At first there was white. An endless and empty white that stretched on and on without end, outside of the limits of human perception and understanding. It was both small and vast, a waiting room built in a deserted realm beyond space and time.
Then there was a pop, and three beings stood there. They were not properly human, though they had the shape of men. They looked as if they were outlines more than living things; dark tracings of human beings that encased the inner whiteness and defined it from the outer whiteness.
And after a moment, one of them spoke. "The fuck is this?"
"Hell if I know, who the fuck are you?"
The first looked at the second, and then at the third who hadn't said a word yet. "Am I stroking out right now? Is that what this is? Like I know that I'm not a health nut, but I didn't think I'd stroke out and go into like, delusional brain death before the age of thirty." He waved an arm at their surroundings. "And I always thought that like, you know, if I did stroke out it would be more interesting than standing in a white room with nothing to do forever. That's basically living in Hell, or Purgatory at least."
"I know right, like where the fuck is Dumbledore?"
The first snorted at that. "Probably had a hot date getting slampigged by Voldemort."
"I thought Dumbledore was supposed to be in an intense sexual relationship with Grinderwald?"
"It's Grindelwald, you dumb fuck. You know, for a figment of my imagination you're not keeping up with my less than hip knowledge of pop culture, man." The first snarked, and then looked over at the still silent third. "And what the fuck is your story?"
"Instead of keeping up with pop culture I was having mind-blowing sex with your mom."
"Dude, have you seen our mom? You couldn't pay me to tap that. And also hello at Mr. Mime over there, you gonna tell me what your fucking story is or what? I can accept having a less brilliant version of me in here, but I refuse to accept that part of my unconscious mind is going to stand awkwardly in the corner not talking to my own self. That's acceptable for parties where you don't know anybody, but doing it to myself makes me wonder if I have problems."
"Dude, just ask our therapist, we have shit loads of problems."
"I don't have a therapist, fuckface."
"Wait, I thought we were unconscious parts of the same mind, who the fuck are you then?"
"First of all, if you're being serious right now you do realize you just admitted to a complete stranger who might be an eldritch abomination that you see a therapist? That's fucked up man. And second, fuck off Satan."
"Fuck you, I'm obviously the Jesus figure here, begone Demon."
"Sounds like an awfully Satan thing to say there, Lucifer."
Finally, the third being standing in the void broke his silence. "As thoroughly entertaining as your little gay flirtation is, maybe I should stop you there before you start fucking each other in front of me."
"HE SPEAKS, also fuck you, do you honestly think I'd let this fat cunt touch my asshole?"
Staring at the second for a long moment, the first let the anticipation of his response build. And then, without saying a single word, he simply turned and looked at the third.
"You escalated to talking about your asshole pretty quickly. I'm impressed by a man who knows what he's craving for."
The second stood there for a while and then shrugged.
"Is that it?" The first questioned; looking back and forth. "He's got nothing?"
"Don't you fucking start now." The third shot back with a small note of genuine impatience bleeding into his voice. "I might have the rest of eternity but I have better things to do than let you two feed on each other's retardation forever. I brought you here for a reason and I want to get to it."
"Well hot diggity oh great figment of my dying brain, tell me what great purpose do you bring before this mere mortal today?" The first snarked, folding his arms across his chest.
"Please tell me you don't want us to bring some kids to your private sex dungeon, like priests like deity."
"Maybe next time." The third leered as well as he could with no features to make a proper expression with. "But for this time, I just want you two to do me one small little favour. You can say no of course, but that means you'll be sent back to your meagre, pathetic, boring little lives."
"You sure you don't want to add a few more adjectives there? Just really drive it home how our lives are utterly beneath contempt and so forth? Also, I'll take that out. I don't make a habit of making deals with obviously Satan."
"I'm not actually giving you a choice, I just thought it might make me sound less nefarious if I did."
"It probably makes you sound more nefarious to be honest, seeing as how you're giving us a devil's bargain or whatever. At least if you outright forced us it sounds like you're just a psychopath with too much power and not like the Devil himself."
