wine. "Where is he?" the king bellowed. "Where's my son?"
He crossed the room in three great strides. For once, the usual disappointment in his eyes when they fell on Cersei was gone replaced by raw excitement, pride, joy.
"A boy, Your Grace," Pycelle said, bowing low. "Healthy, strong, with excellent lungs."
Robert's laugh boomed off the walls. "Of course he is! He's a Baratheon!" He looked at Cersei, and she glimpsed something close to gratitude. "You've done well, wife. Let me see him."
Cersei transferred the bundle carefully. Robert cradled his son with surprising gentleness for such massive hands. He pulled back the swaddling, grinning wide.
"What shall we call him, Cersei?"
"Lyonel," she said, firm and unyielding. "After Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm."
Robert's grin stretched broader. "Lyonel. Aye. A strong name for a strong boy." He gazed down at the infant with unguarded pride. "You'll be a great warrior, won't you, lad? We'll forge you a warhammer, train you proper. Tourneys, battles, broken lances you'll win them all, break hearts, sire—"
Lyonel wailed, face scrunching in displeasure.
Robert laughed again and handed the babe back with rough care. "Here, he wants his mother. I'll have the whole city roaring by nightfall! Wine for every man, woman, and child! My son, my heir is born!" He was already striding for the door, shouting orders to attendants.
Then Cersei was alone again, save for midwives and the clinking maester, holding her black-haired son. He quieted in her arms, those too-knowing green eyes studying her face.
"You will be great," she murmured, fierce and low. "You are lion and stag both. You will have everything, my son. Everything."
Far to the west, in the high chambers of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister read the raven's message with his usual impassive calm.
A grandson. Black-haired. Healthy. Named Lyonel.
He set the parchment aside and permitted himself the faintest of smiles.
The succession was sealed in blood. The Baratheon-Lannister alliance cemented not merely by vows, but by a living heir born swift upon the marriage.
"Kevan," he called. His brother appeared at once.
"Make preparations. We ride for King's Landing for the naming ceremony. And send word to the maesters I want a full report on the child's health."
"Of course, brother."
As Kevan departed, Tywin turned to the window overlooking Lannisport.
Lyonel Baratheon, he thought. Let us see what you become, grandson. Let us see if you are worthy of the lion's blood in your veins.
In his mother's arms, amid the muffled sounds and warmth of the Red Keep, the soul that had once walked another world was still reeling.
I'm a baby. A fucking baby. In Westeros. In Game of Thrones.
Robert and Cersei's firstborn. The black-haired boy who was lost aborted, miscarried in the original timeline. The one who never existed because... I exist now.
Memories flickered: screens, books, a show watched late at night. A world of plots and betrayals and ice and fire. Now he was here, at the beginning, in a helpless infant body that could not even lift its head.
Lyonel Baratheon, he thought, tasting the name in a mind far too old for this form. Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Heir to the Iron Throne.
He felt his mother's heartbeat steady, strong. Saw her face above him, beautiful and hard and fierce. His father, the Demon of the Trident, had looked at him with pride before vanishing to drink and boast.
I know how this ends, Lyonel thought as sleep tugged at him, his tiny body demanding rest. The mistakes. The betrayals. The deaths. The war that tears it all apart.
His last conscious thought was both vow and desperate hope:
I won't let it end the same way. I won't let House Baratheon fall.