"Ah, yes, Lord Tyrion. A raven arrived this morning," Maester Creylen said, adjusting the heavy chain around his neck. "Your brother Jaime's party will arrive sooner than expected, tomorrow, in fact. Lord Sumner Crakehall sent word ahead."
Tyrion's eyes lit up with excitement. "Tomorrow? That's wonderful news!"
The maester smiled kindly. "I thought you'd be pleased. Lord Jaime's achievements at the tourney have been much discussed."
"Thank you, Maester. If you'll excuse me, I have... preparations to attend to."
As Creylen nodded and continued on his way, Tyrion's mind raced with possibilities. Jaime arriving tomorrow! His gift wasn't finished! With newfound urgency, Tyrion hurried through the castle, taking a circuitous route that eventually led him to a seemingly unremarkable section of wall in a seldom-used corridor.
He glanced around, slipped the ring onto his finger, and vanished from sight. Only then did he press the hidden mechanism that revealed a narrow passage sloping steeply downward. The invisible Tyrion entered, the wall sliding closed behind him.
The passage descended into the very heart of Casterly Rock, far below the inhabited levels. Here, in the mountain's depths where even the miners rarely ventured, Tyrion had spent countless hours creating something uniquely his own.
After ten minutes of careful navigation through increasingly narrow tunnels, he reached his destination. He removed the ring, becoming visible once more, and pushed open a heavy iron door that he'd salvaged from an abandoned storeroom and painstakingly installed himself.
The chamber beyond would have made any master smith gasp in astonishment.
What had once been a natural cavern had been transformed into a workshop unlike any in the Seven Kingdoms. The ceiling rose high above, disappearing into darkness despite the numerous oil lamps and ingenious mirrors that reflected light throughout the space. A natural chimney in the rock carried smoke away through a complex series of chambers that dispersed it gradually, ensuring no telltale plume would betray his secret forge.
But it was the equipment that truly set this workshop apart. Where ordinary smithies relied on muscle power and simple tools, Tyrion had created mechanical marvels that compensated for his physical limitations.
A system of counterweights and pulleys allowed him to lift and position metal that would normally require the strength of a full-grown man. Water diverted from an underground stream powered a hammer that could be adjusted for different striking forces. Bellows operated by foot pedals kept the forge at precisely the temperature he desired.
Tyrion grinned as he surveyed his domain. Over two years of secret labor had gone into this place, stealing tools bit by bit, salvaging materials from forgotten corners of the Rock, and applying his dwarven knowledge to create something no human smith would have conceived.
He stripped off his fine clothes and donned his work outfit, sturdy leather pants and a sleeveless vest that exposed his surprisingly muscular arms and chest. Though he remained tiny, years of secret smithing had built strength that his regular clothes concealed.
"Right then," he muttered, tying back his hair. "Let's make something worthy of the Young Lion."
The sword he'd been crafting for Jaime lay on his workbench. It wasn't a full-sized longsword, Jaime wasn't quite ready for that, but a beautifully balanced bastard sword that could be wielded with one or two hands. The blade was nearly complete, needing only final shaping, polishing, and the runes he planned to inscribe.
Tyrion stoked the forge until it glowed with fierce heat. While waiting for it to reach the proper temperature, he consulted a thick leather-bound book filled with his notes and sketches of dwarven runes. His finger traced over symbols representing strength, balance, and keenness.
"Not too ambitious," he reminded himself. "Keep it simple."
When the forge reached white-hot intensity, Tyrion took up the unfinished blade with tongs and placed it carefully into the heart of the fire. As the steel began to glow, he hummed a rhythmic tune, an old mining song he'd learned from the dwarven memories that sometimes surfaced in his dreams.
After several minutes, he withdrew the glowing metal and positioned it on the anvil. With practiced movements, he took up his hammer, a tool nearly as tall as his torso but perfectly balanced for his grip. The counterweights he'd designed made it feel like an extension of his arm rather than an unwieldy burden.
CLANG! The first strike rang out, sending vibrations through the chamber. CLANG! The second followed in perfect rhythm.
Tyrion's eyes closed as he worked, feeling the metal respond to each blow. This wasn't mere smithing; it was a conversation between craftsman and material, a dialogue of fire and steel. His dwarven blood sang with the joy of creation, an ancient skill coded into his very bones.
