273 AC
A babe's cries echoed through the stone corridors of Casterly as Lady Joanna Lannister lay pale and still upon her birthing bed, crimson blood pooling beneath her body, as the maesters frantically attempted to stem the flow. Their efforts were futile; death had already staked its claim.
Tywin Lannister kneeled pale faced and eyes bloodshot as he clutched his wife's hand as she bled out his wife's fading beauty. When the midwife approached with a bundle wrapped in Lannister crimson, he turned away, jaw clenched so tightly a vein pulsed at his temple.
"My lord," she whispered, "your son."
Tywin's gaze never wavered from Joanna's face. "Take it away," he commanded, voice devoid of emotion.
The midwife hesitated, then passed the wailing infant to a young maidservant who clutched the bundle awkwardly against her chest. The girl glanced down at the malformed babe, limbs too short, head too large, features twisted in a way that would never be considered handsome.
She carried him through silent hallways, servants averting their eyes as she passed. None showed outright revulsion, it was, after all, just a babe, but neither did they offer the customary cooing and admiration that typically greeted newborns in the Rock. That it's birth coincided with the death of Lady Joanna did him no favours.
In a small chamber prepared for the child, she placed him in an ornate cradle carved with lions and left to fetch the wet nurse. The door closed with a soft click, leaving the infant alone with his tears.
The babe's cries suddenly subsided. In the silence of the chamber, something peculiar occurred, his mismatched eyes, one emerald green and one obsidian black, darkened and flickered once.
[Congratulations! You have been reborn as Tyrion Lannister of House Lannister.]
The babe's tiny fingers curled against the crimson swaddling cloth as a lifetime worth of memories flooded his nascent mind. Memories not his own, yet somehow his, cascaded through his consciousness. He understood what he was, who he was, and the weight of the name he now carried.
[You have awakened the Celestial Dwarf Grimoire.]
The cradle beneath him seemed to pulse with energy as the cosmic lottery spun, determining his fate in this new existence. When it settled, a warmth spread through his malformed body, beginning at his core and radiating outward to his stubby limbs.
[Rolling Free Starting Perk]
[Aulë's Enduring Stone - The Lord of the Rings ] - Free Roll
In the beginning, the Valar Aulë made the Dwarfs to be strong and unyielding, designed to resist the power of Melkor's monsters. This blessing has sunk into your bones at the moment of your birth.
Your stunted limbs and misshapen spine will slowly be healed by a deep, earthen magic. Infused with the essence of mountain and stone, while you will always remain shorter than a standard man, your body will possess the density and endurance of a dwarf of Middle-Earth.
..
Tyrion's bones, moments ago brittle and misshapen, began a slow metamorphosis. The magic of another world, another mythos altogether, seeped into his marrow. The essence of Durin's folk, created by the smith-god Aulë to withstand the darkness of Melkor, now resided within his Lannister flesh.
His spine, twisted since formation in his mother's womb, began a gradual straightening. His limbs, though they would never reach the length of a full-grown man's, gained a density that belied their size.
The babe blinked, his mismatched eyes now alert with an intelligence no newborn should possess. He understood the bargain struck, he would remain a dwarf in this world of men, but not the malformed creature that had emerged from his mother's dying body. He would be small but mighty, compact but durable.
The door creaked open as the maidservant returned with a wet nurse in tow. Neither noticed the last golden motes disappearing into the infant's skin, nor the subtle change in his frame. The wet nurse, a stout woman from Lannisport who had nursed three of her own children, clicked her tongue sympathetically.
"Poor little thing," she murmured, lifting him to her breast. "Born under such a dark star."
But as she cradled him, her brow furrowed. Something felt different about the child, a certain solidity, a weight that belied his size. When he latched onto her nipple, his grip was surprisingly strong.
"He has an appetite, this one," she remarked, studying him. Though the child's proportions remained unusual, his limbs seemed straighter than she recalled being described, his grip on her finger surprisingly firm for a newborn.
"Strange," she murmured. "They said he was more twisted than this."
"Hush now," the maidservant cautioned. "Just feed the child and be done with it. Lady Joanna's body isn't even cold."
Outside the window, a raven landed on the sill, peering in with curious eyes. It cawed once, twice, then took flight toward the setting sun. Within the cradle, the newly named Tyrion Lannister slept, his body slowly transforming, ancient magic working through his veins, preparing him for a destiny none at Casterly Rock could possibly imagine.
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Days passed, and whispers spread through Casterly Rock. The wet nurse, who had taken to calling him little lion despite his appearance, reported to anyone who would listen that the child was not as twisted as the rumours suggested.
Tywin Lannister did not visit. The loss of Joanna had hollowed him, leaving only duty and cold fury in its wake. Yet even as he buried himself in ledgers and plans, reports reached him of his malformed son's surprising vigor.
