280 AC
Tyrion whistled a jaunty tune as he padded barefoot through the cavernous corridors of Casterly Rock, his mismatched eyes scanning the ancient walls with appreciation.
"The Bear and the Maiden Fair" echoed off the hewn rock walls, the melody bouncing back at him from all directions as if the castle itself were singing along. He grinned, enjoying how the acoustics transformed his simple whistling into something grander.
At seven years old, he'd become a notable presence in the massive stronghold, his distinctive form as much a part of the castle as the carved lions adorning its halls. Standing barely two and a half feet tall, what he lacked in height he made up for with surprising muscularity, his shoulders and arms had developed rapidly in the last two years of sword practice and metalwork
The cool stone beneath his feet sent pleasant sensations up through his body. He preferred going barefoot whenever possible, it connected him to the mountain in ways shoes simply couldn't. His toes could feel minute vibrations in the stone, telling him stories of distant mining operations, of water flowing through hidden caverns, of the very breath of the Rock itself.
The mountain had been good to him these past two years. In its depths, he'd created a network of secret chambers and passages, some natural and merely rediscovered, others painstakingly carved out during his midnight expeditions. His dwarven pickaxe had proven invaluable, allowing him to shape stone with supernatural ease.
"Good morning, young lord," called a passing servant, her arms laden with freshly laundered linens.
"Morning, Dalla! Those new sheets for Lady Genna? She was complaining about the old ones scratching her delicate skin," Tyrion replied with a wink that made the woman laugh.
"Aye, m'lord. Nothing but the finest for your aunt."
He continued on, turning down a lesser-used passage that wound deeper into the mountain. Tywin's absence had allowed him to blossom and express himself to the inhabitants of the castle, and he had transformed him from a curiousity into something of a castle favorite. Servants who had once regarded him with pity or discomfort now greeted him warmly. Guards nodded respectfully as he passed. Even the miners tipped their caps when he visited the lower levels, rumors of his golden touch having spread despite his attempts at discretion.
Tyrion paused at an intersection where the corridor branched in three directions. To an ordinary observer, all paths looked roughly similar, stone hallways carved from the living rock of the mountain. But to Tyrion's enhanced senses, each told a different story.
The left passage is newer, probably carved during Grandfather Tytos's time, he thought, noting the subtly different tool marks in the stone. The right is ancient, maybe dating back to Lann the Clever himself. The stone there had a different resonance, a deeper connection to the mountain's heart.
He chose the ancient path, running his hand along the wall as he walked. The stone felt almost warm beneath his touch, responsive in a way newer construction never did. This was the true genius of Casterly Rock, not merely a castle built upon a mountain, but a fortress carved within it. The Casterlys of old had started with a simple ringfort atop the peak, but over millennia, the mountain itself had been hollowed and shaped until it became the impregnable wonder it was today.
"Two leagues long, two miles wide, and taller than the Hightower of Oldtown," Tyrion murmured to himself, reciting facts he'd known since he could read. "And every inch of it mine to explore."
Well, not quite every inch. There were still sections his Stone Sense told him existed but that he hadn't physically visited yet, deep oubliettes where prisoners had been forgotten centuries ago, ancient chambers sealed off after cave-ins, and hidden treasuries that perhaps even his father didn't know about.
The passage opened suddenly into one of his favorite spaces, the Golden Gallery. Sunlight streamed through cunningly placed windows, striking the gold-inlaid walls and creating a warm, ethereal glow throughout the chamber. Display cases held centuries of Lannister treasures: golden chalices, jewel-encrusted ceremonial weapons, crowns worn by Kings of the Rock before Aegon's Conquest.
Tyrion's eyes, however, were drawn to the metalwork itself. The delicate filigree adorning the walls, the flawlessly rendered lions that seemed almost ready to leap from their golden prisons. His dwarven blood sang at the craftsmanship. Not bad for human work, he thought with the peculiar dual-mindedness he'd developed over the years. But I could do better now.
