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Tyrion’s last vivid memory of his mother comes from a crisp winter’s morning. He was born in the full flush of spring, or so his aunt Genna always told him, but his siblings are conceived and born in the midst of a three year winter. A mild one, all things considered, at least in the Westerlands, but his first winter all the same, and he’d been enchanted.
By then he was seven years old, though roughly the same size as a child half that age, and while most boys his ages were already pages, running after knights and practicing their swordplay, he knew then there was no hope of that life for him. He had his books, his aunts and uncles, who intermingled kindness and pity in a sickly sweet mixture, and sometimes, every once in a while, his mother. It was not that his mother hated him.
There were rumors that she’d screamed and fainted upon catching sight of him for the first time, rumors that she’d considered having him smothered in the cradled, but those rumors tended to flare up like candles and then were snuffed out just as quickly. No one could truly call his parents’ marriage happy after the scandal and shock of his birth, but his lord father would never tolerate foul gossip regarding his wife, no matter the subject.
And still, Tyrion had never believed those rumors, for he’d never seen any evidence that his mother hated him. He did not think she loved him, either, but it was not loathing that he saw in her pale green eyes when she beheld him. It was not fury that crossed her porcelain face. It was a terrible, anguished sort of sadness and shame. The very sight of him distressed her, and that was worse. He would rather she have screamed and slapped him, called him ugly names, begged his father to send him away to foster with whoever would take him.
Better outright rejection and scorn than… this. He could have felt wounded and betrayed then, like the runt of the litter kicked away by the mother dog. Instead, her reactions made him feel like a monster. This was his fault. He’d reduced a once proud and glorious woman to a nervous wreck, to a shadow of her former self.
His mother was still considered one of the greatest beauties in the land, was still graceful and eloquent, the perfect wife and hostess, but she’d seemed to have aged a decade overnight, after bearing him. She would never be the spirited and lively Lady Joanna again. Now, she was known first and foremost for bearing him, a freak, a mistake.
His father had not set her aside- something he could have done, Tyrion supposed at seven, having some knowledge of history. He could have had Tyrion swiftly disposed of by the midwife, claimed the babe had been stillborn, and that the birth had left his wife barren, unable to bear him more sons and daughters. Then he could have packed her off to the nearest motherhouse, and once she’d taken holy orders, married again and started over.
Instead, he’d let Tyrion live, and let the marriage stand, but Tyrion did not think it much of marriage. His parents spoke politely to one another, smiled when in public, pretended as if nothing was wrong. But he’d overheard the hushed arguments and distraught cries, the slammed doors and stomping feet. He knew it was his doing.
His father might claim to not blame his wife for his deformed firstborn, but of course he did. How could he not? He might not hate her for it, but he could never forget it, and he could never be as he once was with her, loving and trusting and utterly at ease. For the seven years between Tyrion’s birth and the conception of a second pregnancy, everything balanced on the edge of a knife, or so it felt to Tyrion.
But now it is winter, and his mother is great with child, soon to begin her confinement. There is no proper godswood at Casterly Rock, or the sprawling gardens other castles might boast of, but rather dozens of terraced courtyards with some shrubbery, thin, gnarled trees braced against the wind, and exquisite statues and fountains.
Tyrion is playing in one of them now, by himself, as usual. He has cousins close in age, such as Cleos, the eldest son of his aunt Genna, but even his cousins will not consent to play with him unless cajoled or ordered into it by their parents. By now Tyrion cannot ignore this, and would rather play alone than be subjected to that.
Other children easily outpace him, climbing and leaping around, even when they aren’t mocking him to his face or sniggering behind his back. Or worse, bursting into tears at the sight of his squashed body, and hiding behind their mother’s skirts. There is only half a foot of snow blanketing the terrace, but Tyrion has more than enough to build his castle, which is what he is doing. He is not making a replica of the Rock; he is making a ringfort, which requires considerably less effort and delicacy.
