Morning arrived with brutal efficiency, sunlight stabbing through Tyrion's eyelids like daggers. His head pounded with the rhythm of a thousand blacksmiths, each determined to outdo the others in enthusiasm. His mouth tasted like something had crawled inside and died, and his stomach churned with ominous warning.
"Seven save me," he groaned, trying unsuccessfully to burrow deeper into his pillows.
A cheerful knock at the door sent fresh waves of agony through his skull. Before he could muster the strength to tell the visitor to go away, the door swung open to reveal Jaime, looking impossibly fresh and alert.
"Rise and shine, little brother!" Jaime announced with sadistic volume. "Aunt Genna sent me to ensure you begin your library punishment promptly!"
Tyrion responded with a muffled curse that questioned Jaime's parentage in anatomically impossible terms.
"Such language," Jaime tsked, striding to the window to throw open the curtains wider. "And here I thought you were the educated one."
Sunlight flooded the room, eliciting a hiss from Tyrion as he pulled the covers over his head. From beneath this inadequate shelter, he muttered, "How are you so... functional? You drank as much as I did."
Jaime laughed, the sound like shattering glass to Tyrion's sensitive ears. "I've spent two years drinking with knights and squires, brother. You need more practice."
A servant appeared with a tray bearing two steaming mugs. The smell that wafted from them was pungent enough to penetrate Tyrion's blanket fortress.
"Drink this," Jaime commanded, pulling the covers away and thrusting one of the mugs into Tyrion's reluctant hands. "Maester Creylen's special remedy. Tastes like horse piss but works wonders."
"How would you know what horse piss tastes like?" Tyrion grumbled, but he accepted the mug and cautiously sniffed its contents. The aroma made his eyes water.
"Just drink it quickly," Jaime advised, demonstrating with his own mug. He downed the contents in three large gulps, then shuddered dramatically. "Like ripping off a bandage."
Tyrion took a tentative sip and immediately regretted it. The concoction was bitter, sour, and somehow spicy all at once. It burned a path down his throat and hit his stomach like wildfire.
Tyrion coughed violently, eyes watering as the vile liquid burned through his system. Despite the agony, he forced himself to take another sip, then another, grimacing with each swallow.
"There's a good lad," Jaime said with the smug satisfaction of someone enjoying another's suffering. "The second half goes down easier than the first."
With a glare that promised future retribution, Tyrion pinched his nose and forced the rest of the liquid down. For a moment, he was certain it would come right back up. His stomach heaved in protest, then gradually, miraculously, settled.
Jaime set his own empty mug aside and stretched languidly, his golden hair catching the morning light. He felt remarkably well, considering the quantity of wine they'd consumed. Years of drinking contests with fellow squires had built his tolerance to impressive levels, though he'd never admit to Tyrion that his head was also pounding faintly. He was also rather impressed at his brother' recovery time. He was tiny, and seven years old at that.
"You have exactly half an hour to make yourself presentable," Jaime announced, picking up a small hourglass from Tyrion's desk and turning it over with theatrical flair. "Aunt Genna was quite specific about the time. Something about 'teaching punctuality to complement wisdom.'"
Tyrion's response was another groan, but Jaime noticed his brother's color improving already. Maester Creylen's concoction worked quickly, if unpleasantly.
"Half an hour," Tyrion repeated mournfully, forcing himself to sit up. The room spun briefly before settling into its proper dimensions. "The things I do for family loyalty."
"Family loyalty?" Jaime laughed. "This is punishment, remember? For leading your elder brother astray into debauchery and public drunkenness."
"Me?" Tyrion's mismatched eyes widened in exaggerated innocence. "I distinctly recall it being your idea to visit Lannisport without guards."
"And I distinctly recall whose idea it was to break into the abandoned watchtower and drink Father's prized vintage." Jaime ruffled his brother's tangled golden curls. "Hurry up. I'll wait outside while you dress."
As Jaime stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him, he leaned against the wall and allowed himself a small wince. Perhaps he wasn't quite as recovered as he'd pretended. His head throbbed dully, and his stomach still felt uncertain about the day ahead. Still, he was in far better shape than Tyrion, whose smaller body had absorbed the same amount of wine.
Inside the chamber, Tyrion dragged himself from bed, swaying slightly as he stood. His reflection in the mirror was ghastly, pallid skin, bloodshot eyes, and hair sticking out in every direction like a madman's. Yet already the hangover remedy was taking effect, the fog in his brain beginning to clear.
