Chapter 141 — The Flames Will Burn Again (2 in 1)
Morning fog wrapped around Flea Bottom like a burial shroud.
Marg stuffed the last scraps of wood shavings into the stove, watching the pitiful little flame lick at the bottom of the pot.
Inside simmered yesterday's leftover beans and half a rotten fish head—something she'd spent two hours scavenging from the banks of the Blackwater Rush to find. She had nearly been arrested by patrolling Goldcloaks in the process, mistaken for a fish thief.
"Mom… hungry."
Her daughter Lina tugged weakly at her skirt, her eyes unnaturally large in her thin face.
The girl was already five years old, yet looked barely three. Her ribs protruded sharply beneath paper-thin skin, bluish veins visible underneath.
"Just wait a little longer. Bread will come soon."
Marg spoke words she didn't even believe herself.
She glanced out the window toward the alley entrance, where Tom's bakery remained tightly shuttered. Normally, by this hour, the smell of the first batch of black bread would already be drifting through the streets.
Ever since the man everyone called "Lord Odin" had arrived, Lina had never gone hungry again.
But one week ago, men in golden cloaks took over Flea Bottom.
Since then, Lina hadn't smelled fresh bread once.
The whole district felt as though it had reverted to its old self overnight.
A few days earlier, Marg's husband Karl had shattered his leg while unloading cargo at the docks.
The foreman tossed him five copper pennies and sent him away.
Now Karl lay feverish on the bed every day, mumbling deliriously while pus seeped from the wound.
Marg had begged the Goldcloaks to summon a maester.
The young soldier had only laughed.
"A dockworker wants a maester?"
She had cried for hours afterward.
Because when Odin was still around, Flea Bottom had its own clinic.
Treatment was nearly at cost price.
If someone truly had no money, they could keep a tab—or repay the debt through labor. Cleaning streets, hauling cargo, anything.
Now the clinic had been seized by the Goldcloaks and turned into a "security station."
A crimson lion banner hung above the entrance.
The scent of herbs was gone.
Only sweat and sour ale remained.
"Mom, look."
Lina pointed outside.
Marg turned and saw people gathering at the mouth of the alley.
First three or five.
Then more than a dozen.
Women carried empty baskets. Barefoot children shuffled anxiously through the mud. Old men leaned against the walls with hollow eyes.
"Tom! Open up!"
A broad-shouldered woman began pounding on the bakery shutters.
"It's already morning!"
A crack appeared in the wooden window panel, revealing half of Tom's pale face.
"Still… no bread today."
The crowd instantly erupted.
Marg hurried forward, clutching Lina in her arms.
"What happened? Didn't you say flour was arriving today?"
Faced with the crowd's desperate expressions, Tom sighed and pushed the shutters fully open.
Behind him, the bakery stood empty.
The flour sacks piled in the corner were all empty.
The ovens were cold.
Not even a spark remained.
"No flour's getting through," Tom said bitterly. "The Goldcloaks say there are bandits blocking the River Road."
"Bullshit!"
A one-armed man in the crowd roared.
His name was Dyke, a former soldier who had lost an arm during the Battle of the Blackwater.
"I saw three grain wagons come through the Lion Gate yesterday afternoon! Piled higher than a bloody hill!"
Tom grimaced helplessly.
"That flour's for the Red Keep and Silk Street. Flea Bottom hasn't received a single new grain shipment in days."
The words hit like a torch thrown into dry straw.
The crowd exploded with fury.
Dyke shoved people aside and stormed to the window.
"I bled for the king at the Blackwater!"
"And now I can't even get a loaf of bread?!"
"The Goldcloaks promised things would get better after they took over! Back when Lord Odin was here, every one of us could eat!"
"I told you, there's no flour!" Tom shouted back, though his voice trembled. "If you want answers, go ask the Goldcloaks! Go ask the Hand of the King! What good is yelling at me?!"
That answer only enraged them further.
"We want bread!"
"The damned Goldcloaks are trying to starve us!"
"Let's go to the Hall of Order!"
"Make them answer!"
People shouted in outrage all around them.
But Marg simply sank to the ground, clutching Lina tightly as tears streamed down her face.
