278 AC
The year was 278 AC, and Tyrion had recently celebrated his fifth nameday with a small feast organized by Aunt Genna, who had insisted on marking the occasion despite Tywin's indifference.
Just yesterday, he'd overheard the news that had set his heart soaring. Father and Cersei would be departing for King's Landing within the fortnight. The invitation had come from King Aerys himself, a command disguised as a request. After the Defiance of Duskendale last year, the King's paranoia had intensified. He wanted his Hand close, where he could watch him.
Tyrion had listened from his hiding spot as Tywin explained to Kevan that Cersei would accompany him, to be introduced to potential suitors at court. The unspoken goal hung in the air: to catch the eye of Prince Rhaegar.
What neither mentioned, but Tyrion understood perfectly well, was that he himself would remain at the Rock. Out of sight, out of mind, exactly as Tywin preferred. Jaime had also left a year prior to squire with Lord Crakehall, and sent letters frequently about his training and his new friend and fellow squire Adam Marbrand.
But where a regular child may have despaired and seen the isolation as a punishment, Tyrion recognized opportunity. With Tywin gone, day-to-day governance would fall to Uncle Kevan, Aunt Genna, and his favorite, Uncle Gerion, all of whom harbored a genuine affection for the Rock's smallest lion.
Freedom, glorious freedom, beckoned.
Tyrion continued deeper into the mine shaft, his fingers trailing along the wall. The stone sang to him of ancient formations, of pressure and heat, of gold and silver veins running like metallic blood through the mountain's heart. His connection to the Rock had only deepened with time; he knew its secrets better than any Lannister before him.
He turned down a narrow passage that few miners ventured into anymore. The vein had supposedly run dry decades ago, but Tyrion's stone sense told him otherwise. The precious metal had merely shifted, following a fault line three feet to the left of where the miners had abandoned their work.
"Let's see what you're hiding," he murmured to the stone, pressing his palm against a particular spot where the gold called to him most strongly.
Under his touch, the rock softened, and out plopped a gleaming nugget of gold that hadn't seen light in thousands of years. Tyrion plucked it free with a delighted chuckle.
"Hello, beautiful," he whispered, turning the nugget in his small hands.
As he walked, the gold grew warm, becoming pliable beneath his fingers. Without conscious thought, he began to shape it, pressing and molding as naturally as breathing. First it became a tiny lion, then a dragon, then a wolf. The metal responded to his touch as if eager to please, transforming from one shape to another with fluid ease.
Tyrion had discovered this ability by accident a year ago. There was a way that metal, all metal really, responded to his touch. It went beyond mere skill; it was heritage, instinct, a bloodline gift tied to Aule's blessing that synchronised with his Stone Sense perfectly.
He paused at a junction in the tunnel, considering his path. The left fork led deeper into the mountain, where he would happily explore the veins of gold ore that ran through the mountain, the right would take him back toward the inhabited sections of the Rock.
A rumble from his stomach decided for him. It was nearly midday, and he'd promised to meet with Maester Creylen for his lessons after lunch. He tucked the gold figurine, now shaped like a perfect miniature of Casterly Rock, into his pocket and turned right.
"Tyrion! There you are!" Uncle Gerion's voice echoed down the corridor as Tyrion emerged from the mine entrance. "Half the household's looking for you."
Tyrion grinned up at his uncle, the most carefree of the Lannister brothers. Where Tywin was stern, Kevan dutiful, and Tygett martial, Gerion approached life with a joyful irreverence that Tyrion adored.
"I was exploring," Tyrion said, brushing stone dust from his clothes.
Gerion ruffled his hair, unperturbed by the grime. "You're always exploring. One of these days you'll discover a passage straight to the seven hells, and what then?"
"I'll negotiate with the demons, of course," Tyrion replied seriously. "I hear they appreciate a good joke."
Gerion threw back his head and laughed. "You're definitely a Lannister, nephew. Come on, your aunt's looking for you. Something about proper attire for dinner tonight."
"Proper attire? Seven hells, am I being paraded before some visiting dignitary again?" Tyrion groaned as they walked through the corridors. "Last time Lord Crakehall's son kept asking if I could do tricks."
