Tyrion whistled cheerfully as he made his way through the hidden passages of Casterly Rock, a small leather satchel bouncing against his hip with each waddling step. The narrow corridor, unknown to most inhabitants of the great fortress, provided a direct route from his secret workshop to the family's private dining hall.
"Nothing like creating revolutionary metallurgical innovations to work up an appetite," he declared to the empty passageway, his voice echoing slightly off the ancient stone.
The day's experiments had been particularly successful, he'd managed to incorporate trace amounts of a rare mineral he'd discovered deep in the mines into his latest alloy. The resulting metal possessed remarkable strength. Once properly refined, it would make for exceptional armor joints or sword spines.
As he neared the end of the passage, voices drifted through the hidden door, tense, clipped tones that immediately set Tyrion's hackles rising. His father had arrived, and from the sound of things, was already in rare form.
"Marvelous," Tyrion muttered, his good mood evaporating like morning mist. "Nothing complements a fine meal like Father's disapproving glare."
He hesitated, briefly considering retreating to his workshop and claiming illness later. His stomach growled in protest, reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. With a resigned sigh, he pressed the mechanism that released the hidden door and stepped into an alcove near the dining hall.
"—absolutely unacceptable," Tywin's cold voice carried clearly from the adjoining room. "I return to find standards slipping throughout the Rock."
Tyrion peered around the corner. The Lannister family was assembled around the great table, tension visible in every posture. Tywin sat at the head, his back rigid, while Kevan occupied the place to his right, face carefully neutral. Genna had positioned herself at Tywin's left, her expression thunderous. Tygett glowered halfway down the table, while Gerion lounged with affected nonchalance near the far end. Jaime and Cersei sat side by side, golden twins presenting a united front.
No one had touched the sumptuous feast laid before them, roasted capons stuffed with herbs and dried fruits, steaming trout in lemon butter, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, and at least three different vegetable dishes arranged artfully on silver platters.
"Well, someone's going to have to explain why everyone looks like they've been sucking on lemons," Tyrion announced, sauntering into the room with deliberate casualness. "Has the wine turned sour? Or is it merely the company?"
Every head swiveled toward him. Jaime's face broke into a grin, while Cersei's features contorted with familiar disgust. Genna shot him a warning look that he cheerfully ignored. Gerion's eyes danced with appreciation for the interruption, while Tygett and Kevan remained stoically impassive.
Tywin's cold gaze swept over his youngest son, taking in the soot-stained hands and leather apron Tyrion had forgotten to remove in his hunger.
"So," Tywin said, his voice deadly quiet, "the blacksmith deigns to join us."
Tyrion clambered onto his chair, specially built with a higher seat, and reached for a goblet of honey wine. "Blacksmith, scholar, warrior, and raconteur," he corrected cheerfully, filling his cup to the brim. "I find it's best not to limit oneself to a single pursuit."
Gerion choked on his wine, disguising his laugh as a cough. Even Kevan's mouth twitched slightly at the corners.
Tywin's expression remained carved from stone. "I understand you've been playing at crafts during my absence."
"Playing?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "I prefer to think of it as 'mastering,' but semantics have never been our family's strong suit, have they?"
"The sword," Tywin stated flatly, turning to Jaime. "Show me this alleged masterwork."
Jaime hesitated, glancing apologetically at Tyrion before standing and drawing the blade from its scabbard. The steel caught the candlelight, seeming to glow from within as he presented it hilt-first to his father.
Tywin examined the weapon with critical eyes, turning it in the light to study every facet of its construction. His face betrayed nothing, but his silence spoke volumes, the sword was flawless, and they all knew it.
"A remarkable forgery," he said finally, handing it back to Jaime. "Whoever actually crafted this blade deserves recognition."
"But Father," Jaime protested, "Tyrion did make it. He told me himself."
Tyrion smiled into his wine cup, amused despite himself at his father's stubborn refusal to acknowledge his talents. "Don't trouble yourself, brother. Father would sooner believe I sprouted wings and flew to Essos than accept I might possess actual skills."
