The moment Karl finished speaking, an unusual silence settled inside the temporary cell. The flickering lamplight cast shifting shadows across the stone walls, and neither man spoke another word.
Seeing Tyrion unmoving and curled in the corner like a wounded animal, Karl gave a small gesture to the guard standing nearby. The guard understood his meaning immediately and stepped forward to unlock the heavy wooden door.
It creaked open with a dull groan.
Dusk had fallen over Winterfell, and the North's night came earlier and heavier than anywhere south. The light within the room was dim and cold, barely illuminating the rough bed and the small figure hunched on it.
But dimness had never obstructed Karl's sight.
The guard, tactful and quiet, closed the door behind him, leaving the two alone.
---
A Familiar Greeting
Karl approached slowly.
"Have you eaten?" he asked, using the same peculiar yet familiar greeting he always used.
Only Karl would begin a conversation with such a question—even at a time like this, even to a man who wept alone in a darkened cell.
Slumped on the bed, Tyrion had been staring blankly out the window at the great weirwood tree outside. His face was streaked with dried tears. Grief clung to him like a heavy cloak, weighing down every breath he took.
He didn't turn around when Karl entered.
He didn't even blink.
But he wasn't rude enough to ignore him completely.
So, in the hoarse, broken voice of a man who had been crying for far too long, Tyrion muttered, "If I tell you I haven't eaten… can you conjure me a steak?"
It was meant to be a joke. A bitter joke, but still a joke.
Karl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked across the cell to the small wooden table and raised his hand.
A plate materialized out of thin air.
A rich aroma immediately filled the air—roasted meat, herbs, butter, and heat.
Tyrion blinked.
Karl lifted his hand again, and a green bottle appeared on the table. Elven wine. He hesitated, then placed four more identical bottles beside it.
The faint sound of glass on wood finally made Tyrion turn his head.
He sniffed the air, confused.
"...How did you know I wanted steak?" he asked, bewildered.
Karl stepped back with a small grin and revealed the table he had set.
Tyrion stared at him.
"I didn't see you bring that in," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Don't tell me you're actually a sorcerer. Magic that conjures food? That's new."
Karl shrugged casually.
"You weren't looking at me," he replied. "You were staring at that tree—very passionately, I might add. For a moment, I thought you were in love with it."
He pointed out the window.
"Tell me, Tyrion, have you ever imagined yourself as a forest elf? Or perhaps a cave-dwelling dwarf?"
"I've only fantasized about dragons," Tyrion retorted, irritation flickering through his grief. "Dragons I can ride around while I burn every fool who calls me a dwarf to ashes. That much is certain."
Konuşmasının ardından içini çektij, sonra ekledi:
"Also, the Children of the Forest definitely don't look like me."
"Of course not," Karl said with mock seriousness. "They're much prettier than you. And taller."
Despite everything, despite grief twisting his heart, Tyrion made a sound that was almost a laugh.
Karl took that as a good sign. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, grabbed Tyrion by the shoulders as if he were a sack of grain, and plopped him onto the stool before the table.
Tyrion didn't resist—not because he approved, but because Karl's strength was unreasonable.
Karl pushed the plate closer.
"You haven't had even a sip of water since this morning," he said. "And aside from that fried fish and bacon, you've eaten nothing. So—wine."
He gestured to the bottles.
"Enough wine to make tonight bearable."
Tyrion stared at the food. Despite Karl's rough handling, he felt a warmth stirring somewhere deep in his chest. His nose prickled.
"Thank you for caring, my friend," Tyrion whispered. "It would be better if you'd also brought a woman."
"I seem to recall someone claiming he had no friends in Winterfell," Karl replied, raising an eyebrow.
Tyrion flinched, but managed a weak smirk as Karl popped open a bottle with his thumb and handed it over.
Tyrion accepted it and drank half the bottle in one go. He nearly choked, but wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared half-playfully.
"If memory serves, we met in King's Landing," he said, words already starting to slur.
He finished the rest of the wine and tossed the bottle aside.
