Chapter 147 (Double Length)
"Don't forget one thing, Ser Odin."
Tywin stared at the knight in white armor for a long moment before finally speaking again.
"Even if you've infiltrated the Gold Cloaks, King's Landing still has two thousand Lannister soldiers stationed outside the Gate of the Gods."
"At my command, they could flatten Flea Bottom within an hour."
"Your starving soldiers, your corrupt officers, your bribed middle-ranking commanders…"
"In front of a true Lannister army, they are nothing but sheep awaiting slaughter."
His tone was firm and overbearing, clearly trying to seize back control of the conversation.
As he spoke, Tywin deliberately stepped forward.
His frame was broader and slightly taller than Odin's, lending him an imposing presence.
"You've played your little game well, Odin."
"Bribery. Infiltration. Psychological warfare."
"They're useful tools."
"But you need to understand something."
"In the face of absolute military power…"
"…all such tricks are meaningless."
"The loyalty of Lannister soldiers cannot be bought with a few gold dragons."
"And if I wished it…"
"By tomorrow's sunrise, every shack in Flea Bottom would burn."
"Every street would run red with blood."
"Your Mafia."
"Your Hall of Order."
"Everything you painstakingly built…"
"…would turn to ash in the flames."
"And you."
Tywin's gaze sharpened like a blade.
"You would stand atop the walls of the Red Keep and watch it happen…"
"…before being hanged from the tallest gallows as an example to every traitor in the realm."
When he finished speaking, the atmosphere inside the chamber grew noticeably heavier.
Firelight danced across both men's faces, casting long intertwined shadows across the walls.
Odin simply watched him quietly.
No fear.
No anger.
No hesitation.
His expression remained disturbingly calm.
Then—
He laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Open and amused, as though Tywin had just told the funniest joke in the world.
"Hahahahaha…"
Tywin frowned instantly.
Because this reaction was completely different from what he expected.
Odin stepped closer.
Now barely two feet separated them.
He could clearly see the tiny blood vessels in Tywin's eyes.
The loose skin around the neck of a man nearing sixty.
The deep lines beside his tightly pressed mouth.
"Lord Tywin…"
"You're absolutely right."
Odin's laughter faded.
His eyes became deep and unreadable beneath the candlelight.
"Two thousand elite soldiers raised in the Westerlands…"
"Men who grew up eating Lannister bread and wearing Lannister steel…"
"Yes."
"They could crush ten Flea Bottoms without difficulty."
"After all…"
"Commoners armed with kitchen knives and wooden clubs truly are sheep before armored soldiers."
He paused.
Then smiled faintly.
"That is…"
"…if you wish to become the first Mad Hand in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
Tywin's pupils contracted sharply.
The phrase "Mad Hand" struck him like a slap.
For a man who had spent his entire life priding himself on wisdom, discipline, and control—
The comparison was intolerable.
It placed him beside Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King himself.
No—
Perhaps even worse.
Yet Tywin still answered stubbornly:
"A lion has no reason to care about the opinions of sheep."
"Yes."
Odin nodded slowly.
"A lion truly doesn't need to care about sheep."
Then he stepped forward again until less than a foot separated them.
Close enough to see the candle flames reflected in each other's pupils.
Close enough to smell one another's breath.
"But…"
"Lord Tywin…"
"…which one of us is actually the sheep right now?"
As he spoke, Odin slowly raised the longsword.
The blade reflected the firelight faintly, while the dried crimson blood along its edge gave it an eerie glow.
Tywin seemed momentarily frozen by the words.
And Odin pressed harder.
"If I kill you right now…"
"Here."
"In this bedroom."
"Will your orders still reach anyone?"
The room fell deathly silent.
A log cracked sharply inside the fireplace.
Sparks burst outward, one landing upon the carpet and sending up a thin trail of smoke.
The sound felt unnaturally loud.
Because Tywin could hear it in Odin's voice—
The man was not joking.
Still, after only a single breath, the old lion forced himself calm again.
"You wouldn't dare."
Only three words.
But they carried the weight of Tywin Lannister's entire life.
The arrogance.
The authority.
The confidence built across decades of rule.
Everyone feared Lannister wrath.
Everyone knew the song of The Rains of Castamere.
Tywin had every reason to believe no man would dare attack the Hand of the King—
Especially inside his own chambers.
But once again—
He had misjudged Odin.
Odin tilted his head slightly, studying him with almost genuine curiosity.
As though trying to understand how someone could still cling to such naïve confidence while standing inches away from an armored knight holding a sword to his throat.