Which is good; his mittened hands are not the deftest, though the backs are decorated with snarling lion’s mouths, courtesy of Genna, who he does think loves him. She is not his mother, though, and the odd gift or kiss on the cheek is not the same. She would never pull him into her broad lap and hold him close, soothing and humming the way she would with one of her own sons.
He has nursemaids who have tended to him, of course, but even they were loathe to hold him for any longer than necessary, quickly setting him back in his crib or cot as soon as he settled. When he was three or four, he used to throw fits in an attempt to make them hold him for longer, but he stopped once he realized the looks of disgusts and fear on their faces were because of him.
His mother has never looked at him with disgust, so far as he knows, but perhaps she is just waiting until his back is turned.
The inner ring of his tiny fort completed, he begins the outer ring. It’s cold but not frigid, and his white blonde hair, shot through with a streak of black that looked like someone smeared coal with their finger, is hidden under a fur-lined red velvet cap. His clothing is rich and warm, but made for a mere toddler, or at least it feels that way. Sometimes he kicks his legs at night, trying to stretch them, and dreams of waking up just a few inches taller.
It wouldn’t matter if he were still ugly, so long as he was the same size as everyone else. Then no one would laugh, at least. He would be strong, and fierce, a warrior. A man doesn’t need to be handsome to be a knight, or a king. Or even a septon. He could still be a septon, though the Seven have never answered his prayers. Or even a maester. If he were a maester, he could help lords plan real life castles. He wouldn’t have to do any of the lifting himself, he could just draw up the plans. He likes to draw.
He hears a soft crunch from behind him, and turns, careful not to upset his foot. He assumes it must be a maid come to bring him inside, but it is no maid at all, but his mother. She looks like a ghost, standing there in the snow. Her pale gold hair, just a little darker than his own, is restrained under two pearlescent cauls on either side of her head, with a gauzy gold veil that floats down around her shoulders. Her cloak is creamy silk, her boots white kid leather.
She drifts to him silently, and he is mesmerized, transfixed.
“What are you building?” she asks. Her gaze is narrowed on the fort itself, not him.
“A ringfort,” he says. “Like the ones the First Men had, before the Andals came.”
She makes a small humming noise under her breath; he cautiously takes that for a good sign. “They say Casterly Rock was once little more than a ringfort atop this rock, before the Casterlys began to dig deeper. They were the richest of the First Men, and the most powerful in the West.”
“I know,” says Tyrion eagerly. He dares to be a little more spirited; usually he speaks in a low, respectful murmur around his mother. “I know all about the Casterlys, and how Lann the Clever tricked them out of their gold. Maester says-,” he pauses.
Joanna looks at him, now, up from the fort. Her lips purse slightly, but she doesn’t seem angry. “Says what?” she prompts. “Tyrion?”
He can’t remember the last time he’s heard her say his name aloud.
“Once he said that maybe Lann was… was littler. Like me. Well, not exactly like me, but…”
The blood has drained from her face; now she truly looks a ghost. Tyrion recoils, and accidentally trods on one of his rings. It crumples, and she steps back from him, then turns around and marches away.
“Mother!” he calls after her; his voice sounds thin and strain, suffocated by the snow. “Mother, please! I’m sorry! Please, wait!” He wants to run after her, to catch her hand, her skirt, her cloak, and beg her to love him, but between his stubby legs and the snow, he doesn’t get very far.
He slips on a patch of ice and falls hard on his bottom. He’s fallen harder before, but for some reason, this time, fat tears brim from his eyes, and he starts to cry aloud, not bothering to silence his weeping as usual.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and then she is by his side. He continues to sob, though, convinced she has only returned to scold him, and is shocked when she hauls him up into her arms.
“My boy,” she says, and kisses his wide brow firmly. “Tyrion. Stop this. A lion does not cry like a lamb. Stop it this instant. I know you can be strong, in your way. Tyrion, wipe your eyes and nose. You are bleating like a sheep.”
