And just as Kal and Tyrion continued their back-and-forth, caught somewhere between banter and bargaining, Melinda reappeared, holding a tray in her hands.
"Noble little lion, I had them prepare for you some crispy hot bread, roast goose with mulberry sauce, peppered salted pork, and creamy soup!"
As she set down each dish, Melinda made sure to describe them with care.
"Wow, that's quite the spread. Looks like someone's hoping I'll have enough strength for work later!" Tyrion beamed at the generous meal before him, and while the serving maid was distracted, he sneakily grabbed a few extra bites.
This earned him a bashful, dewy-eyed look from Melinda.
But Kal, watching Tyrion act so brazenly right in front of him, didn't hold back either. The moment Tyrion's hands were full, Kal struck with lightning speed—snatching up a goose leg and stuffing it into his mouth before Tyrion could stop him.
"If it's too much for you, I'd be happy to help," Kal mumbled, his mouth stuffed full of goose meat.
Tyrion didn't even have time to pull his hands back. He could only stare at the roasted goose, now missing nearly half its leg, and shake his head with a helpless grin.
"Sure, a halfman might cost twice as much as others, but thankfully, his appetite clearly isn't twice as large…" Tyrion withdrew his hands, leaned in to sniff the food gently, then shrugged with a satisfied smile. "So I'd say he doesn't mind sharing his meal."
"Especially with a friend, wouldn't you agree?"
There wasn't a hint of resentment on Tyrion's face—in fact, he seemed genuinely pleased.
But after sharing his thoughts, he turned his head toward Melinda.
"Milady, would you mind bringing the red wine? Otherwise, I fear I might actually starve later."
"As you command, my lord~"
The golden lion of House Lannister was unmistakable. Paired with his stature, that mop of golden hair, and his generous spending, Melinda had already guessed who this dwarf was.
Perhaps that was why she had chosen to abandon the lure of beauty and throw herself into the 'den of gold' instead.
And truly, a man who claimed he'd pay double for himself—the 'Imp'—was indeed another emblem of House Lannister.
Even if that emblem came with a rather peculiar reputation.
Not that it dimmed the warm and sweet smile that lingered on Melinda's face.
"What's so great about that sour stuff anyway?" Kal grumbled, watching Melinda sway away with her graceful hips. He sucked the last bits of meat from the bone, spat it out, and once again raised the question.
Truth be told, he drank wine too—and his taste for it wasn't half bad. But he had never liked that tart, astringent mouthfeel.
"Because at least it doesn't give me the shits… And let's say I'm not entirely convinced the water around here didn't come straight from a horse trough."
Tyrion replied coolly, picking up his knife and fork while eyeing the food piled in front of him. He gave a slight curl of his lip as he explained.
Then, he split open the hot bread, laid a slice of salted pork on top, and added, "Also… I rather like the feeling."
With that, he took a bite of the bread.
But as he said it, a faint sorrow crossed his face—Kal's question had clearly stirred up a memory, something sad that lingered quietly behind his usual wit.
And in response, Kal merely furrowed his brow slightly, then nodded with genuine understanding.
"Well then, good thing the dwarf doesn't have to wash his own trousers."
"Fawk..."
At that, both men suddenly lost all interest in continuing the conversation and fell into an unspoken silence.
Neither said another word. Instead, they simply lowered their heads and focused on their food with an unspoken mutual understanding. Kal, ever observant, soon noticed that Tyrion didn't seem particularly fond of his bowl of cream soup.
The wine flowed, the dishes dwindled.
Once Kal had finished his food, drained the last of the snail soup in one go, and rinsed his mouth with the remaining ale in his horn cup, he spat the rinsing mouthful onto the ground beside him.
Only then did he turn his head to glance at Tyrion, who, compared to him, ate with the delicate care of a maiden.
Setting his horn cup down, Kal tapped his fingers on the table. "That book I borrowed from you—The Sky Kingdom—I finished it. Want to swap for another one later?"
The sudden comment broke Tyrion's concentration mid-bite.
"You finished it?" he asked, swallowing his food. He pulled a silk napkin from his pocket, dabbed his mouth, then raised his wine cup and looked at Kal with a touch of skepticism. "Did you understand it?"
"Not a damn thing…" Kal shook his head, his expression faintly dazed. He added flatly, "The whole thing was absolute gibberish."
At least, that's how it seemed to Kal.
So his answer came as naturally as breathing.
"Pfft…!"
"Cough~ cough…"
Tyrion, who had just brought his wine cup to his lips, was completely caught off guard by Kal's sudden outburst. The dwarf choked, hastily put the cup down, and grabbed a silk napkin to dab at the red velvet of his clothing.
"I believe you. You're absolutely right!"
Once he had finished cleaning himself up, however, he gave Kal a nod of agreement.
Sky Kingdom was a book written by Dr. Linman. It was said that when Aegon Targaryen III first ascended the throne, he developed a habit of stargazing during wolf hours. In response, Grand Maester Mukun presented him with Dr. Linman's Sky Kingdom.