The cold steel touched Tywin's neck.
Yet Odin's gaze drifted toward the blood staining his gauntlet before slowly rising again to meet Tywin's eyes.
"What exactly makes you underestimate my courage this much, Tywin Lannister?"
"I dared to sow division among the Brave Companions and destroy them from within."
"I dared to negotiate with Roose Bolton and risk being falyed by him."
"I dared to travel alone to Dragonstone and risk being burned alive by Stannis Baratheon."
"And now…"
"I walked into the deepest part of the Red Keep wearing armor stripped from a dead Kingsguard."
"I walked directly into your chamber."
"So tell me…"
"Why do you believe I wouldn't kill you?"
"Hm?"
"Because...You are a knight I personally raised."
Tywin remained Tywin.
Even with a blade at his throat, he refused to yield.
He stared directly into Odin's eyes.
"Your honor."
"Your title."
"Your status."
"Everything you possess came from me."
"If you kill me, there will be nowhere left for you in the Seven Kingdoms."
"No lord will ever trust a man who murders the very lord who knighted him."
His voice remained perfectly steady.
No fear showed in his expression.
For a long moment, Odin said nothing.
The silence stretched long enough for Tywin to hear the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
Then finally—
"Wrong answer."
Even so, Odin slowly withdrew the sword from Tywin's throat.
"Remember this carefully, Lord Tywin."
"The reason I haven't killed you…"
"…is because both of us are men who value profit."
"You and I are the same."
"Killing you would be easy."
"But it would gain me nothing."
"I am not a madman."
"Nor am I an idealist."
"Honor means absolutely nothing to me."
Odin's lips curled faintly.
"I'm a businessman, Lord Tywin."
He sheathed the sword and looked at Tywin calmly, his tone perfectly composed.
"I believe in transactions."
"I pursue mutual benefit."
"And I prefer achieving the greatest possible profit within the existing system."
"Killing you would be a losing investment."
"Because the Lannister armies would likely descend into madness and butcher King's Landing. The Westerlands would raise banners of vengeance. The Seven Kingdoms would fall back into war."
"And everything I built in Flea Bottom…"
"…might also vanish into the chaos."
Odin spoke plainly.
Realistically.
But Tywin's expression darkened further.
Because for the first time in his life, he felt what it was like to be treated as a bargaining chip.
And honestly—
It felt terrible.
For nearly sixty years, Tywin Lannister had ruled.
Twenty years as Hand of the King.
Forty years as lord of Casterly Rock.
He had always been the player holding the cards—
Never the stake upon the table.
Then Odin stepped back half a pace and leaned casually against the windowsill again.
His posture relaxed, as though the discussion about murder had merely been small talk.
"Instead of discussing killing each other…"
"Why don't we talk about something more practical?"
"For example…"
"…what you did today."
Tywin's brow furrowed instantly.
Something in Odin's tone felt wrong.
But before he could react, Odin began counting casually on his fingers.
"This morning, you woke very early."
"You first went to the Hand's solar and reviewed the urgent reports delivered overnight."
"One was a briefing on the siege of Storm's End."
"Another concerned the movements of the Redwyne fleet."
"Afterward, you had breakfast."
"Toasted bread. Honey. Bacon. Two boiled eggs."
"And peppermint tea with three spoonfuls of sugar."
Odin smiled faintly.
"I'd wager your maester has advised you to reduce the sugar intake."
"But you never listen."
As Odin continued, Tywin's hand slowly clenched within the sleeve of his robe.
Yet Odin acted as though he noticed nothing.
"This morning's small council meeting displeased you greatly."
"Especially Oberyn Martell."
"After the meeting, you returned to your study and met with three people."
"First was Ser Addam Marbrand, who reported the casualties among the Gold Cloaks. You were furious, though you restrained yourself."
"Then came Grand Maester Pycelle with draft documents regarding Tyrion's trial."
"And finally…"
"…Varys."
At that point Odin paused and smiled.
"You and Varys spoke for roughly twenty minutes."
"He spoke most of the time."
"You listened."
"He mentioned intelligence from Flea Bottom…"
"And a certain stag-helmed ghost on Dragonstone."
"Later, you asked him a question."
Odin looked directly into Tywin's eyes.
"'What exactly does Odin want?'"
"Varys answered…"
"'Some men want power. Some want gold. But Odin wants respect.'"
Tywin stood frozen in place.
Cold sweat slowly dampened his forehead.
But Odin continued casually, as though discussing the weather.
"At noon, you ate very little."