"Mom?"
Lina tilted her head.
"Are we ever going to eat bread again?"
Marg hugged her daughter tighter without answering.
As she stared at the growing crowd gathering at the alley entrance, she suddenly remembered an afternoon from two months ago.
…
That day, she had carried a feverish Lina to the clinic.
It had been Odin himself who treated her daughter.
Three days later, Lina's fever broke.
"How much do I owe you, my lord?" Marg had asked back then, trembling because she only possessed seven copper pennies.
Odin had looked at her for a long moment before replying:
"When your husband recovers, have him come help unload cargo at the Hall of Order for three days."
…
That wasn't charity.
It was trade.
Fair trade.
The kind that let people survive with their dignity intact.
And now?
Her husband lay waiting to die.
Her daughter had become skin and bones from hunger.
And the Goldcloaks called this "necessary restructuring."
Marg slowly rose to her feet, dusting off her skirt.
At the alley entrance, over thirty people had already gathered—and more kept arriving.
"Come on," she said softly to Lina.
"Where are we going, Mom?"
"To find the people responsible."
---
Steel Street.
The district took its name from the countless blacksmiths and weapon shops lining both sides of the road.
Among them, the pawnshop called Hammer and Coin looked strangely out of place.
Its owner, Lasso, was a lean Braavosi man in his fifties, dressed in a deep purple velvet coat. Three gemstone rings gleamed on his fingers.
In Braavos, those rings signified that he was simultaneously a Keeper of Keys, Witness of Contracts, and Risk Broker.
But at this moment, the wealthiest man on Steel Street was nervously wiping sweat from his bald forehead with a silk handkerchief.
Because three people sat across from him.
A Goldcloak captain.
A royal clerk in robes.
And…
A fully armored knight in crimson plate—Ser Tybolt Hethersbane.
"My lords… the accounts truly do not balance."
Lasso spread three thick ledgers across the table, their pages packed with dense rows of numbers and symbols.
The clerk frowned.
"I can't read this."
"I can translate."
Lasso swallowed nervously.
"In simple terms… Lord Odin—rather, the traitor Odin—borrowed eight thousand gold dragons from me four days before leaving King's Landing."
"He used twelve properties and warehouses in Flea Bottom as collateral."
"These are the contracts. Every one bears his signature, thumbprint, and witness seals."
The clerk took the documents and frowned deeper as he read.
The Goldcloak captain leaned closer curiously.
"What's the problem?"
The clerk pointed at a block of fine print.
"This clause here."
"'Should the borrower lose control of the collateral through involuntary means—including but not limited to war, confiscation, requisition, or administrative seizure—the rights and obligations of the debt shall automatically transfer to the current controlling authority of said collateral.'"
The captain blinked.
"…What does that mean?"
Lasso forced a bitter smile.
"It means that since the Goldcloaks seized those properties… now you owe me eight thousand gold dragons."
"Absurd!"
The captain slammed a hand onto his sword hilt.
"We haven't done a damned thing and suddenly we owe you eight thousand dragons?!"
"You greedy bastard trying to scam us?! Believe me, I can throw you in a Goldcloak prison cell right now!"
"You certainly can, my lord…"
Lasso quickly opened another ledger.
"But I'm not the only creditor."
"Odin borrowed money from thirteen pawnshops across King's Landing using similar contracts. Different sums, different collateral—but nearly identical clauses."
"The total debt…"
He paused.
"…exceeds sixty-two thousand gold dragons."
Dead silence filled the room.
Sixty-two thousand gold dragons.
Enough to fully equip an army of three thousand men.
Equivalent to a fifth of the royal fleet's construction cost.
Half a year of King's Landing's tax revenue.
The captain's face turned scarlet.
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"
"He was just some Flea Bottom thug! How the hell did he have enough assets for collateral?!"
Lasso bent down and dragged an oak chest onto the table.
Inside were stacks upon stacks of deeds and ownership certificates.
"These are all the collateral documents."
The clerk hurriedly flipped through them.
The further he read, the more violently his hands trembled.
Seventeen documents.
Every single one legitimate.
Clear seals.
Valid signatures.