"No tricks tonight," Gerion assured him with a wink. "Though your aunt insists you look presentable. We're hosting the Farmans for dinner."
"The Farmans?" Tyrion's face brightened. "Does that mean Ser Benedict will be there? The one who sailed to the Jade Sea?"
"The very same! And if you're lucky, he might tell you about the golden spires of Qarth."
Tyrion listened with half an ear as his uncle launched into a tale about Benedict Farman's legendary escape from Fair Isle with three stolen ships.
His mind wandered to the Celestial Dwarf Grimoire that had changed his life so dramatically at birth. After his second nameday, he'd expected another miraculous transformation, another roll of cosmic dice that would grant him new abilities. But nothing had happened.
He'd tried everything, reading ancient texts in languages he tried to decipher, exploring the mines of Casterly Rock, even pricking his finger and offering blood to the Old Gods one desperate night. Nothing activated the Grimoire.
Perhaps it had been a maximum of two blessings? The thought was disappointing, but not devastating. His life was remarkably good for someone who remembered the original Tyrion's future trials. The threat of war did loom on the horizon, but he knew his family would come out physically unscathed.
His family, at least Jaime and his uncles and aunt, genuinely cared for him. And thanks to Aulë's blessing, the blood of the Khazâd ran through his veins, which had transformed him from crippled imp to a true Dwarf, and a rather handsome one at that. He bore little resemblance to the twisted babe he had been born as.
"Are you even listening to me, nephew?" Gerion's amused voice broke through his reverie.
"Three ships, Fair Isle, Lord Farman's fury," Tyrion summarized with a grin. "And something about a sea monster off the Arbor that I'm fairly certain you invented."
Gerion laughed. "Sharp as Valyrian steel! Now hurry along, Genna waits for no man, not even one as charming as you."
Dinner that night was a lively affair. The Farmans were old allies of House Lannister, though relations had cooled somewhat after Lord Farman's brother had fled with stolen ships years before. Tywin's absence made for a more relaxed atmosphere than usual, with Uncle Kevan presiding at the head of the table.
Tyrion, dressed in crimson and gold finery that Aunt Genna had insisted upon, sat between her husband, Emmon Frey and Uncle Gerion.
"So, young Tyrion," Ser Benedict Farman said, leaning across the table. "Your uncle tells me you've developed quite an interest in the wider world."
Tyrion nodded eagerly. "I've read every book in Maester Creylen's collection about lands beyond Westeros."
"Books can only tell you so much," Benedict replied with a wink. "Nothing compares to seeing the wonders of the world with your own eyes."
Gerion's face lit up with mischief. "Speaking of wonders, Tyrion, why don't you tell our guests about Lomas Longstrider's famous works? The ones I gifted you on your last nameday."
Tyrion felt a surge of excitement. The books had been his most precious gift, two volumes bound in red leather that he'd memorized. His dwarven blood practically itched with the desire to see the marvels they described, to walk the Valyrian roads and stand before the Titan of Braavos, and more importantly surpass them with his creations.
"Lomas Longstrider," he began, his voice clear and confident despite his youth, "traveled farther than perhaps any man in history. He cataloged sixteen wonders in his famous works, seven made by nature and nine crafted by human hands."
The table quieted as all eyes turned to the small boy speaking with such authority.
"The Valyrian roads," Tyrion continued, warming to his subject, "still stand four centuries after the Doom, unblemished by time. Stone fused by dragonfire into a single unbroken path that stretches across mountains and valleys alike."
"I've seen a section near Volantis," Ser Benedict nodded appreciatively. "Smooth as a maiden's cheek after thousands of years."
Encouraged, Tyrion continued, "In Qarth stand three walls of increasing height and splendor. The outermost is red sandstone, thirty feet high. The middle wall, forty feet tall, is gray granite. But the innermost wall, that's the wonder, fifty feet of black marble so polished it reflects the starlight like a mirror."
Lord Farman's youngest daughter gasped. "Is it truly so beautiful?"
"I intend to see for myself someday," Tyrion declared with such conviction that several adults exchanged amused glances.
"Tell them about the pyramid," Gerion urged, refilling Tyrion's cup with watered wine.
