Karl could feel Cersei's piercing gaze burning into him from behind, sharp enough to flay skin. She looked at him as if he owed her a million gold dragons and planned to run away without paying a single copper. Her expression held a mixture of suspicion, disdain, and something else darker—an emotion Karl didn't want to decipher at all.
He had no interest in provoking this famously volatile woman, no matter how breathtaking she looked stepping out of her luxurious wheelhouse. Beauty aside, Cersei Lannister was trouble walking on two legs, wrapped in silk and gold. And Karl, with his current status and extremely precarious origins, had no reason to go looking for trouble. Avoiding her gaze was the smartest decision a man could make.
He lowered his head slightly and turned toward Tyrion, who was standing in front of him with a thoroughly confused expression. Tyrion was pinned between taller bodies in the crowd, looking like a particularly grumpy monkey trapped inside a cage of giants.
Karl couldn't help it—he burst into laughter internally.
Tyrion's mop of blond hair only made him resemble a mischievous golden-furred monkey even more. His twitching nose, narrowed eyes, and irritated frown completed the image perfectly.
A monkey who had paid too much for bananas.
Karl leaned down slightly, his voice airy and amused.
"Let's go, shorty. You can't see anything anyway—unless you manage to find a circus willing to custom-make a pair of stilts for you."
He swept a hand dramatically toward the crowd.
"Until then, we'd better finish what we were doing. Otherwise…" Karl paused with exaggerated seriousness.
"There won't be any bananas left for you."
Tyrion rolled his eyes so hard Karl worried they might fall out and hit the ground.
Even though Tyrion could guess what had happened—after all, the crowd's reaction was unmistakable—he still didn't appreciate being compared to a monkey. Especially not by a tall bastard who always looked at him with that annoyingly amused glint in his eyes.
But as Tyrion rolled his eyes back down and looked up at Karl again, something clicked.
A slow, sly smile spread across his face—one that always spelled trouble.
He reached out, twirling the golden ring on his finger, pretending to admire it as he spoke casually,
"You're right, Karl. Before this poor half-man gets stilts, he can only use books to prop himself up."
His grin sharpened.
"Even if he still can't see much, at least that way he won't be a blind man who isn't blind. Isn't that better?"
Karl blinked, unsure what Tyrion was plotting.
Tyrion tilted his head, examining Karl's confusion with satisfaction.
"Of course," he added, voice innocent, "I think gold dragons or high stools would work just as well."
Karl didn't hesitate.
He lifted his middle finger.
"One gold dragon. Because a Lannister's worth is certainly higher than that of an ordinary man."
Tyrion's smirk faltered for half a second—he hadn't expected Karl to agree so quickly.
Before the dwarf could haggle or protest, Karl suddenly grabbed the front of Tyrion's clothes. With one smooth movement, he hoisted the dwarf up like a sack of grain and plopped him onto his shoulder.
Tyrion's world tilted violently.
He gasped, dizzy, the ground suddenly impossibly far away beneath him.
For the first time in his life, Tyrion Lannister experienced what it felt like to be taller than almost everyone in a crowd.
His eyes widened in awe.
But that awe evaporated instantly the moment he finally saw what the crowd had gathered for. His expression twisted like a man tasting spoiled milk. His stomach lurched.
"I take it back!" Tyrion gagged loudly. "This isn't worth a gold dragon at all! For the same price, I could play with ten of those bitches, all of them golden-haired!"
He waved a hand frantically toward Cersei's direction.
"And the brothel would treat me like a king instead of making me see that!"
Karl just laughed, adjusting Tyrion's legs so he could sit properly without falling.
"Sorry," Karl said cheerfully, "there's no medicine for regret. Haven't seen any merchants selling it."
He tapped the hilt of his sword with exaggerated pride.
"And abiding by contracts is part of my integrity as a mercenary. I built my team on it."
Tyrion clicked his tongue in irritation.
"Integrity? If your hand wasn't on your sword hilt while you said that, maybe—maybe—I'd believe you."
Karl shrugged.
"Consider this part of fulfilling the contract."
He didn't bother explaining further. With the dwarf sitting stiffly on his shoulder, trying not to tumble off, Karl pushed back through the crowd, moving with the ease of someone whose size made others instinctively step aside.
Tyrion clutched the edge of Karl's armor tightly. Despite his bluster, he was absolutely terrified of falling. His legs trembled, and he felt oddly vulnerable this high up.
Still, his mouth didn't stop running.
"Seven hells," Tyrion muttered, "if you ever establish a noble house, I suggest your motto be—'My word is gold… when my sword is out!'"
Karl pushed through the crowd without slowing. His expression didn't even flicker.
But he responded calmly,
"A good suggestion. But I think I'd change my house motto to—'Truth lies beneath the sword's edge. Dignity rests upon it.'"
Tyrion fell silent.
For once, he wasn't sure whether Karl was joking.
The dwarf stroked his beard thoughtfully, his sharp mind racing. Finally, he murmured,
"Damn it… perhaps you should become a poet. Or better yet, join the Citadel. You might make an excellent Scholar."
He sighed dramatically.
"You could become a respected academic instead of extorting a poor dwarf."
But then Tyrion froze.
He slowly turned his head toward Karl's calm face.
"…Or," Tyrion continued in a low, almost whisper-like voice, "you could simply pick up your longsword, split a man's skull open, steal his white cloak, and put it on yourself."
He glanced meaningfully at Karl.
"Maybe Robert wouldn't mind having a bastard from the Vale as one of his Kingsguard."
The implication was not subtle at all.
Karl stopped walking.
He lowered Tyrion back to the ground.
The abrupt return to his natural height felt cruel—like falling from a tower. Tyrion finally understood why men hated losing power after tasting it once.
Karl crouched down, placed a hand on Tyrion's head like he was holding a large apple, and turned the dwarf's face toward him.
"Listen, buddy," Karl said, tone almost affectionate.
"I know you're jealous I'm tall. But don't try to shove me into a fire pit just because of it."
He sighed dramatically.
"And compared to becoming a Scholar brewing moon tea for noblewomen, or a servant guarding the door while a fat lord breaks another maiden—I'd rather have freedom."
Karl's gaze dropped lower.
"And my 'brother' has better suggestions than you, half-man."
Tyrion's face went through the colors of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, all the way to furious purple.
Being compared to Karl's manhood was one thing. Being told it had better ideas than him was another.
His fists shook.
His eyes blazed.
His dignity shattered like cheap pottery.
"You damned bastard!" Tyrion hissed. "If you ever establish a house, your sigil should be a golden-padded high stool! And a monkey squatting on top!"
He jabbed a finger angrily at Karl's chest.
"A monkey with golden fur! That will be your house crest!"
He puffed out his chest triumphantly.
"And from today onward, I shall call you—His Grace, High Stool Karl!"
Karl paused for two seconds.
Then burst out laughing.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)