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GOT Chapter 12: The View’s Not Worth the Gold
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 04:17:03 +0000 UTC“One gold dragon. Because a Lannister is worth more than most!”
As soon as the words left his mouth—without giving Tyrion any chance to haggle—Kal suddenly reached out and grabbed the dwarf by the collar.
Then, as if scooping up a kitten, he hoisted him effortlessly into the air and plopped him down on his shoulder.
Caught completely off guard, Tyrion found himself once again experiencing the miracle of gaining over 1.5 meters in height in a rush of wind and dizziness. But with that tempting deal he himself had proposed, he did indeed see the view he’d been hoping for.
Yet the moment he laid eyes on the scenery he had paid to witness, all he could do was twitch at the corners of his mouth and gag dryly, nearly vomiting up the food he had just eaten.
He raised a trembling hand and pointed shakily in the direction that had drawn the crowd’s attention.
“I take it back. This isn’t worth a single gold dragon!”
“For the same price, I could have ten whores—and I’d make sure they all had golden hair!”
“And the pimp would throw in divine-level service!”
Seeing Tyrion’s regret, Kal didn’t get angry. In fact, a shameless grin spread across his face.
He adjusted his grip on the dwarf’s legs to make sure he was seated firmly and wouldn’t fall.
“Sorry, there’s no such thing as regret medicine in this world. And I’ve never seen any merchant selling it either.”
“Besides, honoring contracts is the cornerstone of my credibility as a mercenary. That’s how I managed to build my current crew in the first place!”
Hearing such shameless reasoning, Tyrion gritted his teeth and said, “I might believe you… if your hand weren’t resting on the hilt of your sword while you said it!”
“That’s just one of the ways I uphold my contracts!” Kal replied indifferently, unfazed by such a minor detail. He carried the dwarf without breaking stride, pushing through the crowd toward his destination with an air of calm.
Having never walked with a clear view of other people’s heads before, Tyrion felt a bit nervous. Instinctively, he reached out and gripped the edge of Kal’s plate armor, his face turning a little pale.
Still, weak legs didn’t stop his sharp tongue.
“Seven hells… If you ever establish a noble house, I suggest your words be: ‘A promise of gold—enforced only by the sword.’”
Unfazed by the dwarf’s snide remark, Kal continued pressing forward, using his armor-clad frame to part the crowd with ease.
But at Tyrion’s 'suggestion', Kal gave a nod—then shook his head.
“Not a bad idea. But if I ever founded a house, I think I’d go with: ‘Truth lies beneath the sword’s edge, and dignity above it.’”
“…”
Hearing that, Tyrion fell silent once again, temporarily forgetting that—under the influence of a gold dragon—he had now become a 'giant'.
As Kal pushed his way through the crowd, Tyrion, lost in thought, opened his mouth again.
“Seven hells… maybe you really should’ve been a poet. Or joined the Citadel.”
“Trust me, you could’ve made a fine maester—far better than wasting your life as a godsdamned mercenary shaking down a poor little dwarf!”
“And I daresay Robert would be delighted to have you join his small council in such a noble fashion!”
But just as Tyrion said this, he suddenly paused.
Then he turned his head to look at Kal’s ever-unmoved expression.
“Or maybe… you should just pick up your longsword, split open someone’s skull at random, and steal his white cloak for yourself?”
“I get the feeling Robert wouldn’t mind having a bastard from the Vale standing at his side…”
Tyrion made this blatant 'suggestion' as casually as if he were discussing what wine to drink later, not talking about kings and their councils.
But Kal merely glanced at him and smiled slightly. Without a word, he grabbed Tyrion by the collar and lowered him back to the ground.
The dwarf—who had paid good coin for the miracle of height—was once again forced to face cold, cruel reality.
Kal, still smiling faintly, reached out and gripped Tyrion’s head like it was an apple, turning it so the dwarf was forced to face him.
Then Tyrion heard him speak in a calm, even voice: “Hey, buddy. Listen up.”
“I know you’re jealous that I’ve got a ‘giant’ just as tall as you are—but I’d like to think that’s no reason to shove me into a fire pit.”