"The Great Pyramid of Ghis!" Tyrion exclaimed, standing on his chair for dramatic effect. "A mountain made by men, with steps so numerous it takes an hour to climb from base to summit. The Old Empire is dust now, but their pyramid remains, a testament to their ambition."
For nearly half an hour, Tyrion held the table spellbound as he described wonder after wonder: the Palace with a Thousand Rooms in Sarnath where no chamber resembles another; the massive caverns northwest of Norvos where underground lakes reflect forests of stone that grow from floor to ceiling; the Long Bridge of Volantis with its shops and homes built atop the archways; the three great bells of Norvos that dictate the rhythm of the city's life.
"And the Titan of Braavos," Tyrion said, eyes gleaming with excitement, "a warrior cast in bronze who stands astride the harbor entrance. His eyes are warning beacons for ships, and when danger threatens, the Titan roars!"
Tyrion punctuated this with such a fearsome roar of his own that Lady Farman jumped, spilling her wine. The table erupted in laughter and applause.
"Seven hells, boy," Lord Farman chuckled, dabbing at his wife's dress with a napkin, "you've got quite the set of lungs for such a small package!"
"The smallest lions often roar the loudest," Gerion declared proudly, raising his goblet. "To my nephew, Tyrion of House Lannister, who will someday see these wonders for himself!"
"To Tyrion!" the table echoed, even Kevan joining in with a rare smile.
Tyrion felt his cheeks flush with pleasure as he took his seat. His mind was indeed a sponge for knowledge, absorbing and retaining information with an ease that surprised even him. Whether this was another gift from the Celestial Grimoire or simply this new body's natural intelligence, he couldn't say, but his capacity for learning far exceeded what he remembered from his past life.
"There's one wonder you didn't mention," Gerion said, nudging his nephew. "The one you talk about most often."
"Ah!" Tyrion's eyes lit up. "The most fascinating wonder of all, the ruins of Valyria itself! A city of a thousand towers, with streets of fused black stone that glow faintly at night. Lomas never reached it, of course, few who sail the Smoking Sea ever return, but the accounts he collected suggest marvels beyond imagination."
"And horrors as well," Kevan cautioned from further down the table. "The Doom that took Valyria was no natural disaster, if the old texts are to be believed."
"All the more reason to investigate," Tyrion replied, undaunted. "Wouldn't you like to know what really happened? What power could destroy the greatest civilization the world has ever known in a single day?"
As the dinner guests began to disperse for the evening, Uncle Gerion bent down close to Tyrion's ear.
"I've left a little something on your bed," he whispered, his breath warm and smelling of Arbor gold. "Something every lion should have, even the small ones."
Tyrion's heart quickened. Uncle Gerion's gifts were always the best, books of far-off places, trinkets from distant shores, once even a tiny monkey from the Summer Islands that had unfortunately escaped and terrorized the kitchens for three days before being captured.
"What is it?" Tyrion asked, tugging on his uncle's sleeve.
Gerion winked, his golden-flecked green eyes twinkling. "Where would the fun be in telling you? Go see for yourself."
Tyrion didn't need to be told twice. He hopped down from his chair with a grace that belied his stature and darted through the halls of Casterly Rock, his footsteps echoing on the stone floors. The servants smiled indulgently as he passed, the little lord in a hurry again, always rushing, always curious.
His chamber door was slightly ajar, a sliver of candlelight spilling into the darkened corridor. Tyrion pushed it open, his breath catching in anticipation.
There, laid carefully across his bed, was a sword. Not a wooden practice sword like the one Jaime had played with as a child, but real steel, blunted for training yet unmistakably a proper weapon. It was sized for him, small enough for his hands but perfectly proportioned, with a lion's head pommel that caught the light from the hearth.
"Oh," Tyrion breathed, approaching it reverently.
He first ran his fingers across the blade, feeling the cold steel beneath his touch. He closed his eyes and sent a gentle pulse of awareness through the blade. The steel responded, revealing its secrets.
There, a weakness in the folding pattern near the guard. And there, an inconsistency in the quenching that left the metal brittle along one section of the edge. The fuller was slightly off-center, and the tang hadn't been properly secured within the hilt. Not terrible work, but not exceptional either.