"Enough," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "I did not return to Casterly Rock to listen to this creature's insolence."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes glinted with dangerous mischief. His father's dismissal had triggered something rebellious within him, a spark that had been building since Tywin's arrival.
"Father," Tyrion announced loudly, setting his goblet down with theatrical precision. "Since you refuse to acknowledge my smithing, perhaps another skill will impress you."
Before anyone could react, Tyrion had planted his hands firmly on the polished table and kicked his stocky legs into the air. With remarkable strength and balance, he inverted his body completely, his face reddening slightly as he began walking on his hands between the platters of food.
Jaime's jaw dropped, his emerald eyes widening with stunned disbelief. He glanced frantically between his father and upside-down brother, too shocked to intervene.
Kevan Lannister immediately lowered his face into his hands, unable to watch the disaster unfolding before him. His shoulders hunched as if trying to physically disappear from the scene.
Most surprising was Cersei's reaction, a genuine giggle escaped her perfect lips before she could stop it. Mortified by her own amusement, she quickly covered her mouth, looking almost shocked that she had laughed at something Tyrion had done.
Gerion's face contorted with the herculean effort of restraining his laughter. His shoulders shook silently as he bit his lower lip, tears of suppressed mirth gathering in the corners of his eyes.
"Tyrion!" Genna hissed, her face flushing crimson with alarm. "Get down this instant!"
Instead of obeying, Tyrion executed a perfect one-handed balance, his free arm extended outward in a showman's flourish. He then shifted his weight and began walking in a circle, somehow managing to avoid the platters of food while balancing precariously on his palms.
"I've been practicing," he announced to the stunned table, his voice strained from his inverted position. "The servants find it quite entertaining. I can juggle while doing this too, but I thought that might be showing off."
Tywin Lannister had gone absolutely still, like a statue carved from ice. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room more effectively than a shout.
"This farce ends now." Each word fell like a stone into still water.
Tywin rose slowly to his feet, his shadow stretching across the table. "Your very existence brings shame to the name Lannister. Get down this very instant, or I'll have you whipped if you ever show me that display again."
With deliberate nonchalance, Tyrion executed a graceful flip, landing upright on his chair with catlike precision. He straightened his rumpled clothing and reached for his wine goblet, his face a mask of affected indifference.
"Just thought you might appreciate knowing your gold hasn't been entirely wasted on my education," he remarked casually, though his heart hammered in his chest.
Tywin's glare fixed on his youngest son with such concentrated hatred that if looks could kill, Tyrion would have been naught but a speck of dust on the polished floor. The silence in the room was absolute.
"I've heard you've also been playing at warrior in the yard," Tywin's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Before Tyrion could answer, Tygett leaned forward, his expression unusually animated. "Yes, Tywin, I have been giving him lessons, and he shows tremendous promise. His size actually gives him certain advantages that—"
"Did I ask you a question, Tygett?" Tywin's gaze shifted to his brother, cold and unforgiving.
Tygett fell silent immediately, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Tywin Lannister had a way of cowing a man with a single gaze. Even Gerion's expression had grown serious, the laughter evaporating from his eyes.
And it truly was a fearsome gaze, Tyrion thought absently. Casterly Rock was Tywin's den. He was the undisputed leader of the pride. But the glare was less intimidating when Tyrion knew that with a flex of will, he could cause a spike of rock to impale Tywin where he sat.
Not that he would, of course. He wasn't a psychopath, and Tywin's existence was essential for canon to proceed as Tyrion intended.
"Yes, I have, Father," Tyrion answered, keeping his voice steady.
"And what could you possibly do against a trained squire, let alone a knight?" Tywin's contempt was palpable.
"Perhaps break their kneecaps, Father," Tyrion replied with a shrug. "After all, I am rather tiny."
Tywin's cold gaze remained fixed on Tyrion, assessing him with clinical detachment.
"You speak with such confidence," he said finally. "Let's see what you will do against trained combatants. Tomorrow morning, you will come to the yard."
"With pleasure," Tyrion responded, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. "Shall I bring my hammer as well? I find it makes quite an impression."
Tywin's nostrils flared slightly, the only indication of his growing rage. "You will face three opponents of my choosing. Perhaps that will teach you the difference between childish games and true combat."
Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Father, Tyrion has shown considerable skill, but he is but a boy of seven, three opponents at once would challenge even seasoned knights."
"Did I ask for your assessment?" Tywin's attention remained fixed on Tyrion. "Unless you wish to join him?"
Tyrion caught Jaime's eye and gave a subtle shake of his head. This was his battle to fight, not his brother's.
"I look forward to the opportunity to demonstrate my skills," Tyrion said, his tone deliberately light. "Though I should warn you, Father, I've become rather attached to my kneecaps. I'd hate to damage someone else's unnecessarily."
Gerion snorted into his wine cup, earning a withering glare from Tywin.
Enough," Genna interjected, her practical nature asserting itself. "The food grows cold while we bicker. Tywin, surely this discussion can wait until after we've eaten?"
Tywin's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. The family began serving themselves in tense silence, the earlier festive atmosphere thoroughly destroyed. Servants moved around the table like ghosts, refilling cups and removing empty platters with practiced invisibility.
Tyrion ate with deliberate enjoyment, savoring each bite as if it might be his last good meal. Tomorrow's demonstration would undoubtedly be Tywin's attempt to humiliate him publicly, to put him firmly back in what his father considered his proper place. The thought should have terrified him, but instead, he felt a strange, bubbling excitement.
Across the table, Jaime watched his little brother with worried eyes. He knew Tyrion was skilled for his size and age, but he was just a child, and father would choose opponents specifically to overwhelm him. He made a mental note to visit the guards' barracks after dinner, to ensure that whoever faced Tyrion understood the difference between a demonstration and actual harm.
Cersei observed the proceedings with malicious amusement. She hoped to see Tyrion thoroughly humiliated.
As the meal concluded, Tywin rose from his seat, signaling an end to dinner. "I have correspondence to attend to," he announced to no one in particular, then fixed Tyrion with one last piercing look. "Dawn, in the main training yard. Do not be late."
With that, he swept from the room, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war.
Genna immediately rounded on Tyrion once Tywin was out of earshot. "Have you lost what little sense the gods gave you?" she hissed, her jowls quivering with indignation.
"You are but a boy of seven!" her plump fingers gripping Tyrion's shoulder with surprising strength. "What possessed you to provoke him like that? Walking on your hands! Gods be good, Tyrion, your father will ensure tomorrow's demonstration becomes a public humiliation!"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes glinted with defiance. "Better to be humiliated for what I can do than what I am, Aunt. At least this way, I choose the battlefield."
"Battlefield?" Genna's voice rose an octave. "This isn't some game of cyvasse! Tywin will select men who will break you without hesitation. He means to put you in your place, child."
From across the table, Cersei's high, cruel laugh sliced through the tension. "Oh, let him try, Aunt," she said, her emerald eyes glittering with malicious delight. "I, for one, look forward to watching the little monster rolled around the training yard like a barrel." She tilted her golden head, regarding Tyrion with mock thoughtfulness. "Perhaps Father will let me choose one of your opponents. I know several knights who particularly detest dwarfs."
"How generous of you, sweet sister," Tyrion replied without missing a beat. "Always thinking of others. Tell me, does it hurt when you smile? I imagine those facial muscles must be terribly atrophied from disuse."
Cersei's beautiful face contorted with rage, but before she could respond, Jaime stepped between them.
"That's enough," he said firmly, placing a restraining hand on Cersei's arm. "Tyrion, perhaps you should retire early. Tomorrow will come soon enough."
Uncle Gerion nodded in agreement, though his eyes were dark with worry. "A wise suggestion. Come, nephew, I'll walk with you." He stood and gestured for Tyrion to follow, clearly offering an escape from the tense atmosphere.
As they left the dining hall, Tyrion could feel Cersei's venomous stare boring into his back. Her hatred was as predictable as the tides, but tonight it carried an extra edge of anticipation. She truly believed tomorrow would break him.
"You know," Gerion said once they were safely in the corridor, "there are less dramatic ways to gain your father's attention than challenging him to public combat."
"Who says I want his attention?" Tyrion replied, his short legs working double-time to match his uncle's longer stride.