Then he grabbed the steak with his hands and tore into it without caring for knife or fork.
Karl watched silently.
Tyrion ate like a man starved of comfort rather than food.
---
A Friend's Silence
"You never tell me where this wine comes from," Tyrion said between bites, not looking up.
Karl only smiled. He never answered that question.
After realizing Karl wouldn't respond, Tyrion dropped the subject and focused solely on the food. He devoured every bite of steak, then opened another bottle and drained it too.
When he was finally full, he wiped his greasy hands on the bedsheet.
Karl made a face, but let it slide.
"All right," Tyrion said, leaning back. "I'm full. Now—what do you want? What's that saying again? 'Unsolicited kindness comes from spies or robbers?' "
Karl snorted.
"That saying is accurate," he admitted.
He placed a long object wrapped in linen before Tyrion.
Tyrion stared at it.
"What is this?"
"Jaime's sword," Karl said quietly. "I brought it for you."
Tyrion blinked several times.
"Don't tell me you hope I'll pick it up and become a warrior like him," he said dryly. "If I could, I'd gladly try. But I fear I must wait until I grow three more feet."
His words were full of mockery, but behind them lay sadness.
Deep, heavy sadness.
Karl's voice softened.
"I didn't want to kill him," he said quietly.
"I know," Tyrion replied, equally soft. "You don't have to feel guilty."
Tyrion wasn't lying.
He had already expected something like this might happen. Jaime, with his arrogance, impulsiveness, and blind devotion to Cersei, had always been walking a dangerous path.
If Karl had killed him, Tyrion wouldn't have resented it—not after everything Jaime had done, especially pushing Bran from the tower.
But Karl hadn't wanted Jaime dead.
That was what hurt Tyrion the most.
In truth, Karl had tried to save him.
Tyrion knew that.
He also knew that his brother—foolish as he could be—had loved him in a strange, broken way.
And now Jaime was dead.
Jaime, who had once been the only person to show Tyrion genuine affection as a child.
Dead.
The grief rose like a tide.
He grabbed another bottle, opened it shakily, and drank again.
Karl didn't stop him.
---
A Broken Secret
"Jaime told me something," Karl said after a long silence. "About Tysha."
Tyrion froze.
The wine bottle slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor.
For a moment, he didn't breathe.
Then he looked at Karl—eyes wide, full of dread, hope, terror, longing, and heartbreak all swirling together.
Karl hesitated. For the first time that night, the magically conjured food, the jokes, the wine—all of it seemed insufficient.
Should he speak?
Should he remain silent?
But this was Jaime's final message.
Karl had no right to keep it.
So he told him.
Everything.
Tyrion's emotions detonated like wildfire.
He didn't simply cry—he shattered.
He screamed, cursed, pleaded, sobbed, shook, trembled, and nearly tore his hair out. His grief and rage poured out in a violent torrent that made the room feel too small, too fragile to contain such a storm of emotion.
Karl had to use magic to put him to sleep before he collapsed completely.
Tyrion fell sideways onto the thin mattress, still trembling, still crying even in unconsciousness.
---
Leaving the Cell
Karl stood there for a long moment, staring at the sleeping dwarf.
"Poor man," he whispered. "Pathetic… lamentable… hateful…"
He didn't know who he meant—Tyrion, Jaime, Tywin, Cersei, or fate itself.
Then he stepped out of the room and closed the door quietly.
War was approaching.
The North needed food, soldiers, and leadership.
Starting tomorrow, Karl would accompany the quartermaster to collect grain from Eddard Stark's lands. The Starks needed every store, every granary filled for the coming storm.
And Eddard had said something else:
"As a knight, Karl, you must learn to manage lands. One day you'll have your own. Learn now, so you won't bankrupt your future."
Karl had accepted the advice.
After all—if he was to carve out a place in this world, he needed more than strength and magic.
He needed the knowledge to rule.
And so, with Tyrion asleep behind him and war on the horizon, Karl walked into the hall, ready to begin the next chapter of his journey.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)