Pain.
It was the first sensation—raw and unexpected. Not the familiar, throbbing pain of a traitorous bullet, nor the icy sting of betrayal. No, this was something new. A suffocating vice that gripped a skull far too small, a tiny body, and an existence entirely reset.
Lelouch Lamperouge, the Demon Emperor of Britannia, the grand manipulator who had sacrificed his world to save it, was no more.
He had died—and yet, he existed still.
A strange murmur reached his ears, soft but muddled. A voice. Then another, deeper, almost a muffled growl.
Cries. And light.
Blinding, piercing light that bled through delicate, unfamiliar eyelids. He tried to open his eyes, but his new body refused—too weak, too new.
Fragmented images. Confused sensations.
The taste of blood in a tiny mouth. The sound of a frantic heartbeat—his own, or someone else's?
And that gnawing emptiness, where the Geass had once resided.
He was no longer an emperor. He was nothing but an infant—a newborn, torn from the abyss and cast into a world he did not know.
And yet, the mind.
The mind of Lelouch, untouched, sharp as ever, encased in this fragile skull. Memories vivid as scars.
Nunnally. Suzaku. C.C. Euphemia.
The war, the Black Rebellion, the sacrifices, the Zero Requiem.
It was all there.
A complete mental library, a colossal burden for a life that had only just begun.
Another wave of sensations washed over him.
Warm, gentle hands held him, rocked him.
The smell of milk. Of skin.
Then a name, whispered with infinite tenderness.
"Ragnar."
Ragnar Baratheon.
The name echoed through the chaos of his reincarnated mind.
A name heavy with resonance, with raw power—with destiny.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
He understood.
This was no dream. No postmortem hallucination.
It was a new life.
A new body.
A new world.
But which world? He had no idea.
He had been born in 279 AC, the son of Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark.
The shock of this knowledge was nearly as great as that of his rebirth.
Lyanna Stark.
An unknown name, linked to a man he did not recognize.
Apparently, this woman was his new mother.
That fact alone was enough to prove this universe was nothing like his own.
He felt the touch of a rough, bearded cheek against his own, the scent of sweat and alcohol.
The deep voice returned, now tinged with pride and intoxication:
"Look at him, Lyanna. My son. A Baratheon. He'll be Lord of Storm's End, a true stag! Stronger than all the dragons!"
Robert Baratheon.
His father.
The first image of his new progenitor was that of an imposing man, ruddy-faced, his eyes gleaming with crude but genuine joy.
Then came a gentler presence, colder, like winter's breath.
A scent of frost.
Lyanna Stark.
His mother.
She was there, at his side, her delicate hands stroking his brow.
He sensed a trace of melancholy in her grey-blue gaze—so similar to his own. A reflection of sapphire and mist.
And those long ink-black locks spilled across the pillow.
An instinct, inherited from this new form, flickered in his mind.
An innate talent for battle.
A dormant strength slumbered within him.
He could already feel it—growing, one day to rival even a certain Jaime Lannister, whose name floated through his mind without context.
His tactile psychometry—this new gift—already tingled within him, a promise of ancient knowledge, of secrets buried in stone and blood.
Targaryen magic. Stark heritage. Durrandon legacy.
All of it, latent, waiting to awaken.
Lelouch Lamperouge's destiny had been to destroy and rebuild, to manipulate and to sacrifice.
Ragnar Baratheon's fate would be to adapt and survive in this unknown world.
His sharp mind, long used to complexity, began parsing the sensations, the sounds, the faces—already constructing a mental map of this new reality, a realm whose rules he did not yet know, but would soon master.
He had no idea what challenges awaited him, nor the iconic figures he would one day encounter.
Lelouch vi Britannia was dead.
Long live Ragnar Baratheon.
The Black Wolf.
And he would carve his name into the annals of this new world.