Chapter 58: Let's Make a Bet
The dungeons beneath the Gold Cloaks' headquarters were perpetually damp and lightless.
Most prisoners—those arrested but not yet tried—were crammed together. They ate, drank, slept, and relieved themselves in the same space, producing a sour, choking stench that rivaled Flea Bottom at its worst.
But Odin's cell was an exception.
Perhaps it was the pressure he'd exerted earlier—the calm authority, the veiled threats—but Swyft Rosby had arranged a surprisingly decent holding cell for him. Clean enough. And more curiously, it held only one other "cellmate."
The man looked to be in his early twenties. His clothes were disheveled, yet unmistakably fine—tailored fabric, costly dyes. A noble youth, clearly, one who'd gotten himself into trouble.
And his presence was so absurdly out of place that it bordered on surreal.
Before Odin arrived, this fellow had enjoyed the cell entirely to himself. And when Odin was escorted in, the sight awaiting him was almost comical:
The young noble sat behind a broad wooden table, calmly eating dinner.
A thick steak lay before him. His knife and fork were silver. Beside his plate sat a jug of dark red wine.
It looked less like imprisonment and more like a brief holiday.
The aroma of roasted meat spread through the dungeon's foul air almost instantly, stabbing at the stomachs of the starving prisoners in neighboring cells.
"Damn the Gold Cloaks! We want food!"
"Why does he get meat while we can't even see black bread?!"
"We're all prisoners—how can the difference be this big?!"
"Food! FOOD!"
Iron bars rattled violently as voices rose in fury.
The riot didn't last long.
A handful of guards rushed in with clubs, wordlessly beating down the loudest agitators. No explanations. No mercy. Only when the prisoners cowered in the corners, clutching their heads, did the guards leave—still cursing.
Throughout it all, the young noble never so much as glanced up.
He continued eating, cutting his steak with deliberate care, entirely absorbed in his meal—utterly detached from the despair surrounding him.
That composure clashed violently with the dungeon's misery.
"Watch where you're staring, peasant."
Sensing Odin's gaze, the young man finally looked up. His expression dripped with arrogance.
He deliberately speared a slice of steak, lifting it for emphasis and waving it slightly in the air.
"In a place like this," he said smugly, "you could have a pocket full of gold dragons and still wouldn't buy a scrap of bread. Understand?"
He chewed theatrically, then swallowed.
"But I—" he smiled, satisfied, "—I am the son of Lord Rykker. Duskendale belongs to my family. Even the commander of the Gold Cloaks has to give House Rykker its due respect."
He popped the meat into his mouth and continued, voice thick with triumph.
"At most, by tomorrow morning, my father will have me out of here."
He leaned back slightly, eyes filled with disdain.
"And you lowborn trash?"
"You'll rot here, waiting for the law to decide whether you live or die."
The sheer audacity of it—his comfort, his certainty—finally stirred a flicker of interest in Odin.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Interesting.
In truth, Odin had never intended to stir up trouble.
Despite being arrested, he was perfectly calm—utterly unconcerned about his predicament. With [Insight Lv.2] backing him, he'd already seen through Swyft Rosby for what he was: greedy, yes, but utterly lacking in real backbone.
Even Rorge, who'd been betrayed by his own men and was determined to see blood spilled, still had the right to a trial—or at the very least, the option of taking the black.
By comparison, Odin knew his own situation was far from desperate.
Even in the worst-case scenario—if Jaime never came looking for him, if they truly meant to sentence him to death—he could still play the game.
Trial by combat?
Fine.
With [Fate's Wager] in hand, he was confident that even the darkest outcome wouldn't be the end.
A faint, meaningful smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He rose slowly and walked over to Lake.
"Perfect timing," Odin said mildly. "I'm starting to feel a bit hungry."
Lake stared at him, baffled—irritation and contempt flickering in his eyes.
Odin continued calmly,
"Let's make a bet, Lake."
"A bet?"
Lake looked him up and down, lips curling in disdain. "You don't look like you're worth even a single gold dragon. What do you think you're betting with?"
"Never let appearances blind you, Lake."
Odin smiled as he reached into his clothes and produced a single gold dragon.
"You just said it yourself—down here, even a pocket full of gold won't buy you a slice of bread. So let's wager on this: whether I can secure treatment equal to yours… or better."
"If I succeed," he said evenly, "you owe me a favor."
He met Lake's eyes.
"Well? Dare to take the bet?"
Lake froze for a heartbeat—then burst into exaggerated laughter, as though he'd just heard the greatest joke of his life.
"A bet? Of course I'll bet!"
He looked at Odin as if staring at a madman.
"I'd love to see how a penniless peasant like you manages to live better than me in this hellhole!"
"Owe you a favor?" He scoffed. "Talk about that after you win—though everyone knows that's impossible."
"Remember your promise," Odin replied simply, unfazed.
He turned and walked straight up to the iron bars, addressing a nearby guard in a firm, unyielding tone.
"I want a meal," he said. "The same as his."
He gestured toward Lake's table.
The guard, who had been frowning, blinked in surprise—then broke into an exaggerated grin.
"Of course, my lord! A prime steak and a jug of Arbor gold—right away!"
He leaned closer, grinning nastily.
"Want me to fetch a few whores from Silk Street to keep you company while you eat?"
Even the other prisoners, fearful as they were, couldn't help bursting into laughter.
Lake looked at Odin as though he were staring at a fool.
Unmoved, Odin calmly added,
"No need for me. But my friend here might appreciate it."
"Pah!"
The guard spat viciously onto the floor.
"Who the fuck do you think you are—some Lannister?"
"Food? Wine? Women?" He sneered. "Get the hell back where you belong!"
The laughter grew louder, dripping with schadenfreude.
Yet Odin's expression never changed.
"I'm not a Lannister," he said evenly.
"But I do know one."
"Ha!"
The guard snorted. "You? Know a Lannister? I've fucked whores with the king himself!"
"Hahahaha!"
"This idiot's gone mad from being locked up!" voices echoed around the dungeon.
Only when the laughter finally began to die down did Odin speak again, unhurried and precise:
"Even the stupidest man is usually smarter than those who do nothing but mock him."
"What did you say, you little shit?!"
The guard exploded in rage, instantly forgetting whatever instructions Rosby had given him. He yanked the truncheon from his belt and stormed toward the cell.
The prisoners howled again, eager for a show.
But just as the guard reached the bars, Odin leaned forward and spoke softly—so softly only one man could hear:
"Poor old Moss…"
"Don't you want to know," he murmured, voice like a knife sliding free,
"how to win back every coin you've ever lost?"