Tyrion opened his eyes and smiled. It would do for now, until he could forge his own.
As his hand closed around the grip, a strange sensation washed over him.The familiar tug seized his chest suddenly, that same peculiar feeling he had experienced years ago.
[Rolling Perk]
An invisible hand clutched his heart, squeezing until he gasped. His eyes widened as the sensation intensified, the sound of tumbling dice echoing inside his skull, drowning out all other noise.
The chamber around him dimmed, and floating before his eyes appeared the translucent screen he remembered from his infancy:
Words formed on it.
[Low-Gait Mastery - Dungeons & Dragons] – 100 CP, 250 Left
Dwarves are born and bred to fight enemies twice their size, turning their low center of gravity into a tactical nightmare for Tall-folk. This blessing has rewired your muscle memory and spatial awareness. You possess a world-class talent for fighting, turning your small height into a combat advantage.
..
Tyrion sent his acceptance mentally, and immediately felt a change. A fluidity entering his small frame and his stance shifted subtly, weight redistributing to his center of gravity. The sword, which had already felt right in his hand, now felt like an extension of his arm. He gave it an experimental swing, and his body moved through the arc with perfect precision, as if he'd been training for years.
Knowledge flooded his mind, how to use an opponent's height against them, how to target knees and hamstrings, how to duck under a tall man's guard and strike from unexpected angles. Combat tactics specifically designed for his stature unfolded in his thoughts like pages of a book he'd always known how to read.
"Uncle Gerion, you magnificent bastard," he whispered to the empty room, a grin splitting his face.
The screen faded away, but the knowledge, the muscle memory remained. Tyrion laughed aloud, a wild, joyous sound. First Aulë's blessing, then Stone Sense, and now this. The Celestial Dwarf Grimoire had awakened again, granting him gifts beyond measure.
Tyrion couldn't wait for his father to depart for King's Landing. The moment Tywin was gone, he would pester Uncle Gerion relentlessly for proper training. With this new talent and a willing teacher, he could become something terrifying.
He spun the sword in a flourish that would have impressed even Jaime, watching the candlelight dance along the blunted edge.
"Just you wait," he told the sword, imagining the faces of those who had dismissed him, pitied him, or worst of all, ignored him. "Tyrion Lannister is going to surprise them all."
He placed the sword carefully on his bed and rushed to his writing desk, pulling out parchment and quill. He had to write to Jaime immediately, to tell him of this development. His brother would be thrilled, he had often talked of sparring together someday, though Jaime had most likely doubted it would ever be practical.
He's going to be surprised when he sees me next.
___________________________________________
Two Weeks Later
Gerion watched with relief as the procession carrying Tywin and Cersei disappeared down the winding road from Casterly Rock. The formal farewell had been as stiff as his brother's demeanor, all pomp, protocol, and not a genuine smile to be found. Well, except for the one Gerion couldn't keep off his own face.
He'd barely taken three steps back toward the keep when something solid crashed into his leg with the force of a small battering ram.
"Uncle Gerion! Uncle Gerion!" Tyrion latched onto him like a limpet, small fingers digging into Gerion's thigh with significant strength. "Can we start now? Please? You promised!"
Gerion winced slightly at the grip. "Gods, nephew, are you trying to cripple me before we even begin?"
Tyrion immediately loosened his hold but didn't let go entirely. His mismatched eyes, one green, one black, stared up with such naked hope that Gerion felt his resolve crumbling.
"You said when Father left, we could start proper lessons," Tyrion reminded him, bouncing on his heels. "He's gone now. I saw him go. You saw him go. Everyone saw him go."
Gods, it felt good to breathe freely again. Tywin's departure lifted a weight Gerion hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. His brother's perpetual disapproval, his judgmental silences, his crushing expectations, all gone for the foreseeable future. The Rock already felt lighter, as if the very stone was sighing in relief.
"Uncle Gerion? Are you listening?" Tyrion tugged impatiently at his breeches.
