I reached out with my power, feeling the life in Tyrion's body first.
His heart beat steadily beneath my palm—strong, despite everything. His blood flowed, his lungs drew breath, all the machinery of life working as it should.
But the structure was wrong.
I could sense it—the twisted genetic code that had shaped his bones differently, compressed his growth, altered his proportions.
It was fundamental, written into every cell of his body from the moment of conception.
To fix it, I would have to rewrite him entirely.
"This will take hours," I said, opening my eyes. "And it will hurt, no matter how careful I am. Your entire body will be restructuring itself while you're conscious."
"Can you put him to sleep?" Tywin asked.
I shook my head. "I need him conscious. I need to monitor his responses, make sure his brain and nervous system adapt properly as the changes happen. If he's unconscious, I might miss something critical."
Tyrion laughed—a short, bitter sound. "Of course. Nothing about me can ever be simple." He looked up at me.
"Do it, then. Let's see if a Lannister can be unmade and remade in a single afternoon."
I turned to the pile of green wood and began drawing water, nutrients, proteins, sugars—all the raw building blocks I would need.
Then I began feeding it into Tyrion's body.
The first changes were internal. I started with his skeletal structure, because everything else would depend on it. His bones were dense and strong, but compressed, shortened. I needed to lengthen them, straighten them, reshape them.
legs first. Carefully, meticulously, I guided new bone growth.
Tyrion's hands clenched on the sheets. His breathing quickened.
"Talk to me," I said. "Tell me what you feel."
"Like my legs are being pulled apart by horses," he gritted out. "Very slowly. And from the inside."
"That's normal. The pain means your nerves are intact and responding. If it goes numb, tell me immediately."
I kept working, one bone at a time. His spine was particularly delicate.
Sweat beaded on Tyrion's forehead. His jaw was clenched so tight I worried about his teeth.
"Father always said I was a disappointment," he managed through gritted teeth. "I don't think… this is what he meant… by improving myself."
Hours passed. The pile of green wood shrank as I consumed it, feeding more and more biomass into Tyrion's transforming body. His legs were longer now, properly proportioned. His spine was straight. I moved to his arms, his ribs, his skull.
The skull was the most dangerous part. I had to be extraordinarily careful—the brain couldn't be damaged, couldn't be compressed or stretched incorrectly.
Tyrion had stopped talking. His eyes were closed, his face pale and drenched in sweat. But he was still breathing steadily, still conscious.
"Almost done," I murmured.
The muscles came next. They had to be rebuilt entirely—new fibers grown, attached to bones that were now in completely different positions.
His organs shifted as his torso expanded and straightened. I guided each one carefully, ensuring proper placement, proper connections.
When I finally pulled my hands away, I was shaking with exhaustion. The room spun slightly, and I had to grab the edge of the bed to steady myself.
Tyrion lay on the bed, his body transformed. He had to be close to six feet tall now, his limbs straight and properly proportioned, his torso no longer compressed. His face still held the same sharp intelligence, the same sardonic awareness, but the structure was different—still clearly him, but refined, perfected.
He looked like Jaime now. Not identical, but unmistakably brothers in a way they hadn't been before.
"It's done," I said, my voice hoarse.
Tywin had stood motionless throughout the entire process, watching with that calculating gaze. Now he stepped forward, studying his son with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Tyrion's eyes opened slowly. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then carefully—very carefully—sat up.
His movements were uncertain, uncoordinated. His muscles were there, but weak, unused to their new configuration. He looked down at his hands, his arms, his legs.
"By all the gods," he whispered.
He swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand. His legs buckled immediately, and Tywin caught him—the first time I'd seen the Lord of Casterly Rock show anything resembling paternal instinct.
"Your muscles are weak," I said, leaning against the wall to keep myself upright. "They're built, but not developed. You'll need to exercise, train them. It will take time before you have full strength and coordination."
Tyrion looked down at himself—at arms that were the right length, legs that were straight and long. He touched his face, his chest, as if confirming he was real.
"I'm…" He couldn't seem to finish the sentence.
"You're a Lannister," Tywin said quietly. "In body as well as name. As you should have been from birth."
Something complicated passed across Tyrion's face—relief, grief, anger, gratitude, all mixed together. He looked at me, and his mismatched eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I've spent my entire life being called a monster, a demon, a curse. I've survived spite and hatred because I was born wrong. And now…" He looked down at his new body. "Now I'm not wrong anymore."
He laughed—a strange, broken sound.
"I don't know whether to thank you or hate you, Jon Stark."
"You can decide later," I said. "Right now, you need to rest. Your body has been through trauma. Real food, water, sleep—in that order."
Tywin helped Tyrion back onto the bed. The great Lord of Casterly Rock showed his son a gentleness I wouldn't have thought him capable of.
"The gold will be delivered to your ship tomorrow morning," Tywin said, turning to me. "One hundred thousand dragons, as agreed."
He studied me for a long moment.
"You've given me back my son," he said. "The son I should have had from the beginning. That is worth far more than gold." He paused. "If you ever need the support of House Lannister, you have only to ask."
I nodded, too exhausted to fully process what that offer might mean.
"I need to rest," I said.
"Of course." Tywin gestured to the guards. "Escort Lord Stark back to his ship. See that he's not disturbed."
Ghost and I made our way back through the Red Keep in a daze. My legs felt like water, my head swam, and every step was an effort.
When we reached the ship, I collapsed onto my bunk without even removing my boots. Ghost lay down beside the narrow bed, his massive body taking up most of the floor space.
The implications were staggering. If I could do this for Tyrion, what else could I do? Could I make soldiers stronger, faster? Could I give people abilities they were never born with? Could I create an army of enhanced warriors?
The possibilities were both exhilarating and terrifying.
But right now, I was too tired to think about any of it.
I closed my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.
….