Chapter 54: Are You Sure?
Heavy boots pounded the ground, metal plates clanking as the Gold Cloaks shoved the crowd aside and forced a path through the arena.
At their head walked Ser Swyft Rosby, one hand resting on his sword hilt, a thin layer of arrogance plastered across his face.
His gaze swept over the noisy mob — and for just a heartbeat, locked with Ralf's. A subtle look passed between them.
Then his eyes settled on Rorge.
"Ralf! You filthy maggot — you broke the rules!" Rorge exploded the instant the Gold Cloaks appeared. "Didn't I teach you?! No matter how bad things get in Flea Bottom, you don't bring in the Gold Cloaks!"
"Did the sewer rats chew your brain out?! I should've left you in—"
BAM!
Two Gold Cloaks moved with brutal efficiency.
One smashed a hammer into the back of Rorge's knee, forcing him down. The other slammed the butt of a spear into his mouth.
Odin watched from the side, almost impressed.
Professional.
Hit the legs so he can't run. Hit the mouth so he can't talk. Smooth, coordinated — textbook.
Only then did Swyft Rosby stroll forward at a leisurely pace. His polished boots stopped right in front of the kneeling man.
"Tsk, tsk… Rorge~ Rorge," he sneered. "A worm like you crawling back to King's Landing is already the Seven's mercy. And you still dare show your face?"
"Stupid beyond belief."
"Pah!" Even with his face swollen, Rorge forced his head up and spat blood.
"Heh… Swyft Rosby?"
"Been over a year. You've moved up — squad leader now? Still remember who lost everything at the 'Sow's Sigh' gambling den? Down to your last stitch? Even pawned your sword?"
"Who was it that knelt crying in front of me, begging for a hundred gold dragons—"
THUD!
Rosby kicked him in the face, fury blazing. If Rorge still had a nose, it would've shattered.
"Shut up!"
Rorge had hit the nerve. Rosby half-drew his sword, then remembered the watching crowd and shoved it back with irritation.
"Filthy fugitive, still spewing lies."
He straightened and pointed at Odin.
"Shackle the fugitive and his accomplice. Take them to the cells."
Several Gold Cloaks advanced.
And then—
Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
Rosby turned.
A figure launched through the air like a diving hawk.
A boot crashed into one Gold Cloak's ribs. An elbow smashed into another's face.
BAM. BAM.
Two dull impacts. Clean. Efficient.
Before anyone processed what happened, a tall, lean Dothraki warrior stood before Odin, weapon drawn, body angled protectively.
The arena held its breath.
The Dothraki stood like a warhound guarding its master, body slightly hunched, sharp eyes locked onto Ser Swyft Rosby.
"Shall I kill them, my blood of my blood?"
Iggo tilted his head, voice deep and rough, as if the dozen Gold Cloaks in front of him were nothing more than practice targets.
The sheer force of his presence froze the arena.
Rosby, who moments ago had been full of swagger, instinctively grabbed for his sword hilt — but the tremor in his arm betrayed him.
"Lower your weapon, my blood of my blood."
Odin's voice cut cleanly through the tension.
It wasn't loud, but in the suffocating silence, every syllable carried.
He turned toward Rosby and casually brushed at the shoulder the Gold Cloaks had grabbed earlier, as if dusting off dirt.
"I've always believed violence doesn't solve root problems. Matters of law should be handled within the framework of law."
He gave a faint smile.
"Am I wrong, Captain Rosby?"
The composure. The ease.
It stopped Rosby mid-command.
He narrowed his eyes, slowly removing his hand from his sword, studying the man in front of him.
Plain clothes. Ordinary face.
Yet that presence… and a bodyguard like that.
His tone shifted, caution replacing arrogance.
"…Sir. Your name? Do you hold a title?"
In Westeros, this wasn't rude — it was procedure. Name and house determined everything.
"My name is Odin."
No hesitation.
"Odin…" Rosby searched his memory of noble houses. Nothing. Still, he pressed.
"Do you serve a lord? Hold office in any castle?"
"No need to guess, Captain," Odin said calmly. "I hold no title. I serve no lord. I belong to no noble house you know."
A small pause.
"To me, King's Landing is practically foreign soil. This is my first time here."
That answer caught Rosby off guard.
Before he could react, Ralf burst into laughter.
"HAHA! Thought you were somebody important — turns out you're a nobody!"
Even Rosby was about to order arrests again.
Then Odin spoke once more.
"However…"
His dark eyes moved from Rosby to Ralf, voice low, smooth, impossible to ignore.
"I do know certain people in Council."
"Men of very high standing."
"They consider me… a friend."
He stepped closer.
Rosby didn't step back — but he wanted to.
Odin leaned in slightly, voice dropping to near-whisper, almost sympathetic.
"Listen carefully, Captain."
"You can chain me. Throw me into your filthy little cell. Very easy."
A beat.
"But here's what happens next."
"Before the night is over — maybe before midnight — someone you absolutely do not want to offend will kick down your office door."
"He won't hear explanations."
"He'll curse you in front of your men."
"And then you won't be choosing whether to release me…"
His gaze sharpened.
"You'll be choosing whether to politely escort me out…"
"…or be dragged out of the Gold Cloaks yourself like a dead dog."