Brusque as her words might be, the sensation of being held in her arms, of feeling her soft cloak and smelling her perfume, is so startling that he does stop crying, and wipes at his face.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, peering into her face.
She stares back at him, her expression inscrutable, the way his father’s often is. “You are my son,” she says. “You cannot be so sensitive to others. How will you ever survive this world? You cannot run after anyone. You cannot fight them with your fists, or ride a great warhorse. You have to make them come to you. And that will not be through tears.”
“I won’t cry again,” he promises, and dares to lay his cheek against her shoulder. She tenses, as if he were a great weight, and then sets him down again.
“You are clever,” she says, sounding a little surprised, and bemused, too, as if she had never considered it before. “You will have to set a good example for your siblings.”
“I thought it was just one,” he ventures.
She shakes her head, and seems on the verge of smiling, though it passes. “It would seem I am carrying twins, like as not. A brother and a sister, it will be, I’m sure of it. Brave and beautiful. And you will be their brother. You can teach them things. Useful things. You will know things they don’t, because of what you are.”
What am I? He almost asks her that. What do you think I am? Say it.
But he does not. He follows her inside, meek as a lamb, and she lets him eat dinner with her that night. He does not talk much, but she speaks casually of his ringfort and his cleverness in front of her shocked ladies, and though they exchange puzzled glances, no one dares contradict her.
For the next two moons his mother is, if not affectionate or tender, loving after a fashion, in the same brusque and powerful manner a lioness might lick blood off her cub’s downy fur. She was never cruel to him before, but now she looks at him, truly, without anguish, eyes clear and light, and it is such a tremendous relief. Tyrion does not care if she is still so clearly disappointed with everything about him save his wits- at least there’s one small part of him his mother has some pride in, or at least content with.
She does not let him sit in her lap, or sleep in her bed, but he sits on a footstool at her feet while she sews or weaves, and her ladies grow used to his familiar presence. Occasionally someone offers him a treat, and after looking to his mother for approval, he always takes it and savors it- not the sweetness of the pastry, but the act of someone giving him anything more than the necessities.
Her confinement brings an abrupt end to this new closeness, but Tyrion tries not to lose hope, even though a small part of him is convinced that as soon as the babes are born, his mother will never spare a glance for him again. He has to be sensible, as she is always urging. Sensible and cautious, and he must never jump to conclusions. That is what separates a wise man from a clever one.
He hasn’t asked his mother about being a maester or septon yet, but he will. In a few years, he could go to the Citadel. He knows his father might object to the thought of any Lannister serving another house, but he could be an archmaester, after all. Even Targaryen princes have been archmaesters before. That is no act of service, not truly. Then again, Tyrion is in no rush, because now leaving home would mean leaving his mother behind, and stepping out of the warm glow of her regard.
She goes into labor on a cold winter night, the wind rattling at the shutters and whistling through the Rock’s crevices, and gives birth to his sister and brother at dawn, when the wind has died away, and a golden sun is breaking over the frosted mountaintops. Tyrion waits patiently, knowing it may be all day before he is summoned to visit his siblings, or even longer, but by late afternoon, there is news that the Lady Joanna’s health has taken a turn. The bleeding never truly stopped, and she is weak and feverish.
By the early dusk, she is gone.
Hatred worms through Tyrion like an eel. He has nowhere else to put it. He pummels his pillows, his few stuffed toys - a lion, a bear, a wolf. He screams into his chubby palms. His aunt Genna came to tell him, and patted his head and held him for a little while as he began to shake and weep, but then she had to leave, and he was alone again. He does not try to leave his bedchamber. He does not want anyone to see him like this.
He does not want to see his brother and sister. He hates them. He hates them. If not for them, his mother would still be alive. If not for them, he would be sitting with her now, reading proudly from the Seven Pointed Star or some book of Lannister history, glancing back to see her approving nod as he did not stumble over a single word. He would be listening to her hum under her breath while she embroidered, or her caustic gossip with her ladies. He would feel the warmth of her presence just a few inches away, smell her lavender perfume.