"One bowl of vegetable soup."
"Half a loaf of white bread."
"Then you napped for twenty minutes."
"At half past one, you summoned Kevan Lannister to the third-floor meeting room instead of your study."
"You spoke for an hour about purging corruption within the City Watch."
"Enough…" Tywin muttered, breathing growing heavier.
"In the afternoon, you drank Summerwine from the Dornish borderlands."
"Fifteen years aged."
"A particularly sweet vintage from a year with abundant rainfall."
"One of your favorites."
"Enough…" Tywin's fists tightened until his nails dug into his palms.
"For dinner, you had roasted scale-fish with lemon sauce, cream of mushroom soup, and a small plate of fruit."
"You didn't eat much."
"You were worried about Flea Bottom."
"You were considering how to handle tomorrow's chaos if things worsened."
"Enough…"
"And right now, your stomach feels uncomfortable."
"Nothing serious."
"Just the common digestive troubles of an aging man."
"I strongly recommend you avoid eating before bed."
"ENOUGH!!!"
Tywin finally snapped.
His roar thundered through the chamber.
Silence followed immediately afterward.
Only the crackling of the fireplace remained, along with the Hand's heavy breathing.
Tywin stood there staring at Odin.
For the first time, naked fury showed openly in those green eyes.
Because he knew—
Every word Odin had spoken was true.
The timing.
The details.
Even trivial things Tywin himself barely remembered.
Odin knew all of it.
It was horrifying.
After a long while, Tywin finally spoke, his voice rough and dry.
"You've done remarkably well, Odin."
"I never realized when you placed spies around me."
Odin laughed softly.
There wasn't a trace of apology in his smile.
Only brightness.
"Please don't use a word as deliberate as 'placed spies,' Lord Tywin."
"I never assigned people specifically to monitor you."
"That would be exhausting."
"And far too easy to detect."
He paused briefly.
"You see…"
"The Red Keep is a very large place."
"Cooks. Maids. Servants. Guards."
"Nearly a thousand people living and working here every day."
"Some of them simply happen to owe me favors."
"And others…"
"…just happen to enjoy talking."
Odin spread his hands lightly.
"It's really very simple."
"I'm a good listener."
"I remember the little things people tell me."
"What the Hand ate today."
"Who he met."
"How he felt."
"What he said."
"And once all those fragments are assembled together…"
"…everything becomes clear."
"Doesn't it?"
He leaned forward slightly.
Candlelight cast shifting shadows across his face.
"So you see…"
"Even if I don't kill you tonight…"
"Even if I walk out of this room and allow you to live until tomorrow…"
"…are you truly certain your commands will reach the armies outside the city in time?"
"Or that tomorrow morning's breakfast won't contain a few extra ingredients?"
"Or that the next man you summon won't suddenly pull a dagger from his sleeve?"
"Heh…"
Odin chuckled softly.
"Ruling has never simply been about sitting atop a throne and issuing commands, my lord."
"Rule is built on details."
"On daily life."
"On all the tiny insignificant matters you delegate to servants because you consider them beneath your notice."
"And now…"
"…a great many of those details are under my control."
"And even knowing that…"
"…there is nothing you can do about it."
"That is the difference between you and me."
When Odin finished speaking, Tywin inhaled deeply.
For the first time in his life—
He felt powerless before another man.
The sensation was like being trapped in a spider's web.
The harder he struggled, the tighter it wrapped around him.
And the man before him was not a noble.
Not a conventional enemy.
He was a plague.
The moment he entered King's Landing, he had begun spreading silently through the city.
Infecting everyone.
From the beggars of Flea Bottom…
To the officers of the Gold Cloaks…
To the servants working in the Red Keep itself.
And by the time you noticed—
The entire system was already wrapped in his tendrils.
"You…"
Tywin clenched his jaw.
"You're threatening me."
It was not a question.
It was a conclusion.
But Odin shook his head, looking almost disappointed that Tywin still failed to understand.
"I already told you, Lord Tywin."
"We are both men who value profit."
"What benefit would threatening you bring me?"
"To force you into paranoia?"
"To make you live in constant fear until one day you lash out and destroy everything?"
"No."
"That would be foolish."
His tone returned to its usual calm rationality, like a merchant evaluating a business arrangement.
"Killing you brings me no profit."
"Maintaining endless hostility between us also brings me no profit."
"Because it prevents you from properly ruling the Seven Kingdoms."
"It keeps King's Landing permanently on the edge of chaos."
"And a chaotic King's Landing does not serve my interests."