Gerion looked down at the boy trotting alongside him, this strange, wonderful anomaly of a child. At five, Tyrion stood barely past Gerion's knee, yet carried himself with the confidence of a man thrice his size. Unlike other dwarfs Gerion had encountered, sad, fragile creatures with twisted limbs and brittle bones, Tyrion was sturdy, proportionate, almost handsome in his own unique way.
Most surprising was his strength. Gerion had once watched in astonishment as Tyrion hauled a stack of books nearly as tall as himself across the library without breaking a sweat. The boy's arms and chest were developing muscle that shouldn't have been possible for a child his size and age.
And his mind! By the Seven, the boy's intellect was terrifying. Maester Creylen had taken to giving Tyrion advanced lessons simply to keep pace with his voracious curiosity. At five, he read better than most grown knights and spoke with the vocabulary of a seasoned maester.
As Tywin would say, though he'd sooner swallow his tongue than admit it, a cracked ingot of Lannister gold still outweighs a mountain of common lead.
And there was no doubt in Gerion's mind that Tyrion Lannister was pure gold. Aside from his height, nothing about the boy was lacking. If anything, the gods had overcompensated, packing all the wit, charm, and vigor they'd denied his stature into his brain and spirit.
"Uncle! You're woolgathering again!" Tyrion's impatient voice snapped Gerion back to the present.
"Woolgathering?" Gerion laughed. "Who taught you that word?"
"Maester Creylen says it when I'm not paying attention during lessons," Tyrion replied with a cheeky grin. "Now, about my sword training..."
Gerion scooped the boy up suddenly, tossing him into the air as Tyrion shrieked with delight. "Fine, you little monster! We'll start today. But—" he caught Tyrion and held him at eye level, "—you remember our agreement?"
Tyrion nodded solemnly, though excitement still danced in his eyes. "No telling Father, ever. And I must still excel at my lessons with Maester Creylen."
"And?" Gerion prompted, raising an eyebrow.
"And I must never, ever use what I learn against anyone without true cause," Tyrion recited. "A sword isn't a toy or a tool for showing off."
"Exactly." Gerion set the boy down, ruffling his hair. "The sword isn't just for swinging about like a madman. It's—"
"For protecting those who cannot protect themselves," Tyrion finished. "I remember, Uncle."
Gerion grinned. "And for impressing comely maids when you're older."
Tyrion grinned. "Don't you worry about that Uncle, once I've grown my magnificent beard, the ladies won't able to resist me."
Gerion roared with laughter, "first grow some hair on your balls, little lad, before thinking of a beard."
"Go on, run and fetch your sword," Gerion said, gesturing back toward the keep. "I'll wait for you here in the training yard."
Tyrion bolted away like an arrow loosed from a bow, his short legs pumping. Gerion chuckled, settling himself on a wooden bench near the practice dummies. He'd barely had time to unsheathe his own training blade when a patter of rushing footsteps announced his nephew's return.
"Seven hells, boy!" Gerion exclaimed, turning to find Tyrion already standing before him, sword in hand, chest heaving slightly. "How did you—" He shook his head in disbelief.
Tyrion grinned, a mischievous glint in his mismatched eyes. "Secret passages. Uncle."
Gerion made a mental note to explore some of these hidden corridors himself. If a five-year-old could navigate them so easily, they might prove useful knowledge for a man who occasionally needed to avoid his more serious siblings.
The boy was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, sword clutched tightly in white-knuckled hands, face flushed with anticipation.
"Breathe, boy," Gerion instructed, placing a steadying hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "A swordsman needs control above all else."
Tyrion nodded rapidly, then closed his eyes. His small chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath, held it, and then expelled it slowly. When his eyes opened again, the excited fidgeting had vanished, replaced by an intense focus that Gerion recognized well, it was the same look Tyrion got when he was building one his models or reading a particularly challenging book.
Gerion raised his own practice sword. "Follow me."
He moved through the basic forms slowly, exaggerating each stance and swing for Tyrion's benefit. The boy mimicked him with surprising precision, though his initial movements were understandably unsteady. His small arms unused to the feeling of the weight of even the child-sized training blade.
Yet something remarkable happened after just a few repetitions. Tyrion's movements became smoother, more assured, as if his body was rapidly memorizing the patterns. By the fifth sequence, the boy was moving with a fluidity that should have taken weeks to develop.
