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Chapter Text

Despair teaches a special syntax —

Sharp and fragile. Meaning comes later.

No life is ever meaningless. That’s one.

No death is ever meaningless. That’s the other.

© Leopold Viktorovich Epstein

Despair drives us forward – when death is all we see ahead.

Despair freezes us – when every muscle trembles, ready to burst.

Despair pushes us toward madness – when we no longer know if it's worth it.

It shoves us into the abyss. It watches as we claw our way out from the bottom, breaking bones.

And the soul – if anything of it remains.

Despair, really, is a curious thing.

Pity it cannot be controlled.

Throughout his rather fruitful life, he had seen much – and, to his pride, had shaped more than a little. Of course, much remained undone. But one could hardly argue that nearly sixty years was a small span. Even if it proved insufficient. And who would he argue with – the gods? His path had ended, and the Unseen awaited him… So he was prepared to think, should death come – after all, poison was never out of the question, nor an assassin with a dagger or an arrow, nor even some quiet illness. With age, he had grown calmer about the prospect, acquired a kind of indifference, and no longer believed anything could surprise him – or catch him unprepared.

How wrong he was.

Fatally wrong.

For the last thing he saw was his son's face.

And the first – his own.

Both wore the same expression.

Despair.

Imagine that – his life ended in a pit. If one could call a latrine that.

For once, those sheep will learn: the lion doesn't shit gold.

He had believed in the Seven since childhood – not prayed to them, merely believed. Their relentlessness, even cruelty, had filled entire sermons he'd been forced to endure from aging septons. Truth be told, he'd often suspected that his misfortunes – especially the greatest one – were their doing. And more than once, the dead had whispered to him: it was divine retribution, for his pride and hunger for power, dealt to him in life. How wrong that madman had been. The cruelty of the gods had been vastly underestimated. For the retribution came not in life – but after death. How ironic, that death, retribution, and whatever came next...

All wore the damned face of a dwarf.

He remembered every second.

He remembered the rage he had so carefully concealed. He remembered his almost pitiful attempts to speak. He remembered the bolt – loosed from the crossbow aimed at him – striking his belly. It was wet, but not yet painful. The pain came later. He remembered how his vision blurred, how the walls, the torches, his son’s face turned to smears. He remembered his final words – and the second bolt: identical, but aimed at the heart.

And then he began to feel.

He felt the savage, tearing pain in his gut, the kind that makes you curl in on yourself. He felt the pain in his neck, where he’d collapsed after the first shot. But none of it compared to his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Yet he felt every pulse of his heart, pierced through with metal. It hurt. It was wet. It surely stank.

But – Seven damn it –  he couldn’t breathe!

His throat rasped (Hear my roar, eh?), his body twisted, convulsed, and gods, he was ready to beg anyone to make it stop.

Darkness finally veiled his eyes, and slowly he stopped feeling his body.

But not the other thing.

Fear.

He remembered every second of his rage – and of his fear.

Tywin Lannister, for the first time in his life, was truly afraid.

For the first time. And for the last.

And then came the dark.

Mighty Tywin, son of Tytos, of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, twice Hand of the King – died on a privy, by his son’s hand.

Chapter Text

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; 

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

© Sylvia Plath

Light.

Blinding, searing light and a cacophony in his ears gnawed at his weary mind. He wanted to swat it all away, to silence every voice, every sound-but the cry stopped him. A cry like a newborn's.

Oh yes, he remembered how his children had cried for the first time— his sweet Jaime and Cersei, when Joanna finally gave birth. She had been exhausted, but her beautiful emerald eyes brimmed with tears of joy.

And he remembered how the monster cried.

Her beautiful, emerald eyes had been empty then.

Lifeless.

Why was he hearing that cry? Where could a child have come from, here, in the palace? Most of the ladies had returned to their keeps in recent weeks, and of those who remained, he couldn't recall a single one being with child. A servant's baby, perhaps?

But then – where is he himself?

The hum broke through his thoughts again.

It was searingly cold-unbearably so.

Uncomfortable.

Painful.

Too bright.

It was almost frightening.

Almost.

That sharp, piercing cry again. So close it nearly deafens him. Was it inside? Inside... his own throat? Was he the one screaming? As if he'd lost his mind. But why in a child's voice?

As if in answer, his vision begins to clear. Everything is unbearably bright – so much so his eyes begin to water. But he is a lord. Lords don’t cry.

The feel of fabric against his skin. The hum still in his ears. But at last, he begins to see.

The ceiling. A stone vault, the edge of a blood-red canopy— and then, a face. A massive male face, looming too close. Sharp, resolute features. Short golden hair. Pale green eyes flecked with gold-golden sparks of despair, swiftly overtaken by rage. Such a painfully familiar face.

His own.

The Old Lion almost wished he could laugh. Because now, at last, he understood.

Tywin Lannister would have given much to return to the past and mend his mistakes. But Tywin Lannister never imagined that retribution would come for his sins.

Tywin Lannister never imagined he would have to see the world through Tyrion Lannister's eyes. He only wanted to build a dynasty – and became a dwarf.

The gods, it seemed, had an exquisite sense of humor.

Chapter Text

I have come to regard death like an old debt, at long last to be discharged.

 © Albert Einstein A

Tywin Lannister refused to believe in this farce.

More precisely, Tywin Lannister refused to live the life of his killer (his son, wasn't it?) – and in this wretched body, no less.

And Tywin Lannister was in pain. He had lived through her death only once in waking life – but a thousand times in dreams. And now he was forced to see it again: her dimmed eyes, strangely translucent; the damp golden curls scattered across the pillow; that serene, blissful face-and the blood.

Her red blood on golden silk sheets.

Somehow, he had never thought – never noticed – that the colors of his house could look like this.

So disgusting.

From this angle, it was somehow clearer.

As if the gods had left him a reminder – of the price he had paid for one more son. For his house. And he truly was furious that the gods had valued his beautiful Joanna so cheaply.

As if she could have a price.

As if the dwarf had ever been worth anything.

It was so familiar – seeing again, but not feeling. Since his second birth, Tywin Lannister had felt almost nothing. Or rather, only emptiness.

He could not call himself by the dwarf's name. Could no longer look toward Joanna – as if he could turn his head. Could not properly perceive the flitting servants. Could not see himself from the outside. Or was it no longer himself?