The second interrupted the first and third's tete-a-tete. "Also can you just spit out whatever the fuck you want us to do is? As fascinating as it is to watch the thick sexual tension between the two of you, it's getting kind of tedious."
"You want to go balls deep just like that?" The third shrugged. "Fine, I expect you two to go and get self-inserted in Westeros and shake things up a bit. Typical Random Omnipotentish Being here, fucking you in the ass as you'd expect. Give us a real show and keep it fresh. You don't know how tiresome it is when it's always the same story."
"Robb Stark!"
"I haven't even given you your options yet."
"Yeah but I'm calling dibs on my main man. Fuck the rest of those weak-chinned retards."
"Fuck it, hit me with the non-Robb options, and preferably the non-Stark options as well, I don't want to have to be this cunt's father or brother or whatever."
The first turned to the second and pressed a hand to his heart. "You don't want to be my family member? But I thought we had a connection bro, a real bond forged by being summoned by totally-not-Satan-he-promises."
"I mean, didn't you call me a dumb fuck, and Satan to boot?"
"That's just banter. Are you telling me you can't handle it? Who are you, Jon Snow?"
"Speaking of which." The ROB cut in, snapping his fingers as he pushed the conversation back on track. "Jon Snow is an option. You want to be Jon Snow?"
"Oh yeah, that's just what I want to do with my life, simp for Widlings and Targaryens. Who knows, maybe Daenerys has an OnlyFans account."
"She is your Queen. You dun wan it and you need allies." The first whispered with false reverence.
"MUH KWEEEEEEEN." The second shouted in mock devotion.
"Well if you don't want to be Jon Snow, you could always be SweetRobin."
"What the fuck? SweetRobin? What the hell would I even do as SweetRobin, I wouldn't even reach adulthood until half a decade after all the cool shit is done and over with. What am I supposed to do, sit around and suckle on my mom's tits and have seizures?"
The first laughed. "What, you don't like it? But think of the sour titty milk you're missing out on man."
"Alright, how about Daenerys?"
"Gay." They both chorused simultaneously.
The ROB tilted his featureless head to the side, studying the two. "Well I can't say I wasn't expecting that from the likes of you two. I did pick you for a reason… Anyway, why don't you go and become the Black Prince you always wanted to be? Robert and Cersei's firstborn and only trueborn son. You can't go wrong with that, eh?"
"But wouldn't that butterfly the War of the Five Kings away? Where's the fun in that?"
"Just because you avoid one plotline doesn't mean you'll avoid them all, you're not that intelligent."
"Sick burn." The first patted the second's back in mock sympathy.
"I don't think it takes a lot of intelligence to be a better heir to the throne than Joffrey, I'm pretty sure my special needs cousin could do a better job."
"I'm fairly certain a nutless monkey could do a better job." The ROB allowed. "Believe me, I've seen it. The novelty wore off after a while but that was good times."
"Did Illyn Payne look to him for the order to chop off Neddy boy's head and Joffrey just went OOH OOH OOH?"
The first threw back his head and howled with laughter.
"I'll not get into it, but there was shitflinging involved. Now enough, I'm not here to justify it. Black Prince take it or leave it. Entertain me or burn in hell."
"What are my other options first, don't want to take the whole King's Landing clusterfuck when I could get a better deal."
"Hoster Tully."
"What am I supposed to do lie in my bed and die?"
"Oh, oh!" The first snapped his fingers. "How about Mance Rayder."
"I'll allow it."
"Ah, you want me to conquer your Kingdom and give your sisters to Tormund's sons?"
"I'd like to see you try. Imagine being a Wildling. Your balls are always covered in scabies and ticks and flies and maggots - just unspeakable pain. Every step you take is a pain as your junk feels like it's got rusty razor wire digging into it. You will die of the cold by age 25. Your clan has never heard of a bath. You can smell their stinky sour asses from 50 yards and it scares off the game. Eventually, a happy Septon comes to teach you about ball salve but you kill him out of spite because all you know is pain and hate."