"The same logic applies to you."
Odin paused, allowing the meaning to settle.
"You can use the Lannister household troops to crush Flea Bottom."
"You absolutely can."
"But at what cost?"
"The Red Keep itself may suffer accidents."
"Your orders may be delayed."
"Even your personal safety may no longer be guaranteed."
"And more importantly…"
"When the other lords see that you required Lannister soldiers just to suppress unrest in your own capital…"
"…what will they think?"
"They'll think Tywin Lannister has grown old."
"Weak."
"Unable to maintain control."
"That his methods are no longer as ruthless as they once were."
"That his mind is beginning to dull."
"And once that thought takes root…"
"…all your allies—Tyrell, Frey, Bolton…"
"…even your own bannermen…"
"…will begin reconsidering where they stand."
"And most importantly of all…"
Odin's eyes sharpened slightly.
"Casterly Rock still has no clear heir."
At that, he slowly sat back down in the chair and looked directly into Tywin's eyes.
"Tell me honestly, Lord Tywin Lannister…"
"Do you truly wish to pay such a price…"
"…for absolute control over a single slum district?"
Tywin did not answer.
But the tension in his mouth—
The twitching muscles around his eyes—
Already answered for him.
Odin knew the moment had arrived.
He calmly adjusted the bloodstained vambrace on his wrist with the elegance of a man preparing for a banquet.
"So…"
"Let's try another approach."
"Since crushing Flea Bottom by force costs too much…"
"And preserving the current situation benefits neither of us…"
"Why not attempt…"
"…cooperation?"
Silence lingered in the chamber for a long while.
Long enough for the final burning log in the fireplace to collapse into glowing embers.
At last, Tywin spoke.
"Speak clearly."
His voice sounded more exhausted now.
Not physically—
But like a ruler worn down by the burden of power itself.
"Outsourcing."
Odin spoke the unfamiliar word slowly.
"You outsource Flea Bottom to me."
"All those tens of thousands of mouths to feed…"
"…become my responsibility."
"I will establish Flea Bottom's own security force."
"My men will train them."
"My men will command them."
"My men will pay them."
"They'll maintain order in the streets without formally belonging to the Gold Cloaks."
"We can call them 'community coordinators.'"
"Or more honestly…"
Odin looked up.
"Contract labor."
"You outsource the work."
"I provide the labor force."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
He was calculating now.
Measuring.
Weighing.
The proposal sounded absurd—
Yet disturbingly logical.
"And what exactly do I gain from this?"
His voice remained firm, though Odin could hear the subtle weakening beneath it.
"A great deal."
"First…"
"Flea Bottom returns to order within three days."
"The markets reopen."
"Taxes begin flowing into the royal treasury again."
"I'll pay a fair percentage."
"More than you currently receive, because I can make merchants willing to do business there again."
"Second…"
"The Gold Cloaks can withdraw gracefully."
"You can allow Ser Addam Marbrand to publicly describe this as…"
Odin smiled faintly.
"'An experimental improvement in urban governance.'"
"And third…"
"…most importantly…"
His voice softened.
Almost sincere.
The sort of intimate honesty more dangerous than any threat.
"Lord Tywin…"
"You are nearly sixty years old."
The sentence landed softly.
Naturally.
Like stating that dawn would soon arrive.
Yet it struck directly into Tywin Lannister's heart.
The old lion's fingers twitched faintly.
"Allow me to calculate a few things for you."
Odin's tone carried no mockery now.
Only cold objectivity.
"You survived the War of the Ninepenny Kings."
"You served the Mad King."
"You witnessed how unstable rulers destroy kingdoms."
"You made the decisive choice during Robert's Rebellion and secured the future of House Lannister."
"You returned as Hand and cleaned up the wreckage Robert Baratheon left behind."
"You won the War of the Five Kings."
He shook his head slowly.
"Honestly…"
"With achievements like yours…"
"…you have already surpassed most Targaryen kings."
Then his expression became almost regretful.
"And yet now…"
"You're bending down to handle the mud of Flea Bottom."
"You're dispatching soldiers because street thugs are fighting in alleyways."
His voice carried genuine disbelief.
"Is that really worth your time, Lord Tywin?"
"Is this truly how your remaining years…"
"…your remaining political capital…"
"…should be spent?"
The room fell silent again.
Tywin still stood tall.
But Odin noticed the faintest slackening in his shoulders.
"Leave it to me."
Odin's voice became gentler.
Like comfort.
Like temptation.
