Chapter 90 – War Against the Seven
That "arithmetic lesson" didn't last very long.
The old man turned out to be far less devout than he pretended to be. By the time the third fingernail was removed, he had confessed everything—cleanly, thoroughly, without holding anything back.
And Odin made sure he understood three things:
First—pain can be measured precisely, down to the nerve ending.
Second—fear can be quantified, beat by beat, with every hammering pulse of the heart.
Third—some secrets are so well buried that not even the Seven Gods can hear them.
When Odin returned to the Hall of Order, the sky had only just begun to pale with the faint gray of dawn.
He didn't wake anyone.
He went straight up to his room on the second floor and changed out of the dark clothes that still carried the cellar's damp mold and a faint trace of wine.
Perhaps it was the eight years he'd spent as a medical student, the countless dissections he'd performed—whatever the reason, Odin had never felt the slightest psychological burden about killing.
Besides, Lord Rosby's death had been exceedingly peaceful.
No blood.
No violence on the surface.
It looked exactly like a natural passing—something no ordinary maester would ever question.
Pycell might have noticed something, perhaps—but given that old silver coin's legendary instinct for self-preservation, and his absolute obedience to Tywin, he would never be foolish enough to dig where he wasn't told.
Odin had a servant bring hot water.
He washed up.
Then he even indulged in a comfortable morning nap.
It wasn't until the sun was high overhead that he finally rose and sat down to lunch.
Bang!
"Blood of my blood!"
Just as Odin was methodically chewing a piece of roasted meat, Iggo burst through the door.
The Dothraki warrior had dark circles under his eyes, yet his energy was strangely manic. His bronze face wore an unmistakably lewd grin.
Scratching his tangled hair, he complained in heavily accented Common Tongue:
"Why… did you come back alone?"
"I woke up at the Hummingbird. That red-haired woman said you left in the afternoon. I searched for you across two whole streets!"
Odin's knife paused for the briefest instant as it sliced through the bacon.
He swallowed the mouthful of meat, lifted his eyes, and glanced at Iggo without a word.
What was he supposed to say?
That he'd gone to quietly erase a man from the world—and from the gods' ledger?
Or could it be that I forgot you—my "blood of my blood"—in a brothel?
"I think you need proper rest."
After a brief pause, Odin finally spoke. His tone was flat, emotionless.
"Rest?"
Iggo grinned, flashing a mouthful of yellowed teeth, thumping his chest loudly.
"A Dothraki warrior doesn't need rest!"
"You don't know—that red-haired woman, her waist was strong like a steppe mare. Later we even tried—"
"Shut up. Eat."
Odin cut him off and pushed a plate of pork pies toward him.
Seeing this, Iggo chuckled twice and obediently buried his head in the food.
Watching him eat like a starving beast, Odin couldn't help but reflect: this guy's stamina really was monstrous. A full day and night of debauchery, and he was still bouncing around like nothing happened.
Last night's business—Odin had originally planned to bring Iggo along. But after some thought, with Insight Lv3 active, doing it himself had been the safer choice. Besides, Rosby's body required professional handling.
The result proved him right.
Rosby Castle's lax defenses were riddled with holes under Insight Lv3—almost insultingly easy.
Still… manpower was a problem.
In pure combat terms, Iggo barely qualified as upper second-rate—agile, yes, but no knight-killer.
As for Rorge… bullying shopkeepers and managing construction, sure. Fighting? Even Brienne would leave him in the dust.
If only I could build something like the Faceless Men, Odin thought. Things would be so much easier.
As he ate, a black shadow silently leapt onto the table.
Iggo jolted, nearly drawing his blade—then froze.
A cat?
Jet-black fur. Large frame. Its left ear was missing a jagged chunk, as if bitten or torn away. Amber eyes locked onto the half-slice of bacon still in Iggo's hand.
"That's for people. Eat this."
Odin's voice sounded as he picked up a piece of raw meat and tossed it over.
"This cat…"
"Brought it from the Red Keep."
Odin answered simply.
Yesterday afternoon, when he'd left the Hand's Tower, the cat had been sunning itself on a ledge outside. Its slit pupils tracked him without blinking until he exited the courtyard.
The sensation of being watched had been unmistakable.
On a whim, Odin had stopped and clicked his tongue softly.
He hadn't expected anything—but the cat followed him. All the way back to Flea Bottom.
Now it was having lunch with him.
The black cat sniffed the raw meat, then tore into it slowly and neatly—almost aristocratic in its manners.
Amused, Iggo reached out to pet it.
The cat exploded.
Fur bristled, claws flashed—blood welled instantly on Iggo's arm.
"Tch. Bad temper."
Iggo withdrew his hand, unfazed.
A steppe warrior wouldn't take offense at a scratch—especially from Odin's pet.
After finishing the meat, the cat licked its paws, then rubbed its head against Odin's wrist, purring low and deep.
A completely different attitude.
Odin set down his knife and scooped the cat into his lap.
The fur was softer than it looked. As his fingers stroked from head to spine, the cat closed its eyes, purring louder.