.
"Sorry I couldn't hear you over the mind-blowing sex I was having with your mom Catelyn while Ned watches, keep coping Stark boy."
"I'd believe that if you were Mance Rayder whose secret identity was Arthur Dayne."
"Next you're going to tell me that Tormund is Gerold Hightower, what are you a Greenhand fan? Are you going to start talking about how Shae is Sarella Sand and how Oberyn raped his own daughter?"
"Okay." The ROB declared in a vaguely disturbed tone. "You two are something else. Anyway, let's not get any further down the rabbit hole. Quentyn Martell is a choice."
"Oh, oh, oh, can I ask for something in particular?" the second one asked, and without waiting for an answer he barrelled onward. "Alright, hear me out here, I want to be Draco Baratheon, the bastard son of Renly Baratheon and Ashara Dayne. I went to Astapor to train with the Unsullied, and then became the best shadowbinder in Asshai. I went to Valyria and obtained House Lannister's ancient Valyrian steel sword Brightroar, and returned to Westeros to avenge my father's death. I'm slim but my muscles are stronk and I can be stronger than the Mountain if I wanted to." The second finished stopping to finally catch a breath.
Silence hung in the air for a long painful moment. Much cringe was had.
"So I'm just going to assume you want to be Quentyn Martell."
"And have Arianne as a sister? Hell no. Besides, I'd rather not become dragon food."
"What's wrong with Quentyn man? You get up in the morning to go to breakfast, make your way past the long lineup of fuckboys waiting outside her bedroom, but it's all good man. Dornish love, Dornish life." The first piped up.
"Free love duuuuuuuuude" the second added.
"Then how about Stannis Baratheon's eldest trueborn son?"
"Isn't that just the same thing as Robert's son except exponentially less useful and with a side helping of constant exposure to a complete asshole?"
"Stannis is the Mannis but I'd rather not try to get him to undergo a book series' worth of character development for my entire childhood."
"Victarion Greyjoy then."
"Isn't that just asking for micro dick syndrome?"
"Not to mention he'd be cucked by at least one of his brothers."
"Then how about you try being one of Craster's sons?"
"Is this legendary difficulty hardcore nightmare mode? Not to mention being more inbred than an Alabaman."
"How could he possibly even survive? Unless he's Gilly's son he's basically killed the day after birth. And even if he is, doesn't Melisandre just burn him alive anyway?"
"Joffrey is a pretty common choice, how about that?"
"So basically just the Black Prince, but inbred and illegitimate, and just all together inferior all around?"
"Well you did bring up the thought of increasing the difficulty. Can't blame the ROB for following along."
"Just so." The ROB agreed easily. "More difficulty means more entertainment from my angle. How about Areo Hotah?"
"The Camera that Rides, besides I'd have no real political power. Plus I'd have to play clean up for the Martells all day every day, talk about a doomer lifestyle."
"Hey man, you could always just go YOLO. Pick up Doran and yeet that cripple over the balcony. Live it bright. At least you're not one of the Sand Snakes"
"I was going to offer that, but seeing as the two of you are possessed by an overwhelming hatred for Dorne I'll just go further afield."
"Fuck it, I'll just go with the Black Prince option, since this prick took Robb Stark, there are no real options."
"Yeah, like there's not really any good options. I took the Starks. Who wants to be a wildling? Who wants to be a Martell or a Tyrell? Who would ever want to be a Greyjoy? Sweetrobin is a joke. All the Baratheon options are just inferior versions of the Black Prince. The only real options are like, Jon Snow and Young Griff."
"And who the hell would want to put the godless sister fuckers back in power, screw that noise."
"I wouldn't mind a Targaryen Restoration actually. Incest is wincest."
