"I believe you. Absolutely, completely, one hundred percent believe you."
Tyrion nearly dropped his wine. Karl's abrupt declaration was so sudden—so violently launched without warning—that the dwarf sputtered, slammed his goblet onto the table, and scrambled for his silk napkin. He dabbed at the red stains on his velvet doublet as if trying to save it from a murder attempt.
When he finished fussing, he smoothed the cloth, straightened himself, and nodded gravely.
"You are correct," Tyrion said. "Sky Kingdom is nonsense."
He leaned back and adjusted his belt, clearing his throat in an overly dignified manner before continuing.
"It was written by Dr. Lyman—supposedly a great scholar. During the early reign of King Aegon III Targaryen, the poor boy developed the habit of staring at the stars during the wolf hour. Grand Maester Munkun, in his infinite wisdom, gifted him Lyman's masterpiece. A thoughtful gesture."
Tyrion paused for effect.
"The King hated it."
Karl dragged his horn cup closer, unimpressed.
Tyrion grinned. "The book is half astronomy, half the delirious rambling of a man who spent too much time alone with the stars. Reading it is like chewing a wooden door and hoping oil drips out for flavor."
Karl snorted.
"So," Tyrion continued, "when you said the book was nonsense—Karl, my dear barbarian friend—I believe every word."
He eyed Karl curiously.
"But tell me again… you actually finished it?"
Karl shrugged. "You lent it. I read it."
"Seven hells," Tyrion murmured. "The Bastard of the Vale, swinging a sword with one hand and reading philosophy with the other? Remarkable."
He pictured it—Karl, a towering brute nearly seven feet tall, turning fragile parchment pages with thick, scarred fingers. The image was so absurd that Tyrion's lips twitched.
But curiosity gnawed at him.
"Why?" Tyrion asked. "Why bother reading it?"
Karl didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he pointed toward the far side of the room.
There, a half-dressed prostitute had grabbed his sheathed sword, planted it upright on the floor, wrapped her thighs around it, and was currently… dancing up and down the length of the scabbard. Gracefully. Sensually. Comically.
Tyrion blinked.
Karl finally spoke.
"I don't have a noble reason like yours," Karl said calmly. "I don't read to prove anything. I don't read to become someone greater. I don't read to impress maesters."
He tapped the table with two blunt fingers.
"I read so that when I speak—people listen."
Tyrion frowned. "And if they don't?"
Karl leaned back.
"If they don't listen," he said simply, "then I use my sword to make them listen."
He said it with complete sincerity. No bravado. No swagger. Just truth.
Tyrion stared at him—open-mouthed.
It was the stupidest, crudest, most barbaric philosophy he had ever heard.
And yet…
"Oh gods," Tyrion muttered. "It actually makes sense."
Karl nodded once.
That day—months earlier, in a brothel on Silk Street—Tyrion had laughed. Laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed. He'd even jokingly declared that Karl's entire night—drinks, women, everything—would be paid for by Lord Tyrion Lannister.
It had been a joke. A ridiculous, drunken joke.
But the moment that changed everything wasn't the joke.
It was what Karl said afterward.
He stood—half drunk, a woman hanging on each arm like decorative scarves—and turned back to Tyrion with a grin that was both sloppy and strangely wise.
"Civilize the mind," Karl had said, raising a finger like a drunken philosopher.
"Brutalize the body."
Tyrion had sobered instantly.
The hair on his arms had stood upright. A chill had run down his spine. He felt shaken—not by alcohol, but by the unexpected truth lodged inside the words.
It was that moment—not the insults, not the jokes, not the shared drinks—that made Tyrion decide Karl Stone was not simply a bastard with a blade.
He was a friend.
A real one.
A rare one.
Now, sitting in the dim, noisy inn with the smell of roasted meat and spilled ale all around them, Tyrion remembered that moment vividly.
And he wanted to know what Karl thought of the next book he lent him.
"So then," Tyrion said after a long pause, "why exactly is it nonsense? Be specific."
Karl's face twisted into a bitter grimace.
"I understood nothing," Karl declared. "Nothing at all. Not one sentence. It was all nonsense."
Tyrion exhaled long and slow.
"Well," Tyrion sighed, "that answers that."
He pushed away his cup.
"Come on. My luggage should've arrived by now. Let's see what books survived the journey."
Tyrion hopped down from his chair. Karl rose as well—he'd eaten, drunk, and verbally assaulted a Lannister. The night was going well.
But just as Tyrion reached the inn's doorway, he stopped suddenly.
Melinda—hair bouncing, apron fluttering—was waving at him with a wicked, knowing smile.
Tyrion leaned toward Karl and whispered, "By the way, what I said earlier was a joke. She's a friend. Bill me for your dinner. The bill is on me tonight."
Karl shook his head. "Forget it. I'm not interested."
He jerked his head toward Melinda, who winked provocatively.
"I can't afford distractions," Karl said. "Not when I'm stuck following a king who wishes he could teleport straight into the Winterfell crypts."
Tyrion blinked.
"The Stark family crypt," Karl repeated. "Where all the Starks are buried. At this point, Robert probably wishes he were one of them."
Tyrion opened his mouth to argue.
Closed it.
Then nodded slowly.
"Fair," he admitted. "Things are already bad enough."