5 years later
Tyrion makes his way towards his fathers solar, annoyed at being at his fathers beck and call. Acknowledged only when Tywin needed something done, likely an unpleasant task.
The recent tourney had provided him with some quiet relief. His father expected him to stay far away from the gathered lordings and knights, which was all too fine for him. Blades and pomp were useless in his book. If only they made a tourney for the amount of whores taken, now that he would win.
Still he was expecting a few more days, or weeks, of lazing before Tywin demanded his presence.
He enters his fathers study without acknowledging the guards stood at the door.
"Well father what unpleasantness do you have for me this time?" He drawls.
He expects his father to be busy writing a letter, ignoring him until convenient, while he stares out of the window to the seas below as is their usual, however he's immediately told to sit down and his attention is drawn to the object on the desk in front of him.
The longsword is unlike any he has ever seen before. The bone hilt is intricately detailed depicting a large willow tree, branches swaying as if caught in a storm. Tiny leaves swirl, spiralling around the grip towards the pommel, carried by an invisible wind. He did not know that carving on such a small scale was possible.
The blade too is inscribed, this time with runes about the size of his thumb and the edge looks like it could split flesh with ease. Most startling though is when he looks down at the sword to inspect it closer, he can see the dark brown wood of his fathers desk beneath, for the blade is made of glass.
His father watches his his eyes calculating.
"A beautiful yet frivolous specimen is it not?"
Tyrion simply raises his eyebrow. His father would not call for him simply to admire a sword.
"A fine work indeed."
His father picks up the sword and slashes it at the wall. Tyrion flinches, but the sword does not shatter in a shower of glittering shards. Instead it is the wall that is now sporting deep gouges and the sword, not even scratched, glints innocently in his fathers grip.
Tyrion tries not to gape.
Tywin eyes his son calculating .
"A lowborn used this in the tourney. The crowd jeered, a man with a glass sword. How Imbecilic. A knight laughed and went to swing his sword, but the glass cut straight through."
"And where is this man now?"
"The finest weapon in the world does not a good warrior make. He was cut down, but had I the sword brought here."
Of course Tyrion thinks, if there's something his father cannot resist it is power, and that sword as delicate as it may look, is perhaps one of the most powerful ever made. He probably even had the man killed himself after he saw what the sword could do.
"I made a few inquiries and found that the man was boasting at the Lions Tooth Inn the night before last, of a weapon forged by the gods that would win him the tourney."
"He claimed he won it from a man by the name of Porthos in Lannisport, who in turn found it in the possession of bandits in the forest west of Pinkmaiden.
Now Tyrion sees where this is going, but he's never one to volunteer for anything. He's a Lannister as much as his father despises him, hard work was for peasants.
"What would you want me to do?"
"Find me the man that made this."
"And if I do? What then?"
His fathers answer is a cold bloodthirsty grin.