Chapter 140: He's Just a Damn Miner!
Duskendale lay about a day's ride north of King's Landing.
Inside the castle's main hall, Count Reveray Rykker lounged in a carved wooden chair, leisurely sipping a glass of red wine from his own vineyards—as if the king's death had nothing to do with him.
The doors opened softly.
"My lord," the steward reported in a low voice, "your visitor has arrived."
"Let him in."
The steward withdrew.
Moments later, a figure entered.
He wore a heavy travel cloak, hood pulled low to hide most of his face. His gait was uneven—one leg clearly injured. He stopped ten paces from Reveray and gave a slightly awkward bow.
"Lord Rykker."
His voice was hoarse and rasping, as if his throat had been damaged.
Reveray glanced at him, set down his wine, and tapped the armrest lightly.
"Remove your hood. In my castle, no one hides their face."
After a brief hesitation, the man obeyed.
The candlelight revealed a face that was impossible to forget—no nose, one eye smaller than the other, eyelid twisted unnaturally, and coarse black hair scattered across his skin. Grotesque.
Yet Reveray showed no disgust.
He simply nodded.
"We've met before. Rorge, wasn't it?"
Rorge nodded.
Reveray studied him with mild amusement.
"Lord Tywin Lannister has put a bounty of one hundred gold dragons on your head. Do you realize that by walking into my castle, you're offering yourself up for profit?"
Rorge stiffened—but didn't retreat.
"I know the risk, my lord."
"But I also know House Rykker doesn't rush to take sides."
"Not taking sides doesn't mean sheltering fugitives," Reveray replied, rising and strolling toward the hearth. Firelight danced across his face.
"Especially now. The king is dead, the city is under lockdown, and Tywin is hunting Black Hand remnants."
"I could hand you over, take the gold, and earn Lannister favor. A very profitable deal."
"You could," Rorge admitted, voice rougher still.
"But Ser Odin once said your son, Lake Rykker, was his friend."
"He said if I ever had nowhere else to go, I could come to House Rykker."
"Not because you'd help me—but because you'd at least hear me out."
At the name Odin, Reveray's fingers paused.
He turned back slowly.
"Odin is dead. Or so the realm believes."
"The Redwyne fleet mutinied, Paxter Redwyne was killed, and Odin shouted Tywin's name before jumping into the sea. That news spread three days ago."
"And yet you speak of a dead man?"
"He's not dead!" Rorge stepped forward, voice rising.
"I know he isn't! I believe it!"
"I need House Rykker's help to find him."
"King's Landing is in chaos. Tywin has purged Flea Bottom, arrested our people, dismantled everything we built."
"Only Odin can fix this—only he can lead us—"
"Lead you to what?" Reveray cut in with a cold laugh.
"You're naïve."
"Odin may be clever, but he's facing Tywin Lannister. No one beats Tywin Lannister."
"He can!"
Rorge's face twisted with intensity.
"He wiped out the Brave Companions alone!"
"In King's Landing, he built everything from nothing—he brought order to Flea Bottom! He even defeated the Mountain!"
His voice echoed through the hall, feverish with conviction.
"He's different!"
"He's not like those nobles. He understands us—thugs, whores, beggars, sailors, laborers!"
"He knows what we need. He gave us fairness. Dignity!"
He forced himself to calm down.
"My lord… I know you owe me nothing. But if you find him and bring him back, the Black Hand will pay any price."
---
Reveray fell silent.
He returned to his seat, lifted his wine—but didn't drink.
Instead, he watched the dark red liquid swirl.
After a long pause, he spoke:
"Prove it."
Rorge blinked.
"Prove what?"
Reveray didn't answer.
He clapped his hands.
A servant entered, carrying a wooden tray.
On it lay a heavy butcher's cleaver.
The servant placed it before Rorge and withdrew.
"If you truly believe in Odin," Reveray said calmly, "if you'd do anything for him—prove it."
"Cut off your right hand."
His lips curved faintly.
"It's only a hand. In exchange for House Rykker's support? A fair trade."
Rorge stared at the cleaver.
His breathing grew heavy.
He looked at the blade… then at his hand.
The hand that fed him. Fought for him.
"You… you're joking," he rasped.
"I never joke."
Reveray leaned back.
"Cut it—or leave."
Silence.
Sweat beaded on Rorge's scarred face.
His left hand trembled.
His right clenched tight.
At last—
He reached out.
Gripped the cleaver.
It was heavy.
He raised it slowly, eyes fixed on his wrist.
"Ser Odin once said…" he muttered, as if convincing himself,
"If there must be sacrifice… it must be worth it."
He clenched his teeth.
Raised the blade high.
"For the Black Hand!"
---
"Enough."
A voice came from the side corridor.
Familiar.
Rorge's eyes snapped open.
The cleaver froze mid-air.
He turned—
Two figures emerged from the shadows.
One was Lake Rykker.
The other—
The cleaver slipped from Rorge's grasp with a loud clang.
His mouth fell open.
Firelight revealed a man of steady build, black hair slightly disheveled, travel-worn but sharp-eyed.
Dressed plainly, like a merchant.
Nothing like the infamous underworld king he once was.
"Ser… Odin?" Rorge whispered.
Odin only smiled.
"I told you," he said calmly, stepping forward, "Rorge is someone worth trusting, Lord Rykker. Your test was unnecessary."
"Necessary tests are always necessary," Reveray replied, sipping his wine—and pouring another for Odin.
"Especially now."
Rorge stood there, stunned.
He looked from Odin… to Lake… to Reveray.
Struggling to process it all.
"Ser…" his voice cracked, "you're alive… we all thought…"
"You thought I was dead?"
Odin chuckled, stepping closer and placing a hand on his shoulder—a simple gesture that nearly brought Rorge to tears.
