"Congratulations, congratulations—congratulations, Lord Kal!"
"Lord Kal, you must hold a banquet! I'll personally bring my daughter to celebrate with you!"
"Lord Kal, truly a hero who shines in his youth!"
"Lord Kal, might you have some free time? I have a younger sister who's long admired you—she'd love to have a candlelit chat with you."
As the one who had reaped the greatest fruit of victory, the moment the royal audience ended, the tide of people in the throne hall surged forward and drowned him.
They all said different things.
Flattery, invitations, even offers to introduce their daughters.
Those were the nobles.
As for the wealthy merchants, they sought to give gifts, talk business, and forge connections.
A whole crowd surrounded him, each trying to get a word in.
Although Kal appeared to have shallow foundations on the surface, everyone present knew just how vast this young hero's future would be.
One had to know that half a year ago, he had been nothing more than a mercenary—a king's illegitimate son who dared not show his face.
But now, he had leapt to become Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock, as well as a trusted minister before the Baratheon throne.
It could be said that up to this point, Kal had truly transformed into a dragon.
In one step, he had ascended to heaven, becoming one of the highest nobles in all the Seven Kingdoms.
The Westerlands—such a land of temptation.
Wealth and power, those were its very names; gold piled high into mountains.
And yet now, a sudden upstart, a bastard who had emerged out of nowhere, had become the greatest victor in this struggle.
Facing such a sudden wave of enthusiasm, Kal, utterly unprepared, floundered left and right, unable to cope.
For a time, he didn't know what he should say—or whether he ought to quickly shake them off and leave this place altogether.
Beyond the crowd, Tyrion Lannister—short of stature and thus pushed into a corner by the sudden press of bodies—watched the scene before him with lonely eyes.
Before he had traveled north with the King to Winterfell, he had been the second son of House Lannister of the Westerlands, a man of high birth.
And this friend of his had been no more than a mercenary.
Yet now, that same friend stood beside the King himself—had overthrown his own house, slain the brother who loved him most, and now sat in the very seat that once belonged to his family.
And yet, for some reason, Tyrion could not bring himself to hate Kal.
He knew that House Lannister, his father Tywin, and even his brother's death were not Kal's doing.
Kal had merely been in the right place at the right time—and when the storm came, he rode it and became a dragon.
Watching the noisy, bustling scene before him, Tyrion felt everything grow gray and hollow. Suddenly, he was lost, not knowing where he should go from here.
As a Lannister—and the only surviving legitimate son of Tywin Lannister—by all rights he should have been implicated as well, sent to swell the Night's Watch ranks at the Wall, adding one more dwarf to clean their chamber pots.
But now, no one paid him any mind.
Tyrion knew very well why. It was because this dear friend of his had protected him behind the scenes, securing his freedom.
Yet at this moment, Tyrion felt only endless confusion—and emptiness.
From this moment on, he no longer had a home—nor any family.
In this world, no one would ever again love a dwarf so unconditionally.
And he himself was nothing more than a dwarf who happened to have read more books than most, one who had simply spent the first half of his life bearing the surname Lannister.
"Perhaps a traveling circus might welcome a clever dwarf—but they'd hardly fancy one who loves wine and whores. Or maybe the King needs another fool, one to stand beside Moon Boy."
The lively crowd before his eyes had nothing to do with him; to Tyrion, it was nothing but noise.
So he muttered in self-mockery, lowered his head, turned around, and prepared to leave the place.
He felt he shouldn't be here—this place did not belong to a ridiculous, ugly dwarf like him.
He ought to leave the Red Keep, leave King's Landing, perhaps even leave Westeros itself.
With heavy steps, Tyrion walked away from the throne hall, down the corridors of the Red Keep that had once been so familiar to him.
But just as he was about to reach the castle gates and depart from this sorrowful place, a breathless voice called out to him.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister—huff—please, please wait!"
The speaker looked exhausted, as though he had been searching for Tyrion for quite some time.
Puzzled, Tyrion halted and turned around, only to see a red-faced, panting fat man in dark satin hurrying toward him.
"And you are? Forgive me, my lord—perhaps the dwarf doesn't recognize you. May he ask why you've called out to him?"