Proper registration numbers.
"These properties… fully justify loans exceeding sixty thousand gold dragons according to lending regulations…"
"Regulations my ass!" the captain roared. "This is obviously a trap!"
Desperate now, he grabbed Lasso by the collar.
"Who were the witnesses?"
Lasso calmly flipped to the final page.
The signatures read:
Reveray Rykker.
Balman Byrch.
Jaime Lannister.
All nobles.
And even…
The seal of the High Septon himself.
The Goldcloak captain closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Only now did he finally understand why Ser Addam Marbrand had looked at him with pity when assigning this task.
"The contract also states…"
Lasso added with faint mockery in his voice:
"If repayment is overdue, interest accumulates at one percent per day."
"Today is the… seventh day overdue."
One percent daily.
On sixty-two thousand dragons.
That meant six hundred and twenty gold dragons every single day.
More than a hundred Goldcloaks earned in an entire year.
And now, theoretically, the Iron Throne itself was liable for the debt.
"Odin truly was an interesting man."
The one who finally spoke was Ser Tybolt Hethersbane, who had remained silent until now.
His tone carried unmistakable amusement.
The others turned toward the old Lannister knight.
"You're… leaving?" the captain asked in disbelief as Tybolt calmly headed for the door.
"Our task isn't finished yet!"
Tybolt glanced back with a faint smile.
"That's not my problem."
"I'm a knight. If I fail this assignment, I can simply return to the Westerlands. I still have lands of my own."
"Right now, I intend to drink a few cups of wine."
"Good luck, gentlemen."
---
The dungeons beneath the Red Keep never saw sunlight.
Inside the third-level interrogation chamber, rusted torture tools hung from the walls. Most were ancient, but several looked newly forged.
Branding irons glowed red within the brazier.
Luna sat quietly in a wooden chair.
Her hands and feet were unbound—an intentional arrangement by the interrogator to display "kindness."
She was thirty-five years old, with neatly pinned brown hair and a plain dark-blue dress beneath a gray apron.
She looked less like a prostitute and more like a market vendor or laundress.
In truth, that was exactly what she had become.
In Flea Bottom, she managed over twenty women sewing clothes, washing garments, and producing simple textiles—work organized under Odin's system.
"Lady Luna."
The interrogator's voice was gentle.
"We're only having a simple conversation today. No need to be nervous."
Luna said nothing.
She simply looked at him calmly.
"We know about your past."
The interrogator flipped through a file.
"You once worked at The Nightingale's Song on Silk Street. You served many clients."
"Later, you became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter named Lysa, correct?"
Luna's fingers tightened slightly.
Nothing else changed.
"It's not easy for a prostitute to raise a child."
The interrogator's voice softened with carefully measured sympathy.
"Your daughter often became ill. You couldn't afford a maester, so you sought help from the man who was still preaching in the streets at the time—the so-called High Sparrow."
"And during that time… certain unpleasant things happened."
"Stop circling around it, my lord."
Luna brushed back her hair and finally spoke calmly.
"If you want something, say it directly."
"We've received some… testimony."
The interrogator narrowed his eyes, his smile growing warmer.
"Someone claims that on the night Lord Odin helped you…"
"…he did something inappropriate to you."
The interrogation chamber fell silent.
Luna looked at the interrogator for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
Not mockingly.
Pitifully.
"My lord… do you know what happened that night?"
"Please," the interrogator replied softly.
"Tell me."
"That night, after Lysa fell asleep, Lord Odin told me to rest as well. He gave me a private room with clean sheets and blankets."
"He said, 'Get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll discuss your future.'"
Luna's voice remained calm.
"I lay in bed unable to sleep. I kept waiting for the door to open. Waiting for him to come in. Waiting for him to demand something from me like every other man always had."
She paused.
"I waited until dawn."
"The door never opened."
"The next morning, Lord Odin had bread and hot soup prepared for me. I hadn't eaten food that good in years."
"After breakfast, he said, 'Luna, your hands are skillful. You're probably good with needlework. There are many women in Flea Bottom who need work, but they don't know what to do or how to organize themselves. Would you be willing to help them?'"
She looked directly at the interrogator.