"Hush you degenerate wolf fucker" the ROB said. "He finally made a choice. Don't ruin this for me or I'll give you a super micro dick. And I'll make you super gay. So unless you want to get fucked by some wilding beefcake while your tiny cock flops around, Black Prince it is."
"So if I behave, can I have some CHAD tall man big dick Stark genes? Ned's a cool guy but he's shorter than I'd want to be. I want to be like Brandon fucking all the bitches."
"Fine, whatever."
"Yay!"
"So you want to be Brandon's bastard masquerading as Ned's trueborn heir?"
"Uh, no. Ned is Brandon's brother. No reason why I can't get those genes honestly without my mother being a slut."
"Since you guys brought up before, I could go with the Greenhand theory and make you Littlefinger's seed."
"No I'm good, thanks. The eternal butthurt of Jonstans is more enjoyable than the drama that would cause. Anyway, what's next?" The first pushed, determined not to get eternally fucked over.
"Next you select your cheat codes."
"Cheat codes?" The second asked dumbly.
"I assume he means like special powers and not like, console commands."
"Aww man, so I can't give myself infinite gold to settle all those debts?"
"The sheer hyperinflation calamity that would generate would almost make enabling that worth it, but he's right. I'm just looking to give you two an edge so you don't get knocked out of the game too early."
"Well, yeah, can you imagine this guy being able to pull off what Robb did in canon, fucking Jaime would outmaneuver him."
"I'm pretty sure that wouldn't happen simply because I already know exactly how that happened, so unless I'm a complete retard I could recreate it. And since Jaime is a crayon eater it would almost certainly work just the same."
"Oh, that guy was stealing glue from the Maester's chambers to chug down no question about it."
"Powers!" The ROB practically shouted, clapping his hands together forcefully. "Make 'em bloodline based, and pick em quick and then get the fuck out of my hair already. I got a hot date to get to."
"Are you going to slampig Hera, how did the divorce with Zeus go?
"I'm just going to pretend that the possibility of a theoretically omnipotent being getting it on never crossed my mind. There is way too much to unpack about what that implies about metaphysics." The first rubbed at his forehead. "Whatever. I'll be Robb the Builder then. Give me some super duper Brandon the Builder level of mega engineering prowess. Westeros might even be worth living in by the time I'm done with it."
"Anyway, as for my power, can I have the ability to grow six cocks and twelve balls, that seems like a very Baratheon thing to do."
"A Stark Builder and a Mega Cock Baratheon it is then. Well, off you go." The ROB declared, snapping his fingers. The white space began to rumble and fill with rainbow light.
"Wait I change my mind, give me some Demon of the Trident super warrior prowess instead!"
"Bye, bye now."
"So did he get the Warrior skills or the horsecock?"
He didn't believe in reincarnation in his first life, but he sure as hell believed in it now.
He had been sitting in his living room, enjoying a nice cup o' ramen, when suddenly he had been magically kidnapped by some random omnipotent being and given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be reborn as an infant in the medieval hellhole known as Westeros.
That he was the Baratheon Crown Prince set to inherit said hellhole was simply the rotten cherry on top of the shit pie as far as he was concerned.
If he'd had a real choice of which Westerosi prince he was going to be inserted into, he would've chosen Baelor Breakspear. It wouldn't have even been a question, since Baelor had the rare combination of a competent father, a competent younger brother to help him out, and a son who seemed like he was also going to be competent. As long as he crushed the Blackfyres and avoided getting maced by his own brother, living as Baelor would have been pretty smooth sailing.
Instead he got Bobby B as a father, Cersei as a mother, and three golden inbreds as younger siblings. Robert was a drunk wifebeater, and Cersei was a brotherfucking lunatic. Tommen and Myrcella were supposedly sweet kids, but Tommen didn't seem to be a bastion of competence, and Joffrey was Joffrey. Getting one allegedly useful younger sister wasn't worth the sheer amount of clusterfuck the rest were going to be.
That he picked that clusterfuck said a lot about the rest of the options he'd been offered by ROB.
