The saddest part of the whole thing, Tyrion reflected every now and again, was that Tywin Lannister did not hate him.
He barely even disliked him, and that was only managed through sheer willpower, as they were so very similar to one another. It was almost impossible to dislike yourself when you happened to be Prince Tywin Lannister, regent of the Throne of the Utmost West. So the little that he accomplished took quite a bit of effort.
No, Tywin did not hate his youngest son.
Tyrion thought he did, when he was younger, and even littler than he was once he was grown. He had even asked Jaime about it, about why Father seemed to hate him so very much, but Jaime had stuttered a bit and then laughed off the question as ridiculous. Stymied, he'd sought out Cersei, who had never lied to him, even to spare his feelings.
The crown princess had carefully placed her book aside and examined Tyrion's face in silence for several moments. "Father doesn't hate you," she'd finally said, with the tone of someone who was very clearly about to say but, followed by something fairly awful. "It's only… he loved Queen Mother so much that remembering she's gone makes him sad. And, I'm sorry Tyr, but you're an awfully large reminder that she's not with us anymore. It makes it difficult for him to love you the way he should."
Tyrion had nodded solemnly. It was the first time anyone had called him a 'large' anything.
"Don't worry, though," Cersei had continued, taking his little hand in her much larger one, "the rest of us love you more than enough to make up for Father's lack."
And so it had continued throughout his life: Prince Tywin rarely let a word of praise or care for his youngest pass his lips, but Cersei and Jaime were always waiting in the wings to make up for it. Tyrion could always count on his brother and sister to love him when the Prince-Regent could not.
He tried not to let it turn him bitter, but he was self-aware enough, even as a young lad, to know that he did not always succeed. The notorious black moods of the Lannister line had not passed him by, and the twins were not always around when he needed to be pulled out of his own head. Still, he persevered, and eventually learned how to twist his thoughts onto new topics when he became too melancholy for company.
(Cersei said it was an affliction they all suffered from, gazing wistfully at Jaime across the breakfast table as he stared unseeing at his food.)
And so Tyrion Lannister grew—as little as he did—with the knowledge that while his father did not love him as a son, the rest of Casterly Rock did. He was their Prince of Silver Stars, after all; his Mother's son in all ways that mattered.
.
It still hurt, sometimes, though.
The coldness in Tywin's eyes.
He grew used to that as well, until the day the Prince-Regent stood above him with a sword in his hands and named him Hand of the Queen on Solaris. Something very much like approval, like pride, glittered in his eyes as he lowered the blade onto Tyrion's shoulders and affixed the pin to his doublet.
.
Prince Tywin looked positively frosty when Tyrion relayed Cersei's message from Magix. A failed experiment, a malfunctioning ward, a fierce battle, more than a few revelations added in for a spot of fun, and two sets of enrollment papers with a third dated a year in advance.
"Your sister," Tywin finally said in his most regal tone of voice, "is going to be the death of me."
Trying very hard to hide a smirk, Tyrion cleared his throat and shuffled the paperwork in his hands. "Well, it will be good for Jaime to get some first-hand experience at ruling, don't you think? The realm is calm and he could use a project while we're gone."
"The role of Hand of the Queen is not meant to keep one's self occupied while their siblings are too busy gallivanting around the Magical Dimension to finish an educational degree and take their rightful place as ruler. It's not meant to be used for character growth."
"Would you rather Cersei return without being certified at all?" Tyrion replied pointedly. "A degree from Alfea was impossible, and a degree from Cloud Tower is highly unlikely. At this point, we can either go along with her plan or force a Small Council vote to recall her from Magix without completing any formal education whatsoever." A moment of silence. "And you know she'd never forgive us for it. This is the most excited I've heard her sound since she was sixteen and off to Alfea that first year."
Prince Tywin's face softened at the mention of jubilant little Cersei, determined to be as good a Guardian Faery as Mother had been.
"This is a good thing, Prince-Regent," Tyrion coaxed, throwing any subtlety to the wind. "Let Cersei find herself at Red Fountain the way she used to dream of finding herself at Alfea. Jaime can replace me as Hand of the Queen while I attend Cloud Tower, and then you can finally have the Rock back after that until we all finish schooling. It's a good plan."
His father pursed his lips but nodded all the same.
"At least I can finally pin your brother down long enough to drill some responsibility into that head of his," Tywin acknowledged, pulling the enrollment forms across his desk. "And it's high time you put that cleverness of yours to better use than being a proxy for Cersei and her ire towards me. Very well, Cersei to Red Fountain and you to Cloud Tower next term, with Jaime to Alfea the year after."
Tyrion beamed. "Thank you," he said, satisfied. "It'll be good for us all. You'll see."
As he left Tywin to his paperwork, his father's parting words stopped him at the door. "You remind me so much of your mother." His voice remained as even as always. "Did you know that?"
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Tyrion refused to turn, but he did glance back. "I did," he replied faintly.
"Good." Tywin's gaze remained firmly on the paperwork he steadily filled out. His pen stilled. "I'm very proud of you, as well. Did you know that?"
Tyrion did not answer, and the Prince-Regent did not stop him a second time when he slipped out of the room. The saddest part of the whole thing, he reflected, was that for all Tywin Lannister wanted to hate him—he loved Queen Joanna far too much to ever manage it.