Chapter 110 — The Magnanimous Littlefinger
The two of them continued drinking for a while.
Downstairs, the noise gradually grew louder as more guests arrived.
Suddenly, Jaime remembered something.
"I heard Petyr Baelish was the one who reported you to Uncle Kevan."
He frowned slightly.
"Why would he target you? Do you have some kind of grudge against him?"
Odin simply shook his head.
"We have no personal grievances."
"But sometimes… conflicts of interest are far more dangerous than personal hatred."
"Interests?" Jaime looked puzzled. "What kind of conflict of interest could exist between you and Baelish?"
Odin did not answer immediately.
Instead, he asked another question.
"What was Flea Bottom like before?"
"A cesspit," Jaime replied without hesitation.
"The filthiest, most chaotic, most dangerous place in all of King's Landing."
"Even the Gold Cloaks avoided patrolling here."
"And now?"
Jaime frowned and glanced around the hall below.
The neatly dressed guests.
The carefully prepared food.
The bright, orderly lighting.
He began to understand.
"When something everyone once despised and avoided like a pile of filth suddenly becomes a piece of prime meat…"
"…everyone wants to take it."
Odin smiled faintly and gestured toward the crowd below.
"The profits from the casino."
"The income from the brothel branches."
"And the arena that will soon open."
"Flea Bottom will become the most profitable district in King's Landing—perhaps even in all the Seven Kingdoms."
"Money that once flowed into the sewers now flows into my pockets."
"And naturally… some people find that unpleasant."
Jaime slammed his fist lightly against the table.
"Littlefinger wants the House of Order!"
His voice filled with anger.
"He wants to steal your business! But all of this was built by you!"
"Not steal," Odin corrected calmly.
"Take back."
"In Baelish's eyes, the dirty money of Flea Bottom should naturally belong to someone like him."
"A nobleman."
"A clever man who understands how the game works."
"And me?"
"I'm just a lucky commoner who's temporarily holding onto his property."
"That bastard…" Jaime cursed.
But after a moment he frowned again, thinking aloud.
"Tyrion once said Littlefinger was the one man in King's Landing he could never fully understand."
"So why did he act so openly this time?"
"Running straight to Kevan to accuse you—that doesn't sound like his style."
Odin chuckled.
The smile carried a hint of irony.
"Because he never saw me as an opponent."
"In his eyes, I'm merely a lucky commoner."
"A man who happened to rescue Jaime Lannister."
"A man who happened to gain Tywin Lannister's favor."
"A chain of fortunate accidents created who I am today."
"And luck…"
"…always runs out eventually."
Odin looked directly at Jaime.
His eyes were deep and steady.
"In other words, he doesn't believe I'm worthy of competing with him."
"So he used the simplest and most effective method—reporting me to authority."
"It's like a master discovering that a servant has stolen something."
"They don't bother plotting against the servant."
"They simply call the guards and have him arrested."
"Because…"
"…a servant isn't important enough to deserve elaborate schemes."
Jaime opened his mouth as if to argue.
But he couldn't.
The logic was brutal—
and undeniably true.
"That's normal, though," Odin continued calmly, as if speaking about someone else's situation entirely.
"Even if Littlefinger comes from a minor house in the Fingers, he was still born a noble."
"The instinctive contempt nobles feel toward commoners is ingrained in their blood."
"Like a lion looking at sheep."
"A lion never considers sheep an equal opponent."
Jaime fell silent.
He remembered his childhood.
How his father had taught him that nobles must carry themselves with dignity.
In Casterly Rock.
In King's Landing.
Commoners stepped aside for him automatically.
Lowered their heads.
Avoided meeting his eyes.
Yes.
Wasn't that simply… natural?
---
"Odin."
Jaime suddenly spoke.
His voice was serious and firm.
"Whether you're a commoner or a noble…"
"…you are my best friend."
"I swear it on my honor."
"…if I still have any left."
Odin looked at him for a long moment.
Then he slowly raised his glass.
"Jaime Lannister."
He spoke each word slowly and clearly.
"Whether you are the Kingslayer or a knight of the Kingsguard…"
"…you are my friend."
"I swear it in the name of the House of Odin."
The two men smiled at each other.
Their glasses clinked lightly in the air.
The sound of glass touching glass was crisp and clear—
yet nearly lost within the noise of the hall below.
But both of them heard it.
They drained their drinks.
The cold liquid slid down their throats—
sharp with lemon,
strong with alcohol,
leaving behind a faint sweetness.
---
"Oh, right."
Jaime set down his glass.
"I almost forgot something."
"If my father discovered that you orchestrated the whole incident…"
"Why did he still knight you personally?"
"Knowing his character, he should have…"
Odin finished the sentence for him with a faint smile.
"Thrown me into a dungeon?"
"Or at least stripped everything from me?"
Jaime nodded slowly.
Odin stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony.
Resting both hands on the railing, he looked down at the increasingly lively crowd below, preparing to answer Jaime's question.
