The night before they were to head to the Casterly Rock's forges, Tyrion barely slept. His mind raced with images of molten metal, hammers striking anvils, and the secrets of metallurgy that might soon be his. The dwarven competitiveness that had awakened in his blood with Aulë's blessing burned hot and insistent in his chest. The Qohorik smiths were renowned throughout the world, but what did they know that he couldn't learn? What could they create that he couldn't surpass?
He tossed restlessly in his bed, fingers twitching as he imagined shaping metal, bending it to his will.
"I'll show them," he whispered to the darkness. "I'll create wonders they've never imagined."
_______________________________________
When morning finally came, Tyrion had already completed his lessons for Maester Creylen and dressed in his sturdiest clothes. He wolfed down his breakfast so quickly that Aunt Genna scolded him for eating like a common sellsword.
"The forges aren't going anywhere, child," she said, dabbing his chin with a napkin. "And neither are you if you choke on your eggs."
"Sorry, Aunt Genna," he replied, forcing himself to slow down. But his leg bounced impatiently under the table, and his eyes kept darting to the window to gauge the sun's position.
Uncle Tygett appeared just as Tyrion was finishing, dressed in a simple leather jerkin rather than his usual finery.
"Ready, boy?" he asked gruffly.
Tyrion nearly leaped from his chair. "Yes, Uncle!"
The walk to the forges took them down several levels within Casterly Rock. The temperature rose noticeably as they descended, the air becoming thick with the scent of coal and hot metal. The rhythmic clanging of hammers echoed through the stone corridors, growing louder with each step.
"Remember," Tygett warned as they approached the entrance, "stay back from the fires. Don't touch anything. And for gods' sake, don't pester the smiths with too many questions."
"Yes, Uncle," Tyrion agreed, though his mind was already formulating dozens of queries.
Heat blasted them as they entered the smithy, a cavernous space carved directly into the mountain. The air shimmered above multiple forges, and the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of hammers on metal filled the air. Sparks flew like golden fireflies as apprentices worked bellows and journeymen shaped red-hot metal. Men moved purposefully around the space, their muscled arms glistening with sweat, their faces ruddy from the heat. The din was tremendous, hammers striking metal, bellows pumping, orders shouted over the noise.
Tyrion's eyes widened to saucers, reflecting the orange glow of the fires. His mouth formed a perfect 'O' of wonder.
This was creation in its rawest form, primal and powerful. He felt a kinship with the place instantly, as if the forge recognized him as kin to those who worked the earth's bounty.
Uncle Tygett led him toward a section where a tall, bald man with skin the color of burnished copper worked alone. Unlike the other smiths who labored with apprentices, this man moved in solitary concentration, his motions precise and economical.
"The Qohorik," Tygett said quietly. "Zoraqos. Been here three months. Keeps to himself, but his work is unmatched."
Tyrion watched, transfixed, as Zoraqos heated a length of steel until it glowed orange, then began to hammer it with rhythmic strokes. Each blow was perfectly placed, transforming the metal with subtle, deliberate changes. There was an artistry to it that elevated him beyond the other blacksmiths around him.
"What's he making?" Tyrion whispered.
"Greatsword for Lord Crakehall," Tygett replied. "Commissioned it as a gift for his son when he's knighted."
Tyrion nodded. He watched the smith's technique hungrily, noting how different it was from the Westerosi smiths working nearby.
The steel sang a different song beneath Zoraqos's hammer.
The Qohorik moved with a metronomic precision, each strike landing exactly where it was meant to. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary force. Sweat beaded on the man's brow but his breathing remained steady, as though the hammer were merely an extension of his arm rather than a tool that would exhaust lesser men in minutes.
Across the forge, the second blacksmith, a black haired barrel-chested blacksmith with arms like tree trunks, worked a similar piece. His strikes fell harder, sending cascades of sparks flying with each thunderous impact. The man's strength undeniable, but where Zoraqos caressed the metal into submission, this one seemed determined to conquer it through brute force.
He'll produce an inferior blade, Tyrion could sense it.
The Qohorik's dark eyes, meanwhile, never left his work, his expression one of complete absorption. There was something almost religious in his concentration, as if each fold of the steel were a prayer. Tyrion had seen that same look on his brother's face when Jaime practiced with a blade, the expression of someone who had transcended mere competence and achieved something approaching art.
When Zoraqos finally plunged the glowing metal into the quenching oil, the hiss seemed to Tyrion like the satisfied exhalation of the steel itself, grateful to be in the hands of a true master.
Something stirred deep in Tyrion's chest, a burning need that went beyond mere curiosity. He needed to do this. Needed to create as this man created, to bend metal to his will, to forge something lasting and beautiful from raw elements.
