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ONE

Through Mismatched Eyes

He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.

- Rafael Sabatini, "Scaramouche"

In retrospect, it hadn't been all too surprising.

That sword finally coming down to lop his head off had been a long time coming, he knew. Seven Hells, he must've been waiting for that sword since the moment he first drew breath, straight out of his mother's dying cunt. His first mother's, that was. It was hard to keep all of this straight.

Tyrion remembered the look on the knight's face — Ser Mandon-fucking-Moore, the traitorous degenerate — as the man ran a sword right across Tyrion's face, nearly chopping off his nose. That sparkle in the knight's brown eyes as he caught sight of Tyrion's vain attempts to escape. That malicious smile that graced the knight's chapped lips as he pulled back his sword and swung.

That Mandon Moore's treasonous deeds had been quite obviously executed under the Queen Cersei's orders was not entirely unexpected either. The Queen had loathed her deformed brother since he was but a babe — her hatred of him easily far more ardent and adroit than that of the whole Realm and its mother, if Tyrion were to say so himself.

... Although admittedly, he cannot truly "say" anything anymore, as he is already dead.

Or not. The details of his death are nigh impossible to explain, so inexplicable that lafter he would often wonder if he had indeed died at all, or if death is as final as the books and tomes about The Seven had implied. Be that as it may, he had been expecting his demise for years, so it wasn't that which had shocked him.

It was his rebirth. Not the specific details of the event, horrifying as they were, but that the event had happened at all. That he had been — truly — reborn. In Tyrion's defence, when he was greeted by The Stranger's arms after Ser Mandon Moore's traitorous sword had been drenched in Lannister blood, he hadn't expected to come out of Its embrace through the cunt of some random wench (his other-mother, he has to keep reminding himself).

"Ah, my sweet, beautiful son," a female voice coos nearby, and he nearly loses his wits as two abnormally large hands pick him up because what is being done to him and why is he being tossed about like a potato and why can't he see anything?

"He will grow strong, I can already tell," the same voice murmurs reverently. "And look, such long arms and legs! And his eyes! Oh, are they not spectacular? One green as fresh cut grass and the other black as the darkest of shadows! Mismatched! Why, we haven't seen such in the Selwyn line for centuries!"

"A sign of good things to come, I dearly hope," a deep voice replies with a soft laugh. "His fate must be as unique as his eyes."

Tyrion so badly wants to retort that mismatched eyes don't have shit to do with anything — besides perhaps aesthetics and ridiculous superstitions, that is — but at the moment he could only gurgle and glare pathetically at the general direction the vaguely-male voice had come from.

"You will be named Lucan," says the woman as she pulls him close to her disproportionately large bosom. "Lucan Selwyn — for your crown of hair the shade of the sun's golden light."

It brings Tyrion — now Lucan — no small amount of amusement that his new name sounds remarkably self-important and ostentatious, that apparently eye colour carries through death and rebirth, and that he now has normally-sized limbs. Or at least they are "long," as far as his other-mother could tell. Though with his (nonexistent) luck, he might just end up a giant, like that hilariously large halfwit he vaguely remembers seeing in Winterfell. Odor, he thinks the name was.

Well, now, as far as Lucan is concerned, he has no qualms whatsoever about accepting this new reality. This new life. After all, he had once proclaimed himself the 'god of tits and wine'. He had lived a life with plenty of pleasures and precious little pain — if one discounts the Seven Hells that was his childhood and overall family life, and the fact that both his father and sister would have gladly had him beheaded (which one of them had succeeded in doing), that is. His one regret is that he had left that last cup of Dornish wine untouched before the Battle of Blackwater Bay. He would have much preferred to get beheaded — and reborn — heavily inebriated and far into his cups, as he's certain all intelligent men would agree.

A/N: So. This is a thing. My brain comes up with the weirdest shit, y'all, it's a wonder I can pass myself off as a normal human being when I talk about my ideas with my friends. Anyway, tell me what you think! I haven't seen GOT-HP crossovers where Tyrion gets reborn into the HP world, so I thought I should give it a shot.