Gerion laughed, a warm sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Every son wants his father's attention, Tyrion. Even the ones wise enough to pretend otherwise."
They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Gerion spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Your father will not make this easy. The opponents he chooses will be instructed to teach you a harsh lesson."
"I'm counting on it," Tyrion said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "The harsher the lesson, the more satisfying when I refuse to learn it."
Gerion stopped walking and knelt to bring himself eye-level with his nephew. "What are you planning, you little devil?"
"Planning?" Tyrion widened his eyes in exaggerated innocence. "Me? I'm simply a boy of seven, as Aunt Genna so helpfully pointed out. What could I possibly be planning?"
Gerion studied him for a long moment, then threw back his head and laughed. "Gods help us all," he declared, ruffling Tyrion's golden curls. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I suspect it will be a day Casterly Rock remembers for quite some time."
In her own chambers, Cersei paced like a caged lioness, her slippered feet making soft sounds against the stone floor. The thought of tomorrow's humiliation brought a cruel smile to her perfect lips. Her return to Casterly Rock had reminded her of just how much she despised her little brother. Now everyone would see the dwarf for what he truly was, a joke, not worthy of the Lannister name.
A soft knock interrupted her pleasant reverie. The door opened to reveal Jaime, his handsome face troubled.
"Don't look so concerned, brother," she purred, gliding toward him. "The little monster brought this on himself."
Jaime frowned, closing the door behind him. "He's our brother, Cersei. And he's just a child."
"He's a dwarf," she spat, her beautiful face twisting with disgust. "An embarrassment to our family. Father is right to put him in his place."
"You don't mean that," Jaime said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction.
Cersei moved closer, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders as she placed a hand on his chest. "Don't I? You've been away too long, brother. You've forgotten what he is."
"And what is that?" Jaime asked, his voice hardening slightly.
"The thing that killed our mother," she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "The blight on our family's honor. The joke that all of Westeros laughs at behind our backs."
Anger flickered in Jaime's eyes as he stepped back, breaking contact. "He made me a sword," he said simply. "A magnificent sword that no mere child could have crafted. There's more to him than you see, Cersei."
Her face hardened into a beautiful mask. "Then you're as blind as Father fears. Go, if you mean to champion the dwarf. But don't expect me to pretend he deserves it."
Jaime sighed, recognizing the immovable wall his sister had become on this subject. "I'll see you in the morning," he said, turning toward the door. "Try not to enjoy tomorrow's spectacle too much. It doesn't become you."
After he left, Cersei returned to her window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard below. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. The memory of Tyrion walking on his hands, making a mockery of their father's authority, burned in her mind. She would savor every moment of his downfall.
Meanwhile, in his workshop deep beneath Casterly Rock, Tyrion worked by lamplight, his small hands moving with practiced precision as he etched runes onto strips of leather. These were subtle enhancements: runes for balance, for speed, for strength.
Tywin Lannister would not hesitate to humiliate his son, and Tyrion in his youthful form, needed every edge he could get, without overtly showing his magic.
"If Father wants a show," he muttered to himself as he worked, "then a show he shall have."
_______________
The door to Tywin's solar burst open, slamming against the stone wall with enough force to rattle the nearby candelabra. Genna Lannister stormed in propelled by righteous fury, face flushed crimson beneath her golden hair. Behind her trailed her three brothers: Gerion with his perpetual smirk, Kevan looking distinctly uncomfortable, and Tygett, whose jaw worked silently as if physically restraining his words.
"What do you think you're doing?" Genna demanded, planting her hands on Tywin's desk and leaning forward like a thundercloud about to break. She had just put her children to bed, kissing each each of them before instructing Emmon to read them stories until she returned. Her husband had merely nodded, knowing better than to question her when that particular look entered her eyes.
Tywin continued writing, his quill scratching methodically across parchment as if no interruption had occurred. The dismissal was deliberate, calculated to remind them all of their place in the hierarchy of Casterly Rock.
"Three grown men against a child," Genna continued, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "He's seven namedays old, Tywin. Seven! And barely taller than an infant. What possible purpose could this farce serve?"