Sunlight spilled in through the window, casting a strange, tranquil tableau.
Almost unconsciously, Odin murmured:
"Balerion?"
"Mrrow~~~"
At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs.
"Boss! I found—"
Rorge's booming voice died instantly at the doorway.
The noseless man froze, eyes bulging as he stared at the black cat purring comfortably in Odin's lap.
Shock. Panic. Forced composure.
His gaze flicked repeatedly toward the two men behind him, hands flashing quick signals.
The subordinates were sharp—they retreated silently around the corner, each apparently carrying two cloth-covered… cages?
"Ahem."
Only after they vanished did Rorge clear his throat and force a smile.
"Boss… feeding a cat, huh."
Odin lifted his eyes calmly.
That look pierced straight through Rorge's act, drawing a sheen of sweat to his brow.
"How many times do I have to say it?"
"Address me as Lord."
"Yes! Lord Odin!"
"Come in. Close the door."
Only then did Odin relent, fingers continuing to comb Balerion's fur.
"Report."
Rorge exhaled in relief, slipped inside, and shut the door carefully. He didn't dare sit—just stood beside the table, sneaking glances at the cat.
"As per your instructions this morning," he began,
"we investigated that old priest preaching in Fishmonger's Square."
"Time was tight, only surface-level findings—but it's something."
"Go on."
Rorge stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You were right. That old bastard already has his hands in Flea Bottom."
"Hundreds go there daily. I questioned three locals separately—stories matched."
"Since last month, every morning, they preach the Seven."
"Anyone who lines up gets black bread and half a bowl of thin porridge. Not much—but enough to keep starving people alive."
"Then they pray."
"No leaving after eating. Everyone must chant praises together."
"Mess up once, nothing happens. But mess up for days, your bread gets smaller. Eventually, no porridge."
Iggo frowned.
"No food if you don't shout loud enough? What kind of nonsense is that?"
"I don't know either," Rorge swallowed.
"But Widow Mora—strong voice, loud prayers—got a full loaf on day three."
"Old cobbler Hal mumbles. Went a week, still got scraps. His wife tried shouting for him—both got thrown out."
"Classic conditioning," Odin murmured, tapping Balerion's back.
"Continue."
"Yes, Lord."
"After the sermons, the priest gives out a black medicinal soup."
"Dark color. Smells strange."
"Hal's wife drank it—her coughing stopped immediately. She looked energized."
"But…"
Rorge hesitated.
"In her words: 'Everything looked floaty. My heart felt light. Whatever the priest said felt right—like the Seven truly stood before me.'"
Odin's eyes snapped open.
The room's temperature dropped.
Even Iggo stopped chewing.
"The medicine," Odin said coldly.
"Where is it?"
Rorge shuddered.
"They don't let anyone take it. Must drink on the spot. Bowls collected immediately—'the gods' grace must not be hoarded.'"
"But… Hal's wife was clever. She hid the dregs in her sleeve. Planned to lick them later."
"I bought it for a silver stag."
He placed a small oil-paper packet on the table.
Odin opened it.
Insight Lv3 fully active.
Color: dark brown, nearly black. Uneven. Clear sediment layers.
Texture: coarse, gritty, plant fibers poorly ground.
Smell—then taste.
Instant spit.
Bang!
His fist slammed into the table.
Rorge jumped.
In all the time he'd known Odin—this man who killed with elegance—Rorge had never seen such fury.
Because Odin recognized it immediately.
Amygdalin. Bitter almond compounds—cough suppressant in trace doses. Lethal in excess.
Then lead.
This wasn't medicine.
It was poison.
Tailored for the poor. Immediate relief for long-term dependence and destruction.
Using false "divine visions" to mask rot.
"Buy grain."
Odin spoke quietly.
Rorge blinked.
"What… what?"
"I said, buy grain."
"Now. Immediately. Every channel we have."
"Enough to feed ten thousand people for over a month."
"Black bread. Oats. Beans. Salted meat. Dried fish. Anything that fills stomachs."
Rorge's face drained of color.
"Lord… that's an astronomical amount of gold!"
"War's driven prices tenfold. We've already spent heavily—this is impossible!"
Odin's expression didn't change.
"The money will come."
"You just do it."
He stepped closer, eyes boring into Rorge's.
"By sunset, I want the first shipment in our warehouses."
"Three days. Ten thousand mouths fed."
"If merchants try to extort us—you know what to do."
Rorge nodded violently, drenched in sweat.
"Yes! Yes! I'll handle it immediately!"
"And one more thing."
Rorge turned back.
"Spread the word."
Odin stood by the window, gazing down at Flea Bottom—already beginning to change.
Morning light edged him in gold.
"From today onward," he said,
"I, Odin, establish soup kitchens and clinics in Flea Bottom."
"Free food. Free treatment."
"No prayers. No chanting."
"If you come—you eat. If you're sick—you're treated."
He paused.
Then, cold and absolute:
"I am declaring war—
on those so-called Seven Gods."