Chapter 146: What Makes You So Disrespectful Toward Me?
The Red Keep was unusually quiet late at night.
Tywin Lannister stepped out of the privy, dressed in a dark crimson night robe, barefoot against the freezing stone floor.
The candle sconces along the corridor cast wavering shadows across the walls, stretching his tall silhouette into something warped and twisted—
Much like his current mood.
The Small Council meeting earlier that day, a gathering that could only be described as a farce, still lingered in his mind.
What infuriated him even more was the fact that some of Oberyn Martell's insults had actually been true.
After a full day of confirmations and reports, Tywin had finally realized that the situation in Flea Bottom was far worse than he had anticipated.
For the first time in years, the man famed for controlling everything had discovered a crack in his rule over King's Landing.
In other words—
Tywin Lannister was furious.
He continued down the corridor.
The door to his bedchamber stood slightly ajar, a faint glow leaking through the crack.
Tywin pushed it open and shut it behind him.
The room carried the subtle scent of lavender.
Then his gaze fell upon the bed.
A seductive silhouette rested beneath the silk blanket.
Even through the sheets, the body beneath looked youthful, full, and overflowing with vitality.
Shae.
The whore who had once belonged to Tyrion Lannister.
Now she belonged to him.
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched slightly.
Not quite a smile—
More a mixture of satisfaction and cold amusement.
Ever since Tyrion's birth, Tywin had despised his dwarf son.
Because Tyrion had taken away the woman he loved most in the world—
Joanna Lannister.
And because House Lannister was not meant to produce dwarfs.
But as Tyrion grew older, his intelligence and arrogance became an increasingly open challenge to Tywin's authority.
Still…
Tywin had to admit one thing.
The dwarf at least had decent taste in women.
This one, in particular, was exquisite.
Of course, taking Shae into his bed was not driven by lust alone.
On one hand, Tywin was preparing for the coming trial.
If Shae was going to testify that Tyrion murdered Joffrey Baratheon, then she needed rewards.
Hope.
Comfort.
Dependence.
On the other hand…
Oberyn's words earlier that day had struck deeper than Tywin wished to admit.
He truly was nearing sixty.
Time was a blade sharper than any Valyrian steel sword.
No man escaped its edge.
Not even Tywin Lannister.
Though he never admitted weakness, even he had begun to notice moments when handling state affairs felt more exhausting than before.
He wanted to prove something.
To prove that Tywin Lannister had not grown old.
Not for anyone else.
For himself.
To reassure himself that his authority, his strength, his will—
Still remained intact.
He sat down at the edge of the bed.
The cool silk beneath him pressed through his robe.
Then Tywin reached out and pulled back the blanket.
Under the candlelight, Shae wore only a nearly transparent silk shift.
The curves of her young body were completely exposed.
Honey-colored skin shimmered softly beneath the dim golden glow.
Delicate collarbones.
A slender waist.
Long smooth legs.
Her eyes remained closed, lashes trembling faintly, as though she had already fallen asleep.
Tywin's fingers touched her shoulder.
Warm.
Soft.
His hand slowly slid downward, tracing her collarbone before gliding across her chest, savoring the vitality of youthful flesh.
Then suddenly—
He noticed something wrong.
The girl was trembling.
Her muscles were tense.
Her breathing was shallow and rapid.
Tywin frowned.
His hand stopped moving.
"What is it?"
His voice was low and commanding, carrying the natural authority he wielded over everyone around him.
This was not the trembling of anticipation.
Not desire.
It looked more like—
Fear.
But Shae did not answer.
She trembled even harder now.
She didn't dare open her eyes.
Instead, she kept them squeezed tightly shut, as though opening them would reveal something horrifying.
Tywin's expression shifted instantly.
Alarm surged through him.
Slowly, his gaze turned toward the dark corner opposite the bed.
The chamber was enormous.
The candlelight only illuminated the center of the room.
The far corners remained drowned in shadow.
Against the wall sat a tall-backed chair, the one Tywin normally used while reading late at night.
Squinting into the darkness—
He realized there was a shape sitting there.
At first it was barely visible, almost fused with the shadows themselves.
