There are some who are born distinguished
There are some who are raised in praise
But me I was always the last in line
A blot in my father's gaze

No cheekbones chiselled on a feline face
No skill or savvy with a sword
But this game we all play is won in wily ways
And sly is this littlest lord

Cruel tricks of romance
Degraded by their spite
You snub your cub too many times
You just might feel his bite...

Beware beware of the words I twist
I am small but my reach is long
And the ravens black against the winter's mist
Are whispering the half-man's song

Tyrion | George R. R. Martin
Artwork | Thrasian