"It was just a swim. Not that easy to kill me."
"But you… you look like hell."
Rorge glanced at his torn clothes and scars, forcing a bitter smile.
"King's Landing has changed, ser."
"Everything changed after you left."
"Three days after you were gone, Tywin struck. He sent Addam Marbrand with hundreds of Gold Cloaks."
"They stormed Flea Bottom… seized the Order Hall… shut down every casino, tavern, and warehouse…"
"They said the Black Hand is illegal."
His fists tightened.
"They arrested many of us…"
---
Odin listened in silence.
Expression unreadable.
Beside him, Reveray and Lake exchanged a glance—
And said nothing.
Rorge continued, his voice growing heavier:
"Old Moss, Tom… everyone who ran things in Flea Bottom—either captured or gone."
He paused, lowering his tone.
"Iggo tried to hold the Order Hall. You know him… that kid's never been afraid of dying."
"He stood alone at the entrance, cut down six Gold Cloaks with his sword. But there were too many. They threw a fishing net over him, pinned his legs with spears…"
"When they dragged him away, he was still cursing them—in Dothraki."
A faint twitch flickered across Odin's eyelid.
"Where is he now?"
"In the dungeons of the Red Keep," Rorge replied. "I asked around. Tywin Lannister didn't execute him… not yet. Don't know why."
"Tywin Lannister never does anything without purpose," Odin said calmly. "Go on."
Suddenly, Rorge took a deep breath—and grinned.
"They've taken everything… but those idiots don't know how to run it."
"They've ruined it all, ser."
"After you left, Flea Bottom's business collapsed."
Odin frowned slightly.
"Be specific."
Rorge raised his thick fingers and began counting, one by one.
"First—gambling dens."
"We used to pull in three hundred gold dragons a month. Now? Not even a hundred."
"Why?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"The Gold Cloaks changed all the rules. Every table's rigged now—nine out of ten gamblers lose. When they lose too much, they fight. Just these past few days—three people dead."
"What honest man would still go there?"
"Fewer gamblers means less cut. Less cut means higher taxes. Now every table pays five silver stags a day in 'security fees.'"
"And the result? Even less profit. Three houses already shut down. The rest are barely breathing."
He lifted another finger.
"Now the brothels."
"Used to be twenty houses—bringing in two hundred gold a month. Now there are five left, and they can't even scrape together a hundred a week."
"The girls? Sick, gone, or run away. And the Gold Cloaks still want more—charging a 'body tax' per girl."
"Body tax!" he spat.
"Half their earnings go to the brothel, the other half to taxes. What's left? A few coppers?"
"The pretty ones all fled back to Silk Street. What's left in Flea Bottom? The old, the sick, the desperate. Customers don't come anymore."
---
At this, Lake Rykker gave a dismissive snort, swirling his wine.
"Underground business has always been like that. Ups and downs. What's strange about it?"
Rorge glanced at him but didn't argue. He continued:
"And bread. Grain."
"We used to have contracts with grain merchants in King's Landing. Cheap. Not fresh, but enough to keep people alive."
"We set up four grain points in Flea Bottom. Sold at fair prices. No profit—just so people wouldn't starve."
"But once the Gold Cloaks took over? They shut it all down. Said it 'disrupted the market.'"
"Now a few merchants control all the grain. Prices tripled. And even then—frequent shortages!"
Rorge let out a harsh laugh, full of bitterness.
"You know the best part, ser?"
"Food's too expensive, people can't afford it. So they steal. They rob."
"Crime rises. The Gold Cloaks send more men. More men means more taxes. More taxes mean higher prices."
"Those lords built themselves a perfect little circle—and trapped themselves in it!"
---
Lake finally snapped:
"And what's your point?"
"Tywin didn't purge Flea Bottom to run your little businesses. How much money is there in those wretches anyway?"
He took a sip, voice dripping with aristocratic indifference.
"King's Landing is huge. Every day businesses open and close. Some get rich, some starve."
"That's normal. That's how it's always been."
---
Rorge fell silent.
He stared at Lake for a long moment.
Then slowly grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth.
"You're right, young lord. Completely normal."
"That's not normal."
The words cut through the hall.
Odin had lifted his head.
Firelight split his face—half illuminated, half swallowed in shadow.
His eyes gleamed coldly.
"Lake."
"You call that normal?"
Lake shifted under that gaze, uneasy—but nodded anyway.
"Yes… that's how things work."
"Some live well. Some don't."
---
Odin rose slowly.
The movement was calm—but the entire room seemed to change.
The air tightened.
Even the fire dimmed.
He stepped forward, each footfall measured.
"Then answer me this."
"If all the farmers in Duskendale starve—who grows your food?"
Lake froze.
"If all the craftsmen go bankrupt—who makes your tools? Your cloth? Your houses?"
"If all the merchants leave—who pays your taxes? Who keeps your port alive?"
Odin stopped before him, looking down at the seated noble.
"This isn't governance."
"This is plunder. The most short-sighted, idiotic kind of plunder."
"You think Tywin Lannister is ruling?"
He shook his head.
"Let me tell you what ruling is."
"Ruling is building roads. Laying bridges. Digging wells."
"Ruling is enabling trade. Giving even the lowest man a way to earn his bread through labor."
"Ruling is order—not fear-based order, but hope-based order."
"It's making people believe: if I work hard, if I follow the rules, I can live with dignity."
---
He turned sharply, gaze sweeping the hall.
And spoke the words that would echo for years to come:
"Tywin Lannister understands none of this."
"He thinks ruling means control. Extraction. Taking everything of value."
A faint, cold smile touched his lips.
"From today onward…"
"I'll make sure everyone understands—"
"Tywin Lannister doesn't know how to rule."
"He's nothing but a damned miner."