With a creak, the door of a lavishly decorated chamber swung open from the outside.
The tall figure of Kal, still wearing the formal silk garments he had not yet had time to change out of, entered with his head lowered, carrying a bundle of Elven red wine.
Then he saw a pitiful dwarf—his wrists bound together with a hemp rope and tied to the foot of Kal's bed, sitting on the floorboards.
Hearing movement, the dwarf turned his head toward the newcomer, his face full of bitterness.
He looked just like a maiden snatched by bandits and dragged to their mountain den.
"Well—pardon me," Kal said. "I thought entering my own chamber didn't require knocking. Should I step outside and come in again?"
Kal truly hadn't expected such a scene, nor had he thought those wild men—who had only recently donned the gold-threaded cloaks of the City Watch—would do their work quite so earnestly.
At Kal's completely unapologetic remark, Tyrion merely stared at him expressionlessly.
"If you think it would help, I'd gladly shout 'come in' with great enthusiasm."
"If this were a play and there were a beauty inside, I'd be delighted."
At Tyrion's bitter expression, Kal burst into laughter, then drew the Valyrian steel, dragon-bone-hilted dagger from his waist and sliced through the rope binding him.
"And if you wish," Kal continued, "I could recommend to the King that you be made Commander of the City Watch. Then you could torment them as you please—and I assure you, no one would dare defy you."
"Although I already promised that post to the Stark bastard, Jon, it's no great matter—he can serve as your deputy."
Sheathing the dagger once more, Kal smiled and shrugged at Tyrion.
Then, not bothering to help the dwarf up from the floor, he spoke casually while turning to place the Elven red wine he had just brought from the game world onto the table.
Hearing Kal's words, Tyrion was momentarily taken aback. Then, rubbing his wrists, he climbed to his feet and walked over to stand opposite Kal.
He didn't mind in the least and plopped himself right down on the stool.
"Apologies, but I think a dwarf couldn't manage that kind of work. Before he could even shout at those Gold Cloaks who offended him, he'd already be thrown face-first into a pile of horse dung."
"And no one would even see him during the whole process."
As he spoke, Tyrion finally noticed what Kal had placed on the table.
Without the slightest politeness, he picked up a bottle of Elven red wine, pulled out the cork, and tipped his head back, pouring it straight down his throat.
"Ah—guh—haven't had your fine treasure in ages. You still haven't told me where you got this good stuff from."
"And besides, do you really think a dwarf like me could command your band of wild men?"
"I don't have the skill to swing a greatsword and take five heads in one blow."
After that mouthful of fine wine, Tyrion's mood visibly improved—or rather, he had sobered up.
Seeing the change in him, Kal felt quite pleased as well. He reached for another bottle, pulled the cork, handed it to Tyrion, and opened one for himself.
Then he clinked his bottle lightly against Tyrion's.
"If you wish, you could use your wits to command them to take even more heads for you."
Kal smiled slyly, his words carrying implication.
"That sort of thing's useless to me—it would only frighten me so much I couldn't sleep," Tyrion said, not taking Kal's bait, narrowing his eyes in enjoyment of the sunlight streaming through the window.
But Kal had his own ways of dealing with the little man. "I can pay you a gold coin for your service. A Lannister is worth that much."
Sure enough, hearing that, Tyrion instantly forgot all about enjoying life; he grabbed the cork from the table and flung it straight at Kal.
Kal dodged with a cheerful laugh.
Tyrion, however, no longer felt like joking. Sitting there with his head lowered, he toyed with the bottle in his hands, his eyes full of sorrow.
Kal said nothing, waiting for him to process his emotions.
After a long silence, the dwarf finally lifted his head.
"Why come to me? Do you think any Lannister is welcome these days?"
"I only know that you're my friend."
Another long pause—then Tyrion let out a short, bitter laugh.
He raised his head again, his gaze at Kal now calm. "OK, you win. Tell me then—what made you think of making the Stark bastard Commander of the Gold Cloaks?"
"No particular reason. I just think he's suitable."
Kal's tone was mild.
"Yes, he is suitable—" Tyrion smiled faintly at him. "The little fat Tarly boy told me that if you were King, I'd be Hand of the King."
Hearing Tyrion so blunt, Kal tilted his head slightly, as though admiring something.
"A golden brooch on your chest would go quite well with your hair color."
"The Hand's brooch is made of silver," Tyrion countered.
"Is it? Did I say what mine would be made of?" Kal replied with a smile, opening yet another bottle for himself.
Seeing Kal make no denial, Tyrion gazed at him deeply.
He took a sip of wine, pondered silently for a while, and finally let out a sigh.
"No one will support you. The Westerlands are already Robert's greatest reward to you. The Martells of Dorne, the Tyrells of Highgarden, even several lesser houses have all brought their most beautiful women flooding into King's Landing."
"Don't tell me you don't know what that means."
"The moment Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark both stayed silent on this matter, you lost your chance."