"That was what he wanted."
"Not my body."
"My ability."
The interrogator fell silent for a few seconds before replying carefully:
"But someone testified—"
"Who?" Luna cut him off.
"The old madam on Silk Street because I helped several girls leave prostitution?"
"Or the women jealous that I can now survive through honest work?"
Her tone never rose, yet every word carried weight.
"My lord, I spent twelve years as a prostitute on Silk Street. I know what men want."
"I know the look of lust."
"I know the look of charity."
"But when Lord Odin looked at me…"
"…there was neither."
"He respected me. He gave me work. He let me earn my life with my own hands."
The interrogator opened his mouth again, but Luna had already stood up.
"If you want me to accuse him of rape, then tie me down."
"Use torture."
"Branding irons. Whips. Whatever you want."
"You can threaten my daughter. She's eight now, studying with the septas in Duskendale."
Her voice finally trembled.
But not from fear.
"You can do all of that, my lord."
"But let me tell you something."
"Even if you cut out my tongue…"
"…it will never say the words you want to hear."
"Because some lies betray the soul the moment they're spoken."
She took a deep breath.
"And I…"
"…never want to betray myself again."
With that, she sat back down quietly, hands folded atop her knees.
And said nothing more.
The interrogator stared at the parchment before him.
At the prepared accusation written across the page:
Odin — Assault of Luna — Date — Location — Witnesses…
The witness section remained blank.
Because there were no witnesses.
Only lies.
---
Not far away.
There were no windows here.
No torches.
Only a single dim oil lamp hanging on the wall, its wick trimmed short, barely illuminating the area around the torture rack.
Iggo hung suspended from the frame.
A rope threaded through an iron ring in the ceiling held his entire body aloft, his toes barely touching the floor.
It was a method designed for prolonged suffering.
The shoulders slowly dislocated.
Breathing became harder with every passing hour.
The jailers knew exactly how to adjust the height—enough pain to break a man, but not enough to kill him too quickly.
He had been hanging there for two days.
The Dothraki's bare torso was covered in wounds.
Burn scars stretched across his chest, stomach, and back. Some places were split open, exposing raw flesh beneath.
His right shoulder had dislocated.
His left knee had swollen grotesquely.
The door creaked open.
Rogen walked inside.
Short and broad, he resembled a moving wall more than a man.
Greasy hair clung to his scalp beneath his jailer's hood.
"Still alive?" he grunted in heavily accented Common Tongue.
Iggo didn't answer.
His head hung low, strands of his braid stuck to his bloodstained face. His eyes were half closed, pupils shrinking slightly in the dim light.
Rogen walked to the corner, dipped a ladle into a bucket, then approached him.
"Want some water?"
Still no response.
Rogen tilted the ladle.
Water splashed onto the branding wounds across Iggo's chest.
"SSSS—!"
Iggo's entire body convulsed violently.
Muscles bulged. Chains rattled.
Saltwater.
But he didn't scream.
Only sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
"Not bad," Rogen nodded approvingly. "Dothraki are strong."
He tossed the ladle aside and walked to the table against the wall.
Several tools lay there:
Pliers.
A small hammer.
Thin iron picks.
And a saw.
Rogen picked up the pliers, weighed them in his hand, then set them back down.
Instead, he chose one of the iron picks.
Without another word, he began.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The iron tip slid between fingernail and flesh.
Cold sweat beaded across Iggo's forehead.
His breathing grew ragged, but still he refused to cry out.
Instead, he muttered softly in Dothraki.
A prayer.
Or perhaps a curse.
Rogen couldn't understand a word.
But he wasn't in a hurry.
He continued pushing the pick inward, studying Iggo's reactions.
Halfway in, Iggo's fingers began twitching uncontrollably.
The pain had clearly exceeded human tolerance.
"Say something I can understand," Rogen said flatly.
"Like how Odin and Stannis Baratheon plotted rebellion."
"I don't know," Iggo finally answered in Common Tongue.
"Then what do you know?"
"I know…"
Iggo slowly opened his eyes and stared upward at the mold-covered ceiling.
"…even if there is no sky here… my soul will ride its horse into the night."