At that moment, a slight disturbance arose near the entrance of the hall.
Jaime turned his head to look.
His expression darkened immediately.
A thin, short figure stepped through the doors of the House of Order.
— Petyr Baelish.
The Lord of Harrenhal was dressed unusually modestly today.
A plain dark-blue coat.
No embroidery.
No ornaments.
Even the mockingbird brooch he usually wore was absent.
He had come alone—without guards or attendants—looking as though he had merely wandered here on a casual stroll.
Yet the moment he appeared, the hall fell quiet.
Every guest turned to look.
Most of them recognized that face.
Former Master of Coin of King's Landing.
Lord of Harrenhal.
And the secret owner of at least half the brothels on Silk Street.
What was he doing here?
Jaime immediately stood up, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. His face turned cold.
"That man still dares to come here?"
His voice carried suppressed anger.
"He just tried to sabotage you in front of Uncle Kevan, and now he strolls into your celebration like nothing happened?"
"I'll throw him out right now."
He started toward the stairs.
But Odin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't be impulsive, Jaime."
"But he—"
"Sit."
Odin's voice was calm but firm.
"Remember this: if you want to sit at the table, you can't flip the table the moment you arrive."
"At least look first at what dishes are being served."
Jaime froze.
He turned back and looked into Odin's eyes.
Those dark pupils held no anger, no tension.
Only a deep, unreadable calm.
Like the surface of the sea before a storm.
After a moment, Jaime reluctantly sat down again.
But his back remained straight, his gaze locked on the figure below like a lion ready to pounce.
---
Downstairs, Petyr Baelish had already crossed the hall with elegant steps.
He nodded politely to people around him, smiling with flawless composure—like a man attending an old friend's gathering.
Odin leaned against the balcony rail with folded arms, watching quietly.
A new round of the game had begun.
And this time—
the opponent had walked directly onto his chessboard.
---
Baelish stopped at the bar and examined the crystal bottles displayed there.
His eyes moved from the bartender's polished silver tools to the drink menu hanging on the wall.
The menu board was carved with neat lettering and coated in gold paint, glittering under the light.
"Interesting."
Baelish spoke softly, curiosity in his tone.
"Lionheart Flame… Direwolf Howl… Rose of Highgarden…"
"Even the drinks have such thoughtful names."
The bartender—a young man in a clean white apron—tried to steady his trembling fingers.
"What would you like to drink, my lord?"
Baelish glanced at him dismissively.
His finger traced lazily across the menu before stopping at a particular name.
"The Peak of King's Landing."
He read it aloud, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.
"Let me taste what the view from the very top feels like."
The bartender nodded quickly and was about to begin mixing when a voice sounded from behind.
"That drink isn't suitable for you, Lord Baelish."
Baelish turned.
Odin was descending the stairs slowly.
His white cloak swayed gently behind him, the black hand emblem appearing and disappearing with each step.
He stopped beside Baelish at the bar.
Close enough that a sword could be drawn between them—
if either of them had one.
Baelish turned gracefully, his smile unchanged.
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Do you believe I'm not worthy of something called The Peak of King's Landing, Ser Odin?"
"Not unworthy," Odin replied calmly.
"Just… unsuitable."
He took the menu from the bartender and pointed to another name.
"Serve Lord Baelish a Bitter Informer."
The bar area fell silent.
Several nearby guests glanced over, then quickly pretended to focus on their drinks.
Baelish stared at Odin for three full seconds.
Then—
he burst out laughing.
Not a fake laugh.
A genuine one.
His shoulders shook, and his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Haha! How fascinating!"
He slapped the bar lightly.
"Sir Odin, you can heal the sick, run a district, and even invent such amusing drink names!"
Turning to the bartender, he smiled brightly.
"That one."
"Bring me a Bitter Informer. I'd very much like to taste it."
The bartender looked nervously at Odin.
After receiving a slight nod, he swallowed and began preparing the drink.
---
The mixing process was slow.
The silver shaker moved rhythmically.
Ice cubes clinked softly.
One shake.
Two.
Three.
Finally, a murky green liquid was poured into a slender glass.
Baelish lifted the glass and examined it under the light.
The drink looked dull compared to the bright cocktails around it.
Almost…
like muddy water.
"Looks like swamp water," Baelish commented.
Then he tilted his head back and drank it in one gulp.
No hesitation.
No grimace.
As though he had simply swallowed a glass of water.
He licked his lips thoughtfully.
"Not bad."
The calmness of his reaction stunned the nearby listeners.
Normally, being publicly mocked as an "informer" would provoke anger—or at least embarrassment.
But Baelish did neither.
He accepted it.
Acknowledged it.
Even joked about it himself.
You couldn't strike someone who greeted insults with a smile.
This man truly had some skill.
Odin narrowed his eyes and reassessed the short man before him.
Baelish was more troublesome than expected.
Not because his schemes were deep—
but because he had no pride to wound.