Tyrion saw the situation clearly—and understood people's hearts just as well.
Seeing that Tyrion held little faith in the matter, Kal still smiled pleasantly.
"I recall you only recently arrived in King's Landing with the Starks. Didn't expect your information network to be so sharp."
Kal teased mildly.
Tyrion snorted in annoyance.
"I'm not blind. There were plenty in the throne hall applauding you—many of them scheming to shove women into your bed."
Clearly, Tyrion possessed ample wit, even while still a prisoner.
Yet in the face of Tyrion's mockery, Kal unhurriedly recounted what had just happened.
"Just earlier, the Rose of Highgarden tried to seduce me. If it hadn't been in full view of the public, I'd have feared she'd start taking off my breeches."
Hearing that, Tyrion's expression immediately changed.
"You're certain?"
"Not entirely, but something's off, isn't it?" Kal smiled; there was no telling what lay behind those deep blue eyes.
To Tyrion, however, Kal's words were tantamount to confirmation.
At the very least, the Tyrells clearly harbored such intentions.
He furrowed his brows, absently rubbing the mouth of the bottle with his fingers.
"The Tyrells' ambition is that great? They're trying to give you a push—placing their bet early?"
"But what need have they for that?"
"If they marry their daughter to Robert and bear his heir, House Tyrell becomes the Iron Throne's most unshakable ally."
"But what meaning is there in staking their bet on you? Merely for the sake of a higher payout?"
Seeing how Tyrion grasped the situation so precisely in just a few sentences, Kal merely waved his hand.
"Who knows what goes through their heads?" Kal scoffed with disdain. "As far as I'm concerned, the Tyrells are all fools."
At that, Tyrion lifted his head and regarded Kal intently.
He seemed surprised that Kal would think this way—or perhaps it was as if he were seeing this side of Kal for the very first time.
No, it truly was the first time.
For this was the first moment Kal Stone had revealed his ambition before him.
At that thought, Tyrion's mismatched eyes—one black, one green—flickered, his thoughts deepening.
"So you turned them down. A wise choice."
"But your expression tells me you haven't given up—in fact, you seem even more certain now."
Tyrion did not ask why, though he had no idea where Kal's confidence came from.
Since he didn't ask, Kal had no desire to answer.
He only smiled and clinked bottles with him again.
"I never said anything, dwarf. Don't start imagining things."
Hearing that, Tyrion's curiosity only grew—but after a moment's thought, he chose not to voice it.
Not lingering any longer on that sensitive topic, Kal changed the subject.
"Actually, I came to see you because I want your help."
Kal spoke bluntly.
Tyrion lifted his eyes to glance at him.
"And what could I possibly help you with? Don't tell me you want me to make the lords of the Westerlands swear fealty to you?"
"I'm just a dwarf. Do you really think I could accomplish such a thing?"
"Even Tywin had to exhaust great effort to make those men submit—and taverns are still playing The Rains of Castamere to this day."
Tyrion's words were frank. His meaning was clear: even if Kal Stone used the name of the last trueborn heir of House Lannister, it wouldn't be enough.
After all, never mind the saying a new king brings new ministers—
With House Lannister gone, who would care about a mere dwarf like him?
Tyrion understood human nature all too well, and he knew that most of those people now probably saw him as nothing more than a monkey for their amusement.
Yet in response to Tyrion's desolate words, Kal merely shook his head.
"No, Tyrion—you've misunderstood me."
"I'll make them understand that Tyrion Lannister will always deserve their respect."
"And if they don't…"
"If I'm not mistaken, winter should be coming soon, so I wouldn't mind, before it arrives, letting the Westerlands have a few more rainstorms besides Castamere."
Kal said those terrifying words with a cheerful smile, as if he were casually deciding whether to roast a heat-stricken bamboo rat for supper—or perhaps pick one that had grown melancholic.
"After all, I did promise some of my men that I'd give them the rewards they deserve."
At those murder-laden words, Tyrion couldn't help but shiver.
He recalled that even during his "stay" at Winterfell, he had heard battlefield tales of this fierce man before him.
Added to that were the recent events of the King's Landing crisis, and that gruesome "gift" sent to the Dornish border for House Martell.
Each of these deeds proved that this bastard possessed such capability.
Everything he now had—he had won by the blade, seized by his own strength.
Moreover, he himself was now the realm's Master of Coin—and presently held in his grasp the grand Martial Games that every noble across the Seven Kingdoms coveted.
Perhaps only a fool would refuse this bastard under such circumstances.
And indeed, he himself was merely a fitting stepping stone.
Understanding his own role, Tyrion bitterly raised the bottle again and poured more wine down his throat.
He understood—now that Kal existed, the name Lannister had truly become a thing of the past.
What no one could have expected was that it would happen in such an absurd way—and in so short a time.
The man before him had risen like a hurricane, and nothing that stood in his path could stop him.
Perhaps that was where his confidence toward the Iron Throne came from.
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