Rogen frowned.
"What?"
"The stars are fire-horses galloping across the darkness… the Great Stallion drives them with his whip…"
"…they race across the heavens all night…"
"…and when dawn comes, the horses grow tired…"
"…that is why day begins…"
Rogen stared at him for several seconds.
Then he suddenly yanked the iron pick free.
"AAH!"
This time Iggo finally screamed.
The pick tore away a strip of flesh beneath the nail, blood instantly streaming down his fingers.
Rogen wiped the bloody pick against Iggo's clothing and picked up the hammer instead.
"I don't care about your grassland myths."
He tapped lightly against Iggo's swollen knee.
"I want facts."
"Is Odin a traitor?"
"Did he conspire with Stannis Baratheon to overthrow the Iron Throne?"
Every tap made Iggo's body twitch violently.
The knee was already badly damaged.
The light strikes felt like bones cracking apart inside his leg.
"Khal Odin…" Iggo gasped weakly. "He is…"
"What is he?"
Iggo fell silent again.
He stared upward toward the ceiling, his eyes gradually unfocusing.
Rogen switched the hammer to his left hand and grabbed Iggo's hair with the other, forcing his face forward.
"Look at me!"
"Tell me what you saw!"
"What did Odin do to you?!"
"Did he use some kind of sorcery? Magic? Is that why you're this loyal?!"
Lamplight danced across Rogen's face, twisting his round features into something monstrous.
But Iggo looked at him strangely.
Then suddenly—
He laughed.
And his voice rose loudly.
"My soul will ride its horse into the night!"
"The stars are fire-horses racing through the sky!"
"The Great Stallion drives them onward with his whip!"
---
In Flea Bottom, the Goldcloaks no longer cared whether commoners lived or died.
Food shortages had become severe.
Many people simply sat against walls to conserve strength.
"Did you hear?"
An old man missing several teeth lowered his voice, staring blankly at the sky.
"The Goldcloaks are sealing Flea Bottom shut."
Several nearby people turned instantly.
"What do you mean?"
"Sealed shut," the old man whispered nervously, glancing around. "Bricking up the alleys. No one allowed in or out."
"My nephew works as a laborer for the Goldcloaks. He overheard it."
"The Hand says Flea Bottom is a disease on King's Landing that needs cutting out."
"Cutting out?"
The old man made a slicing gesture.
"Like rotten flesh."
"Once they're done… Flea Bottom won't exist anymore."
Rumors spread faster than fire.
By midday, panic had swept through the district.
The first clash happened shortly after noon.
At one of the broader alleys in northern Flea Bottom, the Goldcloaks had erected a wooden barricade.
A dozen desperate people tried to force their way through.
"Let us out! We need medicine!"
A man screamed while carrying a feverish little girl in his arms.
"Back off! Area under lockdown!" shouted twenty Goldcloaks holding a spear wall.
"My daughter's sick! She needs a maester!"
"BACK OFF!"
Someone hurled a rock.
It struck a Goldcloak helmet with a loud clang.
The soldier snapped and swung his spear shaft into the crowd.
People screamed.
The crowd exploded in anger.
More and more residents poured out from deeper within Flea Bottom.
They weren't charging.
They simply gathered behind the barricade in growing silence.
That silence felt more terrifying than any scream.
An old cobbler from Pisswater Bend slowly stepped forward.
"I'm fifty-three years old," he said quietly.
"I've seen the Mad King."
"I've seen King Robert."
"And I've seen King Joffrey."
He pointed at the Goldcloaks.
"But I've never seen soldiers of the king stop the king's own people from buying medicine."
"Or food."
"You say this is for 'security.'"
"Then answer me this—"
His voice suddenly thundered through the alley.
"WHOSE SECURITY IS THIS FOR?!"
"If 'security' means old men dying from sickness…"
"…children starving…"
"…women forced to sell themselves just to survive…"
"Then we don't want this security!"
The crowd erupted like thunder.
"That's right!"
"Open the barricades!"
"We want to live!"
More rocks flew.
The Goldcloaks began retreating.
Their captain drew his sword.
"Anyone who advances dies!"
Nobody listened.
