Chapter 121: An Impossible Task
The next morning, at the Hand's Tower.
Slanted sunlight spilled across the dark carpet.
Odin stood quietly in the center of the study, about ten paces from the massive oak desk behind which Tywin Lannister sat reviewing documents.
Today, Odin wore a fitted dark-gray wool coat with no family sigil—elegant, but understated. His signature Black Hand cloak was absent. He stood upright yet relaxed, his gaze calm as it rested on the Lord of Casterly Rock.
He waited patiently.
As if he could stand there for an entire morning without moving.
Tywin's hand, holding the quill, was steady as stone. He worked swiftly, seemingly absorbed in his papers, paying no attention to the other man in the room.
Odin showed no reaction.
He understood very clearly—no matter that he now held a title, before Tywin Lannister, the true center of power in the Seven Kingdoms, a knight and a commoner were no different in essence.
Time passed.
After about a quarter of an hour, Tywin finally set down his quill and lifted his green eyes to look at him.
"Sit, Ser Odin."
"There's no need to be so formal."
His words sounded courteous, but there was no warmth in them. Still, Odin caught the faint trace of approval hidden deep within Tywin's gaze.
The wait had been a test.
Tywin had been observing—whether this newly risen knight, whose reputation and influence had surged overnight, would grow arrogant… whether he would forget his place.
And Odin's composed humility had given him the answer he wanted.
At least, on the surface.
"Thank you, my lord."
Only then did Odin bow slightly and take his seat, without showing even the slightest hint of displeasure.
"Ser Clegane's injuries are severe," Tywin said suddenly, not getting to the point, but speaking as if in casual conversation.
"Grand Maester Pycelle worked through the night. He lost a great deal of blood and remains unconscious."
"But as you said—his life is not in danger."
Odin's expression did not change.
"As I said, my lord, I am first and foremost a physician."
"Understanding the human body is the foundation of accurate judgment. When I say his life is not in danger, it is based on professional assessment."
Tywin gave a nearly imperceptible nod, as if accepting the explanation.
Then, without warning, he shifted the topic.
"You seem to have a good relationship with Oberyn Martell."
Odin's pupils shrank slightly.
The blood feud between Dorne and the Lannisters was known across the Seven Kingdoms. The hatred Oberyn had displayed last night toward Tywin and the Mountain had been unmistakable.
Tywin would not bring this up without purpose.
Odin's mind raced, weighing his words carefully.
"Prince Oberyn… has a rather unique temperament."
"We had a small wager before. I was fortunate enough to win, and he appreciates those willing to take risks. So he owes me a favor—nothing more."
He downplayed the relationship, framing it as nothing beyond mutual amusement and a debt of honor—certainly not an alliance.
Tywin did not pursue the matter further.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward the window, as if recalling the past.
"Ser Odin, you may not know—when King Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion, House Lannister joined the victors at the very last moment."
"To secure our place, we had to demonstrate sufficient… sincerity."
He turned back, his tone calm as he recounted events from over a decade ago.
"When I presented the bodies of Aerys II Targaryen's grandchildren, wrapped in Lannister cloaks, before the Iron Throne… everyone understood."
"We had severed all ties with House Targaryen."
"Robert himself was most pleased. Even a man like him understood—so long as Rhaegar's bloodline lived, his crown would never sit securely."
"And since he preferred to style himself a hero and liberator… someone had to do the necessary dirty work."
The air in the study grew heavy.
Tywin spoke openly—without hesitation—of the bloodshed behind the Lannisters' rise.
Not as confession.
But as instruction.
A lesson.
Power was built on corpses. Loyalty and value were proven through the dirtiest tasks.
Odin listened quietly, showing neither shock nor discomfort.
After a moment, he spoke.
"My lord, I have always believed that in the game of power, 'greatness' and 'filth' are often synonymous."
"Beneath every stable throne lie bones and secrets best left buried. Crowns that shine in the sunlight must be polished and upheld by hands working in the shadows."
"That is the price—unchanging through the ages."
There was no moral judgment in his tone.
Only acknowledgment.
He recognized the logic… the necessity.
And more importantly—he demonstrated that he understood the rules of the game.
A faint glimmer of approval passed through Tywin's eyes.
"Indeed."
"We did the dirty work for King Robert, and in return secured a lasting alliance between House Lannister and House Baratheon."
"And among those tasks… Ser Clegane contributed the most."
He did not say it outright—but the implication was clear.
Then his gaze sharpened.
"You are very clever, Ser Odin."
"Very clever."
"You understand timing. You understand rules. And you understand when to remain silent."
"But clever men have a flaw—they are loyal to their own ambition… not to any one man or house."
Now the warning was unmistakable.
Yet Odin remained silent.
Tywin leaned forward slightly, the pressure in the room intensifying.
"I did the dirty work for Robert, and after more than a decade, I sit as Hand of the King."
"Clegane did my dirty work, and I granted him knighthood, lands, and my protection."
"And you?"
His green eyes locked onto Odin like blades.
"What have you done for me?"
"How should I trust your loyalty?"
The question struck like a dagger at the throat.
No more games.
Odin met his gaze without flinching.
He knew—any vague answer or empty promise would be fatal.
Slowly, he stood.
