Chapter 114: Thorns and Lions
This woman really does have a venomous tongue.
Odin thought to himself. She had just finished skewering Petyr Baelish with layered mockery, and now she had casually turned her spear toward him—an indiscriminate, map-wide bombardment.
Still, he understood.
In the game of power, this was a classic negotiating tactic—provoke first, then gauge reactions and adjust accordingly.
Like a hunter's first spear: not meant to kill, but to see which way the prey flees… and what weaknesses it reveals.
An old trick.
Besides, not long ago, he had conspired with Cersei Lannister to send her grandson, Loras Tyrell, across the Narrow Sea.
The old woman had every reason to be irritated.
But then again…
Did Olenna Tyrell truly care that much about this marriage?
Not necessarily.
What House Tyrell needed was a royal alliance—a future king born with Tyrell blood.
And Cersei… a near-forty queen dowager who had already borne three children and was notoriously unstable?
Hardly Olenna's ideal match.
"Thank you for your regard, my lady."
Under Olenna's gaze, Odin inclined his head slightly—respectful, yet far from submissive. Not a trace of irritation showed on his face.
"To be noticed by the famed 'Queen of Thorns' is an honor in itself."
The words were elegant.
But Olenna had no intention of letting him off so easily.
"Generally speaking," she continued mercilessly, "knights of common birth don't live very long."
"They either fall in their first real battle, or are sent to die on errands by the lords they serve. I've even heard of one who slipped on a staircase and shattered himself to pieces."
Her meaning was clear—someone like him might fall at any moment while climbing the ladder of power.
Odin, however, smiled.
Not forced. Not mocking.
A calm, genuine smile.
"At least I'm still alive," he said lightly. "And doing quite well."
"And… I rather like House Tyrell's words—Growing Strong, my lady."
Olenna paused for a moment.
In her expectations, he would either defend himself, retaliate, or attempt to prove his worth.
Instead, he praised the Tyrell motto?
What was he playing at?
Narrowing her eyes, she replied with faint disdain, "Growing Strong is hardly impressive."
"Not as imposing as the Lannisters' 'Hear Me Roar,' nor as… weighty as the Baratheons' 'Ours is the Fury.'"
She was baiting him.
Testing how this lowborn knight would interpret such a seemingly plain phrase.
Odin clasped his hands before him and answered with calm sincerity:
"But it is… resilient."
"My lady, growth cannot be truly stopped."
"You can cut down a rose, burn its branches, even tear out its roots…"
"But as long as a single seed remains in the soil—no matter how barren or hard the land—given a drop of rain and a ray of sunlight…"
"…it will sprout again."
Olenna said nothing.
She simply stared at him.
Beside her, Margaery Tyrell blinked curiously, her attention now entirely fixed on Odin.
"The roses of Highgarden didn't claim the Reach through roaring," Odin continued, turning his gaze toward Margaery, his voice soft yet powerful.
"Nor did they burn away other flowers in fury."
"They simply… kept growing."
"In spring, they grow. In summer, they grow. In autumn, they seed. In winter, they sleep—only to grow again the following year."
"Ten years. A hundred. A thousand."
"And one day, when people look up…"
"They will find the land covered entirely in roses."
"Not because they defeated everything else…"
"But because other flowers came and went—"
"—while the roses remained."
Silence fell over the hall.
Even the faint sound of wine being poured in the distance became distinct.
Olenna's gaze lingered on him, shifting from scrutiny to something resembling surprise.
Such insight… coming from a man of peasant origin?
It was difficult to believe.
After a moment—
She laughed.
The mighty Queen of Thorns laughed so hard her shoulders trembled, wrinkles folding together like an ordinary old woman who had just heard an excellent joke.
"Heh… hahahaha…"
Her laughter echoed through the hall, drawing every eye.
When she finally stopped, she took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
"You truly are an interesting man, Ser Odin."
She stepped closer, taking his hand like an elder showing concern for a junior.
But as she leaned in, her voice dropped to a whisper in his ear:
"I don't care what you did, or who you conspired with. I only care about results."
"I know it was you and that madwoman Cersei who arranged everything. You sent Loras across the Narrow Sea—but at least he didn't marry her."
She let out a cold laugh.
"That woman is poison. Whoever marries her… their house will rot from within."
"The old lion thinks he can use her to bind House Tyrell… heh…"
"He doesn't understand his daughter. And he doesn't understand me."
"Or perhaps… he does. And simply doesn't care."
With that, she stepped back, restoring the distance between them as if nothing had happened.
"But you, Ser Odin…"
"Being targeted by a madwoman like her—your days ahead won't be easy."