Or perhaps his pride was hidden so deeply that no one could reach it.
You insult him—he laughs.
You mock him—he amplifies the joke himself.
In the end, you look like the petty one.
"Lord Baelish is remarkably magnanimous," Odin said lightly.
"Not magnanimous."
Baelish dabbed the corner of his mouth with a silk handkerchief.
"Just self-aware."
"I know what kind of man I am."
"And I know how others see me."
"So when someone tells the truth, why should I be angry?"
"Anger doesn't change facts."
He folded the handkerchief neatly and returned it to his pocket.
Then, with a smooth motion, he pulled out a rolled parchment tied with dark-green silk ribbon.
"Speaking of facts."
Baelish placed the parchment on the bar and pushed it toward Odin.
"I came here today to apologize."
"While I don't believe providing accurate information to the
Master of laws was wrong…"
"…I admit my method may have been somewhat inconsiderate."
He untied the ribbon and opened the document.
"These are the ownership deeds for seven brothels on Silk Street, three gambling houses, and two warehouses."
"They represent about thirty percent of my businesses in King's Landing."
"Based on last year's profits…"
"…they're worth roughly fifteen thousand gold dragons."
"Of course," Baelish added with a smile,
"If Ser Odin's management abilities are as impressive as rumored…"
"…they may soon be worth twenty thousand."
"Perhaps even thirty."
Odin looked down at the parchment, calculating rapidly.
He knew Baelish's properties on Silk Street.
Seven mid-to-high-end brothels.
Three small but profitable casinos.
Two warehouses near the Blackwater docks.
Thirty percent of that portfolio was indeed worth roughly the amount Baelish claimed.
But with Baelish's personality—
there was no way he was giving away fifteen thousand gold dragons for free.
"Let me guess," Odin said slowly.
"You want to invest."
Baelish nodded calmly.
"I carefully studied everything you've done in Flea Bottom over the past two months."
"Cleaning the streets."
"Establishing order."
"Introducing new management methods."
"And even designing drinks like this."
He met Odin's eyes with disarming sincerity.
"I realized something."
"You and I are actually the same kind of person."
"We both believe in rules."
"Rules built on interests."
"You create systems for people to follow and profit from them."
"I do the same."
He didn't even mention how many shares he expected in the House of Order.
Which made the offer appear all the more sincere.
But Odin understood the real calculation.
Baelish was leaving King's Landing soon.
Holding those businesses alone would only invite others to seize them.
But by investing in Odin—
he could turn an enemy into a partner.
A mortal rivalry into shared interests.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
Odin looked up.
Their gazes met like invisible swords clashing.
But…
You think you can offend me and walk away so easily?
"Fair enough," Odin said.
"I accept."
He took the parchment.
"Thank you for the gift, Lord Baelish."
"I hope our future cooperation will be… pleasant."
"It certainly will be."
Baelish extended his hand.
The two men shook hands.
Three seconds.
No more.
No less.
Then both released.
The deal was made—
at least on the surface.
---
The tension eased slightly.
Baelish glanced around the hall.
"By the way," he said casually.
"You're celebrating your knighting tonight, Sir Odin."
"But it seems the guests are all…"
He paused delicately.
"…these friends."
His gaze swept across the hall.
Every single guest was a commoner.
Not a single noble.
"Of course," Baelish added quickly,
"I'm not saying these friends are unworthy."
"You're new to King's Landing, so it's understandable you haven't made many noble acquaintances yet."
"But now we're partners."
"And besides…"
"You're a knight now."
"The Chief Special Envoy of the Crown."
"A man of your standing should have respectable guests attending your celebration."
He smiled kindly.
"I've lived in King's Landing for many years and know quite a few nobles."
"If you like, I could introduce some of them to you."
"That way, after I leave the city, managing our business will be easier for you."
It sounded extremely considerate.
Like a friend offering help.
But Odin heard the real message beneath it.
Without me, you can't even attract proper guests.
You're still just a commoner who can't enter noble circles.
If you want to do business, you'll need to rely on Petyr Baelish.
Maybe Baelish didn't intend it as an insult.
Perhaps he simply wanted to demonstrate his importance.
But under his gaze—
Odin suddenly grinned.
"Thank you for the concern, Lord Baelish."
He nodded politely.
"But today is a celebration of my knighthood."
"It wouldn't be right to trouble you too much while you're already working so hard here."
Baelish frowned slightly.
Does this man really not care about appearances?
Impossible.
In King's Landing, reputation meant everything.
If no nobles attended his knighting celebration, people would assume the Black Hand had no real influence.
Just as Baelish was puzzling over it—
a commotion erupted at the hall entrance.
Rorge's short, stocky figure appeared in the doorway.
He was moving quickly.
His coat stretched tightly across his bulky frame, looking as if the seams might burst at any moment.
But he didn't care.
He shouted loudly:
"Ser Odin!"
"The Lord of Duskendale, Lord Rykker, has arrived!"