And he could. In the secret workshop he'd established in an abandoned storage room deep within the Rock, he'd created pieces that would have made even the ancient master craftsmen stare in wonder. Small golden lions with ruby eyes that seemed to catch the light just so, rings with impossibly intricate patterns that told stories when examined closely, daggers with hilts so perfectly balanced they felt like extensions of the hand.
None bore his mark, of course. Such skill would raise too many questions. Instead, he'd invented a fictitious Lyseni artisan whose works occasionally appeared in Lannisport markets, purchased by agents who had no idea they were actually buying from the youngest son of Tywin Lannister.
He continued his morning walk descending a wide staircase that had been cut directly from the mountain's heart. Each step was worn in the center, testament to countless feet over countless years. His Stone Sense told him these stairs had been part of a natural formation originally, a sloping cavern that enterprising miners had shaped into a more convenient passage.
A sudden growl from his stomach reminded Tyrion that he'd skipped the midday meal in favor of exploration. He closed the book with a sigh, making a mental note of where he'd stopped.
"The stomach commands and the body obeys," he quipped to the empty room, sliding from the chair.
As he made his way back toward the kitchens, Tyrion's thoughts turned to the upcoming visit from his father and siblings. Tywin Lannister rarely came to Casterly Rock these days, preferring to remain in King's Landing where he served as Hand to the increasingly unstable King Aerys. But word had arrived by raven that the Lord of Casterly Rock would be returning within a week, Jaime would also be returning to Casterly Rock in the coming few days.
The news had sent the castle into a frenzy of preparation. Servants scurried about like ants whose hill had been disturbed, cleaning rooms that hadn't seen use in years, airing out linens, polishing silver, and generally ensuring that everything would meet Tywin Lannister's exacting standards.
Tyrion felt the familiar mixture of anticipation and dread that always accompanied mention of his father. He knew that his return would signal questions about Tyrion's activities in his absence, and he knew from bitter experience as well as foreknowledge, that Tywin delighted in withholding pleasures from the son whose birth had cost his wife her life.
And then there was Cersei, his lovely sister who delighted in tormenting him. The letters Jaime occasionally sent (though they came less frequently now that he served as a squire to Sumner Crakehall) spoke of Cersei's hopes of marrying Prince Rhaegar.
"That'll be a pleasant family reunion," Tyrion muttered sarcastically as he rounded a corner and nearly collided with a servant carrying a stack of freshly laundered linens.
"Pardon, m'lord!" the girl squeaked, bobbing an awkward curtsy while trying not to drop her burden.
"I'm jesting," Tyrion assured her, waving away her concern with a cheerful grin. "Carry on with your important work. My father's arrival demands nothing less than perfection, after all."
As the servant scurried away, Tyrion's thoughts turned to Jaime. Unlike his father and sister, the prospect of seeing his brother again filled him with genuine warmth. Despite the years apart, Jaime's letters, though infrequent, had maintained their connection. His brother never treated him with the contempt others did, and that alone made him precious.
He glanced around to ensure he was alone in the corridor. Satisfied, Tyrion approached what appeared to be an ordinary section of wall. His fingers traced the stone with practiced familiarity until they found a small, almost imperceptible depression. With precision born from countless previous uses, he pressed the spot firmly.
The stone shifted with a soft grinding noise, revealing a narrow opening, just wide enough for his small frame to slip through. The passage beyond was dark, but Tyrion needed no light to navigate it. He'd mapped these secret corridors in his mind years ago, adding them to his mental atlas of Casterly Rock's hidden anatomy.
The passage twisted and descended, following the natural contours of the mountain. Tyrion moved confidently, occasionally brushing his fingers against the wall to confirm his position. The air grew warmer, carrying the unmistakable scents of baking bread, roasting meat, and simmering stews.
With a final turn, the passage opened to a small alcove. Tyrion pressed another hidden mechanism, and a section of wall slid aside, depositing him in a service corridor just outside the bustling kitchen.
"Lord Tyrion!" exclaimed Marla, the head cook, her round face breaking into a genuine smile as she spotted him. Unlike many in the castle, the kitchen staff had always shown him kindness. "Sneaking about again, are we?"