Odin's expression did not change in the slightest.
His gaze remained steady.
"I only ask whether something should be done," he said calmly, "not whether it is easy."
Olenna studied him for three seconds, then nodded slowly.
"Good."
Leaning on her cane, she began walking toward the main seat. But as she passed him, she murmured quietly:
"Remember this, boy."
"When you provoke a nest of vipers, the worst thing you can do is kill them one by one."
"You'll only get bitten by each as it dies."
"Throw in a rat instead."
"A fat, bleeding rat."
"Then step back to a safe distance—and watch them tear each other apart over it. Watch them coil, strike, and sink their fangs into one another…"
"…and wait until the last snake dies."
She gave him a long, meaningful look—then walked away.
Heh. This old woman…
Watching her retreating figure, Odin couldn't help but smile inwardly.
Even as nominal allies, she never missed a chance to trip up the Lannisters.
Which was only natural.
The current situation had largely stabilized. If House Lannister grew too dominant, House Tyrell would inevitably be reduced to a subordinate.
Even if her granddaughter could keep the king firmly under control, her influence would never extend into a Small Council ruled by Tywin Lannister.
Roses might be resilient—and thorned.
But they still needed a hand to pluck them.
Especially… a hand in the dark.
"Oh ho ho~ Forgive me, Lord Hand!" Olenna said as she took a seat to Tywin's right, deliberately rubbing her lower back.
"You know how it is—when you get old, your legs don't quite cooperate."
Tywin showed no displeasure, merely inclining his head slightly.
"I didn't expect you to attend in person, my lady."
"It seems you and Ser Odin are quite well acquainted. I noticed you spoke at length."
Seeing Tywin's questioning gaze, Olenna ignored it entirely and instead snapped at a nearby servant:
"Don't pour me juice, you fool! Do you think someone my age can't drink wine?"
"I want wine! That cocktail Ser Odin invented—yes, that one!"
She raised her voice deliberately so others could hear, like a stubborn old woman causing a scene.
"And make it strong!"
"Don't you dare water it down! I've tasted more wine than you've seen gold dragons. One sip and I can tell which year along the Mander had more rain or less sun!"
The servant hurried off.
Moments later, he returned with a glass of amber liquid, garnished with slices of lemon and mint leaves.
Olenna took a sip, closed her eyes, and swallowed.
Then she opened them, sounding almost surprised.
"Oh? Not bad!"
"The wine itself isn't particularly refined, but the sweetness masks the acidity, and the fruit softens the harshness."
She continued commenting for quite a while before suddenly turning back to Tywin.
"Oh, my lord—what was it you asked me earlier?"
She tapped her wrinkled forehead, feigning forgetfulness.
"My apologies, I'm terribly old. Sometimes I forget things the moment they happen."
"Just the other day, I meant to pay the remaining expenses for the king's wedding… to the Master of Coin—you know, that adorable little fellow shorter than me."
"But after my nap, I completely forgot. Such a shame."
She rambled on like an ordinary elderly woman, effortlessly shifting responsibility for the unpaid sum.
Tywin simply lifted his goblet, choosing not to pursue the matter.
After all, indulging in stubborn evasiveness was practically a woman's privilege—hardly something the Hand of the King would stoop to contest.
Yet Olenna didn't stop.
Instead, she began sizing Tywin up, her gaze carrying that peculiar elderly "affection" reserved for the young.
"How old are you this year, my lord? Sixty?"
A question she already knew the answer to.
"Fifty-four."
Tywin replied calmly, as if stating an irrelevant fact.
For a man in power, his fifties were the peak of both experience and strength.
"Fifty-four… such a fine age…"
Olenna repeated dramatically, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.
"When I was your age, my husband had already been dead for ten years."
"Mace had just inherited the title then. Foolish boy—always tending flowers, writing dreadful poetry, skipping knightly training, falling asleep after two pages of accounts."
"I often regret not striking his head with a wooden spoon when he was young—perhaps I could have knocked some sense into that thick skull."
"But fortunately, after inheriting the family, he's managed the lands quite well… yes… better and better."
She rambled like a gossiping old woman.
But Tywin understood perfectly.
She was boasting.
I may be old—but my house thrives.
A family's strength isn't built on one genius, but on generations of careful cultivation.
And you, Tywin Lannister—
Your power may dominate the court… but what of your foundation? Your future?
A vicious implication.
Clearly, she still resented his attempt to force Cersei into marriage with Loras.
But Tywin did not rise to the bait.
His fingers traced the rim of his cup as he replied coldly:
"My health is excellent. Very much so."
