Tyrion Lannister handled insults the same way other men handled the morning:
wake up, stretch, open a window, and piss cheerfully into the garden.
Not only did he endure mockery—he thrived in it.
He absorbed insults like sunlight, turned them warm, and tossed them back twice as bright.
So when Karl mocked him, the dwarf didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow.
"Oh?" Tyrion said mildly, as if Karl had commented on the weather. "Is that so?"
Karl paused mid-chew.
He narrowed his eyes at the dwarf sitting across from him, suspicious of the complete lack of reaction. Bread crumbs clung to the corner of his lip. He wiped them off and flicked them back into his mouth, refusing to waste even a grain.
With a lazy flick of his spoon, he tapped the rim of his horn cup. Tink.
"If this little lion you're bragging about is really worth more than solid gold," Karl said, "then I'll admit—perhaps you're right."
Tyrion raised both hands in a grand, sweeping gesture.
"Of course! And no matter the price anyone offers you, I promise mine will always be double."
Karl froze.
Mid-bite.
Mid-breath.
Mid-thought.
He slowly lowered the bread and stared at Tyrion with exaggerated seriousness, as if sizing him for a coffin—or a price tag.
"Double the price, hm? In that case…" Karl stroked his chin. "I suppose I should expect someone to offer me… a castle."
Tyrion blinked.
Just once.
Then, to Karl's surprise, the dwarf smiled even wider and spread his hands again.
"Perhaps you should," Tyrion said. "A treasure of my caliber deserves the finest offers."
Karl stared.
Tyrion stared back.
They held the pose like two badly-scripted actors overplaying a scene.
Then—
Melinda arrived, carrying a tray loaded with food.
"My esteemed Lord Little Lion," she chimed sweetly, "I had them prepare crispy hot bread, stuffed goose with mulberry sauce, salted pork with pepper, and a bowl of fresh cream soup."
She placed each dish in front of Tyrion with reverence, as if setting down offerings to a minor god.
"Looks like quite a feast," Tyrion said, delighted. "Someone clearly expects I'll need… energy later."
He winked deliberately, and Melinda blushed deeply. She was practically melting like butter on a hot pan.
Tyrion lifted two handfuls of food while she bent over, groping greedily like a starving raccoon. Melinda giggled into her hand, cheeks pink.
Karl rolled his eyes.
Then, before Tyrion could react, Karl reached out with lightning reflexes, grabbed the goose leg, ripped it clean off, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Tyrion stared at the amputated goose like a father seeing his child after a haircut.
Karl chewed loudly.
"If you think it's too much," Karl said with his mouth full, "I don't mind helping."
Tyrion sighed dramatically. "Although the half-man is worth twice the price of others, thankfully his appetite only seems half as large."
He smiled, though. There wasn't a drop of irritation in him.
"Especially since he is a friend," Tyrion added.
It was the softest thing he'd said all night.
For a moment, Karl paused his chewing. But he didn't comment.
Instead, Tyrion turned to Melinda.
"Lady, bring me red wine. A Dornish red if possible. Otherwise, I fear I'll be hungry later."
"As you command, my lord~"
Of course she obeyed. A golden Lannister with deep pockets—and deeper vices—was a dream customer. Melinda practically skipped away.
Karl spat the goose bone into a corner and grumbled, "What's so good about that sour stuff? I like wine, but that stuff hits the tongue like spoiled grapes."
Tyrion shrugged. "At least red wine won't give me diarrhea. Unlike the water of half the inns in Westeros… which I strongly suspect comes straight from the horse trough."
Karl blinked.
Then nodded—slowly, solemnly.
"That actually makes sense."
Tyrion sliced a piece of salted pork and placed it onto hot bread. "Also," he added softly, "I just like how it tastes. Reminds me of…"
He paused.
His eyes dimmed slightly.
A sadness flitted across his face like a shadow.
Then it vanished.
Karl noticed. He didn't comment. But he took another gulp of ale and exhaled heavily.
"Seems dwarves don't have to wash their own pants," Karl muttered. "That alone is something to be thankful for."
Tyrion shot him a glare.
"Fuck off."
And just like that—they fell into silence.
Comfortable silence.
Each man ate. Tyrion with neat precision. Karl like a starving mercenary who hadn't seen food in a week.
Karl noticed Tyrion carefully avoided the cream soup. Odd. But he didn't press.
After three rounds of food and drink, after Karl finished the last of the snail soup and washed his mouth with ale, he spat into the dirt.
Then he leaned forward and tapped the table with one finger.
"I finished that book you lent me," Karl said. "Sky Kingdom. Thought I'd swap you for another one."
The words made Tyrion pause mid-bite.
"You… finished it?" Tyrion asked, genuinely surprised. He wiped his mouth with a silk napkin—ridiculously elegant for this filthy inn—and looked at Karl over the rim of his wine glass.
"And… did you understand it?"
Karl didn't hesitate.
"No."
He leaned back casually.
"That book made absolutely no sense. Utter nonsense. Like someone vomited words and hoped they would rearrange themselves."
Tyrion choked.
Literally.
He sputtered wine everywhere.
"Pff—! Cough—cough—!"
Karl thumped the table, grinning. "I'm not joking. Some of those sentences were witchcraft. I couldn't tell if the author was a genius or drunk."
Tyrion wiped his chin with the dignity of a man who desperately wished to pretend he hadn't nearly drowned in his own drink.
"Karl… that is classical literature."
"It's garbage."
"It's brilliant!"
"It's deranged."
Tyrion slammed his cup on the table. "It's considered one of the finest philosophical works in the—"
"It's badly written."
Tyrion went silent.
Dead silent.
Then:
"…You didn't understand a single page, did you?"
Karl shrugged. "Not a word."
Tyrion pressed his palms together slowly, inhaled deeply, and exhaled with exaggerated calm.
"Well," he said, "as someone who once believed you could read, this is disappointing."
Karl grinned. "Give me something I can actually understand. Something with swords, battles, and maybe a naked princess."
Tyrion rubbed his temples. "Gods. You want a picture book."
"I want a book that makes sense," Karl corrected.
They stared at each other.
Then—unexpectedly—both men burst into laughter.
It echoed through the inn, loud enough that Melinda peeked back in surprise.
Karl wiped a tear from his eye. "You nearly died drinking that wine."
Tyrion groaned. "And you nearly murdered literature."
Karl raised his cup. "To nonsense books."
Tyrion raised his. "To idiots who try to read them."
They clinked cups.
And for a brief moment, in a noisy inn along the King's Road, with kings and danger looming outside, the dwarf and the bastard shared a rare, genuine friendship—loud, crude, honest, and unexpectedly warm.