He placed his right hand over his chest and bowed slightly.
"My lord."
"I… will always be your hand in the dark."
He repeated the oath he had once given—and continued:
"Last night, Ser Clegane disrupted my banquet. But he also damaged the honor of House Lannister."
"Yet because he is your man, I ultimately abided by your judgment."
He framed his actions as loyalty.
Respect.
Then he straightened, his voice calm and steady.
"You have granted me a knighthood… and recognized my authority in Flea Bottom."
"What I seek is simple—to continue serving as your hand."
"And one day… to earn a seat on the Small Council, to serve at your command."
He asked for no lands. No titles.
Only a place.
A future.
Humble—but ambitious in just the right measure.
Tywin studied him in silence.
Weighing sincerity against calculation.
At last, he leaned back, the pressure easing slightly.
"Very good."
"Remember your words, Ser Odin."
"Now—tell me your plan."
"For the expansion of Flea Bottom."
Odin thought to himself—this old lion is far too cautious.
But it didn't matter.
For now, Tywin still needed him.
He sat back down, unrolled his "presentation"—parchment instead of slides—and began to explain.
The plan had been in preparation for a long time.
It combined ideas from his previous life with the realities of Westeros—street grids, drainage systems, zoning districts, commercial integration, profit structures…
He spoke clearly, methodically.
Not just grand visions—but practical steps.
Detailed.
Grounded.
Convincing.
Tywin listened in silence, only occasionally interrupting with sharp, pointed questions. Each time, Odin responded with clear logic and solid reasoning.
As the explanation went deeper, a trace of appreciation began to appear in Tywin's gaze.
As if he were thinking—this man is actually a genius.
The level of detail in the plan was almost unheard of. Some of the infrastructure concepts alone were things even the Lord of Casterly Rock had never encountered.
"…That concludes the overview, my lord."
Odin finished and let out a quiet breath.
Fortunately, in his previous life, he had once chased after a girl studying urban planning—spending countless days sitting in on her lectures at another university. Otherwise, he would have been completely lost on this subject.
"In principle, I approve of your entire plan."
Tywin gave his answer directly.
"Clear thinking. Thorough consideration. Far superior to those fools on the Small Council who do nothing but argue over budgets and responsibilities."
But then, his tone shifted.
"However, I have a concern, Ser Odin."
"One that may affect the council's support for your project."
"Please, my lord." Odin inclined his head slightly. He knew the real matter had finally arrived.
Tywin rose from his chair, walked around the desk, and stopped before a large map of Westeros.
His finger tapped a small island in the southeast—not far from King's Landing.
"Stannis Baratheon."
Tywin spoke the name coldly.
"He may have lost the Battle of the Blackwater, but he still holds Dragonstone and continues to proclaim himself the rightful king."
"Storm's End remains in resistance. He harasses the Crownlands' coast and allies himself with sellswords across the Narrow Sea."
"He is… an ongoing problem."
He turned, his green eyes locking onto Odin.
"I originally intended to assign the task of reclaiming Dragonstone to Gregor Clegane."
"But as you can see, Ser Clegane will not be swinging his sword anytime soon."
He stepped closer.
"So, Ser Odin…"
"Would you be willing to go in his place—and attempt to persuade Stannis Baratheon to surrender?"
Odin's pupils shrank.
Persuade Stannis?
That stubborn, iron-willed man?
Everyone knew—it was impossible.
If Stannis could be persuaded so easily, he would never have held Dragonstone after Robert Baratheon's death, standing against both Lannister and Tyrell forces.
Persuasion?
This was closer to a death sentence.
"Of course," Tywin continued calmly, "I understand the difficulty. If you are unwilling, I will not blame you."
"But considering that the expansion of Flea Bottom may cause unrest similar to the previous riots… I will assign Ser Addam with two hundred City Watch soldiers to assist you in maintaining order."
The moment he said it, Odin understood.
So this was the trap.
"Assistance" meant surveillance.
Division.
Control.
Once the expansion was complete, the Gold Cloaks could easily step in and take over everything.
The air seemed to freeze.
Odin's mind raced faster than ever.
Refuse?
Then all his declarations of loyalty would become empty words—and everything he had built in Flea Bottom might be taken from him.
Accept?
Nine chances out of ten—death.
"Don't worry, Ser Odin."
Noticing the hesitation, a faint, almost invisible smile flickered in Tywin's eyes.
"I know Stannis is stubborn. Convincing him is nearly impossible."
"You need only go to Dragonstone, deliver the Iron Throne's position, and inform him that Storm's End will soon fall to House Tyrell. Once that happens, his forces will be isolated."
"Simple, isn't it?"
His words were elegant.
But everyone knew the truth.
Approaching Stannis now—after defeat—was more likely to end with a sword… or worse, a fire offered to some red god.
This wasn't an option.
It was pressure.
If Odin refused, Tywin would have every reason to withdraw his support—and move the City Watch into Flea Bottom.
But after a brief silence, under Tywin's gaze—
Odin stood.
He met the older man's eyes calmly.
A few seconds passed.
Then he bowed slightly, his voice steady and firm.
"I said before, my lord…"
"I will always be your hand in the dark."
"Therefore—"
"I would be honored to go and meet this… King of Dragonstone."