Chapter 67 – The Mafia
Seeing the half-smile on Odin's face, a sudden chill crept up Ralf's spine.
His grin froze for a heartbeat.
But he quickly forced the unease down and let out a derisive snort.
"Trying to drive a wedge between me and my boss, you idiot?"
"Do you have any idea how much money I've made for him this past year? How much dirty work I've handled?"
He leaned forward, voice low and confident.
"Let me tell you something—I met him personally last night. He promised me himself that he'd do everything necessary to protect me."
When Odin remained silent, Ralf took it as intimidation taking effect. His confidence swelled, and a smug smile spread across his face.
He glanced around.
By now, the Gold Cloaks had practically turned the fighting pit inside out—yet found nothing.
Not a single ledger.
Not a single trace.
Ralf's smile widened.
"Captain!"
Several Gold Cloaks stepped forward to report.
"Nothing found. It's clean—so clean there isn't even an account book…"
Humphrey's expression darkened with every word.
He cast a glance at Ralf and immediately understood—this bastard had gotten word ahead of time and destroyed or moved everything.
There was a rat inside the Gold Cloaks.
But that was hardly surprising.
The crown's finances were a disaster. Wages hadn't been paid in months.
In King's Landing, with prices soaring, how many Gold Cloaks could really claim clean hands?
Very few.
Including Humphrey himself.
Understanding was one thing—but failing this operation in front of Lord Odin was another matter entirely.
He'd already helped push Swyft Rosby into the grave. If he botched the task Addam himself had given him, his position as Gate of the Dragon captain would be finished.
Ralf, seeing Humphrey's constipated expression, only grew bolder.
He stepped forward, raising his voice like a victor delivering a proclamation.
"Well? Dear Captain Humphrey?"
"You searched. You investigated. What did you find?"
"Don't get cocky, Ralf!" Humphrey snarled, his hand gripping the sword hilt.
"Everyone in Flea Bottom knows what kind of filth you run. I could find a hundred witnesses without even trying!"
"Hahahaha!"
Ralf burst out laughing, utterly unconcerned.
He strode to the doorway and shouted toward the crowd that had already packed the street outside.
"Did you hear that, you pieces of trash?"
"If anyone has evidence of my crimes, step forward right now!"
"The honorable City Watch will surely give you justice!"
"Well? Anyone brave enough?"
His vicious gaze swept over the familiar faces—fearful, numb, curious, amused.
Not one stepped forward.
No one dared.
As the undisputed underground king of Flea Bottom, Ralf's shadow was long enough to choke courage itself.
Seeing this, Ralf snorted and turned back to Humphrey.
"Looks like a misunderstanding, Captain. Told you—I'm a law-abiding businessman."
Then he spread his arms magnanimously.
"You lads worked hard this morning. Care to stay for a drink?"
"Everything's on me."
The sheer arrogance left the Gold Cloaks exchanging uneasy looks.
Free drinks were tempting—but Humphrey's murderous expression made it clear no one should even think about it.
Silence fell.
Just as Ralf, utterly convinced of his victory, prepared to resume humiliating Odin—
A solid, broad-shouldered figure stepped out from behind the Gold Cloaks.
Ralf's pupils shrank.
The man didn't even spare him a glance.
Instead, he walked straight up to Odin, dropped to one knee, and produced a neatly folded parchment from his coat, offering it up with both hands.
"Well done," Odin said calmly.
"Blood of my blood."
He unfolded the parchment and read aloud in clear, formal Westerosi:
"Slave Contract."
The Blood Cellar went dead silent.
Every gaze locked onto the parchment.
Ralf's face stiffened as a wave of dread surged through him.
"Fake… it's fake!" he blurted out, lunging forward.
Two Gold Cloaks immediately blocked him, crossing black iron spearheads before his chest.
"Patience, Lord Ralf."
Odin smiled politely and continued reading.
"Contract Holder: Ralf."
"In the Year 299 After Aegon's Conquest, for the price of ten silver stags, the contract holder purchased from an Essosi slaving caravan one Dothraki male, named Iggo."
"The contract grants Ralf full ownership over Iggo, including the right to command, trade, or force participation in any form of combat or arena battle—until death."
"This contract is perpetual and may not be annulled without Ralf's consent."
Odin raised the parchment for all to see.
At the bottom: Ralf's crude signature.
Beside it: a smeared, unmistakable blood thumbprint.
Thump.
Ralf stumbled backward, crashing into a chair. His finger trembled violently as he pointed at Iggo.
That thin sheet of parchment burned his eyes like red-hot iron.
This… shouldn't be here.
He had destroyed everything. The ledgers. The short-term contracts. He'd even sent the other gladiators away.
Slave trading was one of the gravest crimes in Westeros.
For thousands of years, the Seven Kingdoms had outlawed slavery. Both the Old Gods and the New were said to abhor it.
The law certainly did.
Years ago, even Jorah Mormont, a lord of Bear Island, had been sentenced to death by Eddard Stark for selling slaves across the Narrow Sea.
If a lord could be condemned—
Then Ralf, a commoner with no title, had only one fate awaiting him.
"No… impossible…"
"I gave all the contracts to the boss last night…"
His words died in his throat.
A bone-deep chill surged up his spine.
Odin's half-smile resurfaced in his mind.
How can you be sure the 'big shot' won't sell you out when it matters?
Ralf wasn't stupid.
He hadn't survived Flea Bottom this long by being stupid.
The answer was already there.
And it was fatal.
---
Only one person could have accomplished all of this.
The "big shot" who had remained hidden in the shadows all along—the one who offered Ralf protection while siphoning away most of his profits.