Now he will never see her again. He knows her body must be laying in repose in the Hall of Heroes, but he cannot bring himself to go down there and face his father and the others. It took her a long time to recover from his birth. And even longer to get with child again. Somehow, he knows they would twist this into his fault. His father most of all. His father hates him, he fears, knows, does not want to confirm. Well, Tyrion knows what it is like to hate someone now. He never loathed his father or his mother, but he does loathe the twins.
It is over a month before he sees them in the flesh. His mother has long since been interred. When he overhears a kitchen boy talking of how fortunate it was that she gave Lord Tywin a son and daughter before she died, Tyrion resolves to get him dismissed through any means possible, or at least whipped. He goes to see them in the nursery late one night, when he should be in bed.
He knows people have said that his condition is a curse, a sign of evil, that there is something demonic about his stunted body and lopsided looks, and he wishes it were so now. He wishes he could kill with a stare or a word. When he was a babe, he was confined to the lower levels of the Rock, tucked away in a dark corner, but the twins are his father’s pride and joy, and they are given spacious rooms on one of the highest levels. Tyrion is panting and breathless by the time he reaches the right floor, and has to brace himself on the wall for a moment.
He easily slips past the notice of the guard loitering on the far stairwell, and enters the nursery. The wetnurse is asleep in a rocking chair by the window, frosted over and glowing gold from the soft lamplight. Shadows dance along the walls, blanketed in tapestries. One of them his mother wove; it shows a lioness and her cubs running through a green meadow dotted with wildflowers. Tyrion stares at it with a lump in his throat, then creeps past the nurse.
His siblings were born small, as most twins are, and share a single cradle, the head of which is carved with a lion’s mane. It looks as if they are nestled in the lion’s jaws. He has to stand up on his tiptoes to peer into the cradle. They are perfect and pink and fast asleep, wrapped in crimson and gold. He hates them so much. He reaches in, to do what, he does not know, then stops.
One of the babies- his sister, he thinks, because he’s heard that they’ve been wrapping her in crimson, and his brother in gold, stirs, and opens her eyes. She looks at him. Her face scrunches up as though she’s about to wail.
“Shh,” he hisses, both frantic and angry. She stops.
“Cersei,” he says. That’s her name, It sounds short and sweet in his mouth, and it is a little harder to hate her when she’s staring up at him innocently. She was born with a full head of hair, unlike her bald brother. A wispy blonde lock lays flat across her smushed forehead. All newborns are nearly as ugly as he.
She wrinkles her tiny pert nose at him, and then gurgles, not unhappily.
Tyrion retracts his hand, biting his lip, and gives the cradle a gentle rock. He could swear she makes a sound like a giggle. He rocks it again, and she blinks sleepily at him, then closes her eyes. So trusting and blind. He could smother his siblings right now, in their sleep. Or at least his brother. But Jaime has not stirred at all, and his tiny fist has wormed loose of the swaddle. Tyrion touches it gently.
He could not hurt them, not even inadvertently. He feels a mass expanding in his chest, and swallows hard again. Tears brim in his eyes, warm and salty, but his mother told him a Lannister doesn’t cry. He is a lion. He has to look out for them, even if part of him will always hate the way they came to be. He has to teach them what it means to be a Lannister, no matter what.
He sits down on the floor beside the cradle, and come morn, the wetnurse shrieks in surprise to find him curled up there. He does not get in trouble, though, because Aunt Genna keeps his father from finding out, and tells him he had best limit his visits to the light of day instead. So he does. Every day, after his lessons, he comes and reads to them. Sometimes they cry, out of boredom, he thinks, but he reads on, dutifully. It is what his mother would have wanted.
Once they are old enough to sit up and look around, he will find some books with pictures. And in a few years, when it is winter again, they will be old enough to come out to the terrace with him, and build their own ringfort. He will make the plans, and they will do the heavy lifting.