"I want to learn," he said suddenly, his voice fierce with conviction.
Tygett glanced down at him, surprised by his intensity. "It takes years of apprenticeship, boy."
"I don't care," Tyrion replied, his eyes never leaving Zoraqos's hands. "I'll learn faster."
The smith must have felt their gaze, for he looked up then, his dark eyes finding Tyrion's mismatched ones across the forge. For a long moment, they stared at each other, something unspoken passing between them. Then, to Tygett's evident surprise, the normally taciturn Qohorik beckoned them closer.
"The small lord wishes to see?" Zoraqos asked, his accent thick but his words clear.
"If it pleases you, master smith," Tyrion replied with formal courtesy, stepping forward despite Tygett's restraining hand on his shoulder.
Zoraqos studied him with narrow eyes. "You have the look of one who understands metal."
Tyrion felt a surge of pride at the assessment. "I wish to understand it better."
The smith grunted, then gestured to a simpler piece he had been working on earlier, a dagger blade, unfinished but already showing elegant lines.
"What do you see?" he challenged.
Tyrion stepped closer, careful to maintain a safe distance from the heat. He sent his awareness into the metal, using his Stone Sense to read its composition and structure. The blade revealed itself to him, its strengths, its flaws, the patterns of its folding.
"The edge is folded seventeen times," Tyrion said slowly, "but there's a weakness near the tang where the folds didn't fully merge. The carbon content is higher than in Westerosi steel, giving it flexibility without sacrificing hardness."
Zoraqos's face remained impassive, but his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"How does a child know this?" he asked quietly.
Tyrion shrugged, unwilling to reveal his Stone Sense. "I've read extensively about metallurgy."
"Reading does not teach the eye to see inside the metal," Zoraqos replied skeptically.
"Perhaps I have good eyes," Tyrion suggested with a small smile.
Zoraqos studied him for another long moment, then made a decision. He reached for a small piece of raw steel, heated it quickly in his forge until it glowed, then placed it on his anvil.
"Show me," he said, offering Tyrion his hammer.
Tygett stepped forward. "Now wait just a moment—"
"It's alright, Uncle," Tyrion said confidently. "I can do this."
The hammer was heavy in his small hands, its wooden handle nearly as long as his arm. But the weight felt right, as if he had held such a tool many times before. The Dwarfish blood in him sang at the contact with this instrument of creation.
Zoraqos pointed to the glowing metal. "Three strikes only. Show me what you feel."
Tyrion took a breath, centered himself, and felt the metal calling to him. He lifted the hammer, arms shaking, a feat that clearly surprised the onlookers, and brought it down with precise force. The ring of steel on steel was pure and true. He struck again, angling the hammer to spread the metal just so, then a third time to refine the edge.
When he finished, the small piece had transformed from a lump to the beginning of a blade. Not perfect, far from it, but showing an intuitive understanding and strength of body that should have been impossible for a novice, let alone a child of five.
Zoraqos took the hammer back, his expression unreadable. He examined the metal carefully, then looked at Tyrion with an unreadable expression.
"The small lord has the touch," he declared. "Rare, even among those who spend lifetimes at the forge."
He set his tools down and wiped his hands on a leather apron. He fixed those dark, penetrating eyes on Tyrion, studying him with an intensity that made the boy feel as if the smith could see through flesh to bone, through bone to soul.
"You have gift," Zoraqos said simply. "Do you wish to learn?"
Tyrion's heart leapt in his chest. This was exactly what he'd hoped for, yet hadn't dared to expect. As he opened his mouth to accept, a familiar sensation gripped him, that peculiar tightening in his chest, the invisible hand squeezing his heart until his breath caught.
[Rolling Perk]
The forge around him dimmed as a translucent screen materialized before his eyes, floating in the air where only he could see it.
Words formed on the ghostly surface:
[The Ancestor's Eye - Warhammer Fantasy] - 150 CP, 150 Left
The Dawi of the Old World possess a memory for breadth and detail that is truly supernatural, allowing them to learn by observing masters at work. This blessing allows you to absorb the secrets of any craft, from stonework to metallurgy, simply by watching. While you may currently lack the strength to swing a true blacksmith's hammer, your mind captures the rhythm of the strike, the exact heat of the coals, and the feel of the metal with perfect clarity.
With this gift, you could certainly go down in the history of the mundane as one of the greatest polymaths to ever live. You will find that you can reach apprentice-level competency in any manual trade within days of observation, bypassing years of standard tutelage, and mastery will be a foregone conclusion with enough time and effort.
..
Tyrion's acceptance was immediate, and a fierce grin split his face as he looked up at the Qohorik smith. "Master Zoraqos," he said, bowing minutely, his voice steady with newfound confidence, "I'd be honored to learn everything you can teach me."