That problem had been solved by the Tywin of this life – his father, he supposed he ought to call him – who could feel. And what he felt was rage.

He had never wondered what it was like for an infant to see a storm as the first landscape of his life: the raging sea, jagged rocks like spears, foaming waves crashing against them – all beneath a deafening roar.

That day, the storm had resembled a ravenous, maddened lion, desperate for flesh. And he had nearly become that flesh. But Tywin Lannister had changed his mind – even in this life. He himself once, and now his father – how strange it was to call him that – had looked at him with madness in his eyes. Yet the gaze began to clear, and emotions flickered within it. He remembered that moment well – decades ago, he had looked into the eyes of the grotesque. One of them – the green one – was exactly the same shade as hers. Sanity had returned then, along with the realization of the mistake he would have made, and how he would have looked in the eyes of others.

But a Lion should not care what sheep think. Should he?

He should have killed him. Thrown him off the cliffs – and spared himself the tantrums, and the arrow to the chest. Apparently, storms have an interesting effect: they cool the mind. Then and now, his thoughts had snapped into place. And now, watching the attempt on his own life through the dwarf's eyes, he began to understand –something had to be done. At the very least, he could start calling himself Tyrion.

After all, he was a Lannister. In the last life, and in this one. 

The rest didn't matter.

Chapter Text

To get to the heart of it, one must return to the very beginning. 

© The Tudors

It was quiet. Too quiet — like the hush before a storm. Today, Jaime was supposed to leave…

It would be foolish to deny that most noble houses bore some distinctive trait in their appearance. Alongside family histories, mottos, sigils, oaths of fealty, and other fascinating traditions, lords taught their children these markers almost from the moment they took their first steps — after all, a rather delicate situation might arise if your heir were to accidentally insult a future liege. One maester, if memory serves, even managed to write a tome on the correlation between bloodlines and hair color, claiming that if you saw red hair, you could be sure you were looking at a Tully. Utter nonsense — he’d known hundreds of redheads, and barely four had any connection to the silver trout on the banner. Still, no one ever doubted the Lannisters — their love of gold extended to everything, even their hair. Poets wrote verses about the beauty of the girls in his house (and let’s be honest — the boys too), always returning to those precious golden strands. His mother — not his wife, no — had them. His sister — no longer a daughter, thankfully — has them now. Bright, long, fragrant with rare Essos perfumes — Cersei had adored everything from Asshai since she was a child.

The Stranger must have been laughing to tears right now… 

Cersei Lannister was, undeniably, devilishly beautiful. 

But she would’ve been even more so — had her eyes been sealed with stones. 

The dead don’t glare with hatred, do they?

In the few short years of sharing a castle with her — not as a father — Tyrion had come to understand one thing with painful clarity: Only death could change this girl. Just as it could change him. After all, she was his daughter. Once.

Perhaps then — at last — that eternal mask of disdain and arrogance would fall from her face. How could he have failed to notice, year after year, that his daughter was growing less and less like Joanna? How could he have spent so many years blind to the child who was slowly becoming a vessel of vice?

Why only now did he see it — that she had been copying him all along? Her father. In everything she saw, in everything he showed her. He had always believed his heir would be his eldest son. He had regretted that only the dwarf had inherited his mind. But he had never once considered that Cersei would become his near-perfect reflection. Except for the mind, of course. That too was his failure. It was time to admit it: Jaime had inherited his looks. Tyrion — his intellect. And his only daughter… She had become his twisted legacy. His soul echoed in her: Mercilessness toward enemies. Endless mourning for the lioness. Contempt for dragons, stags — and even some lions. Fear of oblivion. Hunger for power. Cruelty toward the self. Hatred for Tyrion.

That last one — it had been one of the brightest feelings of his life. Why? He no longer remembered. He could name a thousand reasons, but none would be true. He couldn’t admit that hating the dwarf had simply become a habit. Perhaps what was happening now wasn’t punishment — but a second chance. A chance to bet on the youngest. And maybe, just maybe, to break free from the trap and win this battle. After all, he was perfectly capable of betting on himself. The only thing that mattered now — was not to die before his time. Not to be killed. And not to kill himself.

He had seen it then — the black hatred burning in her green eyes, the lips twisted into a sneer. And her hair, of course. Those beautiful golden strands brushing against his face.

Hair the color of sunlight had come to mean hatred in this life.

It was shortly after his birth. She, still so young, had seen him only a few times — but always said the same thing, always foretold his death. This time, his sister had brought two dusky-skinned teenagers — a boy and a girl — to show them the monster. Tyrion saw the disappointment in their eyes. If only they knew that the monster wore a red dress and had golden hair…

Cersei didn’t visit often. But somehow, he always felt that when she did, the only thing stopping her from carving up his face with Jaime’s stolen hunting knife was the presence of the nursemaid and the servants. Father had made sure someone was always with him. Tyrion remembered why. Tywin feared a mistake. Everyone wanted him dead so fiercely. Even he did, sometimes.

Years lived didn’t save him. Plans didn’t help. The hatred of others resonated with the hatred inside him — still not forgotten. The past pressed down on him. How could anything be fixed, when you’re just a dwarf? But he was curious — what would win in the end? The fear of death, or the desire to live? What could make him choose life?

Cersei hated him.

She had caused him no small amount of trouble — in the past and in the present — which was why he prudently kept a small dagger tucked into his boot. Purely for safety, of course. Though the temptation to one day drive it into her eye was… considerable. Too considerable. Still — no. Of course not. His weapon was books. He understood that now. Cunning, patience, insight. And memory — if despair didn’t drown it out.

He had tried to learn the sword once — and failed. 

Granted, he was only four. But all boys start at four. He remembered the body of Tyrion Lannister from his previous life — and he knew he would never be able to lift a greatsword. Not even a short one, really. Not a trace of talent or ability.

Everyone saw it. A comical sight — almost laughable. Cersei even suggested he join that troupe of dwarf actors who had once visited for her name day celebration. She laughed so loudly then. But Jaime didn’t.