The crowd surged like a tidal wave.
The barricades collapsed.
The Goldcloaks scattered.
Some were beaten down.
Others fled without their spears.
The blockade broke.
But outside waited even more Goldcloaks.
An entire hundred-man company in full armor.
Those who escaped were quickly driven back inside.
Flea Bottom had become a true island.
---
By dusk, the anger finally exploded.
The trigger was something small.
A Goldcloak patrol attempted to "confiscate" supplies from a grocery store under the excuse of "strategic ration control."
The owner refused.
It was all the food his family had left.
The Goldcloaks beat him to the ground.
His daughter leapt forward and bit one of the soldiers.
The soldier drew his sword.
And chopped off one of her fingers.
Her scream brought half the street running.
After that—
Everything spiraled out of control.
Rocks.
Clubs.
Broken pots.
Anything that could be lifted became a weapon.
The eight-man Goldcloak patrol was swallowed instantly by an enraged mob.
When reinforcements finally arrived, the patrol was gone.
Later, their bodies were discovered floating in a sewage ditch.
But that was only the beginning.
By evening, torches began appearing throughout Flea Bottom.
Not dozens.
Hundreds.
People emerged from every alley carrying firelight, merging into a river of flame.
All moving toward one destination.
The Hall of Order.
The place where Odin had once built order.
Now the headquarters of the Goldcloaks.
The crowd began chanting.
At first disorganized.
Then unified.
"We don't want the Lannisters!"
"We want the Black Hand!"
"We want Odin!"
The chants grew louder and louder, pounding against the night like war drums.
Marg stood among the crowd, holding Lina tightly.
Beside her stood one-armed Dyke.
The cobbler Hal.
And thousands more.
The people of Flea Bottom.
People driven into despair.
Torchlight illuminated faces twisted by hunger, fury, and hopelessness.
Marg stared ahead at the Hall of Order glowing in the night.
Then she raised her voice with the others.
"We don't want the Lannisters!"
"We want Odin!"
---
Inside the second floor office of the Hall of Order, Humfrey Waters was drinking.
One week earlier, he had been appointed captain of the Flea Bottom division after Ser Balman Byrch was personally dismissed by Tywin Lannister.
Humfrey knew the real reason.
Balman had been Odin's recommendation.
Tywin didn't trust him.
But Humfrey didn't care.
As a bastard, he cared only about profit.
The Flea Bottom captaincy wasn't prestigious—but it was lucrative.
In just one week, Humfrey had collected more than three hundred gold dragons in "inspection fees," "sanitation taxes," and gambling permits.
He took another satisfied drink, already planning tomorrow's collections.
Then he heard something.
At first distant.
Then growing louder.
"We don't want the Lannisters!"
"We want the Black Hand!"
"We want Odin!"
Humfrey froze.
He rushed to the window and shoved it open.
Thousands of torches flooded the narrow streets below like a burning river.
Every face glowed with rage.
Every voice shouted the same name.
Odin.
Half his drunkenness vanished instantly.
He spun toward the door.
"Guards! Form up! Defensive positions!"
No response.
He sprinted downstairs into the main hall.
And stopped dead.
Twenty Goldcloak soldiers lay sprawled everywhere.
Across tables.
On the floor.
Snoring loudly.
Ale jugs rolled across the ground.
Beer pooled everywhere.
"Get up! GET UP!"
Humfrey kicked the nearest man.
The soldier only grunted and rolled over.
A chill ran down Humfrey's spine.
He checked the others.
Every single one was asleep.
Drugged.
The realization struck instantly.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Humfrey spun, sword already drawn.
A man descended the stairs slowly.
Casually.
As though taking an evening walk.
Dark traveling cloak.
Messy black hair.
Eyes bright as stars.
Humfrey knew that face.
Far too well.
Odin.
"You…" Humfrey's sword trembled. "You're supposed to be dead."
Odin ignored the question entirely.
Instead, he walked to the table and picked up an empty wine cup.
"Captain Humfrey Waters."
"This ale is terrible."
"When Ser Balman was here, I kept Arbor gold in this place."
"Balman was dismissed!"
"I know."
Odin set the cup down.