Uncle Tygett watched silently from the side, his mutton chops bristling as he took in the exchange. His brow furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing.
"The small lord has fire in his blood," Zoraqos nodded approvingly. "Not all who wish to learn have the patience or the talent. But you..." He tapped Tyrion's chest with one callused finger. "You have old soul. Old hands in young body."
Tyrion felt a thrill run through him at the smith's words. The man had no idea how accurate his assessment was. With his new gift, Tyrion could already feel the craft unfolding in his mind. The forge felt like home.
"When can we begin?" Tyrion asked, struggling to contain his eagerness.
Zoraqos glanced at Tygett, who had finally found his voice.
"Now hold on," his uncle said, stepping forward. "My brother didn't authorize any apprenticeship. The boy is heir to Casterly Rock after Jaime."
"Not apprenticeship," Zoraqos corrected. "Teaching. Few hours each week, no more. The small lord continues his other studies."
Tyrion turned to his uncle, eyes pleading. "Please, Uncle Tygett. I promise it won't interfere with my lessons. I'll work twice as hard at everything else."
Tygett ran a hand through his hair, clearly torn. "Your father wouldn't approve."
"Father isn't here," Tyrion countered swiftly. "And knowledge of craftsmanship can only benefit House Lannister. How better to ensure quality work than to understand it myself?"
He could see his uncle wavering, the logical argument finding purchase. "One hour each day," Tygett finally conceded. "After your regular lessons. And I'll be checking with Maester Creylen to ensure your studies aren't suffering."
Tyrion nodded eagerly. "Thank you, Uncle! You won't regret it."
"I already do," Tygett muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Go on then, have your first lesson. I'll wait."
Zoraqos didn't waste time. He immediately began showing Tyrion the basics of the forge, how to maintain the fire at proper temperatures, how different metals responded to heat, the various tools and their purposes. As he spoke, Tyrion found himself absorbing not just the words but the unspoken knowledge behind them. His gift, and his dwarfish constitution translated the smith's decades of experience into understanding that settled into Tyrion's mind as naturally as if he'd always known it.
Well it was only natural. Dwarves were the greatest blacksmiths in the multiverse after all.
By the end of the hour, Tyrion had successfully helped reshape a simple iron bar into the beginning of a knife blade. His small hands had struggled with the weight of the tools, but his mind had guided them with surprising accuracy.
"Tomorrow," Zoraqos said as they finished, "we begin with proper folding technique. You bring small gloves to protect hands."
"I will," Tyrion promised, reluctantly setting down the tongs. The hour had passed far too quickly.
As they left the forge, Tygett remained unusually quiet, glancing occasionally at his nephew with an expression Tyrion couldn't quite read.
"You have questions, Uncle?" Tyrion finally asked as they climbed the stairs back toward the upper levels of the Rock.
Tygett's mutton chops twitched as he considered his words. "You showed... unusual aptitude down there."
"I've read extensively about metallurgy," Tyrion offered, the same explanation he'd given Zoraqos.
"Reading is one thing. Doing is another." Tygett stopped on the landing, turning to face his nephew fully. "I've trained with weapons my entire life, Tyrion. I know the difference between beginner's luck and natural talent. What you showed was neither."
Tyrion felt a flutter of unease. He'd been too eager, had revealed too much too quickly.
"I'm just observant Uncle," he grinned widely, masking his discomfort at the line of questioning.
"Perhaps," Tygett agreed, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Or perhaps there's more to you than meets the eye, nephew."
He said nothing more as they continued their ascent, but Tyrion felt his uncle's thoughtful gaze following him. He would need to be more careful in the future, to hide his rapid progress behind a veneer of normal learning. The gifts of the Celestial Grimoire were his secret to keep.
Yet even as caution counseled restraint, ambition whispered of the wonders he could create. With his Stone Sense to find the purest materials, his dwarven heritage to guide his hands, and now this new gift to accelerate his learning, what couldn't he accomplish?
Tyrion's mind raced with possibilities as they emerged into the sunlit upper halls of Casterly Rock. One day, he vowed silently, he would forge works that would make even Valyrian steel seem commonplace. One day, the world would speak of Tyrion Lannister not as the Imp, but as the greatest craftsman the world had ever known.
______________________________________________
Later that evening, Tygett found Gerion and Genna in the family solar, their heads bent close in quiet conversation that halted abruptly when he entered. He strode across the room, poured himself a generous cup of Arbor gold, and turned to face them.
"I took Tyrion to the forges today," he said without preamble, swirling the wine in his cup.
Gerion lounged back in his chair, one leg thrown carelessly over its arm. "And? Did our little scholar enjoy his field study?"