"I am never drinking again," he muttered to his reflection. Then grinned, "Well that promise is meant to be broken. Until I have my glorious mead, I'll have to deal with wine."
With practiced efficiency, he splashed cold water on his face from the basin, dressed in clean clothes, and attempted to tame his wild hair into something presentable.
By the time he opened the door, exactly twenty-nine minutes had passed.
"Impressive," Jaime said, genuinely surprised. "I expected to find you still in bed, claiming death was imminent."
"I considered it," Tyrion admitted as they began walking toward the library wing. "But Aunt Genna in a rage is more terrifying than any hangover."
They descended the spiral staircase that led from the northern tower to the main keep, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. Servants bustled past, carrying linens and breakfast trays, each pausing to bow or curtsy to the Lannister brothers.
"So," Tyrion said as they turned down the long corridor that led to the library, "while I'm buried alive under dusty tomes, what will you be doing? Besides smelling of horse manure, that is."
Jaime grimaced. "Ser Benedict has scheduled extra training to make up for yesterday's absence. Four hours of sword drills followed by two hours of lance work." He flexed his sword hand reflexively. "I'll have blisters on my blisters by midday."
"Ah, so we both suffer. How equitable of our dear aunt."
They had reached the massive oak doors that marked the entrance to Casterly Rock's legendary library. Even Jaime, who preferred swords to books, had to admit it was an impressive sight. Three stories of shelves stretched upward toward a vaulted ceiling, with narrow staircases and ladders providing access to the highest reaches. Windows placed strategically around the circular chamber allowed natural light to illuminate the countless volumes collected by generations of Lannisters.
Maester Creylen awaited them, his expression severe beneath his gray-streaked beard. The many-linked chain around his neck clinked softly as he bowed to the brothers.
"Lord Jaime, Lord Tyrion," he greeted them formally. "I trust you are both well rested and... clear-headed this morning?"
The slight emphasis on "clear-headed" made it obvious that news of their nocturnal adventures had spread throughout the household. Jaime suppressed a smile while Tyrion adopted an expression of exaggerated solemnity.
"Never better, Maester," Tyrion replied, only the slightest hoarseness in his voice betraying his condition. "I look forward to assisting with the reorganization of the library's oldest section."
Creylen raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of Tyrion's enthusiasm. "Indeed. Well then, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where you'll be working today." He turned to lead them deeper into the library.
Jaime leaned down to whisper in Tyrion's ear. "Try not to fall asleep among the scrolls. I hear the dust mites can be quite vicious."
"And you try not to fall off your horse," Tyrion whispered back. "Though the manure might provide a soft landing."
"Also, dear brother mine, what time shall we meet for our sparring match?" Tyrion asked.
Jaime's eyes lit up with anticipation. "The training yard at the fourth bell? That will give you time to recover your strength fully." He winked. "You'll need it."
"Don't be so confident, brother," Tyrion warned with a smile that showed far more assurance than he felt. "I may surprise you."
"I'm counting on it," Jaime replied.
With a final fraternal pat on the shoulder, Jaime left his brother to his fate and headed toward the training yard, already dreading the punishment that awaited him there. As he crossed the central courtyard, he spotted Aunt Genna watching from a balcony, her arms crossed and her expression satisfied.
"Enjoying your handiwork, Aunt?" he called up to her with a cheeky grin.
"Immensely," she replied, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Consider yourselves fortunate that your father isn't here yet. His punishment would have been far less... educational."
Jaime couldn't argue with that. Their father's idea of discipline tended toward the cold and cutting rather than the constructive. At least Genna's punishments, while unpleasant, were designed to improve them rather than simply make them suffer.
With a theatrical bow to his aunt, Jaime continued toward the training yard, where Ser Benedict Broom awaited with a collection of practice swords and what would undoubtedly be a day of grueling exercise. His muscles already ached in anticipation.
In the library, Tyrion found himself led to a section he'd rarely explored, a dusty corner where the oldest and most fragile texts were kept. Shelves sagged under the weight of ancient scrolls, crumbling manuscripts, and books whose bindings had seen better days centuries ago.
"These texts require special care," Maester Creylen explained, gesturing to the chaotic collection. "Many have not been properly cataloged since your grandfather's time. Lady Genna suggested you might have the patience and attention to detail necessary for such delicate work."
