What's one more Lannister?

"And what if you weren't?" Jon asked, a faint heat building in his chest as the power stirred, coiling tight like a serpent ready to strike.

"What if I wasn't what?" Lannister countered, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he tilted his head, fingers absently scratching at his chin. "A dwarf?" He let out a dry huff, gaze drifting to the snow-dusted yard. "Life might ease up a bit—no constant shadow from my father's scorn and my sister's looming over every step."

"Your sisters hate you?" Jon probed, phrasing it carefully to keep the rising energy leashed.

The dwarf's mouth twisted into a wry grin, his short laugh echoing off the stone walls. "Not quite," he said, shaking his head. "Jaime holds me dear as her only brother. Cersei, though—she's despised me since my first cry. Same grudge as our father, I wager."

Jon filed the revelation away, a note to speak about later with the Queen.

"But if I weren't a dwarf," Lannister continued, his voice turning thoughtful, "and Mother hadn't bled out bringing me into this world... perhaps things turn smoother. Still, I doubt I'd linger here trading words with you, Snow."

"You would be," Jon said, the heat surging outward, the power snapping through the air like a whip's crack.

Lannister blinked, his oversized head jerking slightly as if shaking off a haze, then he dipped his chin in agreement. "True enough—I would be. Though not perched up there with my wine." He sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Much as this chat's diverted me, Snow, I'm craving more vintage. Something with bite."

"You won't move or speak until I say so," Jon commanded, watching the dwarf's body seize mid-motion, limbs locking as rigid as iron.

From the shadows, Della's lips curved in a faint, satisfied smirk, her eyes fixed on the frozen form.

"Aside from us three here, no one will notice what happens next," Jon added, the words draping the yard like an invisible shroud.

Temptation twisted inside him, sharp and insistent. Erasing the dwarf's affliction seemed too small a mercy—after reshaping the Kingslayer into a woman who burned for him, after transforming the Crown Prince into a Princess, why not bind the set? All three Lannisters, golden and devoted, his to command.

Jon drew a steady breath, the cold yard air biting his lungs as he faced the frozen figure of Tyrion Lannister, mismatched eyes locked in unblinking surprise.

Della shifted beside him, her smirk fading into watchful silence, the lantern's sway casting erratic shadows across the snow.

The temptation had taken root, and Jon let it bloom.

"You were not born a dwarf, Tyrion Lannister," he declared, the words unleashing the power in a silent rush, like a river breaking its banks. "You came into the world a woman, as beautiful as your sisters, though your hair's shade and eyes remain untouched. Your legs will lengthen now, straightening into long, graceful limbs that carry you with swift strides."

Tyrion's stubby legs twitched first, the bones inside grinding and stretching with quiet pops that rippled through the still yard air. The bowed, twisted shapes uncurled, muscles swelling smooth and firm beneath the skin, thighs rounding into lush, inviting curves that tapered down to calves sculpted for swift, teasing sprints, every inch promising a body built to wrap and hold.

"Your torso will reshape," Jon continued, his voice steady as the power flowed, "hips flaring wide and smooth, waist cinching inward, chest swelling into full, rounded; large breasts."

Now Tyrion's torso swelled next, hips blooming wide and lush, drawing the eye to their inviting sway as the waist cinched tight, carving an hourglass silhouette that begged for hands to trace its dip. Flesh rippled and rose at the chest, forming full, heavy breasts that strained the coarse tunic until threads unravelled and rewove into rich crimson velvet, the material hugging every swell like a lover's grasp. The neckline dipped low, exposing pale skin that flushed with new warmth, while golden lion clasps bloomed at the shoulders, their fierce jaws glinting as they pinned the fabric in place, accentuating the proud lift of her form.

Jon watched, his pulse quickening as the power sculpted upward. "Your face will soften, hard lines dissolving into high cheekbones and a delicate jaw, skin smoothing to alabaster perfection."

Next it was Tyrion's jowls softened under invisible hands, dissolving into sleek planes that invited fingers to skim their warmth. Cheekbones lifted high, carving shadows that teased the light across flawless skin paling to creamy white, smooth as fresh cream begging for a taste. A jaw once square refined itself, tapering to a fine point that curved like an unspoken promise, drawing the eye to the graceful arch where neck met chin.

Jon uttered the command, his voice steady as the power flowed. "Your eyes—those mismatched green and black—will stay coloured as they are, but framed by thick, golden lashes that lend them captivating depth, with sharper, more beautiful shapes like gems."

Those mismatched eyes gleamed—one vivid emerald, the other inky black—sharpening into facets that sparkled like cut stones, pulling light into their depths with hypnotic pull. Golden lashes unfurled around them, long and lush, brushing cheeks with every blink, framing the gaze in a way that tempted fingers to trace their curve, inviting secrets whispered close in shadowed rooms.

"And your lips," he added, "once thin, will become full and plush, coloured a soft, rosy pink, the kind what would invite a kiss."

The Imp's—though that description was no longer really accurate for her—thin lips, etched with years of mocking curls, began to swell, filling out into lush, inviting cushions that flushed a tender rose, curving in a way that tempted fingers to brush and mouths to press close. They parted just a fraction, revealing a glimpse of moist warmth inside, drawing the gaze like a secret begging to be claimed.

"Finally, your hair," Jon declared, "the coarse pale blonde will cascade longer, thickening into lustrous platinum waves that tumble over your shoulders and down your back to your waist."

