Chapter 80 – May Your Path Be Bright, My Lord
When Odin questioned him so bluntly, Petyr's smile froze for a heartbeat. Then he inclined his head modestly, humility performed to perfection.
"You flatter me, Lord Odin. I merely dabble in small trades—just enough to scrape by in this splendid city."
"Scraping by doesn't build an operation of this size," Odin replied with a light smile, half-joking.
"People say that in King's Landing, aside from Lord Tywin Lannister, no one is wealthier than our Master of Coin."
"Former Master of Coin," Petyr corrected smoothly, then deftly steered the conversation elsewhere, clucking his tongue in exaggerated self-reproach.
"Look at me—such an honored guest arrives, and my people haven't even brought wine or food. An unforgivable lapse."
"Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll have my private stock of Dornish Summer Red brought up at once."
Odin didn't call him out. He merely spread his hands in a by all means gesture.
Petyr maintained his smile as he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
---
In the corridor, Ros was already waiting, wine jug in hand.
"How many did he bring?" Petyr asked quietly, taking the jug from her. His smile never faded, but a trace of cold calculation flickered in his eyes.
"Only one Dothraki, my lord," Ros replied quickly.
"He's in the neighboring room. I assigned him three of our best girls."
Petyr exhaled slightly. If Odin hadn't brought men, this likely wasn't an outright provocation.
Still, he wasn't reassured.
After nearly losing his head to Cersei's madness in the Red Keep—when she'd smugly declared that power is power—Petyr had learned to tread far more carefully.
After a moment's thought, he leaned closer to Ros and murmured,
"Send word to Captain Jeff at the Old Gate. Tell him we've received a few fresh Essosi girls. Drinks are on me."
"Yes, my lord."
With the arrangements made, Petyr took a steadying breath, picked up the wine jug and two expensive crystal goblets, and returned to the room.
"My apologies for the wait, my lord."
As he poured the wine with practiced ease, his mind worked quickly. His tone was casual, friendly.
"I hear you're imposing a new order in Flea Bottom. Truly remarkable."
"Honestly, you have my deepest admiration. You may not know this, but even the most diligent tax collectors refuse to set foot there."
"Not long ago, Ser Ilyn Payne's relative got drunk and wandered in by mistake. He was stripped down to his bare skin—ran home the next morning naked as the day he was born."
Petyr chuckled softly, as if sharing an amusing anecdote.
But behind the humor, his eyes never stopped watching Odin.
Carefully.
Odin accepted the wine glass smoothly.
He didn't drink. He didn't smile either—only gently swirled the wine, as if Petyr's long-winded speech hadn't reached his ears at all.
"Order requires foundations, Lord Petyr," he said at last, voice calm and measured.
"And foundations must be poured with gold. With sufficient capital, I can guarantee that Flea Bottom will one day become the safest and most prosperous district in all Seven Kingdoms."
Neither of them was a fool.
What Odin said could hardly be called a hint—it was a declaration laid bare.
Yet Petyr slipped away like an eel, playing dumb with practiced ease, as if he'd missed the point entirely.
"Ah, gold dragons," he said with a sigh of agreement.
"They truly are the cornerstone of any enterprise. On that, I couldn't agree more."
He took a sip of wine and reminisced theatrically.
"When I served as tax collector in Gulltown, I exhausted every trick I knew before finally increasing the port's revenue tenfold. It brought the place new life."
"Of course," he added smoothly, pivoting mid-sentence,
"My humble achievements pale in comparison to the grand undertaking you're pursuing now."
"I have no doubt that had you managed Gulltown, Lord Odin, your accomplishments would have surpassed mine tenfold."
He even raised his glass in toast, sincerity written perfectly across his face.
Watching him play the shameless thick-skinned rogue, Odin couldn't help clicking his tongue inwardly.
Tenfold?
You squeezed Gulltown dry enough already—push it ten times harder and the sky there would've lifted three feet higher just to escape the misery.
"This is our second meeting, Lord Petyr."
The polite smile slowly faded from Odin's face. He stopped circling and spoke coldly, directly.
"Our first encounter was brief—but pleasant enough. Pleasant enough that I mistakenly believed you and I were alike: men who value connections and respect friendship."