"What you surrender…"
"…is merely nominal authority over land you never truly controlled in the first place."
"In truth, you lose nothing."
"Because you never possessed Flea Bottom."
"For more than two centuries it has been nothing but a festering wound upon King's Landing."
"A disease forever consuming resources while never healing."
"But what you gain…"
Odin stepped closer again.
Close enough to observe every flicker in Tywin's eyes.
"…is stability."
"The Gold Cloaks can finally withdraw from that swamp and focus on truly important places."
"The Red Keep."
"The city gates."
"The noble districts."
"Your soldiers will no longer waste themselves suppressing starving commoners."
"I'll keep Flea Bottom orderly."
"I'll turn it from the shame of King's Landing into…"
"…at the very least…"
"…something no longer troublesome."
His voice dropped lower still.
"Most importantly…"
"You gain time."
"Time to focus on the things you actually care about."
"King Tommen Baratheon is only eight years old."
"He needs guidance."
"He needs someone capable of shaping him into a proper ruler."
"The Lannister-Tyrell alliance requires careful maintenance."
"Margaery Tyrell will become queen, but the alliance must be balanced carefully against the ambitions of the Queen of Thorns."
"The war may be ending…"
"…but peace is far more fragile."
"The North remains unstable."
"Dorne still remembers its hatred."
"The Vale remains undecided."
"The Iron Islands grow restless."
"These are matters worthy of the Hand of the King."
"As for the mud and filth of Flea Bottom…"
Odin smiled humbly.
"Leave that to a man born from the mud itself."
"I understand that place."
"I understand its people."
"I know how to create order from filth."
Then he stopped speaking entirely.
He simply stood there waiting.
Like a merchant who had already offered his final price.
Waiting for the customer's decision.
Tywin Lannister stood motionless.
His gaze drifted beyond Odin toward the city outside.
Toward the capital he had ruled for twenty years—
Yet never truly understood.
Perhaps…
The Hand slowly closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, every trace of hesitation had vanished from those green eyes.
"I give you my word."
Tywin finally spoke.
His voice calm and authoritative once more.
"The Gold Cloaks will withdraw from Flea Bottom before sunset today."
"Within three days, the king will sign a royal decree designating Flea Bottom a Special Autonomous District."
"Taxes will be set at one-third the normal King's Landing rate."
"The first three months will be tax-free to support reconstruction."
"However…"
Tywin's gaze sharpened.
"The local security force may not exceed three hundred men."
"They may not wear heavy armor or possess military crossbows."
"Any case involving nobility must be transferred to the Red Keep."
"And those so-called community coordinators…"
"…may not wear anything resembling military uniforms."
"They are civilians."
"Volunteers."
It was the greatest concession Tywin could possibly make.
And the final boundary he could still preserve.
But just as Tywin believed the negotiation had ended—
Odin shook his head.
Not in refusal.
Almost in regret.
"Lord Tywin…"
"You and I both understand something."
His quiet voice caused Tywin's nerves to tighten again instantly.
"Promises are the least convincing currency in the game of power."
Tywin frowned, irritation creeping into his tone.
"I am the Hand of the King."
"The true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
"When I give my word, it stands."
"Does it?"
Odin smiled faintly.
Mockingly.
From within his coat, he slowly produced a document and unfolded it beneath the candlelight.
"This appointment decree naming me Chief Special Operations Officer of the Crown…"
"It carries your signature."
"Your seal."
"Written clearly in black and white."
Then he looked up at Tywin.
"And yet…"
"…what happened?"
Tywin fell silent immediately.
Because he had no answer.
After all—
The moment Odin departed for Dragonstone, Tywin had immediately ordered the Gold Cloaks to seize Flea Bottom and claim everything Odin built for himself.
"You see?"
Odin slowly rolled the decree back up and tucked it away.
"No matter how beautiful the promise…"
"No matter how authoritative the signature…"
"…they can still become worthless paper when interests change."
"This isn't criticism, Lord Tywin."
"It's reality."
"You understand that."
"So do I."
"We are both realists."
Then Odin spoke the most astonishing words of the night.
"So…"
"Let's do this differently."
Tywin's brow tightened further.
"What do you mean?"
Odin reached into his coat again.
This time he withdrew not a document—
But a single gold dragon coin.
An ordinary gold dragon.
Warm candlelight shimmered across its surface.
With a flick of his thumb, he tossed the coin into the air.
It spun once.
Twice.
Then landed neatly back in his palm.
Odin grinned at Tywin.
"Let's make a wager, Lord Hand."
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