Lyonel's first year was a prison of flesh and silence.
He could think in full, complex sentences plot, remember, plan but his body refused to obey. Limbs flailed uselessly, hands grasped at nothing, and every attempt at speech dissolved into gurgling cries. It was a special hell: to know the Red Wedding, the dragons, the Long Night, and be unable to whisper a single warning.
Still, he watched. He listened. He learned.
Cersei was almost always there. She held him longer than duty demanded, cradled him against her chest while she paced the nursery or sat by the window overlooking Blackwater Bay.
"You will be great," she whispered again and again, fingers threading through his thick black hair. "Greater than every king who ever sat the throne. The greatest of them all, my precious son."
Lyonel would gurgle in reply the only sound he could make and Cersei's face would soften into a rare, genuine smile. Hearing her words, feeling her warmth, he knew with absolute certainty: his mother loved him. Truly. Fiercely. And that knowledge filled him with a joy he had not expected to feel in this life.
Robert appeared only in flashes. The king would stagger into the nursery reeking of wine and horse, bellow about what a fine, strong boy Lyonel was, how he'd grow into a warrior to make the realm tremble. Then he would leave again off to hunt, feast or fuck another whore. Lyonel felt no loss. He needed nothing from the man.
It was Jaime who surprised him most.
His uncle visited often. Sometimes he stood guard outside the nursery door in his white cloak, golden hair catching the torchlight. Sometimes he stepped inside when Cersei was present, lingering just long enough to exchange quiet words with her, to brush a hand against hers when he passed her a goblet or a blanket. The careful distance they kept in public was almost painful to watch, but Lyonel saw the truth in Jaime's eyes whenever they rested on the boy.
In another life, Jaime Lannister had been his favorite character the flawed, beautiful, sarcastic knight who did the right thing in the worst way and paid for it forever. Here, Jaime was simply… there. When Robert was gone, Jaime remained. And every time those green eyes met Lyonel's, something warm and unspoken passed between them.
286 AC
By his second year, Lyonel had wrested enough control over his body to walk wobbly at first, then steadier and to shape simple words. He was careful. A child speaking full sentences at one would draw dangerous curiosity. A boy merely bright for his age was safer.
One morning he reached up for Cersei, voice clear and deliberate.
"Mama."
Her face lit like sunrise. "Yes, my sweet boy. Mama's here."
"Love Mama," he added, because it was true, and because he knew it would please her.
Cersei's eyes glistened. She scooped him up, pressed him to her chest. "And I love you, Lyonel. More than anything in this world."
He learned restraint that year. The maesters began gentle lessons colors, letters, simple stories from the Age of Heroes. Pycelle praised him endlessly, calling him "sharp" and "promising." Cersei smiled every time.
"He's a Lannister," she said once, satisfied.
That much, at least, was true.
It was also the year Cersei's belly began to swell again.
Lyonel watched the pregnancy with mixed feelings. He knew who was coming. Joffrey. The boy who should have been crown prince, who would have grown into cruelty and madness. But in this timeline, Joffrey would be the second son.
That mattered.
Whether it would be enough, Lyonel did not know.
Cersei spoke to him often during those months, hands resting on her rounded belly.
"You'll be a good big brother, won't you?" she asked one afternoon, brushing his black hair back from his forehead.
Lyonel nodded solemnly. "Yes, Mama. I'll be the best big brother."
She laughed softly and caressed his cheek.
He spent his days absorbing everything. Maesters taught him letters and numbers. Servants whispered stories of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei taught him about power.
"Never show weakness," she told him, voice low and fierce. "The moment they see it, they will tear you apart. You must be strong, always."
"Yes, Mama," Lyonel answered, green eyes serious.
One afternoon in the gardens, under the watchful eyes of guards and nursemaids, he encountered his father.
Robert returned from a hunt, still in blood-streaked leathers, smelling of sweat, iron, and wine. He spotted Lyonel and grinned wide.
"There's my boy!"
Lyonel stood his ground as the king strode over massive, loud, overwhelming. Robert scooped him up with one hand, lifting him high.
"Look at you! Growing strong already. That's how a Baratheon should be. You'll be swinging a warhammer before you know it, eh?"
"Yes, Father," Lyonel said politely, though in his mind he already preferred the sword cleaner, faster, more precise. In his past life he had collected them, admired their balance and edge.
Robert set him down just as quickly, interest fading like mist. Then he was gone again.
Consistent, at least, Lyonel thought.
Joffrey came later that year.
Lyonel remembered the day in sharp detail. Cersei had labored long; he had waited outside the chamber with the guards, small fists clenched. When the crying finally stopped and the midwives emerged smiling, he was brought in.
Cersei looked exhausted, golden hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her smile was radiant when she saw him.
"Lyonel," she said softly. "Come meet your brother."
A servant lifted him so he could see the red-faced, squalling bundle in her arms. Golden hair already wisped across the tiny scalp. Joffrey Baratheon the boy who would have been a monster.
"Hey little brother, I'm Lyonel your older brother and i promise to always be there to protect you" Lyonel said carefully, reaching out to touch the infant's hand.
Cersei hearing her son had tears in her eyes and smiled softly
Joffrey's fingers curled around his, surprisingly strong. Lyonel felt the weight of responsibility settle on his narrow shoulders like armor. This was his chance. He could shape Joffrey. Guide him. Prevent the cruelty, the madness. He had to try.
"You'll look after him, won't you?" Cersei asked, watching him with those sharp green eyes.
"Yes, Mama," Lyonel promised. "I'll take care of him." He meant every word.
Cersei smiled and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Lyonel's forehead, then to Joffrey's. "Good. I'm glad he has you as his big brother."
That night Lyonel refused to leave his mother's side, sitting quietly beside the bed while she rested and Joffrey slept in his cradle. When Ser Jaime slipped into the chamber near midnight, he paused in the doorway, taking in the scene mother, two sons, the soft glow of candles.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Jaime's face.
He said nothing. He simply closed the door gently behind him, spoke a quiet word to the guards outside, and took up position there for the rest of the night.
Lyonel watched him through half-closed eyes.
Thank you, he thought.
And for the first time in this life, he felt something like hope.