Gerion leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest, his handsome face arranged in a mask of casual amusement that didn't reach his eyes. "Our brother delights in punishment, dear sister," he drawled
Kevan remained near the door, saying nothing, his face carefully neutral even as his mind raced with concern. He had known Tywin would respond severely to Tyrion's display at dinner, but even he hadn't anticipated this level of public humiliation.
Tygett stood beside Gerion, his hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles had gone white. Unlike Kevan, he made no attempt to hide his anger, letting it simmer visibly just beneath the surface of his rigid control.
Tywin finally set down his quill and looked up. His pale green eyes, flecked with gold, flashed with cold rage, made all the more terrifying by his utterly calm demeanor. The silence stretched for several heartbeats, each one more uncomfortable than the last.
"And what," he finally said, his voice soft yet somehow filling the entire room, "were you all thinking, parading him around Casterly Rock like some curiosity to be marveled at? A Lannister dwarf playing at swords and smithing? Have you any idea how this appears to our bannermen? To our enemies?"
"He is brilliant, Tywin," Tygett burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. The words rushed from him like water through a broken dam. "Extraordinarily skilled with the blade. I began teaching him merely as a distraction, but he quickly showed prodigious talent. His size gives him advantages you wouldn't expect—lower center of gravity, unexpected angles of attack. He's adapted techniques that—"
"Prodigious?" Tywin's interruption cut like Valyrian steel. He spat the word as if it tasted foul on his tongue. "I acknowledge the boy has a decent mind when he chooses to apply it appropriately. But strength of arms?" He gave a derisive snort. "He is a cripple, malformed and stunted. It is high time he was reminded of his place."
"His place?" Genna's voice rose dangerously. "And what place is that, brother? Hidden away in some tower? Denied the opportunity to develop whatever talents he possesses? He is your son!"
"He is my greatest shame," Tywin replied coldly, rising from his chair with deliberate slowness. He was not a tall man, but his presence seemed to fill the room, pushing against the walls with the force of his will. "And you have all indulged him in these fantasies. Tomorrow's demonstration will serve as a necessary correction. The boy needs to understand reality."
Tygett took a step forward, his face darkening with fury. "Reality? You mean your reality, where anything that doesn't fit your perfect vision must be crushed underfoot?"
"Careful, brother," Tywin warned, his voice deceptively soft. "Remember to whom you speak."
"I know exactly to whom I speak," Tygett shot back, trembling with the effort of restraining himself. "A man so consumed by appearances that he would humiliate his own child to maintain them."
Gerion pushed himself away from the bookshelf, his usual levity absent as he moved to stand beside Tygett. "The boy has genuine skill, Tywin. Anyone with eyes can see it. This 'demonstration' you've arranged isn't about teaching Tyrion anything - it's about breaking him."
Tywin's gaze remained cold and implacable. "If he breaks so easily, then he is not worthy of the Lannister name."
"Gods be good," Genna whispered, staring at her brother as if seeing him for the first time. "You truly believe that, don't you?"
"I believe in strength," Tywin replied evenly. "In maintaining the respect and fear that House Lannister has earned through generations. That boy—"
"That boy," Kevan finally spoke, his quiet voice somehow cutting through the tension, "bears your name, whether you wish it or not. And how you treat him reflects upon that name as surely as any display of power."
Tywin's attention shifted to his most loyal brother, surprise momentarily flickering across his features before being replaced by cold fury. "You too, Kevan? Has everyone in this family lost their wits in my absence?"
"Not lost," Kevan replied steadily. "Perhaps found something instead." He hesitated, then continued more firmly. "The boy deserves a chance to prove himself, Tywin. Not a public shaming."
Tywin's jaw clenched, the only visible sign of his growing anger. "The matter is decided. Tomorrow, Tyrion faces his opponents in the yard. If by some miracle he acquits himself well, I will reconsider my position. Until then, this discussion is finished."
He sat back down and picked up his quill, a clear dismissal that none of his siblings were willing to accept.
"If you do this," Genna said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "if you deliberately humiliate that child before the entire household, you will create wounds that will never heal. Not in him, and not in this family."
Tywin didn't look up. "I am not concerned with wounds, sister. Only with results."