Coarse strands stirred first, pale-blonde locks unfurling like silk threads pulled loose, each one thickening with a soft shimmer that caught the lantern's glow and invited fingers to tangle in their depth. Platinum hues deepened, waves forming in luxurious cascades that brushed shoulders with teasing softness, spilling lower to graze the curve of her back, ending exactly at the waist in a fall that swayed with hypnotic allure, begging for a hand to sweep through and pull close. Tyrion's transformed tresses framed the new face, their lustre drawing the eye like a lover's secret whisper.

The ripple faded with a final shiver, leaving no trace of the stunted frame—only a woman whose hips curved wide and tempting, breasts rising full and heavy, every swell a call to touch and ignite. Her body commanded attention, lines sculpted for bold strides rather than delicate steps, the crimson gown clinging tight to skin that flushed warm under the lantern's glow, gold threads twisting like fingers along seams, the belt at her waist pulling taut with a lion's snarling head that dared hands to unbuckle it.

A single blink brought the wit sparking back, those mismatched eyes—green and black—now gleaming from a visage of striking allure, lips and cheeks crafted to eclipse even royal elegance.

Snowflakes drifted slower in the yard, the night air hanging still around her new shape, as if the world paused to admire the curves and fire she'd become.

Jon eyed the transformed Lannister, her platinum waves catching the lantern's flicker as she stood there, curves pulling at the crimson velvet in ways that made the gown seem alive.

"Tyrion doesn't suit you anymore, does it?" he murmured, the question hanging like a caress in the cold air.

Her full lips parted, a soft stammer escaping in a voice like honey over silk, smooth and rich. "Tyra."

Fingers twitching at her sides, she shifted, the motion sending her breasts rising with a gentle heave, the fabric whispering against skin.

Jon dipped his chin, eyes lingering on the lush flare of her hips before climbing to lock with those mismatched gems, one green fire, the other midnight void. "From this moment," he said, the power surging through his voice like heat through veins, "you and the world remember only Tyra Lannister—born a woman, never twisted by dwarfism, every inch as striking as your sisters. Any knowledge of my role in making you will not be remembered, and you will only ever feel an intense gratitude and loyalty towards me over this, though you will never be able to explain why."

The name washed through her, shoulders rolling back as tension melted from her frame, the gown's plunge exposing the rising pink tide along her throat, skin glowing warm and smooth, daring a brush of fingers to test its velvet heat.

Jon took her in again, the curve of her breasts rising with each breath, and tallied his claims—two Lannister women twisted to his will, no, three now with the Crown Prince now just a Princess remade. Why stop short of four? "Say, Tyra," he began, the words laced with command as the power took hold, "you love me." He added, "You can speak now and move."

Tyra's lips curved into a smirk, her body shifting with a fluid grace that sent the crimson fabric whispering against her curves. "I am certain I do, Lord Snow," she said, her melodic voice dripping flirtation as she arched a brow, mismatched eyes dipping low to linger on his crotch, tracing the outline beneath wool with unabashed hunger before flicking back up.

"There's a sharpness to you that cuts through the nonsense—a mind like a well-honed blade, and parts that promise more than just clever words." Her grin widened, sharp and self-mocking, as if amused by her own sincerity. "You've got me hooked, bastard or not—gods know why, but it's real enough to feel like a good vintage with a kick."

In response to her words a slow grin spread across Jon's own mouth as he felt the pull of her gaze akin to hands already reaching for him.

Jon shifted his weight in the snow, the crunch under his boots breaking the yard's hush as he met Tyra's mismatched gaze, her platinum waves stirring in the chill breeze. "I came out here to clear my head and sort my thoughts," he began, his voice low and measured, fingers flexing at his sides as if to grasp slipping control. "But it seems even this spot drives me to distraction." He inclined his head slightly, the lantern light playing across his dark curls while he offered a faint, respectful smile. "If one as low as I may be so bold to ask that we return to the feast, my lady?"

Tyra's full lips curved in a pleased arc, her mismatched eyes gleaming as she leaned closer, the crimson gown's low cut framing the rise of her breasts with each breath. "I would," she said, voice smooth and teasing, "though I fear my presence might not sit well with the Queen."

Jon felt the power stir, a warm pulse in his core, and let it flow. "The Queen will understand," he said, "and be overjoyed if you arrive with me."

The shift rippled through the air, unseen but palpable; Tyra's posture relaxed, her nod coming easy as she tilted her head, platinum waves brushing her shoulders. "I suppose," she murmured, fingers trailing absently along her gown's gold embroidery, "though aggravating her does have its charms. I do enjoy feasts—drinking until the world spins, even if it plays havoc with my figure."

That sparked something in Jon, the need to reshape one more thread. "My lady," he stated, the power weaving out, "no matter how much you indulge, your beauty will never waver."

Tyra's gaze softened, her hand lifting to touch the lion clasp at her waist, drawing the eye to the way the velvet clung to her curves. "You are most kind, Lord Snow," she replied, her melodic tone carrying a hint of invitation as she stepped nearer, the fabric whispering against her skin.

Warm fingers slipped into Jon's palm, firm and inviting, drawing him nearer with a gentle pull that ignited a spark along his skin. Snow gave way beneath their boots as they walked side by side, Tyra's crimson gown grazing his leg at every stride, the soft rustle blending with faint lute notes floating from the hall. He stole a glance her way, mesmerized by the sway of platinum waves under lantern glow, the curve of her hip pulling his gaze before he wrenched it ahead. Torches flickered around them like envious watchers, the yard fading into a haze, while the heat from her touch built steadily, intensifying with each step toward the feast's welcoming light.