Karl heard the voice before he saw the owner of it—sharp, flippant, unmistakably mocking.
"Strange… I could've sworn I heard someone talking, but I don't see anyone. Am I hallucinating from hunger?"
Karl didn't even bother turning right away. He just tilted his head slightly as if checking whether an insect had landed on his ear.
And sure enough, the "insect" waddled into view.
Tyrion Lannister. The little lion. The sharp-tongued dwarf of House Lannister.
Karl had absolutely no intention of letting anyone—lion, dwarf, or stool—steal a bite of his dinner. If he ever slept with a Dornish wife, he'd be the one singing about it afterward, not lying dead in a field like the poor soul in that song.
No one was taking food from his table.
But Tyrion wasn't bothered at all by Karl's pointed glare.
In fact, Tyrion didn't even address Karl first. Instead, he turned toward Melinda—who still sat on Karl's table like a second course—and reached into his belt.
He pulled out a silver stag and, standing on tiptoe, slid both coin and hand deep between Melinda's breasts.
Karl nearly choked on air.
Tyrion withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately, savoring every second like a man drawing his fingers from warm honey. He brought his hand to his nose, inhaled with reverence, and sighed dreamily.
Then he flashed Melinda a courtly bow—if courtly bows were performed by drunken squirrels.
"Forgive me, my lady," Tyrion purred, "but would you be so kind as to make room for me and this impolite fellow? I intend to challenge him to a duel in the name of the gods. Your beauty shall be the prize."
Melinda blinked, then burst into the brightest smile of her life.
The silver stag had landed exactly where it needed to.
She hopped lightly off the table—and before Karl could process it, she bent down and sunk her teeth playfully into Tyrion's cheek.
Karl nearly spit his ale. She looked like she was biting into a misshapen apple that had never seen sunlight.
But Melinda didn't seem to mind. She cupped Tyrion's head with both hands and laughed breathlessly.
"Of course, my Lord," she cooed, her voice dripping honey thick enough to choke a man. "If you need me, I'm yours until you leave."
She winked once—an exaggerated, theatrical wink full of lust and greed.
Then, knowing the two men clearly knew each other, she began gathering dishes to leave them to their conversation.
But as she rose, Tyrion's hand—fast and well-practiced—landed on the exact same generous curve Karl had just patted earlier.
He squeezed with the authority of a man claiming a prize.
"My Queen of Love and Beauty," Tyrion declared, "do bring me something to eat. And a glass of red wine. Preferably Dornish—sweet and sinful."
Melinda giggled, swayed away, and the moment she disappeared, Tyrion shoved a stool toward the table and climbed onto it with full ceremony.
Karl was already eating. He tore a chunk of hard bread, poked holes through it with his fingers, scooped snail and mushroom from the soup, and stuffed it inside. A makeshift pie.
He bit into it and savored it with the comfort of a man reclaiming civilization after marching all day.
Then he looked down at Tyrion—literally down—and smirked.
Tyrion saw that smirk the moment he finally settled onto the chair and folded his arms. He lifted a brow.
"As a dwarf," he sighed dramatically, "I'm terribly sorry my brilliance didn't immediately catch your eye."
He wagged a finger. "Perhaps next time, you should crawl on the ground. You'd get a whole new view of the world."
He thumped his chest. "And you'd spot a lion right away."
Karl took a slow sip of ale.
"A lion?" he echoed innocently. "Do you mean the kind of mutt who sprouts weeds on his head because it can't satisfy the lioness?"
Tyrion blinked.
Karl leaned back. "If so, then I regret to tell you—your suggestion is good, but don't make it again."
He picked at a crumb between his teeth.
Tyrion's smile faltered. Just slightly. Only enough for someone observant to see.
But before the dwarf could reply, Karl leaned forward suddenly, his shadow falling across Tyrion like an executioner's hood.
"And I heard," Karl said smugly, "that a certain little leather stool was yelling about duels."
Tyrion stiffened.
Karl grinned. "Tell me, great Giant Tyrion Lannister—have you seen this stool? If I catch it, I'm sure I can sell it to a circus."
"Oh, it'll fetch a good price."
The insult landed like a thrown dagger.
Because every man in the Seven Kingdoms knew Tyrion needed a stool—sometimes two—just to climb onto a horse.
Karl had even once suggested privately that Tyrion bring the stool to bed so he could stand on it for certain… activities.
Tyrion's eye twitched.
Then he stroked his chin, thinking theatrically.
"I've never seen this stool of yours," he said finally. "But if you catch it, I'd recommend selling it to House Lannister."
His eyes gleamed wickedly.
"After all, our wealth is unmatched."
Karl froze.
His bread hovered halfway to his mouth.
The insult was perfect. Sharp. Polished. Golden.
Karl's appetite evaporated for three seconds straight.
Then—
"You damned golden-haired monkey testicle!"
Tyrion smirked triumphantly.
"I'll sell the stool to the Lannisters," Karl snapped, "and I'll thank you with your own coin!"
"And I'll thank you on behalf of my house," Tyrion replied sweetly. "And for the record—"
He tapped his chest.
"Not all lions are as disappointing as you claim."