But the king had shown no interest.
The book primarily discussed celestial bodies—stars, constellations, and such—interspersed with the author's personal interpretations and a few scattered stories.
Roughly eighty percent of it was academic content, and reading it was a tedious experience, like trying to chew through a wooden plank while attempting to squeeze a drop of oil from it just to taste the flavor.
"So you actually finished the whole thing?" Tyrion pressed again, clearly baffled. Kal's review had been nothing short of a complete dismissal.
Tyrion, who had first met this bastard from the Vale by chance on Silk Street and had since become a 'bosom friend', was honestly surprised. This fellow, who looked like he knew only how to swing a sword, actually enjoyed reading?
He could hardly imagine a man nearly 2.1 meters tall hunched over a massive tome, completely absorbed in its pages.
The image was as absurd as a dwarf—who by all appearances belonged in a circus act—clinging to a book larger than his own head, chewing through it with relish.
Driven by curiosity, Tyrion, still puzzled, finally asked the question outright.
But he still remembered that, before Kal answered, the man had used the moment to shoot the question right back at him.
And his own reply had been:
"My brother has height and handsome looks, and that alone wins him women's favor at first glance—at the very least, he doesn't have to spend extra gold dragons just to start on equal footing with someone like me, an ugly dwarf."
"Though, in truth, he has no interest in such pleasures."
"Besides, being a Kingsguard means he'd never step foot in a place like this, cast aside his sword and white cloak, and dive headfirst like a worm into those mountainous folds..."
"But just as I said, I don't have his looks, nor his strength—strength enough to wield a longsword with ease."
"So a dwarf can only pick up books, fill his head with them, and try to use that knowledge as his sword."
"Fortunately, the dwarf happens to have a working—barely working—brain!"
Tyrion seemed to care deeply about his answer to this question. Even though he was visibly drunk, his words poured out in a long, impassioned explanation for why he read.
But when he finally finished and turned his head to look at Kal, waiting for his reply, Kal's expression remained completely calm, untouched by emotion.
He raised a finger and pointed ahead of them.
There, a naked prostitute was performing an alluring dance. She had her sheathed longsword planted vertically into the ground, and with legs entwined around it, she rubbed and twisted her body up and down in a rhythmic, flowing motion.
Then Tyrion heard Kal speak—in a calm, unwavering voice, each word delivered with deliberate weight.
"I don't read for the same reasons you do."
"My purpose is simple: I want others to calmly listen when I speak reason."
"And what if they won't?" Tyrion asked, intrigued.
"If they won't," Kal said, "then I'll use my sword to help them calm down—so they can listen to reason."
Such a plain, unvarnished answer.
And yet, Tyrion had been completely floored by the raw bluntness of it.
He couldn't deny—it made perfect sense.
So, in that moment, Tyrion generously declared that Kal Stone's expenses for the evening would be paid for by the Little Lion himself, and burst out laughing.
But that had only been a joke.
What truly shifted Tyrion's view of this seemingly rough and good-for-nothing bastard happened moments later, as Kal—appearing drunken, an arm lazily draped around a woman's waist—turned back before leaving and said something.
Something that sounded casual. Offhand. Almost like an afterthought.
"Civilize the mind, but make savage the body."
The instant Tyrion heard it, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Even in his drunken haze, his mind snapped halfway back to clarity.
And from that day forward, Tyrion gained more than just a drinking companion.
He found a reading companion.
And more importantly—a true, sincere friend.
That's why, now, hearing Kal's scathing review of the book had made Tyrion genuinely curious.
Why gibberish?
But Kal gave no answer.
Still, the bitterness on his face was plain for anyone to see.
Tyrion could only shrug helplessly in response, setting down the glass of red wine he had been about to refill.
"Come on. My luggage should be here by now. Let's see what I actually packed this time."
With that, he tucked away his silk handkerchief, got to his feet, swung his legs down to the floor, and strode toward the inn's exit.
Kal, naturally, had no objections. They had eaten and drunk their fill—what remained now was simply how to pass the rest of the day.
But just as Tyrion reached the door and was about to step outside, the golden-haired dwarf suddenly stopped short. He tilted his head slightly, sidestepping so he could glance back toward Melinda, who was beaming like a flower in bloom and waving sweetly in their direction.
Then Kal heard Tyrion mutter under his breath, "What I said earlier was just a joke. She's still yours, my friend. I'll cover it."
But Kal simply shook his head at the dwarf's gesture of goodwill.
"Forget it. I'm not really interested anyway..."
"I'm not like you—I can't afford to treat this like a leisurely spring outing..." Kal said, turning his gaze to the woman who was still casting flirtatious looks their way. "The king is going to go to great lengths to keep us busy."
"I can already feel it—he probably wishes he could teleport straight into the crypts of Winterfell."
With that, Kal let out a long sigh and lifted a hand to run through his hair in frustration.
"That's the Stark family tomb. All the Starks... gods."
"Things are already weird enough as they are."
Tyrion had been about to argue, but in the end, he couldn't help but nod in agreement once more.