Chapter 113: Three Knights
As soon as Rorge's voice fell silent, Tywin Lannister strode into the Hall of Order at the head of the procession.
The hem of his crimson brocade coat sliced through the air. Beneath the candlelight, his slightly balding head gleamed with a metallic sheen. Every line on his face seemed carved with unquestionable authority. His gaze remained fixed straight ahead as he walked—unhurried, yet impossible to ignore.
The murmurs in the hall died instantly.
Everyone instinctively straightened their backs, afraid of appearing improper before the Hand of the King—even though most commoners had little propriety to begin with.
Tywin stopped before the central seat. A servant had already pulled out the chair for him.
He did not sit.
Instead, he swept his cold gaze across the room. It was only a glance, yet it sent a chill down every spine.
So this is the old lion, Odin thought.
No roaring. No bared fangs. Simply by standing there, everyone understood who ruled this room. Even the smallest movement carried the weight of power.
Odin stepped forward, placing a hand over his chest. "Lord Tywin."
"Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to attend."
"You invited me. Naturally, I came," Tywin replied flatly.
"A knight who protected the king in a moment of crisis deserves such courtesy."
Odin lowered his head modestly. "You flatter me, my lord."
But inwardly, he sneered.
Courtesy?
Honor? What a joke.
This is business. Nothing more.
At that moment, the beautiful queen regent entered, almost riding on the lingering authority of her father.
Cersei Lannister wore a deep red gown embroidered with gold thread. The neckline plunged low, revealing a swath of pale skin. Her golden curls fell over her shoulders, swaying gently as she walked.
Once hailed as the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, she immediately drew the gaze of every man in the hall.
Yet her eyes were fixed entirely on Odin.
"Ser Odin!" she called excitedly, stepping forward and extending her hand, fingers slightly raised—almost as if granting him a favor.
Odin frowned faintly, uncertain what this madwoman was plotting this time.
Still, he took her fingertips, bowed, and brushed them lightly with his lips before withdrawing at once—without the slightest hesitation.
Cersei was not satisfied.
She stepped closer, raising her other hand to gently pat his arm. "Thank you for saving my life in that moment of danger."
The gesture was overly intimate—something between a superior to a subordinate, or an elder to a junior.
It was clear she still hadn't given up on him. She intended to bring him fully under her control.
But she had miscalculated.
Odin raised his head and met her gaze directly.
His black eyes held neither gratitude nor reverence—only calm indifference.
"You give me too much credit, Your Grace. I've already received my reward."
"Being knighted personally by Lord Tywin… that is something everyone in the Seven Kingdoms dreams of."
At those words, Cersei's pupils shrank sharply.
She turned toward her father. The old lion gave a slight nod, clearly pleased with Odin's response.
Color flushed across her face.
She wanted to speak—but Tywin had already turned back to Odin.
"I hear you've made certain reforms in Flea Bottom," he said in a firm tone. "The streets are cleaner. Crime has declined. There are even proper shops and guilds now."
"I've only done my duty, my lord," Odin replied, standing beside the table—neither humble nor arrogant.
"As you know, chaos breeds corruption, while order brings prosperity. The people of Flea Bottom are also citizens of King's Landing. They deserve basic security and dignity."
Tywin studied him for a long moment before nodding.
"Order."
"Many speak of establishing order. But for most, 'order' simply means imposing their own rules on others. I'm curious—how would you do it?"
Odin fell silent for two seconds before answering slowly:
"It's simple."
"Labor earns reward. Law grants protection. Value creates profit—and profit is shared."
"That's all."
"Sounds like a merchant's contract."
"At its core, it is a contract," Odin explained. "Between commoners and nobles. Between commoners themselves. Even between nobles."
"All relationships, in essence, are contracts."
"The only difference is—some are written on parchment… some are carved into steel… and some…"
"…are branded into fear."
For a fleeting moment, the corner of Tywin's mouth lifted—almost imperceptibly.
"A wise choice," he said. "Still immature, but wise."
He lifted the goblet a servant had just filled, took a sip, and set it down.
"Since you've mentioned contracts… I will fulfill my part."
"The expansion plan for Flea Bottom has been approved by the Small Council. You may proceed according to the designs. The City Watch will provide necessary manpower and materials."
"But you will be responsible for securing the funds."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
An expansion plan?
Everyone present understood what that meant.
Odin's control over Flea Bottom was no longer just underground order—it had become officially sanctioned authority.
Cersei's fingers tightened around her skirt, her knuckles turning white.
She glared at Odin like a betrayed ally.
When did you discuss this with my father?
Why do I know nothing about it?
Rage surged within her.
Damn you, Odin. Who do you think you are?
I am the Queen! I gave you your chance! Without my support, you'd still be nothing more than a dirt-playing upstart in Flea Bottom!
Yet despite her fury, she did not dare lash out in front of her father. Tywin's authority was etched deep into her very blood.
Taking a sharp breath, she turned and walked toward her seat, her steps hurried.
As she passed Petyr Baelish, she suddenly stopped—as if only just noticing him.
She stared at him for two seconds… then let out a soft laugh.
"Lord Petyr!" she called loudly, making sure most of the hall could hear.