But gradually…
A human silhouette emerged.
Someone was sitting in that chair.
Tywin's heart suddenly tightened.
This was the Red Keep.
The Tower of the Hand.
His personal bedchamber.
How could someone possibly be here?
How?!
Tywin abruptly stood and stepped backward several paces.
At the same time, he turned toward the door and shouted loudly:
"Guards! Guards!"
No answer came.
The silence outside was deathly.
Only his own voice echoed briefly through the stone chamber before being swallowed by the night.
Then—
A soft chuckle came from the darkness.
The sound was sharp and mocking, as though the hidden figure found Tywin's panic amusing.
"Stop shouting, Lord Hand."
The voice was calm.
Lazy, even.
Like someone casually chatting with an old friend.
"Before I entered this room, your guards were already sent to meet the Seven."
Tywin froze completely.
That voice…
A face instantly surfaced in his mind.
He drew a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm.
His hand moved subtly toward the bedside table.
A dagger rested there.
Small—
But sharp enough.
Then Tywin spoke.
"Odin?"
The man in the shadows laughed again.
This time the laughter was clearer, carrying an unmistakable trace of mockery.
"Oh~~~"
With that lazy sigh, the figure finally moved.
He rose slowly from the high-backed chair, calm and unhurried, as though he were standing up in his own study.
Then he stepped out of the darkness and into the edge of the candlelight.
For a moment, the flames seemed to freeze.
The white armor reflected the dim glow with the soft sheen of ivory, though streaks of dried blood stained its surface.
The helmet had already been removed and tossed aside casually.
As the candlelight rose from below, half his face remained buried in shadow.
Exactly as Tywin Lannister had expected.
Odin.
The knight Tywin had personally elevated—
And later betrayed.
Now he stood inside the Hand's bedchamber.
Yet there was no killing intent in his eyes.
No rage.
No triumph.
Only deep, terrifying calm.
The kind of calm that belonged to a man utterly convinced he controlled the situation.
Candlelight flickered within his pupils—
But could not illuminate the darkness beneath them.
"This helmet reeks."
Odin spoke casually as he tossed the white helm onto the floor.
Metal slammed against stone with a dull clang that echoed repeatedly through the silent room.
"Even after having it scrubbed several times…"
"That smell from Meryn Trant just won't go away."
Tywin stood motionless.
Bare feet pressed against the freezing floor.
His fingers twitched ever so slightly.
In nearly sixty years of life, he had endured betrayal, war, slaughter, and rebellion.
He had watched countless people die before him.
But never—
Never had a man wearing the white armor of the Kingsguard stood inside his bedroom and calmly informed him that every guard outside was already dead.
And only a few months ago—
That same man had been nothing more than peasant.
"Honestly, Lord Tywin."
Odin took another slow step forward.
The bloodied sword remained loosely in his hand, its tip angled toward the floor.
"Only four guards?"
"As Hand of the King, your security arrangements are embarrassingly careless."
Then he grinned.
There was no warmth in the smile.
Yet strangely enough, it felt sincere.
"If you'd like, the Hall of Order can provide you with the finest security service available."
"Of course…"
"Not for free."
After the initial shock, Tywin had already regained his composure.
For one brief moment, fear truly had surfaced within him—
But for Tywin Lannister, mastering such emotions came naturally.
"You appear here at this hour."
Tywin stared coldly at him.
"What is it you want?"
He neither retreated nor reached for the dagger resting on the bedside table.
He did not call for help again either.
Because he already understood one thing clearly:
If Odin had intended to kill him, he could have done so earlier—
When Tywin had been sitting alone on the privy, utterly defenseless.
The fact that he waited until now meant this was not a simple assassination.
Odin tilted his head slightly, as though the question bored him.
Dragging the chair behind him forward, he dropped into it lazily.
The sword rested upright against the floor while he propped his chin atop the pommel.
"According to the changing schedule of the Tower of the Hand guards…"
He tapped his temple lightly with one finger, calculating.
"There should be…"
"…two hours remaining."
"Subtract the half hour you spent taking a shit…"
"We still have an hour and a half."