"He does not sicken as such children often do," Maester Creylen informed him one evening, scroll in hand. "In truth, my lord, he thrives in a manner most unexpected."
Tywin merely nodded, dismissing the maester with a wave. He cared little for the child's health, the babe had taken Joanna from him, and no amount of unexpected hardiness would change that fact.
It was on the seventh day after birth that Genna Lannister decided enough was enough. She gathered the babe from his nursery, dismissing the protests of the wet nurse with a wave of her hand. Though she had seen him briefly after his birth, she was surprised by the changes in the child. His limbs, while still short, seemed more proportionate than she remembered.
"You're a fighter, aren't you?" she murmured as she wrapped him in fresh swaddling cloth of Lannister crimson. "And you'll need to be."
The child gazed up at her with those unsettling mismatched eyes, one emerald green, the other black as night, seeming to understand far more than a week-old babe should. Genna felt a surge of protectiveness as she cradled him against her breast.
She strode through the corridors of Casterly Rock with purpose, her chin high, daring anyone to question her. Servants scurried from her path, averting their eyes from the bundle in her arms. When she reached Tywin's solar, she did not bother to knock, pushing the door open with a force that made it bang against the stone wall.
Tywin sat behind his massive oak desk, quill in hand, ledgers spread before him. He did not look up at her entrance.
"Brother," she announced, her voice cutting through the silence, "it is time you acknowledged your son."
She approached the desk, the babe gurgling softly in her arms. "Look at him, Tywin," she insisted, her tone softening as she gazed down at the child. "He has Joanna's eyes, well, one of them at least. He's just a babe. He cannot be held accountable for what happened."
Tywin's quill continued to scratch across the parchment, his gaze fixed determinedly on his work. "I have no desire to see the twisted thing," he replied, his voice flat and cold as the Shivering Sea.
Genna felt fury rise within her like a tide. Her hands tightened instinctively around the babe, who squirmed in response but did not cry out. She opened her mouth to unleash a torrent of words that would cut even the mighty Tywin Lannister to the quick, but stopped herself as she truly looked at her brother.
The light from the window cast harsh shadows across Tywin's face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the new lines etched around his mouth. His skin had a sallow cast, and the hand that held the quill was noticeably thinner than it had been before Joanna's death. Grief had carved away at him, leaving something harder and more brittle in its wake.
Genna swallowed her anger and tried another approach. "At least name him," she requested, her voice gentler now. "He is a Lannister, whatever else he may be."
For a long moment, Tywin remained motionless, the only sound in the chamber the soft breathing of the child and the distant crash of waves against the base of the Rock. Then, slowly, he set down his quill and raised his eyes to the bundle in Genna's arms.
Something flickered across his face as he regarded his son, not warmth, certainly, but perhaps a distant acknowledgment of the child's existence. "Tyrion," he said at last, the name falling from his lips like a stone. "Tyrion shall be his name."
The babe, as if recognizing the significance of the moment, fell utterly silent, his mismatched eyes fixed on his father's face.
"Now leave me," Tywin commanded, already turning back to his ledgers, shutting out the world once more.
Genna hesitated, then nodded curtly. As she turned to leave, she glanced down at the newly named Tyrion Lannister. "Well, little lion," she whispered, "you have your name now. Let us see what you make of it."
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Word of the twisted Lannister traveled swiftly beyond the Rock's imposing walls. By the time Tyrion reached his first month, the tales had grown so wild and varied that Tywin himself would scarcely have recognized the creature described. In taverns from Lannisport to King's Landing, men whispered of a monster born to the great Lion of Casterly Rock, a judgment from the Seven themselves.
It was said that Tyrion's birth was an omen to famine, plague and war, and the smallfolk named him "Lord Tywin's Doom" and "Lord Tywin's Bane". The High Septon stated that Tyrion was a punishment for Tywin's arrogance, and the same was said by begging brothers in Oldtown, stating that Tywin had thought himself greater than the King, and had faced swift divine retribution.
"I have no desire to see the twisted thing," Lord Tywin had said, words that found their way to the ears of servants who whispered them to merchants who carried them far beyond the Rock.
An Archmaester of History scoffed at such tales as he penned his accounts, yet included them nonetheless. "Men will believe what frightens them," he told his acolytes while they gathered around his desk. "A dwarf child becomes a demon, a noble house's tragedy becomes divine punishment."
In the shadowed corners of Flea Bottom, a one-eyed storyteller collected copper pennies to recount the tale of the monstrous Lannister babe who devoured his mother's heart before she'd even cooled. His audience gasped appropriately, their faces illuminated by guttering candlelight.
"Saw 'im myself, I did," claimed a sailor at the Oldtown harbor, though he'd never set foot in Casterly Rock. "Teeth like daggers, eyes that glow in the dark. Mark my words, winter will come early this year. The gods are angry."