The heat radiating from the metal would have forced any normal smith to use protective gloves, but Tyrion worked bare-handed, his dwarven heritage granting him remarkable resistance to temperature extremes. He grasped the glowing steel directly, turning it precisely as he hammered, feeling every nuance of the metal's response.
When the blade began to cool, he plunged it into a barrel of water specially prepared with oils and minerals according to formulas he'd discovered in his grimoire. The water hissed and steamed furiously as the metal met it, sending clouds billowing toward the ceiling.
"Perfect," he murmured, examining the blade as he withdrew it. The quenching had gone exactly as planned.
Hours passed as Tyrion repeated the process, heating, hammering, quenching, gradually refining the sword's shape and structure. Each cycle improved the metal, folding carbon into the steel in patterns that would make it both strong and flexible.
As night fell in the world above, Tyrion remained in his underground sanctuary, oblivious to the passage of time. The blade was taking its final form now, the metal singing under his hammer with an almost musical tone that told him it was nearing perfection.
"Now for the tricky part," he said to himself, wiping sweat from his brow.
He carefully cleaned the blade, polishing it until it gleamed in the lamplight. Then, with delicate tools he'd crafted himself, he began to inscribe the first rune near the hilt, the Rune for Stone. The most basic rune taught to apprentice runeesmiths. His hands moved with extraordinary precision, cutting into the metal with strokes so fine they were barely visible.
The knowledge of Dwarf Runes was a blessing, but it brought frustration. He understood their power and purpose with perfect clarity, but his youthful body lacked the centuries of training needed to properly inscribe them. A true runesmith might spend decades perfecting a single rune, infusing it with power through skill and concentration that bordered on religious devotion.
Tyrion had none of that training, but he did have the grimoire, a wellspring of knowledge that sometimes felt like cheating. The perk had whispered forging techniques to him, showed him shortcuts and methods that even master runesmiths might not discover for centuries.
Still, there were limits. His seven-year-old body and developing mind simply couldn't channel the power needed for Master Runes. Those Runes that blessed the legendary weapons of dwarven lore, axes that could cleave mountains, hammers that called lightning, remained far beyond his capabilities.
But he could manage lesser workings. He could inscribe runes that would keep a blade sharp longer than any normal sword, that would help it find its mark in battle, that would make it resistant to breaking.
As he worked on the second rune, the Rune for Speed, sweat beaded on his forehead from concentration. This was delicate work, requiring absolute focus. One slip and he would ruin hours of labor.
"Steady now," he whispered to himself. "Steady hands make steady runes."
The inscription took shape under his careful manipulation, each tiny cut precise and purposeful. When he finished, he sat back and examined his work with a critical eye. Not perfect, not by dwarven standards, but remarkably good for one so young and untrained.
For the final rune, Striking, Tyrion heated the blade one last time, bringing it to a precise temperature where the metal would be receptive to the inscription without becoming too malleable. This was the most complex of the three, a symbol of interlocking lines and curves that seemed to shift under his gaze.
As he prepared to carve the final rune, Tyrion began to hum an ancient melody, not one learned from books or tutors, but one that flowed from somewhere deep within his blood memory. The sound resonated through the chamber, seeming to make the very air vibrate in sympathy. Though he knew the Winds of Magic that flowed through the world of his ancestors didn't exist here in Westeros, he could sense something similar, a subtle energy that permeated everything around him.
In the depths of the Stone Garden, the godswood of Casterly Rock, where the twisted weirwood's roots had choked all other growth, Tyrion had meditated, and he had realised a significant difference between his situation and that of the Dawi system of Runic Magic. The Runic Magic of the ancient dwarfs had been born of necessity, a race that could not directly channel the Winds of Magic had developed a method to trap and bind those energies safely, insulating themselves from corruption while still harnessing magical power.
But Tyrion was not a Dawi. Though his body resembled the Dwarfs of the Old World; he was a Khazâd of Middle Earth, born of mountain and stone, and further blessed with the Stone Sense of the Shaperate, he was a natural conduit for earth magic.
Unlike the tainted, chaotic energies of the Warhammer world that would corrupt those who channeled them directly, the magic of Westeros flowed pure and natural through the stones beneath his feet. It sang to him, a melody older than mankind's presence on this continent.