"Gods be good," Gerion muttered under his breath. "Have you been practicing in secret?"
Tyrion shook his head, golden curls bouncing. "No, Uncle. I just... it feels right, somehow."
Natural talent, then. Like Jaime had shown. Different in form, but just as undeniable. Fascinating.
After an hour of basic forms, Gerion decided to test the boy's limits. "That's enough swinging for today. A knight needs stamina as well as skill." He pointed to the perimeter of the training yard. "Run the edge until I tell you to stop."
Tyrion didn't hesitate. He set his sword aside carefully and took off at a steady trot, small legs pumping as he circled the yard. One lap became two, then five, then ten. Gerion watched, impressed despite himself. Most boys Tyrion's age, even those of normal height, would have collapsed in exhaustion by now.
"Is that all you've got, boy?" Gerion called out, deliberately provocative.
Tyrion's face was flushed crimson, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His breath came in ragged gasps, but at Gerion's challenge, something hardened in his expression. His jaw set, and those mismatched eyes blazed with sudden intensity.
"No," he gasped between breaths, a stubborn defiance transforming his small face. "I'll never break. That's my pride!"
Gerion felt a swell of something in his chest, pride, affection, and a touch of wonder at this remarkable child. Tyrion wasn't just Tywin's son, nor was he merely Joanna's. He was something entirely his own, forged from Lannister gold but tempered with a fire uniquely his.
"Enough!" Gerion finally called, unable to suppress his grin. "Seven save me from stubborn lion cubs. You'll run yourself to death just to prove a point."
Tyrion staggered to a halt, doubled over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. But even as he fought for air, he looked up at Gerion with triumph in his eyes.
"Did I... did I do... well?" he panted.
"Better than well," Gerion admitted, tossing him a waterskin. "You've got the heart of a warrior, regardless of your size."
Tyrion gulped the water gratefully, water spilling down his chin in his eagerness. When he lowered the skin, his grin was infectious.
"Again tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.
"We'll see," Gerion hedged, though they both knew the answer was yes. "Your other studies come first."
"I can do both," Tyrion declared with absolute certainty. "I'll be the cleverest knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
Gerion laughed, cuffing him affectionately on the shoulder. "The shortest, certainly."
"The most deadly," Tyrion corrected with such fierce conviction that Gerion's laughter faltered
For just a moment, something ancient and dangerous flickered behind those mismatched eyes, something that didn't belong in a child of five namedays.
"Watch me Uncle Gerion. One day the entire world will know my name."
Then the intensity was gone, replaced by Tyrion's usual bright eyes.
"Come on," Gerion said, feeling suddenly unsettled without knowing why. "Let's get you cleaned up before dinner. Your Aunt Genna will have my head if I return you looking like a stable boy."
As they walked back toward the keep, Gerion noticed Tyrion's small hand dip into his pocket. The boy withdrew something that caught the fading sunlight, a gold coin. But what happened next made Gerion slow his pace, watching with fascination.
Tyrion's fingers moved with practiced dexterity as the coin danced across his knuckles. It rolled from his index finger to his pinky and back again in a fluid, hypnotic motion. The gold seemed to shimmer strangely, almost like it was flowing rather than rolling, conforming to the boy's small fingers as if it were liquid instead of solid metal.
"Seven hells," Gerion muttered under his breath. The manipulation required years of practice, he'd seen sailors and gamblers in Lannisport perform similar tricks, but certainly never by a child of five.
Tyrion, noticing his uncle's stare, closed his fist around the coin with a mischievous smile.
"Where did you learn that?" Gerion asked, unable to mask his astonishment.
"Oh, just something I picked up," Tyrion replied airily, tucking the coin away. "I practice when I can't sleep."
Gerion narrowed his eyes. That wasn't a skill one simply "picked up," especially not at Tyrion's age.
Where had he learned such a thing? And how had those small fingers mastered it so quickly? It was uncanny.
______________________________________
Tyrion stabbed at his roasted carrots without enthusiasm, pushing them into patterns across his plate. The dining hall felt cavernous with Father and Cersei gone, their absence a strange mix of relief and emptiness. Uncle Kevan presided over the table with none of Father's intimidating presence, yet everyone still left the head chair conspicuously empty.