Tygett made a disgusted sound and turned away, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Had he been armed, the gods alone knew what might have happened next. Instead, he stormed from the room, the door crashing against the wall for a second time that evening.
Gerion lingered a moment longer. "You know, brother," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious, "for a man so concerned with the family legacy, you seem remarkably determined to destroy its future." He followed Tygett out, his normally jaunty stride replaced by stiff, angry steps.
Kevan and Genna remained in the solar, neither willing to concede the field yet. Genna's massive frame seemed to swell with indignation as she stared at her eldest brother, her mind racing with memories of their childhood, of the countless times she had defended Tywin's decisions to others, supported his ruthless methods because she believed in his vision for their family.
"Do you know who he reminds me of?" she said suddenly, her voice deceptively calm.
Tywin didn't respond, his quill moving steadily across the parchment as if she weren't there.
"He's you, Tywin."
The quill stopped. A drop of ink fell, spreading into a dark stain on the document.
"He is you in miniature," Genna continued, emboldened by his reaction. "The same mind, the same determination, the same refusal to accept the limitations others would place upon him." Her voice grew stronger with each word. "Joanna would have seen it to. She would have loved him fiercely."
Tywin's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with such sudden fury that Kevan took an involuntary step backward. But Genna stood her ground, chin raised, daring her brother to contradict her.
"Do not," Tywin said, each word precise and deadly, "ever compare that... aberration... to me. And do not presume to know Joanna's mind."
Genna leaned forward, her hands planted firmly on his desk. "I knew her mind better than anyone, brother. Better even than you, in some ways. Women speak truths to each other they never share with their husbands."
The silence that followed was absolute. Tywin's face had gone rigid, a muscle twitching violently in his jaw as he stared at his sister with naked fury. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Get out."
Kevan moved toward Genna, placing a cautioning hand on her arm. "Come, sister. You've said enough for tonight."
But Genna wasn't finished. "You can hate the truth all you want, Tywin, but it remains the truth nonetheless. Tyrion is the most like you of all your children. Cersei has your ambition but not your control. Jaime has your courage but not your cunning. But Tyrion—" she laughed softly, a sound devoid of humor, "—Tyrion has your mind. Your will. Your capacity to look at the world as it is rather than as he wishes it to be."
Tywin rose so suddenly that his chair toppled backward, crashing against the stone floor. His face had drained of all color save for two bright spots of rage on his cheekbones.
"I said get out." His voice trembled with barely contained fury.
Kevan tugged more insistently at Genna's arm. "Now, sister. Please."
Genna allowed herself to be led toward the door, but paused on the threshold, turning back to face her brother one last time. "You think tomorrow's demonstration will break him. It won't. And do you know why?" She smiled sadly. "Because he is a Lannister. The most Lannister of all your cubs. And Lannisters do not break easily."
With that final parting shot, Genna swept from the room, leaving only Kevan standing silent guard by the door. As the door closed, Tywin's control finally shattered. He swept his arm across the desk, sending inkwells, parchments, and ledgers flying across the room. Wine splashed against the stone wall like blood, books thudded to the floor, and the heavy bronze lion paperweight struck the hearth with a resounding clang.
He stood in his solar amidst the destruction, chest heaving, hands trembling with rage Genna's words echoed in his mind, taunting him with their poisonous truth. The boy did have his mind, his determination. He had seen it himself, though he would rather cut out his tongue than admit it.
Kevan remained in the solar, watching his brother with a cautious, measured gaze. Where Genna had stormed out in righteous fury and his other siblings had left in their own fashions, Kevan stayed, as he always had. The quiet shadow to Tywin's blazing light, the steady hand behind the iron fist.
"Will you not leave as well?" Tywin's voice was controlled again, the momentary loss of composure sealed away behind his impenetrable facade. He bent to right the fallen chair with precise movements, as if the violent outburst had never occurred.
"No." Kevan's response was simple, direct. Unlike Tygett's hot anger or Gerion's cutting wit, Kevan's strength lay in his steadfastness. "Someone should help clean this mess."