The whispers reached the Red Keep, where they found eager ears. King Aerys, had fallen silent for a moment when he had heard of Joanna's death, but had burst out cackling in the next moment when he heard of Tywin's malformed third son.
"Punishment," he said, his voice carrying through the silent court. "The gods have punished Tywin's pride. My Hand thought himself above his king, did he not? And see what the gods have given him!"
The court tittered nervously, none daring to defend the absent Lord of Casterly Rock. Aerys's smile grew wider, his eyes brightening with malicious glee.
"Perhaps we should see this... marvel," he continued, tapping his fingernails against the arm of the Iron Throne. "Send a raven. I would have the Imp brought to court."
It was Queen Rhaella who intervened, her voice soft but firm, and eyes rimmed red at the news of her beloved friend's death. "My king, the child is but months old. Surely such a journey would be perilous for an infant.
Aerys's face darkened momentarily before he waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. When it's older, then. I shall see Tywin's shame with my own eyes."
On the day Tyrion reached his third month of life, a raven arrived from King's Landing bearing the royal seal. The message inside was brief but pointed: The king expressed his sympathies for Lord Tywin's misfortune and his curiosity about the child that had caused such talk throughout the realm.
Tywin read it once, his face betraying nothing, then cast the parchment into the fire. He watched it burn to ash before summoning Maester Creylen.
"The boy will not be displayed like some curiosity at a mummer's show," he said coldly. "Draft a response to His Grace. Tell him the child is sickly and confined to his chambers." His cold green-flecked golden eyes narrowed. "And then ensure that no visitors are permitted access to the nursery."
The maester bowed and withdrew, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. Outside his window, a storm gathered over the Sunset Sea, dark clouds promising violence. He watched it approach, his expression mirroring its implacable darkness.
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That night, as the storm broke against the walls of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister found himself outside the nursery door. He had not planned this visit; his feet had carried him here of their own volition.
The guard posted outside straightened at his approach, but Tywin waved him aside with a curt gesture. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, a single candle burned low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The wet nurse had fallen asleep in her chair, her chest rising and falling steadily in the dim light.
Tywin approached the cradle with measured steps. For three months, he had avoided this moment, this confrontation with the creature that had torn Joanna from him. Now he stood above it, looking down at the sleeping form of his youngest child.
The babe lay on his back, tiny fists curled beside his oversized head. Tywin's brow furrowed as he studied the child's features. Something seemed... different from the brief glimpse he'd had on that terrible day. The limbs, while still disproportionately short, appeared straighter. The head, though large, did not seem quite so grotesquely misshapen as he remembered.
As if sensing his father's scrutiny, Tyrion stirred in his sleep, his mismatched eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again. In that instant, Tywin saw Joanna's green eye staring back at him, and something twisted painfully in his chest.
Hatred welled up within him, sudden and violent. His hands clenched at his sides, muscles tensing as a terrible image flashed through his mind: taking this small body and dashing it against the unyielding stone of Casterly Rock. One swift action to erase this mockery of a son, the living reminder of his greatest loss. His breathing quickened, and for a heartbeat, he swayed forward.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the murderous impulse receded, leaving him cold and hollow. He was Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Hand of the King. He did not indulge in such base impulses, no matter how satisfying they might momentarily seem. The child was his blood, however unwanted, and a Lannister always paid his debts, even those owed to the dead.
"My lord?" The wet nurse had awakened, blinking sleepily in the candlelight.
"Leave us," Tywin commanded, his voice low but unmistakable in its authority.
The woman scrambled to her feet and hurried from the room, not daring to question him. When the door closed behind her, Tywin returned his attention to the sleeping infant.
"You will never be my son," he said quietly, the words falling into the silence like stones. "Not truly. But neither will I allow you to become a spectacle for the court to mock. You are a Lannister, and the world will respect that name, if not the creature who bears it."
Outside, the storm continued to rage, lightning illuminating the nursery in brief, harsh flashes.
Tyrion slept on, oblivious to his father's declaration. Tywin studied him a moment longer before turning away from the cradle and striding toward the door, his decision made.
The child would remain at Casterly Rock, hidden away from prying eyes and whispered rumors. He would be educated as befitted his station, but never would he be paraded before the court or acknowledged beyond what duty demanded.
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Author Note: I've wanted to do a Celestial Grimoire fic for some time now. Hope you enjoy it!
Yes, Tyrion Lannister does have access to the Celestial Dwarf Grimoire. However, instead of getting powers from all sorts of sapients across the multiverse, I thought it would be fitting to restrict him to abilities from the different types of Dwarves across the multiverse.
He won't get active quests to get CP, but he'll get points for completing significant tasks.