"Congratulations, Duke Karl!"
"A grand feast is in order! I will personally bring my daughter to celebrate with you, my lord!"
"What a young hero—truly unmatched!"
"Lord Karl, if you have the time, my sister has long admired you. She would be honored to speak with you privately."
The moment the court session ended, the Throne Room erupted into chaos.
Karl Stone, the greatest beneficiary of the day's events, was instantly surrounded.
Nobles pressed in from all sides, their voices overlapping in a dizzying storm of flattery, invitations, and barely concealed ambition. Smiles were wide, words were sweet—and intentions were anything but simple.
Some praised him openly.
Others extended invitations to banquets and gatherings.
A few were far more direct, offering introductions to daughters, sisters, or even distant relatives—each one eager to bind their family to his rising star.
Behind them came the wealthy merchants, their approach more subtle but no less eager. They spoke of trade routes, investments, and opportunities, each hoping to secure a foothold in the favor of the newly risen lord.
Karl stood at the center of it all.
And for the first time in a long while—
He felt overwhelmed.
Just half a year ago, he had been nothing more than a nameless mercenary.
A bastard hidden in the shadows.
A man without status, without power, without recognition.
And now?
He was the Warden of the West.
The Duke of Casterly Rock.
A rising pillar of the Baratheon dynasty.
In a single step, he had ascended to the highest ranks of nobility.
It was the kind of transformation that bordered on legend.
From obscurity to dominance.
From nothing—
To everything.
The West.
A land synonymous with wealth and power.
Mountains of gold.
Endless influence.
And now—
It belonged to him.
A bastard.
An outsider.
A man who, by all logic, should never have stood where he stood now.
Yet here he was.
And that was precisely why everyone wanted a piece of him.
Karl forced a polite smile, nodding occasionally as he attempted to respond.
But the sheer number of people made it impossible.
Every time he answered one person, two more stepped forward.
Every compliment was followed by another.
Every invitation overlapped with the next.
For a moment—
He didn't know whether to speak…
Or simply escape.
At the edge of the crowd, pushed aside by the surge, stood Tyrion Lannister.
Small.
Alone.
Forgotten.
Once, he had been the second son of one of the most powerful families in the realm.
Now—
He was nothing.
He watched silently as Karl was celebrated.
A strange feeling filled his chest.
Not hatred.
Never hatred.
He knew the truth.
Karl had not destroyed House Lannister.
Karl had simply risen—
At the right time.
In the right place.
Carried by the storm.
Still…
That didn't make it easier.
Everything Tyrion had once known—
His family.
His name.
His place in the world—
Was gone.
And what remained?
A dwarf.
A clever one, perhaps.
But still a dwarf.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
Unneeded.
"Perhaps a traveling circus might take me," Tyrion muttered under his breath, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
"A witty dwarf who drinks too much and frequents brothels… though I suspect even they would think twice."
He let out a quiet laugh.
Then turned away.
The noise behind him faded as he walked.
Step by step—
He left the Throne Room.
Left the crowd.
Left everything behind.
The corridors of the Red Keep stretched before him, familiar yet strangely distant.
His footsteps echoed softly.
Each step heavier than the last.
He didn't know where he was going.
Only that he needed to leave.
Leave this place.
Leave King's Landing.
Perhaps even leave Westeros itself.
Anywhere—
But here.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister—!"
A voice called out behind him.
Breathless.
Urgent.
"Please… wait!"
Tyrion paused.
Slowly, he turned around.
What he saw—
Was not what he expected.
A plump young man in dark silk stood there, bent over slightly, struggling to catch his breath.
His face was flushed red.
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
"You are…?" Tyrion asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I am Samwell Tarly," the young man replied, finally straightening up.
"Tarly?" Tyrion repeated, surprised.
Recognition dawned.
Randyll Tarly's son.
The boy mocked throughout the Reach.
"I am no lord," Sam said quickly. "So please… you don't need to call me that."
Tyrion chuckled softly.
"Then you may call me whatever you like," he replied. "Most prefer 'Imp'… or 'Little Devil.' I suspect that will only increase now."
Sam hesitated, unsure how to respond.
Social interactions had never been his strength.
But—
He had a purpose.
"Lord Karl sent me," Sam said at last.
Tyrion blinked.
"Karl?"
"He was worried about you."
That caught Tyrion off guard.
"Worried?" he repeated. "About what? That I might fall into the Blackwater Rush and drown?"
Sam shook his head awkwardly.
"No… not exactly."
He hesitated.
Then, remembering Karl's instructions, he took a deep breath.
"Lord Karl said… he's worried that a certain dwarf might fall into a sewer."
Tyrion froze.
Sam continued, despite his nervousness.
"A sewer filled with filth… and rotten fish."
"And once the dwarf falls in… he won't be able to climb out."
Tyrion's expression darkened.
"And without gold… no one would bother pulling him out."
"People would rather watch him struggle," Sam finished.
Silence.
Then—
"So," Tyrion said slowly, "is Duke Karl planning to rescue this unfortunate dwarf?"
Sam blinked.
Then nodded earnestly.
"Yes."
Tyrion sighed.
"…Of course he is."
"But that's not all," Sam added quickly.
"He said… you are his friend."
"Forever."
"If he becomes king… you would be his Hand."
"And if he becomes a beggar… he would still find you the cleanest straw mat."
Tyrion's breath caught.
For a moment—
He couldn't speak.
"Dwarves," he said softly after a pause, "prefer feather beds."
Sam scratched his head awkwardly.
"I… thought you might say something like that."
Tyrion laughed quietly.
A real laugh this time.
"I don't need pity," he said at last.
"And I won't become a burden."
He placed a hand on Sam's arm.
"Thank you."
Then, more quietly—
"And thank Karl."
He turned.
Ready to leave.
But—
Two figures stepped into his path.
Gold Cloaks.
Solid.
Unmoving.
"Sorry, my lord," one of them said bluntly. "Orders from Duke Karl."
Before Tyrion could react—
He was lifted off the ground.
Like a sack.
"What—?!"
And just like that—
He was carried back toward the Red Keep.
Elsewhere—
Karl finally escaped the crowd.
He exhaled deeply, rubbing his face.
"That was worse than a battlefield…"
At least in war, enemies were straightforward.
Here?
Smiles hid sharper intentions than any blade.
He wandered without thinking.
Until—
He reached the godswood.
And saw her.
A figure in green.
Elegant.
Graceful.
Radiant.
Margaery Tyrell.
Karl paused.
Then turned—
Intending to leave.
But her voice stopped him.
"Ser Karl… am I so frightening?"
He sighed inwardly.
Then faced her.
"Lady Margaery," he said with a polite smile.
"Your beauty could rival any in the realm."
Even in Dorne, he thought, she would stand out.
Margaery laughed softly.
Her eyes sparkled.
She stepped closer.
Closer than necessary.
"You flatter me," she said.
"But I've heard much about you."
"Your strength."
"Your victories."
Her gaze lingered.
"If you have time… would you tell me your stories?"
She stood just before him now.
Looking up.
Eyes soft.
Voice gentle.
Filled with something more than curiosity.
Karl looked down at her.
Calm.
Unmoved.
But thoughtful.
Because this—
Was not just a conversation.
It was a test.
A temptation.
A game.
And Margaery Tyrell—
Was very good at playing it.
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