"Not sneaking, Marla," Tyrion corrected with exaggerated dignity. "Strategically navigating the castle's alternative routes."
The kitchen erupted in laughter. Over the years, Tyrion had become something of a mascot to the staff below stairs. His wit, generosity, and genuine interest in their lives had earned him affection that no amount of Lannister gold could buy.
"And what brings ye 'strategically' to our humble kitchen today, m'lord?" asked Darna, a plump assistant cook who was kneading dough with flour-covered hands.
"The irresistible siren call of your cooking, of course," Tyrion replied, hopping onto a stool that seemed permanently positioned for his visits. "That, and a hunger that could rival a starved hound."
Marla chuckled, already assembling a plate. "Well, we can't have the young lord starving, can we? Especially not with Lord Tywin returning. You'll need your strength for that, I warrant."
The mention of his father dimmed Tyrion's smile momentarily, but he recovered quickly. "Indeed. I suspect I'll need provisions for sustained sieges in the library once he arrives."
As he chatted amiably with the staff, Tyrion's gaze wandered the kitchen with practiced casualness. There, on a side table, stood several pitchers of different beverages prepared for the evening meal. With the kitchen staff distracted by a minor crisis involving a scorched pastry, Tyrion seized his opportunity.
He slipped from his stool and, with the dexterity of long practice, swiped a small glass of honey wine from an unattended tray. The sweet liquid would complement his meal perfectly, and more importantly, would serve as an acceptable substitute until he could brew the mead he'd been experimenting with in one of his hidden workshops.
By the time Marla returned with his food, a generous plate of thick-cut sandwiches filled with smoked ham, sharp cheese, and tangy mustard, Tyrion was back on his stool, the purloined wine hidden partly behind a large flour sack.
"Here you are, m'lord. Fresh from the oven, the bread is." She set the plate before him with a flourish.
"Marla, you are a goddess among mortals," Tyrion declared, biting into a sandwich with theatrical relish. "If I weren't a dwarf, I'd carry you off and make you my bride this instant."
The kitchen staff roared with laughter, and Marla swatted at him playfully with a kitchen towel. "Away with your nonsense little lad. Eat your food before it gets cold."
As Tyrion munched happily on his sandwiches, washing them down with surreptitious sips of the honeyed wine, he considered his next move. The preparations for his father's visit had created a perfect opportunity, with servants focused on the east wing, where the family apartments were located, the lord's solar would be temporarily unattended.
After finishing his impromptu meal and thanking the kitchen staff profusely, Tyrion slipped back into his secret passage. Instead of returning the way he came, however, he took a different branch, one that climbed steadily upward through the heart of the mountain.
This particular passage was one of his more recent discoveries. Unlike the well-worn corridors that servants had used for generations, this one showed signs of deliberate concealment. The stonework was older, dating perhaps to the time of Lann the Clever himself.
Tyrion's Stone Sense guided him through the darkness, his bare feet finding purchase on steps so ancient they had worn into smooth curves. The passage narrowed in places, requiring him to turn sideways, but his small stature proved advantageous here. A full-grown man would have struggled to navigate these tight confines.
After several minutes of climbing, Tyrion reached a section of wall that felt different to his sensitive touch. The stone here was newer than its surroundings, perhaps only a few centuries old rather than millennia. More importantly, his Stone Sense detected a void beyond, a room of significant size.
He had discovered this particular secret entrance to his father's solar during a late-night expedition three months ago. The irony had delighted him, Tywin Lannister, so obsessed with security and privacy, had no idea that the walls of his sanctum were permeable.
Tyrion pressed his ear against the stone, listening for any sound from within. Hearing nothing, he carefully manipulated the hidden mechanism, a cleverly disguised lever that, when pulled in precisely the right sequence, caused a section of the wall to pivot silently inward.
The solar was empty, just as he had anticipated. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the massive desk of polished redwood that dominated the center of the room. Behind it stood Tywin's chair, high-backed and imposing, a throne in all but name.