As he carved the Rune, Tyrion felt magic responding to his call, gathering around his hands like an invisible mist, flowing through his tools and into the runes he carved. The connection was instinctive, requiring no incantations or rituals, just his will and intent guiding the energy.
He drew power from the mountain itself, from the ancient stone that had witnessed millennia of history. The energies of Casterly Rock, gold-tinged and powerful, flowed up through his bare feet, through his sturdy legs, and into his skilled hands. The rune began to glow faintly as he worked with a warm, golden light that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Sweat poured down Tyrion's face and chest, his small body radiating heat like a furnace. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, but he maintained his focus on the intricate pattern taking shape beneath his hands. This was dangerous work, far more dangerous than ordinary smithing.
The first time he had attempted to channel the natural energies of the world, his awareness had begun sinking into the mountain itself. He'd awakened from a trance-like state to find, to his horror, that his legs had begun turning to stone, the transformation creeping upward toward his torso. Only by frantically severing the connection had he managed to reverse the process, watching with relief as his flesh returned to normal over several terrifying minutes.
Since that harrowing experience, Tyrion had been infinitesimally careful about how much energy he drew and how deeply he connected with the mountain. He had developed techniques to maintain his separate identity while working the magic, mental barriers that kept him from dissolving into the greater consciousness of the stone.
Even with these precautions, he could feel the mountain's ancient awareness pressing against his mind, curious about this small being who spoke its language. It wasn't malevolent, mountains had no concept of malice, but its indifferent power could consume him as easily as a man might step on an ant without noticing.
"Stay with me," Tyrion whispered to himself, his voice strained. "Just a little longer."
The final strokes of the rune took shape under his guidance, each line precise despite the trembling that had begun in his overtaxed muscles. The completed symbol flared brilliantly with a golden light for a moment before settling into a subtle shimmer that seemed to dance across the blade's surface.
With the last cut complete, Tyrion severed the connection to the mountain's power, gasping as the magical current ceased flowing through him. He staggered backward, nearly collapsing onto his stool. His skin steamed slightly in the cool air of the chamber, and he could feel his heart racing dangerously fast in his chest.
"Bloody hell," he croaked, reaching for a water skin with trembling hands. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat but did little for the bone-deep exhaustion that followed such workings. This was the price of dabbling in powers beyond mortal understanding, a price he paid willingly for the results.
After several minutes of rest, his breathing steadied enough for him to examine his work. The blade gleamed in the lamplight, the three runes subtly visible along its length when viewed from certain angles. To an ordinary observer, it would appear to be merely an exceptionally well-crafted sword. Only those with special sensitivity would detect the magic bound within its steel.
"Not my finest work," Tyrion muttered critically, though in truth it was far beyond what any human smith could achieve. "But Jaime will appreciate it nonetheless."
He set the sword aside to cool completely before final assembly. The hilt components, pommel, grip, and crossguard, waited on a nearby workbench, crafted from the finest materials he could appropriate without arousing suspicion. The grip was wrapped in leather from a prized bull that had died the previous winter, the crossguard fashioned from bronze with gold inlay in a subtle lion pattern, and the pommel set with a small ruby he'd discovered in an abandoned section of the mines.
Tyrion stretched, wincing as his muscles protested. The magical working had taken more out of him than he'd anticipated. He would need to rest before completing the sword, perhaps even sleep for a few hours here in his sanctuary rather than attempting the long climb back to his chambers.
"Jaime won't arrive until night tomorrow," he reasoned aloud, his voice echoing slightly in the cavern. "Plenty of time to finish in the morning."
He moved to a small alcove where he kept provisions and a bedroll for such occasions. After drinking more water and nibbling at some dried fruit and hard cheese, he stretched out on the simple bed, and dreamed.
In his dreams, Tyrion walked the halls of a vast underground city, its ceiling glittering with veins of gold and gemstones. Stout, bearded figures nodded to him in recognition as he passed, speaking a language he somehow understood despite never having heard it in his waking life. He felt at home here, more than he ever had in the halls of Casterly Rock.
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The clatter of hooves broke the night's silence, echoing against the ancient stone walls of Casterly Rock well before the riders came into view. Tyrion had been waiting by his window for hours, the newly completed sword wrapped in fine crimson cloth and hidden beneath his bed. He'd spent the entire day finishing it, polishing the blade until it gleamed like liquid silver, assembling the components with meticulous care, and testing its balance one final time.