Tyrion surveyed the task before him with mixed feelings. On one hand, it was clearly meant to be tedious punishment. On the other, these ancient texts might contain knowledge and secrets long forgotten by the rest of the household. His natural curiosity began to stir despite his hangover.
"Where should I begin, Maester?" he asked, already eyeing a particularly interesting-looking scroll case decorated with what appeared to be First Men runes.
Creylen handed him a thick ledger. "First, record each item's title, author if known, approximate age, and condition. Then arrange them by subject matter according to the system outlined in this guide." He tapped a weighty tome on a nearby desk. "I'll check your progress periodically. And Lord Tyrion?"
"Yes, Maester?"
"Try not to get distracted by reading them. Lady Genna was quite insistent that this be work, not pleasure."
As the maester walked away, Tyrion muttered under his breath, "Too late."
_______________
Tyrion's hangover gradually subsided as the morning wore on, replaced by genuine fascination with the ancient texts. What had begun as punishment transformed into pleasure as he lost himself in crumbling scrolls detailing the early history of House Lannister. Even Maester Creylen's periodic scoldings couldn't dampen his enthusiasm.
"Tyrion, you've been reading that same manuscript for nearly an hour," the maester chided, appearing suddenly behind him. "The task is to catalog, not to study."
Tyrion looked up guiltily, surrounded by open books and unrolled scrolls. The organizational system he'd been instructed to implement remained woefully neglected.
"Forgive me, Maester. The history proved rather compelling."
"Indeed," Creylen replied dryly. "As it has the previous three times I've found you engrossed rather than cataloging."
Tyrion looked up guiltily, surrounded by open books and unrolled scrolls. The organizational system he'd been instructed to implement remained woefully neglected.
"I was familiarizing myself with the material before categorizing it," Tyrion offered with his most winning smile. "Did you know there are detailed accounts from the Age of Heroes that suggest—"
"Fascinating, I'm sure," Creylen interrupted dryly. "But Lady Genna will expect progress when she inspects later today. Perhaps you could actually organize something before then?"
The maester's tone was stern, but Tyrion caught the faint twinkle in his eye. Creylen had always appreciated Tyrion's thirst for knowledge, even when it interfered with more practical tasks.
With a theatrical sigh, Tyrion returned to the tedious work of recording and sorting. His fingers were soon gray with dust, and his nose itched constantly from the musty air.
By midday, hunger finally drove Tyrion to action. He had managed to sort precisely three shelves, far less than expected, but enough to show some progress. His stomach growled insistently, reminding him that proper recovery from excessive drinking required sustenance.
Slipping from the library, Tyrion made his way to the kitchens. The cooks, long accustomed to his irregular appearances, greeted him warmly.
"There he is! Our little lord returns from the dead!" Marla, the head cook, laughed as she saw his still-pallid face. "Heard you and Lord Jaime had quite the adventure yesterday."
"News travels fast," Tyrion grumbled, accepting a plate piled high with cold chicken, cheese, and bread. "I don't suppose you have any of that spiced honeyed milk? My head still feels like it's being used as an anvil."
"Already prepared," Marla winked, producing a steaming mug. "Old Marla knows what cures what ails young lords who drink too much of their father's fine wine."
"News travels faster than wildfire in this castle." She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Though if you ask me, it does Lord Jaime good to have a bit of fun. Too much pressure on that one's shoulders."
Tyrion nodded, his mouth full of honey cake. He had often thought the same, Jaime carried the weight of being Tywin Lannister's heir with remarkable grace, but the burden was real nonetheless.
Tyrion ate quickly, aware that the fourth bell would soon ring. The thought of sparring with Jaime sent a mixture of excitement and trepidation through him. His brother was already a legendary swordsman despite his youth, and Tyrion was excited to test his skills against Jaime.
Uncle Tygett had strictly forbidden Tyrion to train with the other squires and had kept their training sessions private. So he had no idea where he stood against other competition who were less skilled than his uncle who was a famed warrior.
Then there was the matter of the gift. The runed sword he had crafted lay hidden in his secret forge, waiting to be presented.
Finishing his meal quickly, Tyrion slipped away from the kitchens and made his way through a series of hidden passages that led deep into the heart of Casterly Rock. The familiar journey took him past ancient mining tunnels, abandoned storerooms, and finally to the unremarkable stone wall that concealed the entrance to his workshop.