Tyrion slipped inside, leaving the secret door ajar for a quick retreat if necessary. He'd already explored the visible contents of the solar in previous incursions, the books on military strategy and House histories, the correspondence neatly filed in locked drawers (locks that posed no challenge to his dexterous fingers), the maps of Lannister holdings spread across a side table.
Today, however, he had a different objective. His last visit had revealed something intriguing, a slight discrepancy in the dimensions of the room compared to the surrounding chambers. There was space unaccounted for, suggesting yet another hidden chamber.
"Now, if I were my father," Tyrion murmured to himself, sipping the last of his honey wine, "where would I hide my most precious secrets?"
He set the empty glass aside and began a methodical examination of the wood paneling that covered the western wall. His fingers traced the ornate carvings, searching for inconsistencies, while his Stone Sense probed deeper, seeking the void he knew must exist.
There, behind a particularly elaborate carving of the Lannister lion, his fingers detected a subtle difference in the wood's texture. Pressing firmly on the lion's eye, Tyrion felt a satisfying click.
A section of paneling recessed slightly, then slid sideways with well-oiled precision, revealing a narrow passage beyond. Tyrion's heart raced with excitement as he peered into the darkness. Another secret, another piece of Casterly Rock's labyrinthine puzzle for him to explore.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the passage, his bare feet silent on the stone floor. The hidden door closed automatically behind him, sealing him in darkness, but his eyes immediately adapted, and whatever he couldn't see he could map with his stone sense. The passage stretched before him.
Tyrion paused for a second. Wait a second.
The dwarven blood that flowed through his veins gave him insights no human could hope to match. Tyrion could feel the different densities, the minute variations in composition that signaled valuable deposits.
Those same instincts told him that this passage was definitely far older than the surrounding rooms. He pressed his hands against the grain, feeling the ancient stonework speak to him through his fingertips. This wasn't just old, it was thousands of years old, dating back to the earliest days of Casterly Rock, similar in age to some of the older hidden routes he'd found during his nocturnal explorations.
And this hadn't been used in hundreds of years. He would be able to tell if it had. His Stone Sense could detect the microscopic changes in the wear of the stone that human passage would leave behind. No, this secret path had remained undisturbed since long before Tywin Lannister's birth.
Tyrion felt a thrill of delight rush through him, a bubbling excitement that made him want to laugh aloud. Even his father hadn't stepped in this hidden passage, and it was located inside his solar! The great Lord Tywin, who prided himself on knowing every secret, every advantage, had conducted his most private business mere feet away from an ancient passageway he never knew existed.
"Another secret all my own," he whispered to the darkness, his voice carrying a childish glee.
The passage took him further down, spiraling into the mountain's depths with a deliberate, almost ceremonial precision. Unlike the utilitarian service tunnels or the defensive escape routes that honeycomed parts of the Rock, this passage had been crafted with reverence. The walls bore subtle decorative elements that had worn away with age that his sensitive fingers could detect even where his eyes could not.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Tyrion muttered, recognizing patterns that predated Andal influence. "First Men work, perhaps? Or even earlier?
The thought sent another jolt of excitement through him. What if this passage dated back to the Age of Heroes? To Lann the Clever himself? The historical implications alone made his scholarly heart race.
The descent continued for what felt like hundreds of feet, though his Stone Sense told him the actual distance was closer to eighty. The air grew noticeably warmer, carrying mineral scents that tickled his nose with their unfamiliarity. Not the familiar metallic tang of the gold mines, but something older, more primal.
Suddenly, the passage opened into a chamber that took his breath away. His eyes, already adapted to the gloom, widened at the sight before him. The chamber was perfectly circular, its ceiling domed and inlaid with what appeared to be, Tyrion gasped, actual stars.
Tiny crystals embedded in the ceiling caught what little light filtered through hidden air shafts, creating a replica of the night sky. But not the sky as it currently existed. This was a celestial map of great antiquity, showing stellar configurations that hadn't been seen over Westeros in thousands of years.
