Chapter One: A Stranger Among Lannisters
Casterly Rock rose from the cliffs like a monument to pride, its golden halls cut from stone that had never known defeat. The sea crashed far below, tireless and furious, but within the Rock everything was measured—footsteps, words, glances.
Especially glances.
Tyrion Lannister had learned early that survival was an art.
He walked carefully along the corridor, one hand brushing the cold wall to steady himself as servants passed with lowered eyes. He could read mockery in silence as easily as most men read books.
Jaime found him near the western gallery, sunlight catching in his bright hair.
"You walk like a conspirator," Jaime said with a grin, ruffling Tyrion's curls. "One day, you'll need more than clever words to survive, little brother."
Tyrion smirked. "I've noticed swords require a certain height."
Jaime laughed—warm, genuine. Of everyone in Casterly Rock, Jaime alone treated him as something more than a problem to be endured.
From above, a voice cut through the moment.
"Don't think I don't see you plotting," Cersei called down from the staircase, her green eyes sharp as glass. Even as a girl, she watched the world as though it were already hers to rule.
"Plotting keeps me alive," Tyrion muttered.
And then—
The air shifted.
It was not wind. Not sound. Something quieter.
Like a thread pulled too tight.
A shimmer trembled near the end of the hall, faint and golden, barely visible against the torchlight. Jaime's hand moved instinctively toward where a sword would one day hang.
A girl stumbled forward as if pushed by invisible hands.
She was small—almost Tyrion's height—with wide eyes and a face too soft for the severity of the Rock. Her dress was strange in its stitching, unfamiliar in its cut. And clutched to her chest was a pale leather satchel threaded with gold that seemed to flicker in the light.
The shimmer vanished.
The hall fell silent.
"I… I don't know where I am," she whispered.
Her voice trembled—not the practiced tremble of a liar, but the raw fear of someone who has lost the ground beneath her.
Tyrion stared.
The bag pulsed.
Not brightly. Not openly. Just once—like a heartbeat beneath skin.
Jaime stepped forward first. "Who are you?" he demanded, protective instinct already sharp.
The girl flinched. "I'm Vine."
The name sounded foreign. Soft.
Cersei descended the steps slowly. "Strangers do not simply appear in Casterly Rock."
"I didn't mean to," Vine said quickly. "I was somewhere else and then—"
Her breath hitched.
For a fraction of a second, Tyrion felt it again—that tightening in the air. As though the world had inhaled.
One of the nearby torches sputtered violently, smoke curling upward before steadying again.
Coincidence.
Perhaps.
Tyrion stepped closer, studying her satchel. The leather was too smooth. The gold thread too precise. And when her fingers tightened around it, the patterns seemed to shift—just slightly.
"You say you're lost," Tyrion said gently. "That makes two of us."
Vine looked at him as though she had found something solid in a storm.
Jaime frowned. "She could be a spy."
"For whom?" Tyrion asked dryly. "The sea?"
Cersei's gaze narrowed. She was not looking at Vine's face.
She was watching the bag.
A servant moved past them carrying a tray of goblets. As he did, his foot caught inexplicably on the edge of the carpet. He stumbled.
A silver cup slipped from the tray.
It should have shattered on the stone.
Instead, it struck the ground at an angle and rolled, wobbling, until it came to rest directly at Vine's feet.
The servant flushed and scrambled to retrieve it, bowing apologies before hurrying away.
No one spoke.
Vine stared at the cup like it had betrayed her.
Tyrion noticed the satchel's faint glow dim and then settle.
Interesting.
"Stay close," he murmured to her quietly. "Casterly Rock is not kind to those without allies."
She nodded quickly, stepping half behind him without thinking.
Cersei saw.
Of course she saw.
"What's in the bag?" Cersei asked.
Vine hesitated.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then her knuckles whitened, and Tyrion felt the air tighten again—like a bowstring drawn back.
Cersei's attention flickered abruptly as a distant shout echoed from deeper in the Rock. Raised voices. Urgent.
A guard appeared at the far end of the hall. "My lady, your father requests you at once."
Cersei's jaw tightened. She did not look away from Vine immediately.
But she turned.
When she was gone, the air loosened.
Jaime exhaled slowly. "I don't like this."
Tyrion tilted his head. "Neither do I."
But he did not step away.
He watched Vine instead—watched how she swayed slightly, as though tired.
The satchel no longer glowed.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed. "It… helps me."
"How?"
"I don't always know," she whispered.
There was no arrogance in her voice. No sense of power.
Only uncertainty.
Tyrion recognized that.
He extended his hand, small and steady.
"Then you had best learn quickly," he said. "Because if my sister senses weakness, she will carve it open to see what bleeds."
Vine hesitated only a moment before taking his hand.
Far below, the sea crashed against the cliffs.
And somewhere deep within the Rock, the future shifted—just slightly—like a piece on a cyvasse board moved before anyone realized the game had begun.
Send the next chapter whenever you're ready, and I'll continue shaping the cheat consistently and subtly as the story grows.