Behold Prince Lyonel Baratheon, the firstborn (and only trueborn) son of King Robert the Thoroughly Cuckolded.
The upside to the situation Lyonel was that Stannis, Renly, Tyrion, and Jaime were his uncles. The downside was that Stannis, Renly, Tyrion, and Jaime were his uncles. He'd always been a fan of those characters, but even he - an unashamed House Baratheon simp - had to admit that they were all massive assholes.
Stannis had a nasty habit of burning people alive. Granted they were criminals, but he was pretty sure burning someone alive was not an ethical method of execution. Also, the whole cutting off Davos' fingers thing was not kosher.
Renly on the other hand didn't burn people alive. Instead he just unashamedly usurped his brother and planned to kill said brother, all the while calling Shireen an ugly gargoyle and a bastard child.
Jaime was a complete cockholster before he went through his character development arc. Cucking the king despite bitching about how no one ever thought he was honourable. Throwing Brandon Stark out the window because he got caught porking his sister. Going ape wild and trying to kill Ned when Tyrion got taken hostage. Was it any wonder everybody hated him?
And the less said about Tyrion "I raped a slave girl in a brothel and threatened to beat and rape my nephew" Lannister the better.
Since his rebirth, Lyonel hadn't had much contact with his new dad's side of the family, beyond Renly and Stannis coming to look at him in his crib once or twice. He saw Jaime and Tyrion much more often. Tyrion gave him new toys every now and then. As for Jaime… Lyonel got the sense that the Kingslayer didn't like him very much, but didn't necessarily dislike him either.
Which was about what Lyonel had expected. Given that he wasn't his son Jaime definitely wasn't going to like him very much, but he hadn't really done anything to make him hate his guts either.
Speaking of Jaime and his habit of cucking his dad; Cersei had just gone into labor. He was soon to be the not-so-proud half-brother of Joffrey 'lemme just torture innocents for the laughs' Baratheon. He wondered how having an older, more competent brother would change Joffrey's personality.
Contrary to what most fanfic writers assumed, Joffrey was not a static character. Being a second son with something to prove was probably going to change his personality at least partially if not completely.
Hell, Lyonel wouldn't be surprised if this Joffrey ended up as Jaime Junior instead of Aerys 2.0. He was of the belief that Joffrey's wonderful personality was a result of both bad parenting and the incest, so he was probably going to be odd even if Lyonel made a serious effort to turn Joffrey into a real human being.
Not everything about canon was in his power to derail.
When he had been SI'd into this kid, he'd wondered if any other aspects of this world were noncanon. Lyonel Baratheon didn't exist in the original story after all, so it wasn't impossible for there to be other changes to the backstory.
Luckily for him, or perhaps unluckily given the post-Robert shitshow; this world so far seemed to be completely faithful to the books. The Crown Prince who shouldn't exist notwithstanding.
Robert was still a drunkard and a whoremonger who was on his way to becoming a fat piece of shit. Varys was the Master of Whisperers already. Littlefinger wasn't Master of Coin yet, but the man was surely making his way up the ladder. Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King, Elia and her children were still dead. Cersei and Jaime were probably fucking, and he would get confirmation of that once Joffrey came screaming into the world. Renly had been named Lord of Storm's End while Stannis was the Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships.
At least his foreknowledge of the plot was going to be useful.
Lyonel wasn't able to really do anything yet, seeing as he was a two-year-old. The only thing he was really doing these days was trying to act like a dumbass genuine two-year-old kid and not the seventeen-year-old in a two-year-old's body that he actually was. He wasn't cruising to get a reputation as an overly precocious demon child after all.
Praise the Seven.
Being a two-year-old didn't mean that he didn't have any plans though. Lyonel had all the time in the world to make some plans considering his extremely demanding schedule of eat, sleep, shit, and respond when some adult wanted him to do baby things.
And so plan he did.
While he hadn't been much of a technology nerd in his first life, Lyonel had come up with a few general ideas for uplift and development. He doubted he was going to be coming up with any super inventions from scratch, but he at least knew enough to invest in good ideas when they came along.