Jaime Lannister was not as simple as he had seemed in the previous life. His heir — now his brother — turned out to be maddeningly foolish. And noble. Not just of noble blood, no. He must have read too many fairy tales, always coming to find Tyrion in the library. Still too young, but already a true knight from the dreams of wistful maidens. His brother knew the code of honor and followed it better than any sworn knight. It was he who shielded him from Cersei’s attacks, from Father’s cruel remarks, even from the whispers of the servants. It was he who gave him the dagger.It was he who suggested trying to learn the sword. Not much came of it — but Jaime was a good teacher. It was he who was the poor student. His body, which had never failed him in his past life, now made him smash mirrors and cry. Fiercely. Quietly. Cry at night, not knowing why.

That was in the beginning. But not now. He was beginning to understand — more and more clearly — the influence of that soft-hearted, childlike perception on himself. He understood it. And he fought it.

Jaime, unfortunately, had missed one thing. Perhaps he could protect him from steel, even from laughter or mockery. But they weren’t in some imagined war, nor in the king’s palace, where it was honorable to challenge anyone who insulted the Hand’s son. They lived in the castle of the Warden of the West. At home, where no one openly attacked him, no one insulted him to his face. Jaime couldn’t crawl into every mind. He didn’t see it. And so he couldn’t protect him from the contempt in their eyes. He had to learn that part on his own.

In this, Tyrion had succeeded. 

One truth — that the best defense is a good offense — proved to be the most effective. He could almost see their thoughts. He felt their unease, their fear of the unfamiliar, their confusion, even their disgust. He sensed their envy, their anger at the fact that he wore gold. He was still a child — but hadn’t they judged him from the moment he was born? It was there in nearly every person who had ever stood before him. Just in different proportions, different concentrations. Most vividly — in Tywin and Cersei. But there was one exception.

It was entirely absent in Jaime.

No matter how naive or foolish the boy might have been, no matter how rarely they saw each other — it seemed Jaime Lannister truly loved Tyrion. Jaime loved his first sword. He loved sneaking away from reading lessons to the shore. He loved worthy opponents in sparring matches, grand tournaments, red apples, the admiring gaze of the crowd. He loved the rare praise from his father. He loved the memory of his mother. And secretly — it seemed — he loved those romantic tales of knights and ladies. He loved his younger brother.

And Jaime Lannister loved Cersei. Truly loved her. Perhaps more than he should have.

And often, he found himself standing before a choice — as if holding a pair of scales in his hands. On one pan: his sister. On the other: his brother.

Tyrion wished he’d never be placed on that pan. Cersei wished the scales would tip the other way — that Jaime, choosing her, would let the dwarf crash to the bottom. Jaime somehow managed to keep the balance.

Tywin, in this life as in the last, never left the Tower of the Hand — and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the hatred toward the dwarf, or the excessive love between Jaime and Cersei.

The king laughed somewhere in the Red Keep. Almost like a madman. Almost

Today, Jaime was to leave for Crakehall, to become a squire. Today, Tyrion would remain — not alone, but with Cersei. Today, he turned five. That little dagger would definitely come in handy.

Chapter Text

Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.

© Game of Thrones

People break – almost laughably often. 

People resemble toys – almost laughably so. 

What a pity… 

Some people are like crystal. The finest mountain crystal of the Vale – just as pure and transparent within, purer than the rivers that run through it. In moonlight, it’s breathtaking… In such people, pride simply ripples. It seems no hardship can leave a scratch. But one fall – and it’s over. Mountain crystal is strong, yet so fragile. It won’t crack. It will shatter. All it takes is a little push… 

Some people are like iron. Like swords, like armor, like arrowheads. Sharp, hard, destructive. Iron is hard to melt. But if you manage it – through labor and pain, through sweat and tears – it becomes steel. Killing steel. Valyrian. It cuts through flesh, through sinew, through bone. It slices the soul – into tiny pieces, laughing. The purpose of such people is to kill. But there’s one “but.”  A sword can turn against its master. All it takes is to deceive the blade…

Some people are like gold. A capricious and cunning metal of highest worth – soft, easily scratched, easily melted, and heavy, like a burden that never lets you forget. It whispers: “I’m always with you. Remember.” This metal, dazzling in sunlight, makes people kill, and loves blood – never enough. It murmurs: “I want more. It’s never enough.” Never, never, never… People who resemble gold are never satisfied either. It’s as if there’s a void inside them, swallowing everything they touch. As if a forever-hungry beast lives within – chained in gold, devouring all it reaches – with fangs or claws. You can’t hide it. You can only feed it, so it doesn’t devour you instead. Gold is a heavy metal. And it sinks. It says: “You’re coming down with me. Remember.” People who resemble gold always pay. They’re hard to defeat – but not impossible. All it takes is to make them pay with their life…

Some people are like sand. Desert sand. Just glass and clay – so simple. Yet it holds secrets so dark, even the Others from old tales would tremble. There’s poison in the sand. Deadly poison: snakes, scorpions, lizards, centipedes… people. There’s treasure in the sand too – diamonds and emeralds, opals and garnets, human bones and dragon bones. The sand is full of stories. The sand loves life. The sand knows how to kill – it drowns the unwanted. But sand always lies at the bottom of the sea. Sooner or later, it sinks. People like sand must always be feared. People like sand are nearly impossible to destroy. But there is a way. All it takes is to drown them. In their own blood…

Some people are like water. River water, sea water, lake water. Water is wise – it knows the laws of life. These people have laws too. They know them, honor them. But they also know life. They know how its meaning can shift – how the will of gods may change, how character may bend. Everything changes. People change. But their laws do not. Water cannot be destroyed. It is a vital element of life, a part of everything. And these people cannot be destroyed either. But they can be broken. When people like water believe too deeply in their laws, respect them too fiercely, they grow harder, stronger, more dangerous. They become ice. And ice is easy to break. All it takes is to make them betray their laws…

What a pity…

So few people are truly like people.

Since Jaime left – or perhaps even earlier – everything began to move. Swiftly. Swiftly into nothing. Into a void. He began to grow – what a joke. He’d never truly grow. He tried to think – but his mind was a black hole, a sinister emptiness. He tried to remember – and couldn’t understand why. He tried to live. It stubbornly didn’t work. 

Tyrion didn’t know who he was. Tyrion didn’t know how to exist – or worse, why. But now Tyrion knew why people don’t live forever. This was only his second life, and already it was madness. 