Seeing the fat man finally struggle up to him and block his path, Tyrion regarded him with confusion.
He didn't know this young, plump fellow; his clothing bore no sigil of any noble house.
Most importantly, Tyrion had never seen him before.
"I—I'm Samwell Tar… Tarly," the man stammered.
Having at last found Tyrion, Samwell let out a long sigh of relief, resting his hands on his knees and trying to calm his racing heart.
"You needn't call me 'my lord,' Lord Tyrion. I'm no lord."
So he introduced himself thus.
Tarly?
Samwell?
Tyrion suddenly remembered who he was.
The eldest son of Randyll Tarly—a timid, fat man, a laughingstock of the Reach.
"Tyrion isn't a lord either; he's just a joke," Tyrion said with a smile, looking at Sam's round face. "So you may call me the Imp. I suppose more and more people will call me that from now on."
"Ah…" Sam didn't know how to respond. He had never been good at talking to people—had never had any friends.
Oh, no—he did now.
From the moment Kal Stone had snatched him away at the river crossing of the Trident, he had a friend of his own.
So when he saw Tyrion's smile, Sam smiled as well.
"Lord Kal sent me to find you. He said he was worried that you might—well…" Sam hesitated, uncertain how to phrase it.
"Kal?" Tyrion blinked. "Worried about what—that I might fall into the Blackwater outside King's Landing?"
"No—Lord Kal didn't say it like that."
Having finally caught his breath, Sam looked a bit troubled as he lowered his head to face the dwarf staring up at him with wide, questioning eyes.
After thinking for a moment, Sam decided to follow Lord Kal's instructions to the letter.
"Lord Kal told me to tell you exactly what he said—that he's worried a certain dwarf might fall into one of King's Landing's sewers."
"He also said those sewers are full of filth, or rotting, stinking fish, and that if the dwarf fell in, he'd never be able to climb back out."
"And he told me to remind you that the dwarf has lost the ability to use gold to bribe someone to pull him out again. 'People only want to see how a dwarf struggles in a pit of excrement,' he said. 'That sight alone would make their day.'"
Summoning all his courage, Sam recited Kal's original words verbatim.
It posed no challenge to his memory.
And sure enough, upon hearing Sam's words, the forced smile on Tyrion's face froze, then gradually twisted into anger.
"So if people would rather see a dwarf struggling in a cesspit," Tyrion said coldly, "is Lord Kal trying to save him, then?"
At that, astonishment flashed across Sam's face.
"Lord Kal told me you'd say that, Lord Tyrion—and I must admit, it's exactly the same as what he said you would say…"
Tyrion: "…"
He suddenly felt as though someone had hurled a handful of dung straight into his face.
But Sam did not stop; he went on, "Lord Kal said that if you said that, then yes—he is."
"He told me you are his friend forever. If he were a king, you would be his Hand."
"And if he were a beggar, then he would still prepare for you a straw mat—one with as few lice as possible."
Hearing those words spoken with such heartfelt sincerity, Tyrion was moved.
He hurriedly lowered his head, not wanting the fat man before him to see the redness gathering in his eyes.
"A dwarf can't sleep on straw," he murmured, voice trembling. "He prefers a blanket made from swan down, lined with satin as smooth as a maiden's skin."
Sam looked at the dwarf's bowed head and the quaver in his tone, unsure what to do.
He scratched his head awkwardly, thought for a moment, then offered his own clumsy attempt at comfort.
"Lord Kal meant he doesn't want you to leave—but if you truly wish to, I can tell him whatever you want me to say."
Sam spoke honestly, saying what he believed to be right.
But his words only made the dwarf laugh.
Looking at the plump man who had chased after him, Tyrion took two steps forward and patted his arm.
"I don't need anyone's pity, nor will I ever be the dwarf who depends on charity from his friends. Thank you, Sam—you're a good man."
"And so is Kal."
The dwarf smiled as he spoke those low, steady words, and he suddenly felt that the gray world before him was touched with sunlight.
Saying this, he turned to leave once more, heading toward his unknown destination.
Yet Sam, as if he had already guessed he would try to slip away, showed not the slightest hint of haste.
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