"Grand Maester Pycelle believes I could serve as Hand for another twenty years without issue."
For a brief instant, Olenna's smile stiffened.
She caught the counterstrike.
You boast of your heirs—but the one sitting on the throne carries Lannister blood.
As long as that remains true, the power of the realm rests firmly in Tywin's hands.
After a short silence, Olenna let out a chuckle, raised her cocktail, and drained it in one long gulp before setting the glass down with a dull thud.
"Well then… that's wonderful news."
Her eyes narrowed into smiling slits.
While the two old foxes clashed in silence, on Odin's side—
Margaery had not followed her grandmother.
Instead, she turned to him with a flawless, radiant smile.
As expected of the carefully cultivated rose of House Tyrell…
She was exceptionally skilled.
The slight upward curve of her lips, the gentle arc of her eyes, even the shadow cast by her lowered lashes—everything was perfectly measured, amplifying her beauty to its absolute peak.
"Please forgive my grandmother's bluntness, Ser Odin."
Margaery Tyrell spoke in a soft, melodious voice, like wind chimes stirred by a spring breeze.
"She's getting on in years, and sometimes… she doesn't concern herself with tedious formalities. But please believe me—her intentions are good."
Odin merely nodded slightly, replying with polite composure:
"Lady Olenna Tyrell is remarkably wise. Speaking with her was truly a pleasure."
"Sometimes… I even envy those who have a grandmother so attentive."
It was only half true.
In his original world, he had never even met his grandmother. Here, things were no different.
More importantly, the words were useful.
People tend to lower their guard when they hear others envying what they possess.
"Heh…"
Margaery smiled faintly, lips pressed together. She seemed relaxed—but a trace of caution still lingered in her eyes.
"…You truly have a way with words, Ser."
"When Loras was still here, he used to say that every time he stood before Grandmother, he felt like jumping off a cliff."
"He even suspected that Grandfather leapt to his death because he couldn't endure her sharp tongue."
It sounded like a light joke.
But it was also a test.
A probe into Odin's attitude toward Loras Tyrell's "disappearance"—bringing up a sensitive topic in a casual tone to observe his reaction.
Odin smiled in return, his expression warm and natural.
"I imagine it's because Lady Olenna has a habit of revealing the truth of things with a single sentence."
"And most people… are not very willing to face their true selves—especially the less flattering parts."
His answer was nearly flawless.
He neither denied nor admitted anything about Loras, while elevating the conversation to a broader reflection on human nature.
Everyone fears being seen through.
That wasn't just Loras's feeling—it was universal.
And perhaps… Loras's willingness to pursue love in spite of that fear was its own kind of courage.
A flicker of appreciation passed through Margaery's eyes.
This man handled himself impeccably—offering her a graceful way forward while firmly holding his own ground.
A pity his birth was so low.
She fell silent for a moment, as if carefully choosing her next words.
Then she took a quiet breath.
For an instant, it was as though the mask slipped—revealing something more genuine, even carrying a trace of youthful boldness.
"Ser Odin."
"I want to ask you a question. Please… answer me honestly."
Her phrasing was deliberate.
Not tell me the truth—but answer honestly.
The former demands; the latter invites.
A subtle distinction—yet a meaningful one.
The Little Rose of Highgarden, indeed.
Odin noted it inwardly, then gave a small nod, his expression turning serious.
"Please."
Margaery lifted her head, her large brown eyes fixed on him—clear, almost pleading. Her lips parted slightly.
"The attack two days ago…"
"Was it arranged by you?"
No buildup.
No detours.
Straight to the heart of the matter.
This was Margaery Tyrell—gentle and graceful on the surface, yet sharp and direct beneath.
Their gazes met.
She may have already known the answer.
But she still chose to hear it from him.
Not for revenge. Not for threats.
But to decide whether he was worth trusting—worth working with.
Smart, Odin thought.
The most direct question, to obtain the most critical answer.
No pointless games—because she understood that with someone who knew the rules, such tricks only wasted time.
"Lady Margaery."
Odin met her eyes without the slightest hint of evasion. Calm. Steady.
As if he had long expected the question.
As if it were no more remarkable than being asked whether it might rain tomorrow.
"In this city… some questions—"
He didn't get to finish.
At that moment, a loud argument erupted near the entrance of the hall.
The shouting was intense—laced with colorful insults about one another's families. The accent was unfamiliar, not of the Crownlands, yet somehow… carried a strange, almost poetic flair.
Odin frowned slightly.
Then he inclined his head toward Margaery.
"My apologies, my lady. If you'll excuse me."