Chapter 3: Knowing Is Not Feeling
Max had watched Game of Thrones more times than he could count.
He knew every major event.
He knew betrayals before they happened.
He knew wars before they began.
He knew the rise of dragons, the fall of kings, the burning of cities, and the long night that would crawl from the north.
Most importantly—
He knew the life of
Tyrion Lannister
would be cruel.
He knew it would be lonely.
He knew it would be painful.
He knew his father,
Tywin Lannister,
would never truly love him.
He knew his sister,
Cersei Lannister,
would hate him for the rest of his life.
He knew the whispers would follow him.
He knew the laughter would never stop.
He knew.
But knowing… was one thing.
Feeling it?
That was something else entirely.
---
When Max had first opened his eyes in this world, he had been relieved in a strange way.
Yes, he had been reborn as Tyrion Lannister.
Yes, he was a dwarf.
Yes, his life would be filled with mockery and hatred.
But he had thought—
> "It's fine. I've seen this before."
He had believed that knowledge would protect him.
He had believed that understanding what was coming would make it easier.
After all, he knew the future.
He knew what people would say.
He knew how they would treat him.
So what did it matter?
He would simply endure it.
He would be logical about it.
Detached.
Above it.
Like watching a show from the outside.
---
He was wrong.
---
At the age of three, he heard the first words that truly hurt.
A maid was changing his clothes.
She thought he was too young to understand.
"He's cursed," she whispered to another servant. "That's why Lady Joanna died bringing him into this world."
Max's small hands froze.
Joanna.
His mother.
A woman he would never meet.
A woman whose face he only knew from memory that didn't belong to him—but to Tyrion.
In the show, it had always been tragic.
A sad backstory.
A reason for Tywin's hatred.
But now—
Now it was real.
Now it wasn't a line of dialogue.
It was a whisper behind his back.
A casual statement of blame.
A fact spoken like truth.
His existence had killed his mother.
He knew that already.
But hearing someone say it about him—
It felt like something had wrapped around his chest and squeezed.
Tight.
Painful.
Suffocating.
---
At four, he met his father's eyes properly for the first time.
He had seen
Tywin Lannister
many times before, of course.
But Tywin had never truly looked at him.
Not really.
Not directly.
Not long enough for it to mean anything.
This time—
Tywin's gaze lingered.
It was sharp.
Calculating.
Cold.
"You are a Lannister," Tywin said, his voice firm and unyielding. "Act like one."
That was it.
No smile.
No softness.
No affection.
No warmth in his tone.
Just expectation.
Just disappointment.
Max had once admired Tywin.
In his previous life, he had thought Tywin was logical.
A strong leader.
A harsh man, yes—but fair in his own way.
Now?
Now he understood.
Tywin wasn't logical.
Tywin wasn't harsh.
Tywin was empty.
The way he looked at him—
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't grief.
It was worse.
It was indifference.
The kind of indifference that made you wonder if your own father wished you had never been born.
---
By the time he was five—
He had already learned where to stand in halls so he wouldn't be noticed.
He had learned how to walk quietly.
He had learned how to avoid eye contact.
He had learned how to pretend he didn't hear the whispers.
---
"The Imp."
"Monster."
"Gods cursed him."
"He killed his own mother."
---
One day, during a small gathering in the great hall of
Casterly Rock,
a visiting noble laughed when he saw him.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a hidden snicker.
A full, open laugh.
"Gods, he's uglier up close."
The hall went quiet for a moment.
Then came the restrained chuckles.
Someone tried to hide a smile.
A lady turned her child's face away from him.
As if looking at him was something shameful.
Something wrong.
Something dangerous.
Max's ears burned.
His throat tightened.
His chest hurt.
He remembered this.
Scenes like this.
Moments where Tyrion was mocked or belittled.
Moments he had watched with a smirk or sympathy.
Moments he had thought:
> "Tyrion handles it well."
But now—
Now his legs felt weak.
Now his hands trembled.
Now he wanted to disappear.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to be tall.
Normal.
Anything other than this.
---
He had thought knowing the story would make it easier.
But knowing the plot didn't stop:
The way servants hesitated before touching him.
The way guards looked through him like he wasn't even there.
The way nobles avoided standing too close.
The way conversations quieted when he approached.
---
And the way
Cersei Lannister
looked at him.
He saw it once.
Across a corridor.
Their eyes met.
He expected anger.
Hatred.
Resentment.
But what he saw instead—
Was disgust.
Pure.
Undiluted.
Revulsion.
As if his very existence offended her.
That hurt more than any insult.
---
Only
Jaime Lannister
treated him normally.
Jaime didn't laugh.
Jaime didn't avoid him.
Jaime didn't look away.
Jaime ruffled his hair.
Jaime placed a wooden lion in his hands once and smiled.
"You're still a Lannister," Jaime said lightly.
Such a simple thing.
Such a small kindness.
And yet—
It almost broke him.
Because kindness reminded him of what he didn't have.
Of what he would never have.
---
That night, he stood before a polished piece of metal that served as a mirror.
He stared at his reflection.
Short limbs.
Large head.
Crooked proportions.
A body that would never grow properly.
A body that would always be mocked.
Always be pitied.
Always be hated.
He whispered softly:
"I knew this would happen."
And yet—
Tears still fell.
Because watching a character suffer—
Was entertainment.
Living it—
Was suffocation.
---
His hands clenched against the wooden table beside him.
The edges dug into his palms.
Pain grounded him.
Reminded him he was real.
That this was real.
That this wasn't a show.
That this wasn't fiction.
That this was his life now.
"I won't beg," he whispered.
If this world would treat him as a monster—
Then he would become something far worse.
And somewhere deep within him—
Something stirred.
---