When you see him walking out of the room your heart will clench with rage. From his trademark Dinklage swagger to his trademark Dinklage talent, that fiend, that foul hellion, that burst of acting prowess shoved into such a minute frame will show himself and the moment you see him you'll know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you won't get this role.
So you'll take a minute, think about what you're doing, and take a calculated risk. There are two ways this can go. You can go in there, act your ass off, and let the casting director know that while you are no Peter Dinklage, you're not awful, and you'll work for considerably less. Or you can flip Peter Dinklage the bird and say "Hey Tyrion. Fuck you."
You'll go with the latter.
Dinklage will laugh it off as he walks out the building and goes home to have victory sex with his wife, who is way hotter than anyone you, anyone else in that room, or anyone involved with the writing of this piece, has ever had sex with.
Try not to have a rage-stroke when security escorts you from the building and you're told not to come back on the Paramount lot for at least a month or two.
Congratulations Tiny Actor!