"Seven hells," Tyrion breathed, turning slowly to take in the full majesty of the chamber.
At the center stood a raised dais of polished black stone, not marble or granite, but something far denser that his Stone Sense couldn't quite identify. Upon it rested a single object: a cube approximately the size of his head, carved from the same mysterious black material.
Approaching cautiously, Tyrion circled the dais. The cube appeared seamless at first glance, but as he drew closer, he could make out incredibly fine engravings covering every surface, symbols unlike any language he had ever encountered in his extensive studies.
"Well, well," he murmured, his curiosity overwhelming any caution he might have felt. "What secrets have you been keeping all these centuries?"
Without hesitation, perhaps with less prudence than one should exercise when confronting ancient artifacts in secret chambers, Tyrion reached out and placed his palm flat against one side of the cube.
The reaction was instantaneous. The engravings began to glow with a soft golden light that pulsed like a heartbeat. The cube trembled beneath his touch, and Tyrion felt a strange resonance pass through his body, as if the stone were somehow reading him.
Then, to his astonishment, the top of the cube began to reconfigure itself, sections sliding apart with a whisper of stone against stone that shouldn't have been possible given the apparent solidity of the material.
Inside lay a small object wrapped in what looked like cloth but which had the metallic sheen of the finest gold thread. With trembling fingers, Tyrion carefully lifted the bundle from its resting place.
It was surprisingly heavy for its size. As he unwrapped the golden cloth, his breath caught in his throat. Nestled within the fabric was a ring, a simple band of some dark metal that his Stone Sense couldn't identify, set with a single red stone that seemed to capture and amplify the ambient light.
"Who were you made for?" Tyrion whispered, turning the ring in his fingers. It was sized for a much larger hand than his.
As he turned it around, he could see a engraving in First Men runes. He couldn't read it but, he had seen the same mark engraved under the the statue of Lann the Clever.
Lann.
It read Lann in the Old Tongue.
Holy shit.
[Rolling Perk]
In his daze, Tyrion suddenly felt the rolling of dice. The chamber around him dimmed as his awareness turned towards the screen that materialised in front of him.
[Thungni's Gift - Warhammer Fantasy] - 200 CP, 200 CP Left
[The race of Dwarfs is fundamentally incapable of casting traditional spells, as magic is repulsed from their bodies like magnets of the same polarity. This is not a lack of ability, but a benefit of common sense; the Ancestor Gods saw the Winds of Magic for what they were: fickle at best, and wholly corrupting at worst.
While Men and Elves use the Winds of Magic like volatile fuel, risking Tzeentch's Curse with every breath, you are granted the secret of Rune Magic. You have been granted a specialized sensitivity to the Winds of Magic. Dwarves do not ignite the fuel of the Winds of Magic. Instead, they trap it inside a rune to bind it and hold it. When so confined, the magic can be used safely. Runesmiths treat magic like any other Dwarf craft. Mastery takes patience, hard work, and dedication.
With this blessing, you gain a basic understanding of the lexicon of Dwarven Runes and you now possess the knowledge to capture magical energies and bind them into rock and metal.
..
Tyrion accepted with tremblings hands, and his mind reeled as ancient knowledge poured into him.The essence of runecraft unfurled in his mind, a tapestry of symbols and techniques perfected over millennia by beings who had mastered the binding of magic to matter. Layer upon layer of arcane understanding that generations of mages and craftsmen had accumulated through blood and sacrifice.
He could see the patterns now, how runes must be carved with intent, how they drew power from the world around them, how they bent reality when properly aligned.
When consciousness gradually returned to him, Tyrion found himself sprawled upon the cold stone floor of his chamber. He wiped his nose finding it wet with blood, and as he made to rise he realised that the ground had responded to his unconscious will, rising around him to form a protective shell around his vulnerable form.
He reached for the ring, lifting it closer to examine the runes once more. Though different from the dwarven script now etched into his mind, he could sense its purpose through his newly awakened abilities. The magical signature of the ring blazed to his senses like a beacon in darkness.