"That's why I came back."
He stepped closer until the sword tip was barely a pace away.
"You have two choices, Humfrey."
"First, remain captain."
"But tomorrow Tywin Lannister will learn that while Flea Bottom rioted, all your soldiers were drugged unconscious."
"And you—Captain Humfrey—not only failed to organize resistance…"
"…you nearly got captured by the mob yourself."
"What do you think Tywin does to incompetent commanders?"
Humfrey's face turned pale instantly.
"Second," Odin continued gently, almost persuasively, "you resign voluntarily."
"You write a letter stating you lack the ability to govern Flea Bottom."
"And recommend Ser Balman Byrch as your replacement."
"He knows this district."
"And frankly, dismissing him was a mistake."
"Why would I do that?" Humfrey hissed.
"Even if I resign, Tywin will never restore Balman!"
"He will," Odin said calmly.
"When thousands march through King's Landing every day chanting 'We Want Balman,' he'll have no choice."
Humfrey looked outside.
The chants were drawing closer.
Torchlight already illuminated the streets surrounding the Hall of Order.
"You stirred them up…" he whispered.
"No."
Odin shook his head.
"I simply gave them a reason."
"A reason for what?"
"To live."
He opened another window.
Night wind rushed inside carrying firelight and roaring voices.
"Humfrey… do you truly understand Flea Bottom?"
"It is the womb of King's Landing."
"Every desperate soul who comes to this city arrives here first."
"Bankrupt farmers."
"Runaway serfs."
"War orphans."
"Small merchants."
"They struggle here."
"They survive."
"They fail."
"And try again."
"If fortune smiles on them, they save enough coin to leave for a better district."
"If not…"
"…they die here, and their corpses end up boiled in the stew pots."
"But no matter what, Flea Bottom remains."
"It absorbs the filth of King's Landing."
"And gives birth to its life."
Odin turned back toward Humfrey.
"I only did one thing during my three months here."
"I gave people the power to choose."
"I gave them choices."
"And they chose order."
"Now Tywin has taken that choice away."
"So…"
He gestured toward the streets outside.
"…they chose this."
As if answering him, another deafening roar rose from outside:
"WE DON'T WANT THE LANNISTERS!"
"WE WANT ODIN!"
At least two thousand people had gathered outside the Hall of Order.
Torchlight turned the night sky red.
People held crude signs painted with charcoal:
"BREAD!"
"WE WANT HEALERS!"
"LANNISTERS OUT!"
Humfrey swallowed hard.
When he turned back around, Odin had already placed a small pouch on the table.
"Three hundred gold dragons."
"Enough for you to leave King's Landing and start over somewhere else."
Humfrey stared at the money.
Then at Odin.
"You'll lose."
After a long silence, he sighed and grabbed the pouch.
"Tywin has armies."
"He has gold."
"He has power."
"You only have… these people."
Odin glanced out the window.
"You're wrong."
"I don't merely have these people."
"I…"
"…am these people."
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he paused briefly.
"You should use the back exit."
"The front door may not be safe."
And then he was gone.
Humfrey rushed to the window.
He watched Odin emerge into the sea of torches.
The crowd exploded into thunderous cheers.
The flames parted around him like waves.
Then swallowed him whole.
Moments later, hands lifted Odin high above the crowd.
Held aloft like a banner.
Like a king.
The procession began moving through the streets of Flea Bottom.
Torches became a river of fire.
The chants shook the night sky.
"Odin!"
"Odin!"
"Odin!"
Humfrey stared in horror.
Not horror of Odin himself—
But horror of something far greater.
Something he could never understand.
And never control.
Clutching the money pouch, Humfrey fled down the back stairs into the dark alleys.
Behind him, the chants continued endlessly.
Torchlight painted half of King's Landing red.
Running breathlessly through the darkness, Humfrey glanced back once toward Flea Bottom.
The sky glowed orange-red.
Like dawn arriving early.
And suddenly, he remembered an old line from a forgotten song about the fall of House Targaryen:
"The dragons died…"
"…but the fire remained."
"And one day…"
"…the flames will burn again."
(That's a long chapter, right? Where are my stones.)