"How delightful to see you here!"
At the sound of her voice, Petyr—who had been facing away—stiffened.
Damn it… I was already hiding by the bar. How did that madwoman still spot me?
But there was no escape now.
He turned back awkwardly and bowed slightly. "Your Grace…"
"Oh ho~" Cersei's lips curled into a sharp, mocking smile as she raised her voice:
"I had thought you'd already boarded a ship for the Eyrie. After all, Father only gave you a week—and today is already the second day, isn't it?"
On the surface, it sounded like concern.
In truth, it was a public humiliation.
She reminded everyone that Tywin had ordered Petyr out. She emphasized his fall from favor. And she implied that if he lingered, he might be scheming behind the scenes.
It was a calculated and vicious strike.
Petyr set down his wine. His smile remained unchanged—but the muscles at the corner of his eyes twitched.
I'm an idiot. Truly.
I should never have come to this damned banquet…
"Your Grace's concern overwhelms me," he said, forcing composure. "It's not that I refuse to leave King's Landing. There are simply certain debts that must be settled first. Ser Addam can attest to this."
"Debts?" Cersei gave him no mercy, sneering openly.
"You mean the thirty thousand gold dragons you borrowed—using seven brothels as collateral, over and over again?"
Silence fell across the hall once more.
That was far too direct.
Even nobles with deep grudges usually attacked through implication, preserving a veneer of civility.
But Cersei didn't care.
Her anger needed an outlet—and Petyr had conveniently placed himself within reach.
For some reason, every time she saw that flawless smile of his, she felt an irresistible urge to tear it apart.
Petyr's smile stiffened.
Damn it… how does everyone in King's Landing know about this mess?!
It must've been that bastard Addam Marbrand who told her!
"…Those are all… misunderstandings."
He swallowed hard and hurried to explain, "The ship to leave King's Landing has already been arranged. Ser Addam Marbrand confirmed it with me just now."
"I can depart at any time—I only need to settle a few accounts first."
Petyr Baelish was clearly trying to stall for time. But this time, before Cersei could mock him again, a cold voice cut in from the main seat.
"Then settle them."
At the sound of the Hand's voice, Petyr immediately turned toward Tywin Lannister.
What met him was a pair of icy green eyes—sharp, unyielding.
They seemed to ask only one thing:
I ordered you to leave. Why are you still here?
For a moment, Petyr didn't know how to answer.
If he left now, whatever standing he still had in King's Landing would be completely lost.
But if he stayed…
Tywin Lannister's wrath was far more terrifying than that of Cersei, mad as she was.
"I-if I were you, Lord Petyr," a hoarse, heavy voice suddenly came from the doorway, "I would repay my debts first… and only then think about boarding a ship."
All heads turned.
An elderly, gaunt woman was slowly making her way inside, supported by Margaery Tyrell.
She wore a dark purple robe embroidered with dull golden thorns. Her face was like a dried apple, deeply lined with age—but her eyes were sharp as blades.
The true power behind House Tyrell—
The "Queen of Thorns," Olenna Tyrell.
Her cane tapped steadily against the floor as she stopped beside Petyr's seat. She didn't even look at him, speaking as though to the air itself:
"You know, Littlefinger…"
"Drowning at sea is one thing. Being tied to a stone and thrown into the Blackwater by your creditors… is quite another."
The remark was even more direct—and far more cutting—than Cersei's.
Even Odin couldn't help but applaud inwardly.
As expected of the sharpest tongue in Westeros.
With a single sentence, Petyr's face turned completely pale.
His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something—but Olenna had already shifted her gaze away, as though he were nothing more than an unsightly piece of furniture.
The arrival of this grandmother–granddaughter pair subtly shifted the atmosphere in the hall once more.
The Tyrells had arrived.
And their timing was impeccable.
Not too early, not too late—just after Tywin had taken his seat, and before the other nobles had fully gathered.
Margaery stepped forward first, offering Tywin a perfect curtsy.
"My lord Hand."
Only then did she turn to Odin, her smile flawless and radiant.
"Ser Odin, congratulations on your knighthood."
"My grandmother heard you were hosting a banquet tonight and insisted on coming. She said she wanted to see for herself what kind of man could turn Flea Bottom into a 'Hall of Order.'"
Before Odin could reply, Olenna released her granddaughter's arm and stepped forward with her cane.
She was short—so short she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
Yet her presence alone made those nearby instinctively take a step back.
"So, you're the farmer."
Her tone was as sharp as ever.
"I was a farmer, my lady," Odin replied with a slight bow. He showed neither anger nor submission—calm, measured, and composed.
"Now… I am a knight."
"A knight."
Olenna let out a cold chuckle.
"I've lived for decades. I've seen many knights of common birth."
"But only three ever left an impression on me."
"The first was 'the Tall' Duncan—brave and loyal. A pity he was burned by King Aegon V."
"The second was a merchant who bought himself an honorary title… and not long after, went bankrupt and jumped into the Blackwater."
As she spoke, Olenna fixed her gaze on Odin, as if trying to see straight through him.
Then, slowly, she said:
"The third…"
"…is you."