"In that time, nobody will interrupt us."
Silence followed.
Tywin slowly crossed to the other side of the bed where another high-backed chair stood waiting.
He sat down with measured dignity.
The crimson robe pooled around him like flowing blood beneath the candlelight.
Even now—
Barefoot.
Wearing a night robe.
Facing an armed intruder in his own bedroom—
He still carried himself like the Hand of the King.
"You know the guard rotations well."
"Far better than you imagine."
Odin smiled faintly.
"If a man can't master his enemy's routines…"
"How could he possibly deserve a seat at the negotiating table?"
"Are we enemies?"
"We can be."
"Or we don't have to be."
"That depends entirely on your next choice, Lord Tywin."
Tywin watched him silently.
His green eyes resembled deep pools beneath the candlelight.
Odin lowered his gaze toward the blood on his sword.
His fingers brushed lightly across the crimson stain before lifting them toward the flame to inspect them carefully.
"They say Tywin Lannister shits gold."
He spoke suddenly, his tone almost curiously playful.
"But apparently…"
"…your ability to produce excrement isn't nearly as impressive as House Lannister's ability to pull gold from the earth."
One of Tywin's facial muscles twitched visibly.
Grinding his teeth slightly, he answered:
"I do, in fact, own a golden privy."
"At Casterly Rock."
"If you're interested, I can give it to you."
"Hahahaha!"
Odin burst into genuine laughter.
Loud.
Open.
Amused.
The sound echoed sharply through the deathly silent chamber.
On the bed, Shae trembled again, burying her face deeper into the pillow.
"Oh, come on."
Odin waved dismissively.
"That sounds exhausting to wipe."
Then his expression changed.
The teasing vanished.
What remained was something cold and serious.
"You broke my heart, Tywin Lannister."
"As the hand operating in darkness, I cleaned the filth from Flea Bottom for you."
"I built order."
"I kept this city breathing in the corners you refused to see…"
"Even if those breaths smelled of poverty and despair."
"You sent me to Dragonstone to persuade Stannis Baratheon."
"We both knew that mission was impossible."
"But I still went."
"And now…"
"I've returned."
He paused.
His gaze fixed upon Tywin's unreadable face like a physical weight.
"I came home…"
"…only to discover my house crawling with rats in golden cloaks."
Then Odin leaned slightly forward.
"So tell me, Tywin Lannister…"
"What exactly made you disrespect me this much?"
"Since the moment you entered this room…"
"…you haven't once addressed me as 'Ser.'"
Even Tywin had not expected such direct hostility.
Only now did he truly realize—
The man before him was no longer the obedient knight who once bowed before him.
Or perhaps that relationship had already died the moment Tywin moved against Flea Bottom.
They were no longer Hand and sworn knight.
Now they were simply two men standing on opposite sides.
"I gave you room to survive."
Tywin finally answered after a long silence.
"I gave you power and a title, Odin."
"And I can take them back whenever I wish."
"You would do well to remember that."
"And you should remember something too, Tywin Lannister."
Before Tywin could finish, Odin cut him off sharply.
"I know you're trying to stall for time."
"But let me remind you of something."
"While I have no intention of killing you on the privy…"
"That's not my style."
"If you continue delaying until the next shift arrives…"
He leaned forward slightly.
The candlelight cast deep shadows across his face.
"I guarantee…"
"…you'll die before I do."
"The choice is yours, Lord Hand."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
Tywin's fingers tightened around the armrest until the knuckles whitened.
He looked at Odin's unreadable eyes.
The bloodstained white armor.
The sword held steadily in his grasp.
At last, the old lion exhaled slowly.
"Then let us speak plainly."
"What do you want?"
"Or rather…"
"What is your goal, Ser Odin?"
Odin tilted his head.
"Flea Bottom."
"I want you to withdraw every Gold Cloak."
"I want you to recognize Flea Bottom's autonomy."
"From this day forward…"
"It belongs to me."
"My people will govern it."
"My rules will decide everything there."
Silence filled the chamber for several seconds.
"Autonomy?"
Tywin let out a cold laugh.
