Karl didn't flinch when Tyrion threw his insult about high stools and monkeys. Instead, he folded his arms and looked down at the furious dwarf with a calm, almost scholarly expression—as if observing an exotic creature rather than arguing with a fellow human being.
"Well…" Karl drawled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "it's a good suggestion, but I suggest you stop suggesting."
His voice was light, casual—completely unbothered by Tyrion's temper, which only made the dwarf angrier. Karl withdrew his hand, straightened his posture, and turned his gaze toward the long line of carriages that made up the tail end of the royal convoy.
Those were the logistical carriages—the ones responsible for hauling supplies, food, armor, clothing, tools, and whatever else the king and his entourage demanded. Two of those carriages belonged entirely to Tyrion Lannister.
One was filled to bursting with fine wines from across the Seven Kingdoms—Arbor gold, Dornish reds, Summer Isles honey wine—and a sparse amount of food meant to "accompany" the wines. Clearly the food was an afterthought. The other carriage was stuffed with nothing but books. Heavy tomes, parchments, scrolls, histories, political treatises, accounts of ancient wars, bawdy tales, medical texts—an entire portable library.
Karl's eyes narrowed slightly as he mentally calculated the value of Tyrion's "small necessities."
A normal person traveled with a backpack.
Tyrion traveled with the equivalent of a small noble's treasury.
Though he wanted to rob the poor dwarf blind in his heart, Karl pretended to be serious as he answered Tyrion's earlier taunt about house sigils.
"And even if I really did design a sigil for my own house," Karl said as he turned back toward Tyrion, "I wouldn't put a monkey sitting on a stool."
Tyrion blinked, caught between pride and indignation.
Karl pointed one finger upward and traced a slow circle in the air.
"But perhaps," he said with a faint glint in his eyes, "I'd design a spinning wheel."
He smirked.
"After all, my nickname isn't 'High Stool Karl,' is it, Lord Tyrion?"
The dwarf's mouth opened slightly, an empty puppet's jaw, working silently. Karl gave an exaggerated shrug and resumed walking toward his earlier destination, leaving Tyrion frozen on the spot as if struck by lightning.
If there was a way to break a person's spirit with only a few words, Karl had mastered it.
Tyrion stood there, alone among a sea of bustling people. The King's Road was full of noise, horses, commands being shouted, the clatter of armor—yet Tyrion felt strangely isolated, trapped beneath a personal storm cloud. His mouth hung open, but no words emerged. His expression slowly collapsed like a cake left out in the rain.
Silence is the greatest weapon, and Karl had wielded it with merciless precision.
After several seconds, Tyrion snapped out of his trance and watched Karl's broad back as it moved steadily ahead.
He muttered darkly,
"The seven gods are unfair! If I were as tall as you, proportionally mine would definitely be bigger than yours!"
The complaint was childish, petty, and utterly undignified—yet exactly the thing Tyrion Lannister would say to salvage the last scraps of his pride.
He hurried forward with short, determined steps, catching up to Karl.
"I remember," Karl said without looking down, "that a certain dwarf never complains about external conditions. And certainly wouldn't blame the seven gods."
Karl flicked his gaze downward.
"In my eyes, he's always seemed more willing to trust in himself."
He paused, then added with a cool sharpness,
"But perhaps that was only my wishful thinking—because now he complains like a woman."
"Fuck you," Tyrion snapped, raising his middle finger toward Karl in perfect imitation of Karl's earlier gesture. It was both insult and compliment—like all of Tyrion's words.
Karl chuckled softly.
---
Cersei's Fury
Back at the front of the wheelhouse, Cersei Lannister's face darkened like a storm cloud ready to burst. If looks could kill, Karl and Tyrion would have been reduced to ashes.
Seeing the two people she disliked the most—her troublesome brother and that suspicious bastard—walking side by side only made her anger burn hotter. She clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around the folds of her expensive skirt.
"Cersei?" Jaime whispered quietly.
He had seen her expression twist with fury the moment Karl slipped away with Tyrion. Jaime might have been arrogant, proud, and at times impulsive, but he was not blind—especially not when it came to Cersei.
He squeezed her hand gently.
He understood the reason behind her sudden fury. But he couldn't say a word about it—not here, not now, not ever.
Cersei took a steadying breath. She forced her eyes away from the retreating figures of Karl and Tyrion. Shen then subtly scanned the area to make sure no one was paying too much attention to her momentary lapse in composure.
Satisfied that her outburst had been noticed by no one but Jaime, she exhaled sharply and turned back toward him.
"Let's go," she said coldly.
She pulled up the hem of her skirt with her free hand and stepped forward with dignity and practiced grace.
Relieved that she wasn't about to make a scene, Jaime assisted her down from the wheelhouse.
But before they could take more than two steps, a small voice came from behind them.
"Hey! Mama! Where are you and Uncle Jaime going?"
Both Cersei and Jaime turned simultaneously.
From the doorway of the wheelhouse, a tiny head peeked out—golden curls neatly arranged, skin pale and smooth like milk, bright eyes filled with curiosity.
Myrcella Baratheon.
Cersei's expression softened instantly—melting like frost under morning sunlight. Her children were the only things in the world she truly loved, perhaps even more than herself.
"Myrcella," Cersei said gently, "you and your brothers stay inside the wheelhouse. Someone will bring food shortly."
She smiled—a rare, warm expression.
"Eat, then rest well afterward."
Myrcella's lips pressed together in a pout of genuine disappointment.
Being forced to stay inside the wheelhouse all day had been exhausting. When they left King's Landing, she had been excited—watching the changing scenery had felt like an adventure. But hours passed. The bumpy ride, the monotonous view, and the stuffy air of the wheelhouse wore her down.
Now that they'd finally stopped, she wanted nothing more than to explore, to see the inn, to stretch her legs. But her mother clearly had no intention of letting her out.
Still, Myrcella was obedient and polite. She lowered her head and whispered,
"Okay, Mama… I'll rest after dinner."
Cersei's eyes softened with pride. Jaime couldn't help but smile as well. Myrcella disappeared back inside the wheelhouse, and the curtain fell over the opening.
But Cersei's warm expression evaporated in an instant.
She looked forward again, her anger returning like a loyal shadow.
"Let's walk a bit further," she said sharply. "This bumpy ride has made my bones feel like they're falling apart."
She glanced at Jaime with a weary expression—though some of that weariness came from anger rather than physical discomfort.
Jaime hesitated.
He scanned the surroundings once more before lowering his voice.
"The soldiers who went ahead earlier should have prepared a meal for you and Robert already. I think you should eat something first…"
His words hung in the air like a soft, gentle suggestion.
And that was exactly how Cersei hated being spoken to—softly, carefully, as if she were fragile.
She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)