A torch-bearing servant hurried across the courtyard to illuminate the entrance as the small party of riders approached the gates. Even from his high window, Tyrion could see his brother at the head of the column, his golden hair catching the torchlight.
"He's here," Tyrion whispered to himself, a smile spreading across his face. He scrambled down from the window seat and hurried out of his chambers, his short legs carrying him as quickly as they could through the corridors of Casterly Rock.
By the time he reached the courtyard, the rest of the family had already assembled. Aunt Genna stood at the forefront, her impressive girth draped in Lannister crimson, her face set in what she likely thought was a stern expression but which couldn't quite hide her affection. Beside her, Uncle Kevan maintained his typical stoic demeanor, though his eyes betrayed his pride. Uncle Tygett and Uncle Gerion stood slightly apart, the former scowling as usual, the latter grinning broadly, already reaching for a wineskin at his hip.
Jaime vaulted from his horse with practiced grace, landing lightly on his feet. The two years since Tyrion had last seen him had transformed the boy into something approaching a man. He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, and his jawline sharper. His golden hair was cut shorter than before, framing a face that had somehow grown even more handsome. When he smiled, his green eyes danced with mischief, and when he walked toward his waiting family, Tyrion couldn't help but notice the hint of swagger in his step.
"My dearest aunt and uncles, and younger brother," Jaime called out, spreading his arms wide in theatrical greeting, "I have returned the conquering hero!"
"And as modest as ever, I see," Aunt Genna replied dryly, though she opened her arms to embrace him. "Come here, boy."
Jaime disappeared momentarily into her substantial embrace before making his way through the rest of the welcoming committee. Uncle Kevan shook his hand formally, Uncle Tygett offered a gruff nod, and Uncle Gerion pulled him into a bear hug, laughing.
"Still pretty as a maid, aren't you?" Gerion teased, ruffling Jaime's hair. "Good thing you can fight, or we'd have to marry you off to some lord's son instead of his daughter!"
Tyrion hung back, waiting for his moment. When Jaime finally turned to him, the dwarf spread his arms wide in imitation of his brother's earlier gesture.
"Brother! I see your time away has only enhanced your natural flair for the dramatic," Tyrion called out, grinning from ear to ear. "Though I must say, if that's a conquering hero's entrance, I'd hate to see how the conquered arrive."
Jaime's laugh rang out across the courtyard, and he strode forward to sweep Tyrion into a hug. "Gods, I've missed that tongue of yours, little brother!"
He attempted to lift Tyrion as he had in the past, but after raising him barely a foot off the ground, Jaime set him back down with a surprised grunt.
"Seven hells, what have they been feeding you?" Jaime asked, looking down at his brother with genuine astonishment. "You've grown as solid as the Rock itself!"
Tyrion patted his brother's arm sympathetically. "Just because you've been subsisting on glory and applause doesn't mean the rest of us haven't been enjoying Casterly Rock's kitchens. Some of us prefer substantial nourishment over substantial praise."
The assembled family burst into laughter, even Tygett's perpetual scowl cracking slightly at the corners.
"Come inside and get some food," Genna commanded, taking charge as she always did in Tywin's absence. "You must be hungry after your journey, and we want to hear all about this tourney."
The great hall had been prepared for Jaime's arrival, with platters of cold meats, cheeses, fresh bread, and fruit laid out on the long table. Flagons of wine and pitchers of water stood ready, their contents gleaming in the candlelight. Though it was late, the kitchens had clearly been working in anticipation of the young heir's return.
As they settled around the table, Jaime at its head in his father's absence, the servants poured wine and filled plates. Tyrion took a seat close to his brother, unwilling to be separated after their long time apart.
"So," Gerion prompted, raising his goblet, "tell us about this melee that has all the realm talking."
Jaime needed little encouragement. Between bites of food, he regaled them with tales of the tournament at Crakehall, where Lord Sumner had allowed him to participate in the melee despite his youth.
"You should have seen the look on Ser Damon's face when I disarmed him," Jaime boasted, his eyes alight with the memory. "He's twice my age and half again my size, but he never saw the move coming. I feinted left, then spun right and—" He demonstrated with a piece of bread and his knife, nearly upending his wine goblet in his enthusiasm.
"And Lord Sumner wasn't angry you'd embarrassed one of his knights?" Kevan asked, always practical.
