Tyrion Lannister sipped on his wine and surveyed his surroundings. The quaint little town had a certain charm to it, with its narrow alleys and crooked houses made of stone and wood. It was a far cry from the luxurious halls of Casterly Rock, but Tyrion found himself enjoying the change of scenery.
He had been traveling for weeks, with a small group of men on their way to Winterfell. The journey had been arduous, with harsh weather and rough seas testing their endurance at every turn. But Tyrion was no stranger to hardship, having spent most of his life dealing with the challenges of being a dwarf in a world that despised him.
He wouldn't really consider himself the unluckiest person in the world. There were a few ways in which he was lucky. Mainly, he was born a noble, not just any noble, but the son of one of the richest houses in all of Westeros.
Despite his noble birth, Tyrion had always felt like an outsider among his own family. His father, Tywin Lannister, had never forgiven him for being born a dwarf while killing his mother in the process and had made it clear that he was a disappointment to the family name. His sister, Cersei, had always despised him for his deformity, and his brother, Jaime, had been the only one to show him any kindness.
But Tyrion refused to let his family's hatred bring him down. He had learned to rely on his wit and intelligence to get ahead in life, using his sharp tongue to outsmart his enemies and his quick mind to come up with clever solutions to difficult problems.
He had wondered a lot of times if his life would have been easier or harder if he was born as a normal smallfolk instead of a dwarf noble. The conclusion he reached was that it was probably better to be a normal smallfolk, then he wouldn't have to deal with his oh so loving family. But then again, he wouldn't be able to afford his drinking or whoring habits if he was born a smallfolk. On the other hand, he probably wouldn't have such habits if he wasn't born a Lannister in the first place.
As he sat there, savoring the taste of the wine, Tyrion had to begrudgingly admit that despite his deformity and the constant scorn he faced, he had been born into a position of power and privilege that most people could only dream of. He had wealth, status, and influence, and he had used them all to his advantage.
But he also knew that his luck could only take him so far. He was a dwarf in a world that valued strength and beauty above all else, and he knew that he would always be an outsider. But he refused to let that stop him from living life on his own terms, carving out a place for himself in the world and proving his worth to those who doubted him.
Tyrion inquired of one of the less boring guards in his entourage, "How long until we reach Winterfell, Ser Hugh?"
"At our current pace, my lord, it should take us about three more days," Hugh replied.
Tyrion groaned, "Ah, three more days of this frigid air biting into my face. These people say that it's summer but I'm starting to doubt if they even know what the word even means."
With a hint of sarcasm, Hugh offered a suggestion, "You could always ride facing backwards, my lord."
Tyrion couldn't help but chuckle at the idea. "And burden you with the task of dragging my lifeless body all the way back to Casterly Rock, only to tell my father whose idea it was for me to fall off my horse? I wouldn't dream of inflicting such misery upon you, good Ser Hugh."
"Ah, I doubt he'll even ask for an explanation, my lord. And I've done it for men twice your size. It would be easier than that, I guess," Hugh replied with a shrug.
Before he could even come up with a witty response to the cheeky knight next to him, he heard a commotion coming from the entrance of the tavern.
A few people were talking about the white mage being in town, and it seemed like they were on their way to see him. A few other patrons of the tavern followed suit, curious to see the famous healer.
"Well, what are the odds of that," Tyrion muttered to himself as he paid for his drinks and his men's drinks. He followed the small crowd out of the tavern and towards the larger crowd that had gathered at the edge of town.
As he approached the center of the crowd, he observed a young man in a white coat who he assumed was the white mage. The mage appeared to be around eighteen years old, with dark hair that fell messily around his face, and striking blue eyes that seemed to almost glow.
The scene before Tyrion was nothing short of remarkable. A group of smallfolk surrounded the white mage, who had his hands outstretched towards them. Tyrion watched in awe as the mage worked his magic, healing injuries and curing illnesses with a single touch.
After watching in amazement for a while and noticing the crowd beginning to thin out, Tyrion made his way over to the healer and struck up a conversation.
"Well, that was quite impressive," Tyrion said, trying to sound nonchalant.
The Mage turned to him with a smile and asked, "Greetings Lord Tyrion, my thanks for the compliment. I must say, it is a surprise to see you this far north. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I was simply enjoying my wine before traveling to Winterfell when I heard that the person I was hoping to meet in Winterfell is actually here," replied Tyrion.
"A happy coincidence then. How may I be of help?" El asked.