Thick, syrupy madness. Sweet as honey, but vile. Like a tiny tick crawling under the skin, gnawing through flesh, then nesting inside, driving you mad. It breeds, multiplies, grows. So hard to stop. So terrifying. Almost impossible. 

Some snakes devour themselves. They say it was first seen in Yi Ti. No one knows why. But it feels familiar. His mind was slowly merging with a child’s. Too slowly. Too smoothly. A dreadful blend of a sensitive child’s mind and a cynical soul. Not an explosive temperament – but self-devouring. Tyrion couldn’t grasp how one could have two souls and still feel so hollow inside. He could only watch. But he had no strength to act.

How quiet it was. 

One incident helped him. Much changed after that day. To the servants, it looked like a mess of scratches, a couple of bruises, a dozen dark marks – a frantic run for the healer, and a sticky fear of the lord. To his father, it looked like an irritating non-event, a waste of three precious minutes of work, pointlessly reported by the guards, a confirmation of the dwarf’s uselessness. To Tyrion, it looked like an endless pearlescent sky and a gently hissing sea, like jagged rocks sharp as dragon teeth (so many of them!), and a beautiful, painful blow. 

The dwarf was tired. Utterly, madly tired. And fell asleep with a book at the edge of the cliff by the sea, where he loved to spend his time. He was lucky – more than anyone (he often is, isn’t he?) – that the cook’s daughter happened to be walking nearby at that very moment. He didn’t see her. He only knew he was being pulled deeper into the cold, the precious air growing scarce, the fear growing stronger – and finally pushing him. Pushing him to the surface. Pushing him to live. Pushing and rinsing his fogged, exhausted mind. Almost washing it clean – like a corpse. He wakes as if from a long, sweet sleep, unable to recall the dream, but full of strength, ready to live. To play. 

To play with his darling little beasts…

A strange sound began to rise in his ears – like the thud of a heartbeat, or the roar of waves. 

It’s strange how fear can lead not only to the grave, but to salvation. In this life, he fears far too often. And that was beautiful. 

Tyrion was no warrior. He wore no iron armor, no golden crown. He was a man – of flesh and blood. And so he could swim. And so he did. 

When he broke the surface, the sun was setting, and the sky was painted in rose-gold, adorned with a rusted sun. Bloody reflections danced in the water, and on his lips lingered the pleasantly salty taste of life. All around him, so close, were dozens of jagged stone spikes. Somewhere above, women’s voices cried out (or were they gulls?), and two guards were already running toward him, throwing off their helmets and sheaths. The maester was approaching too, torch in hand, nearly blind with age, flanked by young boys – his helpers. 

Somewhere nearby, a book floated open, its pages filled with illustrations of ancient dragons.

That day, the dwarf learned his first truth. 

Life tastes like salt. 

He still didn’t know who he was, but at least he had the desire to live – and to find out. Today, he was almost born for the third time. He was not old Tywin, and not young Tyrion. He was a whole. 

The dwarf smiled.

Chapter Text

Of all living beings, only the human is endowed with laughter. 

© Aristotle

The second truth he grasped – crests and banners bear beasts for a reason. Because humans are beasts, no less. He had known this for a very, very long time. Those beasts are their true faces, their essence, their truth. And soon, everyone will reveal their animal nature – the hour draws near. Outside, the stars were paling.

“Tell me, Kevan — do I look like a fool to you? Or one of your witless sons?”

Tywin Lannister rarely raised his voice. Almost never. But the veins pulsing on his forehead betrayed the fury boiling beneath his skin, and the flecks of spit escaping his mouth made him look less like the Hand of the King and more like a merchant caught cheating in the market.

Now, cursing under his breath, he fought to steady himself – and not hurl the wine jug at his brother’s head.

“I’m warning you,” he said, voice low and cold. “If anything like this happens again — if I even suspect it…”

His pale eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.

“Lancel will wear the fool’s cap. And you will never wash the shame from his name.”

The jug found its use after all.

Tyrion was openly eavesdropping. Not that he’d made a habit of it in his past life, but now? Now he wasn’t about to miss the chance to hear his beloved father’s fury – he’d worked so hard for it, after all. Hmm… His uncle may once have been a loyal brother and a rather capable commander, but even he still couldn’t tell: Did the man possess such razor-sharp humor – teetering on the edge – and a taste for irony? Or had he truly meant to help his nephew?

In any case, looking at the bigger picture – he resembled the ass far more than Tywin ever did. And not just in that moment. In life. Though Tyrion never held much warmth for Kevan, credit where it’s due: the idea with the acrobatics had been brilliant, and everything went off splendidly. He’d have to thank his dear uncle. If it truly was a sincere attempt to act like one family – Tyrion appreciated the gesture, even if it came off clumsy.

Gymnastics really were a fine thing, especially when there was someone watching who didn’t openly despise you, but shared experience and offered useful advice. Though who was he kidding? Of course he did it to see the look on Tywin’s face when he witnessed the “performance.” And Tyrion had tried so hard. He’d even choreographed a number. Climbed onto the table. During dinner. In front of everyone. In a fool’s costume. Imagine that. Tywin Lannister himself had come all the way from King’s Landing because of rumors about his son’s talent as a circus act. And yet, few had appreciated the rehearsals. The laughter bubbling up inside him threatened to betray him any moment now.

It wasn’t exactly simple. But based on his calculations – and memories of his former self – the scheme should’ve worked. As much as he longed to live without the constant nuisance of his father looming over him, it was still too early to get rid of Tywin. They’d crush him in an instant. And indeed – it worked. Just in time. If memory served (though lately the dwarf had begun noticing gaps), he’d taken to jotting things down quickly — as fast as possible – in a discreet leather notebook. Given his growing paranoia, born of fate’s endless contortions, he wrote down everything. Literally everything. There were five notebooks already. Hiding them was becoming a problem. And if he remembered correctly, the real chaos was about to begin. The fun part. Of course, from here on he could only watch. Doing anything didn’t seem possible — or profitable. What was the point? True pride — in his past life, he’d had a grip of iron. He’d stepped aside at the right moment, chosen the right side, even in the midst of madness. He’d hated chaos back then. That was more Littlefinger’s domain. In this life, he watched chaos unfold. And gods, it was fun.

