Karl did not argue with Tyrion about whether he remembered his first winter or whether he had truly seen snow. There was no point. Karl himself barely remembered anything about his early childhood. The memories existed only in vague impressions—distant, blurred, easily blown apart like frost on a window.
So he didn't bother answering.
However, Karl immediately noticed the faint shift in Tyrion's expression—the empty look in his eyes, the strange tightness in his voice. It wasn't difficult to guess.
If a simple song could make Tyrion Lannister's mood plummet like this…
There was only one possible reason.
A woman.
And not just any woman.
His woman.
The one person Tyrion had loved—wholeheartedly, foolishly, disastrously.
His ex-wife.
Even Karl, a man from another world, knew this part of Tyrion's painful history.
Karl clicked his tongue silently and decided not to prod the wound. He simply placed a bottle of Elven red wine next to Tyrion's boots, picked up the two books he had borrowed, and stood up.
No comforting words, no sentimental pats on the shoulder.
Just wine.
And space.
A man only needed two things when he was dealing with heartache:
A strong drink…
And solitude.
That was the best Karl could offer.
He walked away without turning back.
---
A Slightly Different Plan
Karl had intended to leave Tyrion to his melancholy for the night—but then he entered the inn.
And instantly changed his mind.
"Melinda," Karl called out, spotting the voluptuous serving girl perched on a soldier's lap. "Your little lion needs you desperately right now. Yes—right now. Put down the damned plate and get off the damned soldier's lap!"
Melinda blinked in confusion, then immediately understood the meaning behind Karl's tone.
Do good deeds without leaving your name—that had once been Karl's philosophy.
And in Karl's worldview, most of a man's problems had three simple cures:
Wine. Silence. And women.
"Add a woman to the first two," Karl mused to himself as he left the inn, "and Tyrion will be back to his usual self by morning. Works every time."
He grinned at the thought.
Back in his old life, Karl had a personal motto regarding misery:
> "There is no sorrow that a proper foot bath cannot wash away."
And if sorrow stubbornly remains—then wash again.
Feeling his mood lighten, Karl tucked the two books under his arm and walked toward the Black Stone Mercenary Group's camp.
Seeing Cersei earlier had been an unfortunate accident. Karl hadn't meant to stumble into the Queen. Nor did he intend to interact with her now or in the future. Cersei Lannister was a blazing torch—beautiful from afar, lethal up close.
Karl had survived this long because he knew exactly which fires could burn him alive.
So, he preferred to keep his distance.
Far distance.
---
Back to the Mercenaries
"Boss!" Kesi shouted the moment Karl returned. The man practically vibrated with enthusiasm, waving as if trying to summon Karl from across a battlefield.
Immediately, the other mercenaries—dirty, tired, sweaty from a day of travel—looked up and greeted him.
"Boss!"
"Evening!"
"You're back!"
Karl smiled, exchanging simple greetings with his men. He stayed to chat, listening as they rambled from food to ale to the usual colorful topics that all men drift toward after their stomachs are full.
Within minutes, the conversation devolved into synchronized lewd laughter.
The Black Stone Mercenary Group was not notable for manners.
---
Why "Black Stone"?
The name "Black Stone" seemed random to outsiders, but Karl had deliberately chosen it. In the world's collective understanding, Black Stone was a mysterious building material—pitch black, slightly oily to the touch, somehow ancient and unnatural.
It wasn't obsidian.
It wasn't volcanic glass.
It wasn't Valyrian stone.
It was something else entirely.
Black Stone appeared in ruins across the world. Wherever there were strange, ancient monuments—there the Black Stone lay. The Hightower's foundation in Oldtown. The Seastone Chair of the Ironborn. Ancient remnants from cultures long dead.
Karl had seen some himself. He'd even collected a chunk or two on the road.
Thus, no one had found it strange that his mercenary group was named after this unusual material.
But the real reason behind the name was far more ridiculous.
Karl had wanted the name to match the private nickname he had once jokingly given himself on Silk Street:
"Karl Who Spins the Wheel."
It was a piece of dark humor no one in this world could possibly understand. But the association stuck: people who heard of Karl thought of the Black Stone Mercenaries—and vice versa. In their minds, the two were inseparable.
Karl had gone through all that trouble simply for the sake of a pun.
A dumpling made purely to enjoy the vinegar.
---
A Place to Rest
After half an hour of chatting with his men, Karl finally excused himself and walked toward the resting area Kesi had prepared. It was a simple spot—just a hammock tied tightly between two sturdy trees, shielded from the wind by a large boulder.
Mercenary travel accommodations were simple:
A hammock.
A fire.
A sword within arm's reach.
Before lying down, Karl glanced toward the inn once more.
Outside the inn, dozens of Lannister tents stood clustered together—bright crimson like fresh bloodstains splattering across the dim evening surroundings. They looked almost like poisonous mushrooms sprouting after rain.
Beautiful.
Vibrant.
Warning.
Karl narrowed his eyes.
Having lived in the Vale for years, he knew a basic truth:
The more brightly colored something was, the more dangerous it tended to be.
You see something beautiful and lean closer…
You get burned.
Or poisoned.
Or killed.
Unless you know exactly how to touch it.
---
"I Want You to Kill Him."
Far from the lively campfires, Cersei Lannister walked alone.
She moved through the thinning crowd, then into the quiet woods, until she reached a narrow stream. The water was clear, running over smooth stones, making a soft, pleasant murmur.
Behind her, the sound of footsteps approached slowly.
Cersei didn't turn around.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the flowing water as she whispered, icy and cold:
"I want you to kill him."
Jaime Lannister stopped mid-step.
He froze.
His breath caught.
For a brief moment, he hoped—foolishly—that he had misheard. But Cersei did not repeat herself. She simply let the words settle over the quiet stream like frost forming on glass.
"…Cersei," Jaime said softly, "he's just a child. He doesn't even know anything."
He tried to defend the boy gently, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. Jaime didn't know what words could soothe Cersei's fury—but he had to try.
Cersei turned so quickly that her skirts flared behind her like a fiery red banner.
Her gaze stabbed into him.
"Child?"
Her voice cut sharply—too sharp for the peaceful forest around them.
"Do you know how old he is now? Eighteen."
Her eyes were wild with a kind of cold rage.
"When you were fifteen, you were knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself—for your bravery in wiping out the Kingswood Brotherhood!"
She stepped toward Jaime, expression twisted with outrage.
"Look at him. Look at his size. And tell me—"
Her voice dropped into something dark and merciless.
"—who in this world would treat him as a child?"
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)