The whole 'Robb the Builder' thing the other dude would have going on would really get things rolling once they established contact.
Lyonel had also settled on some political goals, like finding a way to make sure that King's Landing was no longer dependent on the other Kingdoms for food.
In the books the Tyrells had managed to starve King's Landing by cutting off the supplies of food moving down the Roseroad. Then the Tyrells had managed to leverage their food supplies to make Margaery very popular in the streets of King's Landing. This was a pretty glaring weakness, even if his birth likely would butterfly the War of the Five Kings away.
Also fuck the Tyrells, at every opportunity possible.
Lyonel had also decided to go with a common trope and clean up the sewage system around the capital. It wasn't the most inspired idea, but the city's smell was already unbearable and he wanted to have a working nose by the end of his life.
Improving places like Flea Bottom would require a more delicate touch. He didn't want all of Flea Bottom to become homeless wretches, or worse; have the city rise up against his rule.
He was also planning to beef up the royal fleet. His uncle Stanny the Manny had done a pretty good job of making the Royal Fleet a moderate threat to anyone hoping to invade the Crownlands by sea. But a 'moderate threat' wasn't enough since the Redwyne Fleet and Iron Fleet could still smash it under most circumstances. A King shouldn't be weaker than his vassals.
Lyonel was going to aim for collecting valuable people too. Once Balon decided to be a moron and rebel he was planning to try and influence things so that Robert brought Theon and Asha back to King's Landing. This would allow him to influence the future heirs of the Iron Islands and get them to introduce reforms to the Iron islands. Besides, having two hostages was always a good idea.
Another idea was to create a sort of "Princeguard". It wouldn't be as prestigious as the genuine Kingsguard, but it would still be pretty useful. He could use it to get various nobles in his debt, enjoy some free muscle, and ideally prevent himself from getting murderified.
God knew he couldn't trust his father's Kingsguard to find their own assholes with both hands. Barristan was a closeted Targaryen loyalist. Jaime was actively cucking Robert and would wage a war for Cersei's cunt. Arys Oakheart had an unacceptable weakness for Dornish thots. Greenfield and Blount were Cersei's spies and incompetent to boot. Moore was also a spy, but an actually dangerous one.
He also needed to find out how to make sure that Renly and Stannis don't rebel, that Jon Arryn doesn't get poisoned, and that the Starks and Lannisters don't kill each other. Oh, and that Young Griff and Daenerys didn't have an easy time invading his kingdom. All small stuff to be sure. No sweat.
Due to the butterfly effect that Lyonel's birth had caused, it was unlikely that Stannis would ever get suspicious when it comes to the Twincest. Or if he did, at least Stannis would only assume adultery and not cuckoldry given that Lyonel is obviously trueborn.
Meaning that the biggest potential threats to his future reign were Littlefinger, Varys, Young Griff, Daenerys, various Greyjoys, and Renly if the ponce decides that he'd make a better king.
Of course, it was unlikely that he'd ever need to worry about any invasions or rebellions if Varys or Littlefinger decided that Joffrey being the heir would serve their plans better. Either one of them could have him disposed of.
Varys would want to use Joffrey's parentage to destabilize the realm once Young Griff was 'ready', and Littlefinger just loved to fuck shit up. Even if his birth would ensure Jon Arryn and Stannis didn't find out about Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen being of Jaime's seed, it was unlikely that seemingly all-knowing schemers like Littlefinger and Varys wouldn't suspect it and make use of it.
No amount of looking like Robert's clone would save him from a game of 'one of these things is not like the others'.
That said, Lyonel did inherit a few Lannister traits from his mother. His black hair was curly instead of straight like Robert's. He also inherited his mom's emerald green eyes. The similarity could help fortify his bastard siblings' legitimacy if questions started being asked.