Life was the most fascinating conversationalist – he’d come to accept that as his third truth. When everyone around either ignored him or, on rare occasions, coddled him, it was hard to find someone to talk to. Harder still to exit the conversation without having to explain how an eight-year-old knew such delicate things – and understood them. So the need to stay silent and speak only to himself (that’s normal, isn’t it?) had evolved into a realization: life’s sense of humor was exquisite. Especially when you already knew the plot. Like rereading an old favorite – though “favorite” was debatable.

So: beloved father in the ancestral castle (he just had to make sure he stayed put – not too difficult), sweet sister soon to arrive (he’d make the effort, he supposed – not like he’d marry Baratheon himself), and Jaime still in King’s Landing. Not that it was terribly unfortunate – he remembered that chapter of his brother’s life quite well. But the temptation lingered. The temptation to strip Jaime of the Kingslayer’s brand. And just as strong was the temptation to leave things as they were – everything was falling into place so conveniently. Jaime would understand him far better when people whispered without shame at the sight of them: “The Imp and the Kingslayer.”  

The traitor and the freak…

Was it truly that dark, vile side of him Tywin always spoke of? Or simply cold rationality? On one side of the scale – Jaime’s reputation, clenched lips, and his quiet insistence that he didn’t care about the nickname. On the other – the fragile safety of a story that was unfolding just right. A chance to be certain of something – if only the madman’s death, and that their House wouldn’t be burned alive. But this time, Jaime had come to the king on his own. Taken the post on his own. Deceived and enraged their father – on his own. Chosen this path – on his own. Did Tyrion ever wonder how his brother might have treated him, had none of it happened? Yes. Absolutely. Nothing ever passed without leaving a mark – he’d learned that the hard way. Character changes in everyone. Would Jaime have changed? Would he have grown from a proud, self-absorbed boy into the resilient fighter Tyrion saw in him – returned from captivity – if he hadn’t killed the king? Would he have opened his eyes and seen Cersei’s true nature, had he not broken that oath? (And Tyrion hadn’t believed it, not until the very end.)

He lied when he said the second scale held only the logic of history. There was something more. Something he couldn’t afford to lose. 

No doubt – it was still too early. Far too early to shape history. This was the quiet hour. The hour before dawn – the hour to simply watch.

Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten. The hour of the nightingale had come.

Chapter Text

We are but puppets, and the sky the puppeteer, 

He stages his show in a grand bazaar, year after year. 

He makes us dance upon the rug of fate, then disappear — 

One by one, into his chest, we quietly clear.

© Omar Khayyám

The stench of spoiled fish hung thick in the air. The port roared — gulls screeched overhead, sailors cursed and shoved their way through the crowd.

“Out of the godsdamned way, fool!” — a shoulder slammed into him. The man reeked of sour wine and sweat, his face blotched and red, eyes like black beads glinting with spite. The stink of fish clung to him like a second skin.

A heavyset fisherman, who’d sold a bucket of salmon that morning, bellowed at him — then went silent.

When he came to, the tall man in tattered garb, the one with the golden medallion at his throat, was gone.

The strange beggar pressed on, weaving through the throng. 

Westward.

***

He had been someone, once. In the merchant quarter, in one of the taverns nestled deep within the richest and most powerful city in Essos, his path had begun. He was born a naive child, loving most of all his wooden horse. And his mother. He grew into a boy, loving most of all the sea, and the tales of drunken sailors longing for distant shores. And his mother. He lived as a youth, loving most of all life. And then his mother died. The Many-Faced God took her. Once, he had a name — Garro. He worked in the family tavern. Once, he dreamed. He loved. He wept.

Garro wished to die. For all men are mortal, are they not?

Garro tried to die. For now or later — what difference does it make?

And then Garro saw.

He heard the Voice — the one who had taken her. The Voice commanded. It demanded obedience. It pleaded. It reasoned, argued, proved. And then the Voice spoke of her. It told him she was at peace, that she watched her son each day, and begged the Voice to make him live. The Voice offered service.

Garro was Braavosi, not a slave. He was free, and he would never kneel before another man. But Garro no longer cared. And it was not a man who asked — it was a god. There was only one answer he sought.

“You are almost no one,” the Voice insisted.

Garro wanted to hate Him — but he couldn’t. He no longer cared.

“Valar Dohaeris,” the Voice declared.

He offered service. And at the end of the road — reunion. To be with her.

“Why did she die?” Garro asked.

“Valar Morghulis,” the Voice replied, as if shrugging.

“Men serve, and men die. But in return — they live. Is that not worth it?”

It was His first question. Garro had no answer. He didn’t know. He was seventeen. And he no longer wished to know.

“You will die,” the Voice said, “but first — serve me.”

And Garro heard.

That night, the sky was blue — the same blue as his mother’s eyes. The boy stood on the rooftop, gazing down at the city. Beneath him, though the hour was deep and dark, a nightingale fluttered past and landed on the grass, pecking at something unseen. Before him, an old stone wall suddenly crumbled, scattering dust and broken stone. The nightingale didn’t fly away in time.

Garro agreed. And Garro was Garro no longer. The black-and-white doors opened wide in the moonlight, and No One stepped through. The Voice followed.

His life became service. But he lived. He trained. He learned. He killed. He took lives and pride from those the Voice had chosen. He took their faces.

He had no name, no form, no gender. But he had memory. He remembered much — and many. All of them were claimed by the Many-Faced God.

Valar Morghulis.

Men have always served the God of Death. And they have always been mortal — so they might soon meet Him.

So it has always been.

Valar Dohaeris.

Many years passed. He wove fates together, severed lives, and saved them — all to please Him. He was not like the others, those who wore borrowed faces but never understood the will of the Master.

He could hear. Hear and feel his god. The other Faceless feared him. The people whispered his name — the Many-Faced One. Fools, all of them. He merely obeyed the Voice. And fearing death was foolish. It never helps. Does it?

Men must die. So it has always been.

Valar Morghulis.

He hadn’t heard the god at first. Only felt Him — a slow rising tide, impossible to name.

“What do you want?” — “A foolish question.”

“Who do you want?” — “Go West. Across the sea.”

The first ship he found. Filthy sailors. A cabin paid not in silver — but in iron. Each day. Each minute. Each breath — the urge to kill grew stronger. It was unbearable. He was being pulled West. To the western lands of Westeros. To the realm of the Warden of the West. He could already taste the soul he was meant to serve. The pull grew fiercer.