"I have heard rumors of your extraordinary abilities to heal anyone, and witnessing your healing powers on the townsfolk today has solidified my belief in those rumors," Tyrion said before continuing. "If it is not too much trouble, do you think it would be possible for you to heal me as well?" he requested, his tone polite and curious.
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Craving for some refreshing banter after a while of boredom, I decided to mess with Tyrion a bit, just to see how he would react. "You look pretty healthy to me. What exactly seems to be the problem?" I asked, trying to hide a smile.
Tyrion looked at me incredulously. "Seriously!?"
I maintained a straight face and replied, "Well, from all the rumors I've heard about you, I wouldn't be surprised if you asked me to cure anything from a simple hangover to the most intimate of afflictions you may have picked up from a brothel," my tone laced with a hint of dry humor.
Most of his guards laughed, and Tyrion joined in a few moments later. "It seems that I have underestimated you, healer. If you can do all that, we might have more to discuss than I initially thought," he said, still chuckling.
"But what I mainly want to ask you is if you are able to do something about my short stature," he added, the mirth fading from his face as he looked at me hopefully.
I nodded and motioned for Tyrion to give me his hand. I grasped his hand firmly, closed my eyes, and began to scan him with my powers. After a few moments, I opened my eyes and looked at Tyrion with a serious expression.
"I can heal you, but it will take some time. I can fix the underlying condition immediately, but for you to grow to a normal height, it will have to be done over time," I explained, trying to sound as professional as possible.
Tyrion looked flabbergasted at my response, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You can cure me!!!" he asked in disbelief.
I nodded, "Yes, I can. But it will have to be done gradually. If you were a child, I could do it all at once, and you would grow normally after that. But since you're an adult, it will take some time. Making big changes like that too fast could lead to a lot more problems."
Tyrion's face fell for a moment, but then he nodded slowly. "I understand. How long will it take?"
"It's hard to say for sure. It could take a moon or three. I can't tell you accurately until I start treating you" I replied, looking at him with confidence.
Tyrion smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "Well, I guess I'll have to stay in Winterfell for a few moons then. I'm sure I'll be able to convince Lord Stark. When can you start?."
"I can start right now but the rest of the healing will have to be done after we get back to Winterfell," I replied.
"No time to waste," Tyrion said, leading the way to the fanciest inn in this quaint little town, which didn't really say much.
Only two guards accompanied us into the room while the rest went elsewhere.
"Lay down on the bed," I instructed Tyrion once we were inside the room.
I took his hand, put him to sleep and began with the main issue: his DNA. It had a mutation that caused his dwarfism. After making the necessary changes to his DNA, I ensured that the modifications would not lead to any other problems. The entire process took me an hour, but at least the hard part was done for now.
Moving on to the easier parts, I fixed his skeletal structure, evened out his uneven legs, and finally healed the long ugly scar on his face.
It took me barely a minute to do all that, and I finally looked at the result of my work. Tyrion vaguely resembled what he used to be, and the only three defining factors that made him recognizable as Tyrion were his blond hair, his heterochromatic eyes, and his height.
After giving him one final scan, I wake him up.
Tyrion owned his eyes slowly and tried to stand, but he lost his balance immediately. I had expected that, so I was there to stop him from falling. "You're gonna have to get used to walking again. I have evened out your legs, so try not to run anywhere soon; you're gonna end up eating dirt."
He didn't reply, still in a daze. He slowly walked up to the mirror and looked at his reflection, gingerly touching where his scar used to be.
Tyrion turned back to me, still looking dazed. "Is this real? Am I really cured?" he asked, almost in disbelief.
"Yes," I said, "Well I've fixed what caused you to be a dwarf in the first place but like I said it's going to take some time before you are back to normal."
Tyrion looked back at the mirror, his eyes wide with wonder. "Thank you, healer. You've done what no maester in Westeros could ever do."
"You're welcome," I replied with a smile.
Seeing as Tyrion was occupied with his own reflection, I looked back at the two guards in the room and asked, "So, what do you think?"
One of them, whose name I think was Hugh, replied, "He looks like a boy whose balls haven't dropped yet," his eyes wide as if he still didn't really believe what he was looking at.
"Huh, he does, doesn't he?" I said with a smirk and whispered, "How long do you think it will take for him to realize that with his looks, he won't be allowed in brothels anymore?"
Hugh almost choked on his own spit, trying not to laugh too loudly. "Depends on where the nearest brothel is," he replied.
I paused, thinking for a moment. "I'm not exactly sure where the nearest one is, but I do know there's one in Winterfell," I said with a sly smile.