After narrowly escaping a carefully laid scheme by House Tyrell, Karl had barely made it halfway back when he was intercepted by Samwell Tarly.
The young man looked flustered, almost out of breath, but there was unmistakable excitement in his eyes.
He had brought good news.
Just as Karl had predicted, Tyrion Lannister had no intention of remaining in a place filled with humiliation and bitterness. The dwarf had long since lost any attachment to King's Landing.
More importantly—
He had already been "secured."
At the moment, Tyrion was tied up in Karl's own chambers, patiently—or perhaps impatiently—awaiting his "host."
Karl rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.
"Well done, Sam."
He gave the young man a firm pat on the shoulder, his tone warm but calculated.
"I've also received word that your father will soon arrive in King's Landing."
At the mention of Lord Randyll Tarly, Sam visibly stiffened.
Karl leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"Don't worry. I'll protect you."
"And if he dares to threaten you again…" Karl's lips curled into a faint smile, "then the lordship of Horn Hill will belong to you—not your brother."
It was a promise.
A tempting one.
Perhaps even a dangerous one.
But Karl delivered it as if it were already a certainty.
Leaving Samwell behind—shaken, teary-eyed, and overwhelmed—Karl walked away with an easy, satisfied stride.
The door to his chambers creaked open.
Karl entered without hesitation, still dressed in his formal silk attire. In one hand, he carried several bottles of exquisite elven red wine—treasures from another world.
The moment he stepped inside—
He paused.
There, sitting on the floor beside his bed, was Tyrion Lannister.
His wrists were bound with coarse hemp rope, tied securely to the bedpost. His posture was awkward, his expression dark and resentful.
For a moment, the scene looked almost absurd.
Like a noble lady abducted by bandits and locked away in a mountain stronghold.
"…Ah."
Karl blinked once.
"Sorry," he said casually. "I didn't think I needed to knock before entering my own room."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Or should I step outside and try again?"
Tyrion slowly turned his head, staring at him without expression.
"If it helps," he said dryly, "I can enthusiastically shout 'Come in.'"
He paused.
"Though if this were a play, I would much prefer a beautiful lady waiting inside instead of… you."
Karl burst into laughter.
Without another word, he drew a Valyrian steel dagger from his waist—the blade gleaming faintly—and cut through the rope in a single, clean motion.
The bindings fell away.
"And if you're interested," Karl continued lightly, "I could recommend you to the king as the next Commander of the City Watch."
He sheathed the dagger and shrugged.
"Then you'd be free to do as you please. No one would dare defy you."
"Though I did originally promise that position to Jon Snow… but that's not a problem."
"He can serve as your deputy."
Tyrion flexed his wrists as he slowly stood up.
He didn't bother thanking Karl.
Instead, he walked over and dropped himself heavily onto a stool.
"I'm afraid that won't work," Tyrion replied calmly. "Before I could even shout at a disobedient guardsman, I'd likely be buried in horse manure."
"And no one would notice."
His gaze shifted to the table.
The wine.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a bottle, pulled out the stopper, and drank deeply.
"Ah…!" he exhaled, letting out a satisfied sigh. "It's been far too long since I've tasted this."
He wiped his mouth.
"You still haven't told me where you get such treasures."
He glanced sideways at Karl.
"And tell me… do you truly believe a dwarf like me can command your… rather unruly followers?"
"I don't have the strength to swing a greatsword and behead five men in one strike."
Karl smiled faintly.
"If you wish, you don't need strength," he said. "Your mind alone would be enough to make them cut off ten heads for you."
Tyrion snorted.
"I have no desire for that. It would only ruin my sleep."
Karl leaned back slightly.
"I'll pay you."
Tyrion paused.
"One gold coin."
That did it.
Tyrion immediately picked up the stopper and threw it at Karl.
Karl laughed and easily dodged it.
But just as quickly, Tyrion's mood darkened.
He lowered his head, staring into the wine bottle, his expression shadowed.
Karl didn't interrupt.
He waited.
After a long silence, Tyrion finally spoke.
"Why me?"
His voice was quiet.
"Who do you think the Lannisters would choose now?"
Karl didn't hesitate.
"I don't know," he said simply. "I only know that you are my friend."
Tyrion froze.
Then—
He laughed.
A bitter, self-mocking laugh.
"Very well," he said at last, lifting his head. "You win."
His eyes regained their clarity.
"Now tell me—why do you want the Stark bastard to command the City Watch?"
Karl shrugged.
"No particular reason. He's simply suitable."
"Yes," Tyrion replied with a faint smile. "Very suitable."
He took another sip of wine.
"That fat boy from House Tarly told me something interesting."
He looked directly at Karl.
"He said that if you were king… I would be your Hand."
Karl tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"If you wore a golden brooch," he said thoughtfully, "it would match your hair quite well."
"The Hand's pin is silver," Tyrion corrected.
Karl smiled.
"Did I say otherwise?"
Tyrion fell silent.
He studied Karl carefully.
Then he sighed.
"No one will support you," he said bluntly.
"The Westerlands are already your reward from Robert. House Tyrell, House Martell, and others are all sending their daughters to King's Landing."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Don't pretend you don't understand what that means."
"From the moment Robert and Eddard remained silent…"
"You lost your chance."
Karl listened quietly.
Then—
He chuckled.
"Interesting," he said. "You've only just arrived in King's Landing, yet you already understand so much."
Tyrion snorted.
"I'm not blind."
"There are plenty of men trying to win your favor—and even more trying to place their daughters in your bed."
Karl waved a hand dismissively.
"Speaking of that," he said casually, "Lady Tyrell tried to seduce me earlier."
Tyrion froze.
"…Are you certain?"
"Not entirely," Karl replied with a smile. "But it was… unusual."
That was enough.
Tyrion's expression changed.
"House Tyrell…" he muttered.
"Are they truly that ambitious?"
He frowned deeply.
"Why support you? Why take such a risk?"
Karl shrugged.
"Who knows? Perhaps they enjoy gambling."
Tyrion studied him.
Then he smiled faintly.
"You rejected them."
"And yet…"
His eyes sharpened.
"You seem more confident than ever."
Karl didn't answer.
He simply raised his bottle.
"I never said anything," he said lightly. "Don't overthink it."
After a pause, Karl finally revealed his true purpose.
"I need your help."
Tyrion blinked.
"With what?"
"Convincing the Westerlands' nobles to support me?"
He shook his head.
"I'm a dwarf. Even Tywin struggled to control them. What makes you think I can?"
Karl's smile didn't change.
"You misunderstand."
"I don't need you to convince them."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I will make them understand."
"That Tyrion Lannister is worthy of their respect."
His voice grew colder.
"And if they refuse…"
"Winter is coming."
"I wouldn't mind bringing a few more 'Rains of Castamere' before it arrives."
Tyrion shivered.
He believed it.
Every word.
Because the man before him had already proven what he was capable of.
After a long silence, Tyrion drank deeply.
Then—
He sighed.
"Very well… Duke Karl."
"What would you have me do?"
Karl paused.
Then—
He smiled.
"Help me choose a surname."
Tyrion stared at him.
"…You're serious?"
"Of course."
Tyrion rubbed his forehead.
"You should decide that yourself."
Karl thought for a moment.
Then suddenly—
"I've got it."
He clapped his hands.
"'El.'"
Tyrion blinked.
"'El'?"
"What does that mean?"
Karl leaned back lazily.
"Nothing."
"It just sounds good."
"And it feels… powerful."
Tyrion shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"Very well… Duke Karl El."
He took another sip of wine.
"Then tell me—"
"What will your house sigil be?"
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