Faster.

“Oi! You blind or just stupid?” — the fishwife screeched, shoving past him.

“Strange, these valar…” — the Voice never ceased.

***

He hurried. He sailed, rode, galloped, ran. And he arrived.

He watched as the dwarf – the one the Many-Faced God had so strangely desired – was pulled from the water.

It was easy to slip in the sleeping herbs. Easier still to give the final push.

The only thing that wasn’t easy… was understanding.

Why had this man been chosen by the god?

But the true question — the one that gnawed at him — was simpler.

“Why is he still alive?” — “Foolish question,” the Voice said with a laugh. “What is he alive for?” — and the Voice fell silent.

A blazing sunset. Gulls hunting above the restless sea. The waves roared in gold. People swarmed around the dwarf, their voices rising in anxious chatter. Above his head, a raven flew toward the castle. It circled once, then landed on his shoulder, offering a claw with a tiny scroll. Fine script unfolded into words: “You must return at once. The Many-Faced One wishes to claim someone.”

“You agreed to serve me, not men,” the Voice laughed again.

The Faceless One looked at the dwarf, now being dragged away by guards.

“You will have to serve him too.”

Garro felt it — the shift. He would soon become someone. But who — only the Voice would decide.

Valar Dohaeris.

Chapter Text

Perhaps God knows what He's doing. After all, He gave me you.

© Janusz Leon Wiśniewski

He had missed it the last time. That fateful tournament... 

And the banners — still bearing dragons, weren’t they? 

He hadn’t regretted it. Not once. Until this very moment.

Now, curiosity fluttered inside him like a bird trapped in a cage. A restless intrigue. How fascinating it would be to witness it. To see their faces when the prince dared to break the rules. To act not as expected. Not as he was supposed to.

And yet, the way to Harrenhal — it didn’t exactly frighten him, but it did raise questions. Reasonable concerns. Especially the part that required improvisation. 

As if he hadn’t gotten used to that over the past six months.

Flashback

If he were still Tywin, he would’ve been certain by now: they had sent a Faceless Man to kill him. But he was still alive. He nearly disgraced himself from fear, true — when he saw a familiar guard peel off his own face. But he lived. Still.

“I tried to kill you,” the not-a-guard said slowly, as if choosing his words, as if mocking him, staring straight into his eyes.

The dark-haired man of indeterminate age studied him carefully, as though searching for something. Something off. Was that the thing that might have made him stop?

Tyrion’s eyelid twitched. “Well, you’re not the first, trust me,” the dwarf smirked. “Now tell me — what do you want? No, wait. First I’d love to hear how you managed to fail such a simple task. And who hired you for it?”

“I am Faceless. Not a sellsword. I do not kill on command — only those He points me to. And He pointed at you. I carried out His will.”

The dark-haired man’s face, previously calm and unreadable, flickered for a moment. “You’re alive, though you shouldn’t be. If not dashed against the rocks, then drowned.” He whispered thoughtfully. “Why are you alive?”

“So it was you…” “Well — I must like living too much, I suppose,” Tyrion’s eyes gleamed, and with an ironic grin, he repeated almost patiently: “Why are you here? Looking for gold?”

“The Voice told me to serve you.” The detached reply, paired with the man’s unnervingly calm face, stirred something primal in Tyrion. A wild fear — like staring at one of those rare toys from Pentos, the kind that always hides a smaller one inside. And under that face… another. And another. And another, until the pinkish flesh gives way to glimpses of a dirty-white skull.

And if even their eyes change — what lies beneath these? Perhaps black voids, like the one he fell into after the arrows? Or just emptiness? Are there real eyes at all?

A shiver ran down his spine, and it took everything not to flinch. Not to show fear.

“Magnificent. The Voice told you to drown me, and now to serve me. Just magnificent. Do you hear voices often? Don’t get me wrong — I’m almost fine with it. But if this so-called Voice tells you to kill me again, I won’t be quite as…”

“He told me to serve you,” the Faceless interrupted, still staring into Tyrion’s eyes.

“But I am free from serving men. And you… you’re just a strange child-dwarf.” His confident voice faltered. “Or are you? You smell like… Like… Like death. What are you?”

“Ohhh, most esteemed Faceless One, accept my deepest gratitude — I’ve never smelled like corpses before. A shame my sister isn’t here, she’s fond of incense,” the dwarf sang with dripping sarcasm.

“Now, be so kind and answer me — why should I speak to you? Why should I tell you anything, when you could drive a blade between my eyes at any moment? Or simply shove me out the window — which, I gather, is more your style. Less fuss, right?”

“You’re strange. You shouldn’t exist. But He wills it, and so I must serve you. I want to know why.”

“Because that’s what your voice told you in your head. Honestly, I don’t need a mad Faceless Man who’s lost touch with reality — we’ve got enough lunatics already,” Tyrion chuckled.

“But more importantly — I don’t trust you. And I won’t.”

A hard but honest answer. A direct stare from mismatched eyes. A firm voice. Almost like the Voice.

The blue-eyed man froze, staring into nothing. Not moving. A terrifying ability for any living creature. As if, in one more second, he’d become a shadow.

One more minute — a vision. And Tyrion himself? Just another madman.

A third one, perhaps?

The dwarf sighed wearily and took a sip of hot tea. The fall into cold water had done him no favors.

Outside, the round moon shimmered, and cicadas sang in the sparse bushes. Tyrion was already considering how to get rid of the assassin and stay alive. Maybe he should call the real guards? Could they run fast enough?

“If you don’t leave on your own, I’ll scream loud enough for the whole castle to hear. My father will be simply thrilled, of course, but…”

When Tyrion opened his eyes, he was alone in the room. And that was somehow worse.

***

Tyrion walked. Then he ran. And then… he flew. Over the Sunset Sea. Over the cliffs where he had nearly drowned. To the place where ships vanished without return. Where all maps ended. He saw a dreadful fog rising far above the sea, and felt a powerful longing to go where the unknown dwelled. But something pulled him away from the sun — southward.

He flew over the Westerlands. Over the Lannisters’ treasure vaults. Over mines still brimming with silver and gold. For now.