Jaime shrugged. "He laughed louder than anyone. Said Ser Damon needed the lesson in humility." He turned to Tyrion with a conspiratorial wink. "Though not as much as some others I could name."
"I assume you're referring to yourself," Tyrion quipped, "since I'm the very soul of modesty."
More laughter rippled around the table. Even the servants, standing at attention along the walls, seemed to be fighting smiles.
As the meal continued, Jaime's stories grew more elaborate, each feat slightly more impressive than the last. Tyrion listened with rapt attention, not caring if his brother embellished. The joy of having Jaime home again outweighed any concern for strict accuracy.
"And then there was this hedge knight, massive fellow with arms like tree trunks," Jaime was saying, gesturing expansively. "He came at me with a mace that—"
A massive yawn interrupted his tale, catching Jaime by surprise. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it was too late.
"That's enough now," Aunt Genna declared, rising from her seat with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. "You're exhausted, and these stories will keep until tomorrow. Get some rest."
"But I haven't told you about the final round yet," Jaime protested, though another yawn undermined his argument.
"Tomorrow," Genna insisted, her tone brooking no opposition. "The Rock has stood for thousands of years; it will still be here in the morning, along with all your admirers." She gestured to the servants. "See that Lord Jaime's chambers are prepared, and have hot water brought for his bath."
The family began to rise from the table, various Lannisters stretching and yawning after the late meal. Jaime, however, seemed to find a second wind as he noticed his little brother trying to slip away quietly.
"Not so fast, you little imp," Jaime called out, his voice warm with affection. He bounded over to Tyrion and wrapped an arm around his neck, vigorously rubbing his knuckles against Tyrion's golden curls. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow, brother. I've been hearing quite a lot of interesting tales about your adventures around the Rock."
Tyrion squirmed free, his mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tales? Oh, I have more than tales to share." Without warning, he flipped forward onto his hands, his stocky legs kicking up into the air with surprising grace. "What do you think of this?"
The assembled Lannisters watched in astonishment as Tyrion began walking on his hands across the great hall, his face reddening slightly with the effort, but his balance perfect. The strength in his arms, hidden beneath fine clothes during dinner, was now plainly visible as the muscles strained against the fabric.
Behind them, Uncle Gerion roared with laughter, slapping his thigh in delight. "There you go! Have you ever seen a more natural tumbler than that? The boy's a marvel!"
Inspired and more than a little drunk, Gerion attempted to match his nephew's feat. He kicked up his legs with surprising agility for a man his size, wobbled precariously for half a second with his palms flat against the stone floor, then collapsed in an undignified heap, sending a nearby empty flagon clattering across the flagstones.
The hall erupted in laughter, even Kevan allowing himself a rare chuckle at his brother's expense. Tygett, typically dour, actually smiled as he extended a hand to help Gerion up.
"Perhaps I've had a touch too much wine," Gerion admitted, accepting the assistance with a sheepish grin.
Meanwhile, Tyrion had completed his circuit of the hall and flipped back to his feet with a flourish, bowing deeply to the applause of his family. The servants along the wall clapped too, their usual reserve forgotten in the moment of shared joy.
"Well done, nephew," Genna said, genuine pride warming her voice. "Though I suspect there are many talents you've been keeping hidden from us."
If only she knew, Tyrion thought, the weight of Lann's ring heavy in his pocket. The secret workshop beneath their feet, the runed sword waiting in his chambers, the ancient magic flowing through his veins, all remained his private world, at least for now.
"A Lannister always has secrets, Aunt," he replied with a wink. "It wouldn't do to reveal everything at once."
Jaime slung an arm around his brother's shoulders. "I've missed you, Tyrion. Truly. Letters aren't the same."
"No, they're not," Tyrion agreed, leaning slightly into his brother's embrace. "Though yours were entertaining enough, especially when you described Lord Plumm's face after you knocked his favorite son into the mud."
"You should have seen it! Like a tomato about to burst," Jaime laughed, then yawned again, this one impossible to suppress.
"To bed with you all," Genna commanded, making shooing motions with her hands.
As they walked together toward their chambers, Jaime leaned down to whisper in Tyrion's ear. "I've brought you something from my travels. A book of ancient battles that I found in Oldtown. The illustrations alone are worth the price I paid."
Tyrion's heart warmed at the gesture. "And I have something for you as well. Though perhaps it's best given in private."
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