“And between becoming some poor fool who brews moon tea for noble ladies sneaking around…”
“Or working as a guard for a fat lord who could crush five girls with his gut—while standing outside listening to the poor women scream…”
“I’d much rather my ‘brother’ have a little more freedom. I have to admit—sometimes his suggestions are far better than anything a dwarf might come up with.”
Hearing the damned bastard compare him to that, and then being forced to look straight at that bulge—even hidden under leather trousers and armor—it was just too much.
Tyrion’s expression flickered through every shade from red to violet.
The usually unflappable Lannister dwarf—who could always keep his composure no matter how much Kal teased him—had finally cracked.
Because lies don’t hurt. It’s the truth that cuts like a knife.
So all Tyrion could do was stare at the monstrous thing in front of him, clench his fists, and grind his teeth.
With venom in his voice, he growled, “You godsdamned bastard… If you ever do found a noble house, I suggest your sigil be a tall stool stacked with gold coins—and a monkey squatting on top!”
“A monkey with golden fur, no less!”
“Because from this day forward, I shall call you… High Stool Kal, the Noble!”
“Hm… not a bad suggestion—but here’s my suggestion: don’t suggest anything at all.”
Kal’s expression remained perfectly calm as he pulled his hand back, watching Tyrion, who had just flown into a rage after being triggered over his height. Kal scratched his chin and spoke in an even, unbothered tone.
Then he stopped paying attention to Tyrion altogether. Straightening up, he turned his gaze toward the wagons being dragged along at the rear of the caravan.
These were the supply wagons meant to support the logistics of the whole group. And Tyrion had taken up space in two of them.
One was filled to the brim with fine wines and a modest assortment of gourmet snacks to go with them. The other contained little more than a few necessary garments—along with books. Lots and lots of books.
Kal looked at the wagons and instinctively began estimating how much all that cargo Tyrion had brought might be worth.
Still, even while contemplating ways to make use of the poor dwarf’s wealth, Kal addressed the comment Tyrion had made earlier about house sigils.
“And even if I did need to design a family crest, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a monkey on a stool.”
Saying that, Kal turned back to look at Tyrion once more. Then he casually raised a finger and drew a circle in the air.
“But maybe I’d use a spinning wheel instead.”
“After all, they don’t call me ‘High Stool Kal,’ do they, Lord Tyrion?”
Kal said this with a slight squint and a faint smile—like he was merely stating a simple truth.
Then, with a shrug, he lifted his foot and resumed walking toward their original destination, leaving behind a pitiful little dwarf standing there in stunned silence, eyes wide and blinking in confusion.
If there’s one thing in this world that can truly break a man’s defenses, it’s that final parting remark that still echoes in his ears.
And that’s exactly what Kal had just delivered.
So now, in the wake of that confident declaration, not only did Tyrion’s eyes seem to dim ever so slightly, but even the sharp tongue that usually grew beneath that oversized head of his was left gaping uselessly—unable to form a single word.
Silence became the inn they stayed at that night.
Along the ever-busy King’s Road, Tyrion Lannister felt a kind of loneliness that simply didn’t belong in this bustling world.
“The Seven are unfair! If I had your height, proportionally speaking, mine would definitely be more impressive!”
After a long pause—and having finally snapped out of his daze—Tyrion muttered this bitter curse toward the Seven Gods. Then, grumbling to himself, he scrambled after Kal with his short legs, mumbling one last, desperate jab in an attempt to preserve what little pride he had left.
“I seem to remember a certain dwarf who never used to complain about superficial circumstances,” Kal said in the same flat tone, glancing down at the half-man who had just caught up to him. “Least of all blaming the Seven…”
“Because in my eyes, he always struck me as someone who preferred to believe in himself.”
“But maybe that was just my wishful thinking—because now he’s whining like a little girl!”
“Fuck you!”
Tyrion, upon hearing that, mimicked Kal’s gesture and shot him a middle finger, spitting out the sacred blessing with perfect sarcasm.