Over the endless fields of the Reach, green and blooming with the gardens of Highgarden. He saw flowers — but in their place, he imagined the Field of Fire. Three massive shadows. The betrayal of the Gardeners, their last desperate grasp at survival. And screams. Ragged, human screams. Pain blossomed everywhere. Like roses.

And over the towering Red Mountains. Vast meadows of emerald grass. He remembered the Tower of Joy. And the reason for rebellion, locked inside it. Eyes gray as northern skies. Hair brown like the crowns of trees. And a will of iron. The prince’s mistake. The spark of vengeance. Lyanna Stark — the Winter Rose of the North — was, without question, beautiful. But unhappy.

Tyrion soared over the deserts of Dorne. Scorching heat. Danger in everything — in life, in death. Heat from the sun. Heat from passion. Heat from poison. And from fire, falling from the heavens.

So many years of history.

So many years of struggle…

He saw a shadow falling from the sky.

He remembered her eyes — dark as the longest night. Her hair, black silk cascading over sun-kissed shoulders. She was hideously fragile. And fierce. The sand dunes meant nothing to her — but the mountain, she could not conquer. Clegane had said she defended her children like a she-dragon. Like that shadow — guarding its rider. Elia of Dorne — a Martell princess by birth, a Targaryen princess by marriage — was, without question, unhappy. But beautiful.

He flew over the Stepstones and looked down upon them. Once torn from Dorne’s grasp, they were the place where everything began — rebellions, invasions, wars, people. The First Men crossed into Westeros here, bringing with them the first deaths. Twelve islands still held that memory. The riches of merchant ships carrying goods from Essos to Westeros. Sand. And bones — thousands of them. And a ghostly stench.

Is it truly so terrifying to remember the smell of rotting corpses?

He flew over the oldest Free City — Volantis. He remembered the Volantene who melted Ice. Turned it into tears and loyalty, perhaps.

What else are the Starks made of?

They had managed to lose not just steel, but their history. They say names given to swords must be chosen carefully — for they may shape the fate of their wielders, and their house. A poor name was given to the first Lannister Valyrian blade. A fateful one. Widow’s Wail — for a coward who wept himself. Was that truly a pureblood child of his House? And what became of the second sword? What did Jaime name his? What did it bring upon their House? Only questions… The answers are lost — but the fall can still be prevented. And there will be no questions about what never came to be.

Tyrion flew over scorched fragments of land, scattered among the raging sea. A terrifying sea. Above it hung a fog — so dense and black it seemed to boil and smoke. Surely, not even the most desperate pirates, chasing whispers of treasure, would dare sail here. Surely, not even the most stubborn and thick-headed Ironborn — who so often fancied themselves stronger than all the kingdoms — would set foot here, even if it meant victory. Surely…

Tyrion soared over the Lands of Long Summer.

Broken islands, sea, and mountains. Volcanoes still visible, still breathing smoke from their throats…

And then he saw the ruins.

Blackened, covered in soot and what looked like ash — barely recognizable as remnants of buildings. Everything smoked. Everything boiled. Everything melted. Everything still burned. The Doom of Valyria, it seemed, had never truly ended.

And then he heard the living.

He heard them scream, howl, and sob — people already burning alive, already knowing there would be no escape. How they feared.

And then they became the dead.

They hid their children, as if that could help. They ran, climbed onto dragons, and fell with them — like Rhaenys once did. They crawled. Those born to crawl cannot fly, can they?

And then they vanished completely. Not even bones remained. Only ash. And memory faded — leaving behind mere crumbs of knowledge about mighty Valyria.

People remember the empire. But they have forgotten the people.

…We will all die, and rot in the ground. But our family name will live. Only it will live…

Will it? Or will even that be forgotten?

Tyrion remembered those words from a past life. Tyrion saw now — they were lies.

If everything dies, then what is the point of living? If flesh and blood perish, if name and house and kingdom fall — like the Valyrian Freehold once did, with all its invincibility. With its dragons, its gold, its steel and sorcery. With its conquered empires and subdued lands, with its slaves. If even memory dies — then what is left to live for?

Why was he here?! Again…

“Because this must not be allowed to happen.” The voice echoed in his mind — indistinct, but so cold it pierced his bones.

“Because if it happens again, your lands will become dead. And cold. From your world, not even ruins will remain.No memory. No living. Only the dead. And then the stars will fade, and the sun will never rise. And then… there will be nothing.”

With every word, Tyrion felt fear rising. A desperate urge to run. He saw, heard, smelled, felt blood and death. He screamed — like they had.

How terrifying it was…

“Who are you?!”

Silence. Suddenly, the image before his eyes began to shift — and he was flying. Flying somewhere northward. The blinding whiteness made Tyrion squeeze his eyes shut, and then he heard a terrible crack. When the dwarf dared to peek, he saw a white sky, white ground, and a faint dark line on the horizon. His face burned from the frost. The wind lashed him with fine snow. And then — darkness.

And then, in the darkness — blue eyes lit up.

And then Tyrion woke up.

And yet, while he had been flying… Right beneath him had stretched a massive shadow.

***

He tried to catch his breath, lying on damp, twisted sheets. Through tears, he recognized the outlines of his chambers, lit only by a nearly extinguished candle. His ears rang with the rush of blood pulsing through his body. His heart refused to calm, and his hands trembled — as did the rest of him.

“It was just a dream. A nightmare.” A ragged inhale–exhale.

“I dreamed I was flying… Like a dragon. But dreams fade.”

Swallowing thick saliva, the dwarf sat up sharply.

There was one but.

Tyrion would never forget this.

“Who are you?!” he nearly growled.

Seven hells — why couldn’t he catch his breath? Why was it so hard to inhale?

“I brought you back, Lannister.”  That voice again — from nowhere.

“To my bed?” His breathing steadied, fear giving way to quiet anger. “What. Is. Your. Name?”

“You call me the Stranger. But I have no name. Nor do my servants.”

“Are gods speaking to me? Am I losing my mind?” A hysterical laugh escaped.

“Quite possibly. But those things aren’t related,” came the voice, almost mocking.

“This… is you?” He could barely believe it, barely breathe again. “You brought me back to my past? To this body?”

“You valar are too slow. Or too stupid.”

“Why?!”

Tyrion rose from the bed.