"Do you even understand what you're saying?"
"Flea Bottom is part of King's Landing."
"It belongs to the Iron Throne."
"And you—a knight personally raised by me—now demand that I carve out a piece of my own capital and hand it to you?"
He shook his head slowly.
Absolute refusal filled his tone.
"That is impossible."
"King's Landing must remain fully under the Iron Throne's authority."
"Under my authority."
"I will not allow any district to slip beyond my control."
"Not even Flea Bottom."
Tywin's answer came without hesitation.
But Odin merely raised his left hand and slowly dragged his fingernail across the sword's edge, producing a shrill metallic scrape.
"It seems you still haven't grasped the situation."
"So let me explain it to you, Lord Hand."
"First…"
"From last night until now, your Gold Cloaks have eaten exactly one meal of moldy black bread."
"An army of three thousand surrounding a slum while starving themselves…"
"That alone is already a joke."
"Second…"
"From last night until tonight, twenty-three officers stationed around Flea Bottom have suffered unfortunate accidents."
Then he paused.
His eyes locked onto Tywin's without mercy.
"And third…"
"The most important point of all."
"You are sitting here barefoot in a night robe…"
"While the four guards outside your door are already corpses."
"If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead."
"The fact that I'm sitting here negotiating instead…"
"…should tell you who truly controls the situation."
Tywin's expression darkened.
But he still refused to yield.
"Control?"
The old lion's voice remained iron-hard despite the sword before him.
"You think killing a few Gold Cloaks and bribing a quartermaster amounts to control?"
"This afternoon, the quartermaster who accepted your bribes was publicly executed by Ser Addam Marbrand for corruption and treason."
"His corpse is still hanging outside Flea Bottom."
"The new quartermaster was personally selected by Kevan."
"His entire family lives in Rosby."
"His loyalty has been tested for twenty years."
Tywin slowly rose to his feet.
Arrogant confidence radiated from every word.
"Your bribery game ends here."
Silence.
Odin folded both hands atop the sword hilt.
A long time passed.
So long that Tywin almost believed he would not answer.
Then suddenly—
He smiled.
"My dear Lord Hand…"
His voice softened almost affectionately.
"Are you truly certain…"
"…that the new quartermaster isn't one of my men too?"
Tywin's hand twitched almost imperceptibly.
"That man was personally selected by Kevan."
"He cannot be compromised."
Though this time, his voice lacked certainty.
"Yes."
Odin nodded calmly.
"Alaric Vaughn."
"A very upright old soldier."
"Wife and children in Rosby."
"Twenty years of proven loyalty."
"A perfect choice."
The moment Odin spoke the new quartermaster's full name—
A man appointed less than two hours ago—
Tywin froze completely.
Firelight danced across his face.
Something inside those green eyes seemed to harden.
Odin slowly stood.
Lifting the sword lightly from the ground, he walked toward the window and pulled back the heavy curtain just enough to peer into the black night outside.
"You see, Lord Tywin…"
"That's the problem."
"You believe rule is a pyramid."
"You sit at the top issuing commands while everyone beneath obeys."
"But reality doesn't work that way."
Turning around, he leaned back against the windowsill.
Darkness stretched behind him like spilled ink while candlelight illuminated only half his face.
"The reality is this—"
"A starving soldier will betray his commander for a loaf of bread."
"A debt-ridden officer will look the other way for a handful of gold dragons."
"An ambitious middle-ranking commander will gladly offer favors for promotion."
"And your new quartermaster…"
"Alaric Vaughn."
Odin tilted his head.
"You probably don't know this…"
"But despite having a wife and children, he actually keeps a lover in Duskendale."
"And just last month…"
"…that lover lost more than two hundred gold dragons gambling."
"When my people found him…"
"He was moments away from having both hands chopped off."
Dead silence consumed the room.
Tywin remained standing there, fingers whitening from pressure.
His face revealed nothing—
But inside, a storm had erupted.
Damn it.
None of this…
Neither he nor Kevan had known any of it.
Yet Odin knew everything.
Just how many people had this man corrupted?
Had the entire City Watch already fallen under his influence?
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