The very first breath Ragnar Baratheon drew was not the gasp of a newborn, but the sharp, analytical inhalation of Lelouch Lamperouge.
Consciousness snapped back, agonizingly clear, within a body that felt alien, utterly powerless. He was alive, yes, but reduced to the most vulnerable of states. The raw indignity of it, for a man who had commanded armies, manipulated empires, and orchestrated his own demise, was profound. His mind, however, remained untouched, a vast library of memories, strategies, and regrets. Nunnally, Suzaku, C.C.—the faces of his past flickered, an acute phantom limb of loss in this unfamiliar, archaic world. He was alone, utterly and completely, once more.
His first months were a grueling exercise in recalibration. The world was a blur of towering giants, their voices booming or whispering, their scents distinct. He processed the subtle shifts in light, the rhythmic sounds of the castle, the constant chill that seemed to permeate the massive stone walls of Storm's End even in summer. This stronghold was a stark contrast to the gleaming, technologically advanced metropolises of Britannia, the precision-engineered Knightmare Frames, or even the sprawling, organized slums of Area 11. Westeros felt... raw. Untamed. A world still governed by brute force and ancient rites rather than scientific precision and sophisticated governance.
The pervasive smell of woodsmoke and damp stone replaced the antiseptic scent of laboratories or the metallic tang of battle.
Every gurgle, every cry, every mimicry of typical infant sounds, was a conscious effort to conceal the calculating mind beneath. He quickly recognized the initial hurdle: not intelligence, but information. He knew nothing of this land, its history, its factions, its true power players. His mind craved data, yet his body could only absorb it through the most basic of senses.
By five months, when other babes merely flailed, Ragnar was crawling with purpose. While outwardly perceived as "precocious energy," a "strong little stag," his movements were anything but random.
He systematically charted the castle's interior, each crawl a deliberate reconnaissance mission. He'd meticulously observe guard rotations from the nursery window, his tiny head turning with feigned curiosity. From the floor, he could spot minute details: scuff marks leading to kitchen pantries, indicating heavy foot traffic, or the subtle changes in the acoustics of rooms, allowing him to discern the number of people present or the types of conversations taking place. He mentally mapped escape routes from every room, identified blind spots in guard patrols, and even began to categorize the castle staff by their routines and likely loyalties.
It was around seven months that he achieved his next milestone: walking and his first single words. He didn't just toddle; he walked with an unusual steadiness for his age, surprising his parents. His first utterances were not random sounds, but clearly formed, simple words like "Mama," "Papa," "Up," "Mine." These were delivered with a startling clarity that caused much joyful exclamations from his family. Publicly, it was hailed as a miracle, proof he was "blessed by the Seven." Internally, Lelouch felt a flicker of triumph, quickly suppressed. He immediately began cultivating a "childish" manner of communication, ensuring his true intellect remained veiled. He would consciously limit his vocabulary to what was expected of a child, using simple phrasing and innocent questions, even as his internal monologue ran circuits around the adults. He was still years away from the "childish fluency" he'd project at two, but the groundwork was being laid.
He wasn't merely speaking; he was probing. He'd "lose" wooden blocks near office doors, his tiny form a convenient excuse to linger and eavesdrop on hushed conversations about grain yields, border disputes with minor lords, or complaints about the Mad King in King's Landing. He even picked up rudimentary information about the Targaryen dynasty, bits of history that, while lacking full context, began to form a nascent timeline in his mind.
He noticed the subtle shift in the household's accounting, quickly calculating food supplies and identifying patterns of pilfering amongst certain servants. Sometimes, in a well-timed "tantrum," he'd "accidentally" spill juice on a letter laid carelessly aside, gaining a fleeting glimpse of its contents before it was whisked away. Every interaction, every perceived accident, was a meticulously planned intel-gathering operation.
His analysis of his new parents grew increasingly detailed. Robert Baratheon was a loud, boisterous, often drunken presence, yet his love for Ragnar was undeniably fierce and genuine. Unlike Charles vi Britannia, who had viewed Lelouch as a pawn, Robert saw his son as a continuation of his own strength, a future Lord who would embody the Baratheon might.
This raw, unfiltered affection was bewildering to Lelouch, accustomed to calculating, conditional love. It created a strange, unfamiliar warmth that he regarded with wary curiosity. Robert's strength was purely physical, a blunt instrument compared to the technological precision and strategic depth of Britannia's military. He would often watch Robert feast, consuming vast quantities of food and ale, and internally marvel at the sheer inefficiency of it all, a stark contrast to the meticulously managed resources of a Britannian campaign.
Lyanna Stark, however, was a different enigma. She moved with a silent grace, her eyes often holding a deep, almost melancholic solitude that Lelouch recognized. She was gentle with him, singing him ancient, sorrowful lullabies of a harsh northern land. Yet, beneath that gentleness was a core of iron. Ragnar observed her quiet moments, sometimes catching the subtle clenching of her jaw or the flicker of defiance in her eyes when Robert's boisterousness became too much.