His mind raced with plans now that Tywin was safely away in King's Landing. The training with Uncle Gerion had been exhilarating, but it was only the beginning. There was so much more he wanted to learn, to master, to create.
"Uncle Kevan," Tyrion said, looking up from his plate.
Kevan turned toward him, his face softening as it always did when addressing his nephew. "Yes, Tyrion?"
"Could I be taken to the forges tomorrow?" Tyrion asked, straightening his shoulders. "I'd love to see the craftsmanship."
Kevan's brows furrowed slightly. "You're a little young, Tyrion," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "The forges are dangerous places. Hot metal, open flames—"
Tyrion felt his chest tighten with frustration. Always too young, too small, too fragile in everyone's eyes. He opened his mouth to protest when Aunt Genna's voice cut across the table.
"Let the boy go, Kevan," she declared, having just finished forcing a spoonful of peas into Cleos's reluctant mouth. "Gods know he's building things constantly."
"But Genna, the dangers—" Kevan began.
"Oh, stuff it," Genna waved dismissively. "The boy has more sense than half the grown men in this castle. He's not going to dive headfirst into a smelter."
"I'll be careful, Uncle," Tyrion promised eagerly. "I just want to watch how they work the metal. I've read about it, but books can only teach so much."
Kevan hesitated, then sighed. "Very well. But you'll go with a guard, and you'll stay back from the fires."
Tyrion's heart leaped. "Thank you, Uncle!" He couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. "I promise I'll obey all the safety rules."
"See that you do," Kevan nodded, returning to his meal. "Your father would have my head if anything happened to you."
Tyrion bit back a skeptical retort. More likely, Tywin wouldn't have even bothered considering Tyrion's request, and would have rejected his request. But he kept that thought to himself, focusing instead on tomorrow's opportunity.
"Can we go in the morning?" he asked, trying not to bounce in his seat.
"After your lessons with Maester Creylen," Kevan stipulated. "Education first."
"I'll have my sums done before breakfast," Tyrion promised, already calculating how early he'd need to wake.
Genna chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "So eager! One might think you're planning to become a blacksmith rather than a lord."
"Why not both?" Tyrion grinned. "The best lords understand every craft in their domain."
Uncle Tygett, who had been silently demolishing a leg of lamb, looked up with a rare smile. "The boy has a point. A lord who knows nothing of weapons is at the mercy of those who forge them."
Tyrion beamed at this unexpected support. Uncle Tygett seldom spoke at meals, and even more rarely offered praise.
"Perhaps you'd like to accompany us, Uncle Tygett?" Tyrion suggested boldly. "I'd value your expertise on weaponry."
Tygett considered this for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "I suppose I could spare an hour. Been meaning to check on that new armorer anyway, the one from Qohor."
Tyrion could barely contain his excitement. Not only would he see the forges, but he'd have Uncle Tygett's knowledge to draw upon. The Qohorik armorer was an unexpected bonus, they were renowned throughout the world for their skill with steel, particularly their secret method of reworking Valyrian steel.
"Will we see Valyrian steel being worked?" Tyrion asked eagerly.
Tygett snorted. "Not bloody likely. House Lannister lost Brightroar centuries ago, remember? Besides, only a handful of men in the world know how to rework Valyrian steel, and they guard their secrets jealously."
"But the Qohorik know," Tyrion pressed. "They've preserved the knowledge since before the Doom."
"Aye, and they'd sooner cut out their tongues than share it," Tygett replied. "Still, their regular steel is worth seeing. Different techniques than our Western smiths."
Tyrion nodded, filing this information away. He'd read about the legendary smiths of Qohor, how they sacrificed slaves before their forge fires, how they quenched their blades in blood rather than water. He wondered how much of that was true and how much was simply myth.
Metal responded so readily to his touch, imagine what he might create with proper tools and knowledge!
"You're smiling like a cat that found the cream," Gerion observed, leaning closer. "Planning mischief already?"
"Not mischief, Uncle," Tyrion replied grinning. "Miracles."