The double meaning hung in the air between them as Kevan moved to retrieve the scattered documents, carefully avoiding the spreading pool of spilled wine.
"They don't understand," Tywin said after a long silence, his back to his brother as he stared into the hearth. "Sentiment makes them weak. Blinds them to what must be done."
Kevan paused in his gathering of papers, weighing his next words with characteristic care. Unlike his siblings, he knew confrontation would achieve nothing with Tywin. His brother was like the Rock itself, direct force would only break against his will.
"You have never been one to waste resources, brother," he offered instead, his tone neutral, factual. "To dismiss Tyrion's ability, without verifying his skill, would be foolish. It would be an emotional decision, and more importantly, an illogical one."
Tywin's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. Kevan had chosen his approach well, appealing not to emotion but to Tywin's ruthless pragmatism.
"And what would you suggest?" Tywin asked, not turning around. "That I allow this... farce to continue? A dwarf playing at swords? Smithing toys like a common laborer?"
"That sword was no toy," Kevan replied quietly. "Even you must have seen its quality."
Tywin turned then, his green-gold eyes narrowed. "I saw a blade that no child of seven namedays could have forged, dwarf or not."
"And yet no one else claims credit for its making." Kevan set the gathered papers on the desk, arranging them in neat stacks. "I've made inquiries, brother. Discreetly. No smith in Lannisport crafted that weapon. No merchant imported it. If not Tyrion, then who?"
The question hung between them, unanswered. Tywin's jaw worked silently as he absorbed this information, his calculating mind turning over possibilities.
"If—" Kevan emphasized the word carefully, "—if the boy truly possesses such skill, would it not serve House Lannister better to cultivate it rather than crush it? A unique talent, controlled and directed, could bring prestige to our name."
"Or mockery," Tywin countered, though with less vehemence than before. "The Imp of Casterly Rock, swinging his little hammer while the realm laughs behind our backs."
"They laugh only if we give them permission to laugh," Kevan said, echoing one of Tywin's own frequent assertions. "If we present his skills as assets rather than curiosities..." He let the thought trail off, knowing his brother's mind would follow the implications.
Tywin paced to the window, his back to his brother as he gazed out at the moonlit expanse of the Sunset Sea. The waves crashed against the base of Casterly Rock far below, their rhythm as steady and unrelenting as time itself. For several long moments, he stood in silence, weighing Kevan's words against his own convictions.
An asset rather than a curiosity. The phrase echoed in his mind, stirring memories of his own father, Tytos, who had turned House Lannister into a laughingstock through his weakness. Tywin had spent his entire life erasing that shame, rebuilding their family's reputation through ruthless efficiency and uncompromising strength. Could a dwarf son truly contribute to that legacy rather than undermine it?
The idea seemed absurd on its face. And yet...
"What's done is done for now," Tywin finally said, turning back to face Kevan. His expression had hardened into resolve. "I will evaluate his worth after tomorrow. But Kevan." He paused, measuring his next words carefully. "It shall be a private session. Ensure none with loose lips attend the display tomorrow."
Kevan nodded, understanding the implications perfectly. If Tyrion proved himself capable, it would not do for word to spread. The boy's talents, if genuine, would be better employed in secret, controlled and directed as tools of House Lannister. And if he failed... well, let Lannisters alone know of the shame.
"I'll see to it personally," Kevan promised. "The yard will be cleared of all but family and a select few guards sworn to silence."
"And Tywin… Genna speaks from a place of love." Kevan offered cautiously.
"She speaks from sentiment," Tywin corrected coldly. "A luxury I cannot afford." He gestured toward the door. "Go. Make the arrangements. Dawn comes soon."
As Kevan departed, Tywin remained standing behind his desk, staring at the closed door. His thoughts turned to Joanna, as they so often did in moments of solitude. What would she have made of this creature?
To call Tyrion his son even in his thoughts, brought him revulsion. Would she have seen past his stunted limbs and mismatched eyes to the mind beneath?
For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to imagine her alive, defending the boy as fiercely as Genna had. The thought brought an unfamiliar ache to his chest, one he quickly suppressed. Sentiment was indeed a luxury, and a weakness, he could not permit himself.
___________________________________
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