It was a subtle 'tell' he'd add to his internal database, a sign of her inner struggle. She taught him rudimentary things, not just baby games, but the names of birds, the types of trees, the constellations – knowledge she clearly cherished. Unlike Marianne, who had used him as a tool for her own ambitions, Lyanna's love felt simple, unburdened by ulterior motives. This difference was disquieting. Lelouch was programmed for manipulation and distrust; Lyanna's genuine, unassuming affection was an alien concept, a vulnerability he hadn't prepared for. He tried to remain detached, ever the strategist, but there were moments, especially during her lullabies, when her pure, unadulterated devotion would pierce his defenses, stirring a forgotten ache for unconditional love he hadn't felt since Nunnally. He knew the pain of losing everyone he loved; the thought of growing attached here was a terrifying prospect. He was still alone, even surrounded by this new family.
---------------------------------------------------------
(Ragnar Baratheon, Age 1)
The clash of steel echoed through the yard. From his perch on a nursemaid's hip, Ragnar tracked Lyanna's movements—a whirlwind of grey wool and dark braids. Her practice sword flashed as she disarmed the master-at-arms, her laughter sharp as Winterfell's winds.
Observation: "Her footwork's improved. Adjusted center of gravity after last week's stumble. Still overextends on the lunge—vulnerable to a feint. The skill is impressive for this era, this lack of organized training. She fights with instinct, like a wild animal, not a trained soldier. A sharp contrast to the cold, calculated efficiency of Suzaku, who could likely dismantle a dozen of these crude swordsmen with ease without using hi knightframe.
The fighters here, even the 'knights' of the Stormlands, are powerful, yes, but lack the tactical discipline and adaptability of Britannia's Special Forces or the precision of my own Black Knights. They rely on brute strength and courage, not on grand strategy or technological superiority. This world's combat is… primitive."
He squirmed. "Down! Ragnar fight!" he exclaimed, his words clear but with the simple syntax of a one-year-old.
The nursemaid chuckled, patting his head. "One day, little lord. For now, watch your lady mother."
Internal Dissonance: If I had a Knightmare Frame, I'd end this farce in three moves. Instead, I'm trapped in flesh that can't even grip a dagger. The thought alone was infuriating. To have the mind, the plans, the foresight, but be utterly incapable of executing them due to the limitations of this infant body.
His days became a blend of performance and clandestine work.
Mornings began with "babbling" to the birds outside his window, his tiny fingers pointing at the sky – in reality, he was decoding raven patterns, learning their flight paths and frequencies, gathering data on the castle's communication habits. His finger-painting "scribbles" weren't random; they were intricate, if abstract, mapping grain supply routes on the parchment, simulating potential war scenarios, testing hypothetical tactical maneuvers against invisible enemies. He might use wooden knights, arranging them in complex formations, muttering "boom, boom" to simulate a battle, while internally calculating supply lines, troop movements, and the most efficient siege strategies.
Midday found him "playing hide-and-seek" in the castle's library or his father's study. His "innocent" curiosity led him to overturned scrolls and tax ledgers, which he devoured, quickly grasping the rudimentary economic structure of this realm. He understood the concept of feudal tribute, land ownership, and the crucial role of harvests.
"Naptime" was not for rest; his sharpened hearing, honed in the confines of his cradle, allowed him to listen to guards gossip through vents, piecing together fragments of information about local squabbles, harvest rumors, minor complaints about the current King's growing madness since a event known as the Defiance of duskendale, and even the occasional bit of scandalous court gossip, all forming part of his growing intelligence network.
Evenings and bedtime stories were opportunities for more subtle probing. "War… stories… North? Knights?" he would "ask," with the limited vocabulary of his age, learning from Robert and Lyanna about the history of conflicts, the legendary figures, the strengths and weaknesses of different regions.
He compared the noble, often self-sacrificing, ideals of these Westerosi knights to the highly trained, but often morally ambiguous, elite forces of Britannia. Suzaku, for all his strength and skill, fought for a twisted ideal within a corrupt system.
Here, the ideals seemed simpler, more brutal, yet perhaps more honest.
As his first year concluded, Ragnar Baratheon was externally a healthy, boisterous, incredibly bright toddler, adored by his parents. Internally, Lelouch Lamperouge was a master strategist, a living supercomputer tirelessly analyzing his new environment, constantly improving his communication and motor skills to meet his internal demands.
he understood the fundamental lack of technological advancement, the feudal societal structure, and the raw, often brutal, nature of power in this world. He knew he was alone, surrounded by strangers, yet the strange, genuine affection of his mother was a variable he hadn't accounted for, a delicate thread that might, one day, tie him to this new life.
The path ahead was unknown, but his mind, sharper than any blade in Westeros, was ready. He would not repeat his past mistakes.