It also made Lyonel wonder how strong the Baratheon seed actually was if being trueborn just meant he looked like a blackhaired Lannister. He had considered the possibility that he was actually the seed of some non-Baratheon black-haired lover, but he dismissed that after he overheard Cersei talking with Jaime. She referred to him as Robert's son, and she would be the one that actually knew.
Also, the ROB had outright said that he would be Robert and Cersei's firstborn son. So that was that.
The strangeness of his Lannitheon features notwithstanding, his Lannister features would serve him well. Cersei was a total narcissist who saw her loved ones as extensions of herself. That's probably why she stopped loving Jaime when he lost his hand in canon, since he no longer matched as the mirror image of herself. Lyonel having some Lannister features would allow his fucked up mother to love him in her own twisted way despite who his father was.
Jaime broke him out of his musings when he poked him on his forehead.
"Lost in your head, nephew?"
He gave his Prince Charming from Shrek knockoff of an uncle an annoyed look. "Mommy okay?"
God this baby talk sucked.
"Your mother has given birth to a healthy boy she named Joffrey. She sent me to fetch you. Your father is also returning from his hunt and she wants her husband and son to come and see the latest addition to the royal family together."
"Take me to mommy!"
Jaime merely nodded and scooped Lyonel up. The pale steel of his uncle's Kingsguard armor was cold against his cheek, and the prince swallowed the embarrassment of being carried around when he was mentally a grown-ass teenager.
On their way to his mother's chambers, they came across his illustrious drunkard of a father and Ser Barry the Waffler; who were also presumably on their way to go and see Cersei after abandoning her for the day.
Robert reached out and ruffled his son's curly black hair, and the boy gave a bright cheeky smile in response.
Lyonel made sure to do fluffy kiddy shit like that to keep people from getting suspicious about his true nature and accusing him of being possessed by demons. Stannis might have a hardon for human barbeque but Lyonel didn't, especially if he was going to be the prime roast.
Praise the Seven.
"You on your way to see her as well, boy?"
He merely nodded in response.
"Let's go and see her together then lad."
And so the four continued on their way. Robert was probably thinking of having a new black-haired son to spoil, Jaime was probably seething at Robert's intrusion, Barristan was likely thinking something stupid about honor, and Lyonel himself was just tired of it all.
Once they arrived Robert knocked on the door with one meaty fist. In short, they were let into the room by a midwife. Cersei was lying on the bed looking exhausted with a newborn golden-haired Joffrey cradled in her arms.
What followed was some wholesome shit where everybody pretended they actually liked each other.
'We almost feel like a real family' Lyonel thought, 'The father, mother, sons, and the baby daddy.'
Crimson leaves rustled softly as the warm summer breeze rolled over Winterfell's godswood. In any other place it would be a happy thing, bringing warmth and life to Westeros' distant chilly North. But here, in the place where the Starks of old believed they could find their gods; it only added to the heavyweight of ages that Robb could feel bearing down on him.
The face carved in the weirwood stared down at him, wise and sad and knowing. Robb doubted that there was truly a god in the truly looking back at him, but there was still a sense of old majesty about it. Part of it was that he knew objectively there was real power in the godswood, and part of it was simply his own nature. Even in his previous life he'd always felt a certain pull of the numinous in sacred places.
Visiting the sept of his lady mother was a less intense experience, but Robb could feel the pull there as well. How long had he spent in his first life thinking on the nature of God and gods, wondering if there was more to existence than what he could see with mortal eyes? He'd hoped for a God, yearning but doubting.
Arguably he'd met one now. It embarrassed Robb to look back on it. There were so many questions he would have preferred to ask, questions about life and death and what exactly a supposedly random supposedly omnipotent being was doing plucking people out of their lives and throwing them into stories they'd thought were a fiction.
But he'd wasted his time, utterly convinced it was all a delusion of his own dying mind, a stupid game to play until the last grains in his hourglass ran out. Maybe Robb would have another chance to ask about it all, ask if there really was a Further Up and Further In, or if it was all just a great joke written by higher planars.
