A Midget’s Measure of God

I was born a Lannister, which is to say, born to rule—or so my father would have told you, before he ever looked me in the eye. But I was also born a dwarf, and that means something entirely different. It means you learn early that the world is not built for you. That the gods, if they exist, are not your architects.

The God Who Fails

I’ve seen enough of gods to last ten lifetimes. The Seven, the Lord of Light, the Old Gods, the Drowned God—they all have their followers, their rituals, their temples. And they all fail. Every time.

When I was a boy, I used to sneak into the sept at Casterly Rock when no one was watching. Not to pray, but to watch. To listen. The soft murmurs of devotion, the flicker of candlelight, the smell of incense and desperation. I watched my sister kneel and whisper. I watched my mother do the same. I watched peasants sob over their sins.

And still, the world turned as it always had—bloody, cruel, and indifferent.

So I ask you this: what good is a god who cannot stop a war? Who cannot spare a child? Who cannot even keep a man from raping his own sister? If your god cannot do these things, then what is he but another lord in the sky, too far away to care?

The Faith of Fools

You know who loves gods? The poor. The desperate. The ones who have nothing left but hope and the promise of something better. And who can blame them? They’ve got no gold, no swords, no armies. All they have is the idea that there’s someone watching, someone who will make it all right in the end.

But I’ve got gold. I’ve got wit. I’ve got books. And I’ve got a healthy suspicion of men who claim to speak for gods.

The High Sparrow? A beggar with a cause. The Red Priestess? A woman with fire and a taste for drama. The Septons? Well-fed parasites who preach humility while wearing silk.

Faith is a currency, my friend. And like all currencies, it can be devalued.

I once told a man that I prayed for him. I was lying. Not because I believed in no god, but because I knew that if there was one, he wouldn’t listen to me anyway. And if he did, he’d probably laugh.

The Faith of the Powerful

Oh, don’t get me wrong. Power still needs faith. Not because the powerful believe, but because they know that others do.

The crown needs the gods. The throne needs the septs. The lords need the oaths sworn in the sight of the gods. It’s not belief that binds the realm—it’s the idea of belief.

A king who cannot inspire faith is a king who will not sit long. Stannis learned that the hard way. So did Robert. So will many more.

Faith is the glue that holds kingdoms together. But glue dries. And when it does, the cracks show.

If I ever ruled a kingdom—and I’ve come close—I wouldn’t outlaw gods. I’d tax them. Let the priests fight over tithes and offerings. Let them squabble over doctrine and relics. It keeps them busy. And a busy priest is a harmless priest.

The God of Now

So what do I believe in? That’s the question, isn’t it? What does the imp believe in when he’s drunk on wine and disillusionment?

I believe in the here and now. In the warmth of a fire. In the laughter of a friend. In the weight of a good book. In the feel of a woman’s skin. In the sound of a clever joke. In the sting of truth.

I believe in the people I love. Not because they’re perfect, but because they’re real. And reality is rarer than faith, I’ve found.

I believe in survival. In outlasting your enemies. In knowing when to bend and when to break. In knowing when to run.

And if there is a god, I hope he’s got a sense of humor. Because if he doesn’t, I’m in for a very long afterlife indeed.

Talk to Tyrion Lannister on HoloDream about faith, power, and survival.