“I already told you. And showed you. I chose you. You must stop death.”

“The god of death wants to stop death? What’s in it for you?”

Tyrion began to breathe. And finally — to think.

“And why should I believe it was you who brought me back? That you’re the Stranger?”

“Do gods speak to you so often that you might confuse them?” The voice came from everywhere. From every corner.

Tyrion turned — but the room was empty.

“I chose you,” the voice continued. “And I need you. That’s why I brought you back to life. You must make it in time. That’s why I returned you to your son’s body. I have no need to prove who I am — you already believe me.And if the living perish, so will I. I do not want the world to die.” The voice sounded almost weary.

“And I do not want your death to come too soon. That’s why my loyal servant will guide you on your path.”

“On…” The dwarf squeezed his eyes shut. “…path?”

“What do you want?”

“Much. But I will tell you. And I will show you.”

End flashback.

A deep, warm night. The full moon shimmered in the sky, casting a faint glow over the surroundings. Two dark silhouettes — one tall, the other half his height — stood cloaked before the stables. The larger figure was preparing a horse for departure.

“The moon is shining… How romantic,” a childlike voice said, paradoxically glowing with sarcasm.

“Don’t worry, dwarf. Everything will go as planned. No one will recognize you.”

“Tell me — purely hypothetically — could ‘no one’ turn out to be an old friend? So that, if he does recognize me, he might think twice before killing?”

The child’s voice was almost innocent, and yet the words didn’t match it at all.

“He won’t let you die. You haven’t done what you’re meant to do.”

The man in the cloak clearly believed what he said.

“Your optimism is… overwhelming,” the quiet voice murmured.

The moon’s eye shone brightly. It was the hour of the wolf.

From the gates, a horse rode out — with riders upon it.

Chapter Text

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

© George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire

On the inhale, he whispered:

“I could see the future, anticipate my enemies’ moves — and yet I failed to notice what was happening right under my nose?”

Back when he was Tywin — when he still wore that name and body — he remembered her as a girl. Not a young woman. A Winter Rose, barely blooming. It wasn’t that Tywin admired Lyanna Stark. Nor that he understood Rhaegar. But now… Now he saw it clearly. Too clearly.

That dark-haired, innocent girl had the gaze of a she-wolf poised to leap. And she was staring at the dragon prince.

That lovely maiden was ready to become a beast — to sink her teeth into Rhaegar’s throat.

His Highness gazed down from the lofty height of his horse — at the blush blooming on her cheeks, a blush born of the wreath he’d gifted her. He saw a shy smile on lips that seemed soft as velvet.

But Tyrion, gazing from the height of his second life, saw something else entirely.

She wasn’t smiling. She was baring her teeth.

On the exhale, he cried out:

“What a fool I’ve been!”

***

Once, in a land wrapped in a pale, misty veil, there lived a girl. She was so brave and bold that she never cried. The girl loved the wind playing in her hair, wild horse rides stolen in secret from her father, and the twang of bowstrings.

— Lyanna! Come back this instant!

From her earliest days, the girl loved listening to the tales of the old gods. She would run from everyone and hide, sitting on the cold, damp earth among the sprawling roots of the heart tree, gazing at its blood-red leaves and listening to the voices whispering nonsense and wisdom alike. Sometimes, she would fall asleep right there — and dream such vivid, real dreams that upon waking, she could no longer tell who she was. She had been a direwolf. A black raven. A great brown bear. But there were dreams where she was a warrior. A builder. A smith. A king… She saw through their eyes and heard with their ears. She thought with minds not her own and felt with hearts that were strangers to her. The girl, whose name was Lyanna, told no one — she knew she mustn’t. They wouldn’t understand.

Of fire she was fond, for was it not the breath of ancient beasts?

The fair maiden dreamed that one day, just once, she might glimpse a dragon.

For some reason, in all her dreams, she had never been the dragon.

One day, the brave little girl grew afraid. 

The fire — once beloved, once warming her through the bitter winter nights — became a waking nightmare. The flames, which had once gently devoured the logs in the hearth, now rose before her as visions. Wild, terrible visions of things that could never be. Or so it had seemed. Lyanna could not close her eyes. She watched the flickers and could not move. 

To run… To shut her eyes… To scream…

In that dreadful scene, she could not help but recognize her father. And her brother. They were crying out in the fire — fire of a green hue — sprawled upon the floor like broken toys, burning. There was no crackling of flame, no distant wailing of the cook. Not even their screams were truly heard. All was drowned out by laughter. Mad, tearing, poisoned laughter — steeped in death itself. A laughter that faded with every passing second. And then, the brave girl named Lyanna wept for the first time.

And then… The fire spoke.

“What better shield against a dragon than a dragon itself?” The element whispered, sly and coaxing. “Only flame may guard against flame…” The voice urged, soft and insistent. “And blood—blood will spill either way. Protect. Or avenge.”

“Don’t listen! Don’t! He lies… He’s lying. Lyanna!”

She heard the voice of fire. And the voices from her dreams.

The first showed her sorrow, and begged her not to forget what she had seen. The others — voices nearly kin by now — pleaded all at once: do not believe.

Grey, rain-wet eyes looked up at a sky just as grey. The girl no longer wished for flame — she knew its danger now. How hard it was to quench a burning house. How long it took for scorched skin to heal. She feared it now.

The girl no longer wished for dragons — only to glimpse one, just once, to understand why they never came to her in dreams. She hated them now. And never, not once before, had the girl wished for blood. Never. But today, for the first time, the brave girl named Lyanna felt fear. And that — that costs dearly. To the abyss with dragons. To the fire, too.

Only blood matters now. Family.

“Don’t do it…” — the words came, almost like an echo. Only a few heartbeats separate rage from fear. And now, once again, the fearless girl would not have shied away from blood. From the blood of her enemies.

“I will help you,” the light soothed. “I will tell you how…”

The fire saw straight through her — saw what lay beneath the girl’s courage and resolve. All for her kin. All for the pack.

The fire saw it all. And it laughed.

And the girl, more than anything in the world, wished she could unsee.

“Foolish, foolish girl…” 

“You shall not have her! You shall not destroy…”

The girl slept. And for the first time, she did not dream.

She heard only a gentle whisper:

“The hour of the wolf shall be upon us. Remember this. It’s coming.”