He shook his head, disappointment creeping into his tone.
"Now I see I may have been wrong."
"You don't value my friendship. You don't even care for the favors I might offer."
As his words fell, an invisible pressure filled the room.
[Presence Lv3]
The air itself seemed to grow heavier. Though Odin remained seated, Petyr felt as though the man before him now stood far above, looking down.
Those pitch-black eyes locked onto him—sharp, penetrating—like they could strip away every mask and expose every secret he'd ever buried.
"I think there's been some misunder—" Petyr began hastily.
"No need to explain," Odin cut in, raising a hand.
"The past is past. Never look back—not to excuse yourself, not to justify, not even for amusement."
"Some things in life cannot be changed."
The finality of it made Petyr's throat tighten.
Since he'd climbed his way up by charm and dependency, this was only the second time someone had denied him even the chance to explain.
The first had been Cersei.
That time, steel had silenced him.
This time, Odin crushed him with words—on the very battlefield Petyr prided himself on.
"We both know the truth."
Odin rose calmly, his voice low but each word striking Petyr squarely in the chest.
"You helped me resolve Flea Bottom's problems. You saved me effort. I remember that favor."
"But everyone knows it wasn't worth five thousand gold dragons."
Then his tone softened—almost generous.
"It doesn't matter. I never mind repaying favors with interest. I won't pursue the matter further."
Spoken lightly.
Yet more threatening than any debt collector's blade.
It meant: I see through you. I simply choose not to act—yet.
By the time Petyr recovered from the shock, Odin had already straightened his clothes with effortless composure.
"Business is like the wind," Odin said casually.
"It blows a hat away—who can say whose it was?"
He walked toward the door. As he passed Petyr, he left one final remark, almost as an afterthought:
"I hear you'll soon be leaving King's Landing for the Vale, Lord Petyr. To pursue greater ambitions."
"I sincerely wish you a brilliant future. I only hope that while you admire the mountain views of the Eyrie, you can still keep hold of the… golden goose you left behind in King's Landing."
With that, Odin reached for the door.
This sudden abandonment of negotiation caught Petyr completely off guard. His heart clenched.
Five thousand gold dragons?
No—this was about far more than that.
This man…
He was eyeing all of Petyr's King's Landing operations.
Those were the backbone of his finances and intelligence network.
"Wait! Lord Odin!"
Petyr lost his composure and stepped forward, physically blocking the doorway.
"We haven't finished talking—why rush off?"
He forced a smile, his mind racing.
Was this Tywin Lannister's doing?
"Everything that needs saying has been said," Odin replied calmly, watching him.
Inside, Odin was amused.
He's rattled.
Typical of a man from the Fingers—ambition big enough to claim the Eyrie, yet too small to let go of a single city block in King's Landing.
The Eyrie was leagues away. How did he plan to guard these assets?
Even if Odin did nothing, others would tear into Petyr's holdings the moment he left.
In fact, Odin was certain—plenty were already circling.
Still, Petyr wasn't stupid. Anyone who survived this long in King's Landing had claws.
Realizing his slip, Petyr forced his nerves down and stiffened his posture.
"Perhaps you're new to the capital, Lord Odin, and don't yet understand how things work."
"You won't find mockingbird sigils stitched onto anyone's chest—but that doesn't mean I lack friends."
"A casual threat won't unsettle me."
Odin glanced at him, amused by the internal struggle playing across his face.
"Have I threatened you, Lord Petyr?"
"I'm merely fulfilling my duties as the Crown's Chief Special Agent—reminding you to safeguard your valuables."
His eyes flicked to Petyr's hand still pressed against the doorframe.
The message was clear.
Petyr's confidence wavered again.
Was Tywin truly behind this?
Two or three heartbeats passed in deadlock.
Then—
A shrill scream erupted from the neighboring room.
Women screamed. Glass shattered. Something heavy crashed. A stream of curses followed—barely intelligible.
The two men exchanged a glance, instantly dropping their duel of wits.
They burst into the adjacent room together.
Chaos.
A knight clad in bright crimson armor was kneeling on the floor, howling in agony.
His right hand was nailed firmly to the tabletop—
Pinned there by a uniquely shaped dagger.