After ensuring he was alone, Tyrion pressed the hidden mechanism. The wall slid open silently, revealing the forge beyond. He stepped inside, the wall closing automatically behind him.
The workshop lay exactly as he had left it, tools arranged with meticulous precision, the forge cold but ready to be lit at a moment's notice. On a worktable draped with crimson cloth lay his creation, the sword he had forged for Jaime.
Tyrion approached reverently, lifting the cloth to reveal his masterwork. The blade gleamed in the lamplight, its polished surface reflecting the golden glow. The three runes inscribed near the hilt seemed to shimmer subtly, visible only from certain angles. The golden lion pommel caught the light, its ruby eyes seeming to watch him with approval.
"Not bad," he murmured, lifting the weapon. Despite being sized for Jaime's hand rather than his own, the balance was perfect. The blade sang softly as he moved it through the air in a testing arc.
Satisfied, he sheathed the sword in the custom scabbard he had created, supple leather dyed Lannister crimson and decorated with golden lions that seemed to chase each other around its circumference. A thin gold chain allowed it to be worn across the back rather than at the hip, a style favored by some of the more flamboyant knights in tourneys.
Tyrion wrapped the sheathed sword in a simple cloth, not wanting to attract attention as he made his way to the training yard. He took a different route back, one that would emerge near the armory where his practice sword was kept.
By the time he reached the armory, the midday heat had driven most of the castle's inhabitants indoors for rest. The training yard stood nearly empty, save for a solitary figure moving through sword forms with liquid precision.
Jaime had stripped to the waist, his upper body gleaming with sweat as he executed a complex series of attacks and parries against an imaginary opponent. His golden hair was darkened with perspiration, plastered to his forehead as he spun and lunged with effortless grace. Nearby, Ser Benedict Broom watched with critical attention, occasionally calling out adjustments to stance or grip.
Tyrion paused at the edge of the yard, taking a moment to admire his brother's skill. There was something almost supernatural about the way Jaime moved with a blade, as if he and the sword were a single entity rather than man and tool. It was beautiful to watch, like a dance choreographed by the Warrior himself.
Setting the wrapped gift carefully aside, Tyrion entered the armory to retrieve his practice sword. Unlike the ornate training weapons used by full-sized knights, Tyrion's blade was a custom creation, shorter and weighted differently to accommodate his stature. Uncle Tygett had commissioned it from the castle's master armorer after he had outgrown the original sword that Uncle Gerion had given him along with a shield.
The sword felt comfortable in his hand, familiar after countless hours of practice. Tyrion tested its balance with a few experimental swings, then tucked his gift under his arm and stepped out into the harsh sunlight of the training yard.
Jaime spotted him immediately, his face breaking into a broad smile as he lowered his practice blade. "Ah! The famous Little Lion emerges from his den of books!" he called out, green eyes dancing with mischief. "I was beginning to think you'd found an excuse to avoid our match."
"And miss the opportunity to humble the Young Lion before witnesses?" Tyrion replied, matching his brother's teasing tone. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Ser Benedict nodded respectfully to Tyrion. Unlike many in the household, the master-at-arms had never treated him with pity or disdain. "Lord Tyrion. I look forward to observing your technique."
"Don't expect too much, Ser Benedict," Tyrion cautioned, setting his wrapped gift carefully on a bench at the edge of the yard. "I've had good teachers, but I lack certain advantages." He gestured to his short limbs with self-deprecating humor.
Jaime's eyes fixed on the cloth-wrapped bundle. "What's that you've brought? Doesn't look like armor, and you already have your practice sword."
"Patience, brother," Tyrion admonished, unsheathing his training blade. "First, let's see if you're as good as the stories claim. Then, if you impress me sufficiently, perhaps I'll satisfy your curiosity."
Jaime laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed across the yard. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" He assumed a fighting stance, his practice sword held loosely in his right hand. "Very well, little brother. Show me what Uncle Tygett has taught you."
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He's only seven years old guys, so please forgive Tyrion for semingly having a lower tolerance than Jaime. But I solemnly swear, the mead will be brewed one day. And it shall be glorious
I have posted a picture of Tyrion on my Patreon for you guys to view for free if you're interested. (linktr. ee/DarkeBones.)
If you want to read TWO chapters ahead of my public release please see:
linktr. ee/DarkeBones.