"He did more than study," Tygett replied. He took a long drink, then set the cup down with deliberate care. "He held a blacksmith's hammer, not just held it, but used it. Struck hot metal on an anvil three times.
Genna's eyebrows rose as she reached for her own wine. "The boy's always been clever with his hands."
"This wasn't mere cleverness," Tygett insisted. "The Qohorik smith, you know how they are, secretive as sphinxes about their craft, he offered to teach Tyrion. Said the boy has 'old hands in a young body.'"
Gerion chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "I'm not surprised. I'm teaching the lad to fight as well, and he's a natural at that. You should see him with that little sword I gave him, he's just as talented as Jaime."
Tygett's head snapped toward his younger brother. "You're what? Without Tywin's permission?"
"Since when do I need Tywin's permission to breathe?" Gerion shot back, though his tone remained light. "The boy needs to learn to defend himself."
"That's not the point." Tygett began pacing, his footfalls heavy on the stone floor. "There's something... unnatural about his aptitude. No child learns that quickly. We should tell Tywin."
"Tell Tywin what?" Genna cut in before Gerion could argue, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "That his son shows promise? That he might become more than the embarrassment Tywin considers him to be?"
She set her embroidery aside and fixed Tygett with a stern look. "He is a child. An unusual child, with enough difficulties as it is. Let him be free, let him explore. Tyrion will have to claw and fight for everything in this life."
"Genna—" Tygett began.
"No." She raised her hand, silencing him as effectively as she had when they were children. "I've watched that boy devour books since he was two name days old. I've seen how Tywin looks at him, or rather, doesn't look at him. If Tyrion has talents, let him develop them. Gods know he'll need every advantage."
Gerion nodded, his usual mirth subdued. "She's right, Tyg. What good would come of telling Tywin? He'd only forbid it, say it's beneath a Lannister to labor like a common smith."
Tygett drained his cup and poured another. The familiar frustration with his eldest brother burned in his chest. Tywin, always so certain, so unbending in his views of what was proper for House Lannister.
"Fine," he conceded at last. "We'll keep his... unusual abilities between us for now. But I want to observe these sword lessons of yours, Gerion. I want to see for myself what the boy can do."
Gerion's grin returned. "Tomorrow morning, the small training yard behind the armory. Come early, our little lion rises with the sun these days."
Tygett nodded, his mind still troubled. He couldn't shake the memory of those mismatched eyes, focused with an intensity no child should possess, or the sound of that hammer striking true against hot metal. Whatever Tyrion Lannister was becoming, it was something none of them had anticipated.
"There's something else," he said slowly. "The way he looked at that metal... it was as if he could see inside it. He pointed out flaws in the folding pattern that I couldn't detect, that even the smith seemed surprised he noticed."
Genna frowned slightly. "What are you suggesting?"
"I don't know," Tygett admitted. "But I've heard tales from the North, of skinchangers who can see through the eyes of beasts. And from the East, of blood magic and stranger things."
"Oh, for the love of the Seven," Genna scoffed. "Next you'll be telling us he's secretly a Targaryen. He's just a bright boy with keen eyes and quick hands."
"And if it's more than that?" Tygett pressed.
"Then it's a gift," she replied firmly. "One he'll need in this world that will judge him so harshly for his stature."
Gerion rose, stretching like a cat. "I say we encourage him. Tywin sees only the dwarf. We see Tyrion." He clapped a hand on Tygett's shoulder. "Besides, brother, wouldn't it be something if the smallest Lannister turned out to be the most extraordinary?"
Tygett sighed, recognizing defeat. "Just... be careful with him. If he truly has unusual gifts, they could bring danger as well as advantage."
"We'll protect him," Genna said, her voice softening. "That's what family does."
As they fell into quieter conversation, none noticed the small shadow that slipped away from the slightly ajar door, padding silently back toward the library on bare feet. Tyrion had heard enough to know his secret wasn't quite as secret as he'd hoped, but also that he had allies in his family. For now, that would have to be enough.
The next morning dawned clear and cool, perfect for training. Tyrion arrived at the small yard behind the armory to find not only Uncle Gerion waiting, but Uncle Tygett as well, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned against the wall.
"Good morning, Uncle Tygett," Tyrion said carefully, measuring the man's expression. "Have you come to watch?"
"I have," Tygett replied, his tone neutral. "Gerion tells me you have quite the talent."
"I'm learning," Tyrion said modestly, though inside his chest swelled with pride. Uncle Tygett was the finest warrior among the Lannister brothers."
"Well then," Gerion said, tossing Tyrion his practice sword, "show him what you're capable of."
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Just wanted to let you guys know that I'll be taking my time with Tyrion's growth through his adolescence. His backstory before the actual Canon ASOIAF is fascinating, and has a bunch of interesting events which I'll be covering.