Or maybe not. Maybe this was all there would ever be.
"Asking questions of the Gods again, son?" Ned Stark called out as he approached from around the edge of the black pool. The Lord of Winterfell had a pensive expression on his long stern face as he considered Robb and the weirwood face his heir sat beneath.
The man was probably disquieted again, as both he and Catelyn found Robb's behaviour sometimes deeply concerning. They'd even started to ask questions about it all. Which wasn't something that the reincarnated boy could blame them for, even if it meant he needed to step in and control the narrative earlier than he'd planned.
Robb knew that while he'd done his best to appear to be just a normal young boy, he couldn't quite pull it off. He had been nearing thirty before he was thrown into an infant's body, and no amount of playacting could fully conceal that. He was too quiet, too smart, and too quick for a proper boy of his age. That all could have been ignored as simple prodigal genius, but even a genius boy wouldn't be so intensely interested in septs and godswoods.
If Robb hadn't decided to lean into that image and make use of it, he'd be genuinely worried about it. As it was, he knew exactly how to handle things and where to start the grand charade.
Right here, right now, let it begin.
Sometimes it was better to tread softly, to be careful and beat around the and approach a problem from the side. At other times it was best to just go for the throat and gamble it all on a frontal assault. This was one of those times, and so with a quiet sigh Robb lifted his chin to look Eddard Stark in the face and asked the question that couldn't be taken back.
"Father, when are you going to tell Mother that Jon is your sister's son?"
Ned's face went sickly white, and with an almost crazed glint to his eyes lunged at his heir. "Robb, where did you hear this?" he hissed with fevered desperation, his hands gripping Robb's biceps with bruising force. "Who told you?"
It took a lot out of him not to wince at the pain in his arms; seeing as how while he had a grown man's mind Robb's body was still only that of a four year old boy. Even so, he preserved, and with a slow blink declared "I saw it in the Green."
"What?" The sheer confusion that Robb's bizarre statement caused was enough to break Ned's protective panicked fury. The Lord of Winterfell had spent so long being afraid of the consequences of harbouring a secret Targaryen that being confronted with the secret had him entirely off-balance. "What are you talking about?"
The look Robb offered was a carefully manufactured mixture of tired and determined, as if he were aged well before his time by things no boy was meant to see. "I saw it in the Green, in my dreams, in the trees. And when I asked, They told me more, about what happened, and what will happen."
Eddard reared back, releasing Robb's arms as if the boy had turned to live coals in his hands. The white pallor of his face had regained some colour, but the glint in his gaze was wilder than ever. The man had been raised by Jon Arryn in the Vale, but he'd been born in the North and knew the stories as well as any Northman. Robb's words were a Declaration, a claim to power that existed only in ancient legends.
Greenseer.
Ned licked his lips, studying the cool blue eyes of his son before he asked in a voice that was barely a whisper. "What did you see?"
"I saw Grandfather, hanging and burning. I saw Uncle Brandon, tied down and reaching for a sword. I saw King Robert look at the smashed little children in the red and call them dragonspawn. I saw Aunt Lyanna in a bed of blood and roses, and I saw you promise. I saw you take her baby and name him Jon."
Every word made Ned look more and more ill, until it seemed like all the life had bled from him and he was little more than a wax statue.
It pained him to refer directly to most of Ned's deepest traumas, but Robb needed to do it. He only had one shot in convincing his father that he had legitimate green dreams and could see the past and future. If he failed then he failed forever, and the surest way to success was to hammer at the emotional appeal.
A frigid silence stretched between them, drawn tight like a string about to snap. It seemed as if the entire godswood was paying witness to the exchange between the Warden of the North and his ersatz son. Even the wind had fallen silent.
Fresh sap dripped from the eyes of the weirwood face, long tracks of shining wet ruby. A crow shrieked in the distance, croaking a lonely call without an answer. The Gods were watching.
Ned swallowed dryly.
"What else did you see?"