This ring was built to hide, to conceal.
With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, Tyrion slipped the ring onto his finger. Though clearly fashioned for a larger hand, the moment it touched his skin, Tyrion felt a chill pass through him. The sensation was like being doused in ice water, a cold wave washing from his finger to encompass his entire body.
Looking down, he gasped. Where his hands should have been, where his stunted legs should have protruded, there was nothing. He had vanished completely from sight.
"By Durin himself," he whispered, his voice still audible though his body was not. He waved what should have been his hand before his face, feeling the air move but seeing nothing disturb it.
Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. Lann the Clever, who had supposedly tricked the Casterlys out of their ancestral home. The legends never quite explained how a single man had managed such a feat against an entire noble house.
"This was your secret," Tyrion breathed in wonder. "This is how you did it."
The ring of Lann the Clever, an artifact of immense power that granted invisibility to its wearer. With such a tool, infiltrating Casterly Rock would have been trivial. Moving unseen through halls, learning secrets, planting whispers that drove the Casterlys to madness or flight.
Tyrion giggled, a sound that echoed eerily in the chamber from an invisible source. He danced in delight, spinning around the dais, his bare feet slapping against the ancient stone.
"I'm invisible!" he cackled, drunk on the possibilities this discovery presented. "Truly invisible!"
The implications were staggering. No more sneaking through passages hoping to avoid detection. No more carefully timing his explorations to coincide with servants' schedules. With this ring, all of Casterly Rock, no, all the world, was open to him. With his new perk, he would be able to study the enchantment on the ring and see if he could replicate it.
Sobering slightly, he set about searching the chamber more thoroughly. Such a magnificent artifact surely couldn't be the only treasure hidden here. He examined every inch of wall, every flagstone, seeking hidden compartments or additional secrets.
But after an hour of meticulous investigation, Tyrion was forced to conclude that the ring was indeed the chamber's sole treasure. There were no books, no records, no diary to explain its creation or history. Just the ring itself, preserved in this sacred space for millennia, waiting for someone worthy to claim it.
"Well, Lann," Tyrion said to the empty air, "I believe I qualify as clever enough to be your heir in this, if nothing else."
He glanced down at the invisible finger where the ring sat. Even without seeing it, he could feel its weight, its significance. A thought occurred to him, and he carefully slipped the ring off.
Immediately, his body reappeared, stubby limbs and mismatched eyes once more visible in the dim light. The ring gleamed innocently in his palm, a simple band of some strange golden alloy, its runes now dormant and unremarkable to the naked eye.
On and off at will," he murmured, pleased. "Convenient."
He slipped it back on, vanishing once more, then off again. The transition was instantaneous each time, with no lingering effects. Perfect control.
A slow, cunning smile spread across Tyrion's face as he pocketed the ring. This would require careful consideration. Such power could not be used recklessly.
He cast one last look around the chamber, committing its details to memory. He would return, certainly, this place would make an excellent addition to his network of sanctuaries within the Rock. But for now, the ring demanded experimentation, and his father's imminent arrival was of immediate importance.
As Tyrion made his way back through the passage toward his father's solar, his mind raced with possibilities. What secrets might he uncover with this new power? What conversations might he overhear? What mischief might he create?
And most importantly, what other treasures might Lann the Clever, or other Lannisters have left scattered throughout Casterly Rock, waiting for a mind sharp enough to find them?
The passage seemed shorter on the return journey, his excitement lending speed to his steps. As he emerged into Tywin's solar, still empty and bathed in afternoon sunlight, Tyrion slipped the ring onto his finger once more.
Invisible now, he walked boldly to the main door rather than retreating through his secret passage. Why skulk when he could walk freely? He reached up, turned the handle, and stepped out into the corridor beyond.
A servant hurried past, carrying a stack of freshly laundered linens, never noticing as the door to Lord Tywin's solar seemingly opened and closed of its own accord. Tyrion had to stifle another giggle as he realized the true extent of his freedom.
This is going to be fun.
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