The man who always wore that faint, unreadable smile, as if the world itself were a toy in his hands.
But before Ralf could fully process that realization, the next scene pushed him straight into absolute despair.
Iggo reached into his coat once more.
This time, he pulled out a thick ledger bound in heavy cowhide.
The instant Ralf saw it, all color drained from his face.
The last sliver of hope inside him shattered completely.
He remembered it perfectly.
Just last night—deep into the night—he had personally sealed this very ledger inside a waxed case and handed it over to that man.
Inside were the Blood Cellar's real accounts:
profits and losses, bribes, slave transactions—
even records of murdered nobles.
It was his quarterly "report card."
And more importantly, it was the leash he willingly placed into that man's hands.
"No… don't open it…"
Ralf lunged forward again.
This time, the Gold Cloaks showed no restraint.
Just as they had done to Rorge, an iron-bound cudgel smashed into Ralf's knee.
The blow was so violent that the joint collapsed instantly—white bone bursting through flesh, exposed to the air.
"AAAHHH—!!!"
His scream echoed through the Blood Cellar.
Odin merely watched, calm and composed, and nodded faintly.
"I told you," he said gently, "don't rush, Lord Ralf."
He passed the ledger to Humphrey.
Odin had already read it the night before.
Most of the truly critical pages had been torn out—nothing remained that could endanger the real power players.
But what was left was more than enough.
Humphrey flipped through a page at random.
After only a few lines, his face hardened.
Dates.
Names.
Exact sums of gold paid to specific Gold Cloak captains and soldiers.
The list was staggering.
Nearly one-tenth of the City Watch was implicated.
If this ledger ever reached the public, King's Landing's entire security apparatus would shake.
"I—I'll testify! I'll turn witness!"
Ralf, half-mad from pain, screamed hoarsely.
"I'll report everything! I'll tell you who was backing me!"
He finally understood.
That "big shot" had never intended to save him.
Either the man had greater ambitions—or simply wanted to sever all ties with Flea Bottom.
Either way, Ralf had been gift-wrapped and delivered, Blood Cellar and all, straight into Odin's hands.
The betrayal hurt worse than his shattered leg.
"I'll tell you! The man behind me is—"
Crack!
The cudgel swung again—harder than before.
Ralf's nose collapsed under the blow, his entire face caving in as blood poured down.
Through the haze of agony, he looked up.
A noseless face grinned back at him.
Rorge.
"I—fu—"
Crack!
Another strike silenced him.
Rorge shoved the iron-bound cudgel into Ralf's mouth and twisted viciously.
Bones crunched.
Teeth shattered.
Even the hardest parts of the human body proved helpless against iron and rage.
By the time Rorge was done, Ralf couldn't even scream.
"Slave trading. Assault on officers. Evidence is conclusive."
Humphrey ignored Rorge's excess entirely and barked, "Take him away!"
Two Gold Cloaks moved forward—
—but Rorge seized Ralf by the blood-soaked hair first and dragged him out.
Ralf's body scraped across the stone, leaving a long red smear behind him.
Outside, the crowd stood silent.
They watched the once-untouchable Ralf dragged like a dead dog.
They watched the face that once inspired terror reduced to a ruin of flesh.
Many swallowed hard.
Under Gold Cloak escort, the procession moved toward the only open square in Flea Bottom.
As the crowd followed, the Blood Cellar emptied.
Odin did not go with them.
Instead, he wandered upstairs, surveying the space with quiet interest.
He took a bottle of wine from a cupboard, found a clean cup, and poured himself a glass.
At the window, he pushed the shutters open.
The rising sun burned away the fog, lighting the crimson wine until it shimmered.
Odin raised the glass toward a distant direction and took a slow sip.
At the same moment, atop the tallest building on Silk Street, a short man with an elegant smile stood by a window—and drained his own glass in silence.
---
Beneath a bare flagpole in Flea Bottom, Ralf was hoisted into the air.
The rope tightened around his neck.
His feet kicked uselessly as he gagged, wheezing.
Rorge turned to face the sea of people and grinned, his mangled face made even more grotesque by excitement.
"Open your eyes and look!"
His hoarse voice carried through every alley.
"This man—you all know him. His name was Ralf!"
"He enslaved people. He forced them to kill. He turned Flea Bottom into a latrine—and treated you like filth inside it!"
"Some of you lost family to him. Some of your sisters were raped by his men!"
The crowd stirred.
Rage and humiliation boiled beneath the silence.
"But today!"
Rorge's voice thundered.
"Lord Odin has arrived!"
"He brings new rules—Odin's rules!"
"No forced labor! No oppression!"
"Your children will no longer die like rats in gutters!"
"But remember—"
Rorge drew his knife in a flash.
"Odin's protection must be earned with loyalty!"
"Anyone who defies his will—"
Slash!
The blade opened Ralf's throat.
Blood sprayed across the pole.
Ralf twitched once… twice… then went still.
His eyes stared toward Silk Street, as if even in death he couldn't understand why he'd been sold.
Silence reigned.
Fear. Relief. Hatred. Hope.
All mixed together.
Then someone noticed the roof of the Blood Cellar.
A new banner was rising.
White cloth.
At its center—a black hand, fingers slightly spread.
Not a clenched fist.
Not an open palm.
A symbol of absolute control.
The banner unfurled in the blood-tainted morning wind.
Flea Bottom had a new master.
And new rules.
Odin stepped out of the Blood Cellar and looked up at the flag.
He said nothing.
But from this day forward, in lands where neither the Old Gods nor the Seven held sway—
only Odin's law would be obeyed.