Chapter 51: The Fight
"Lord Odin…" Rorge had just opened his mouth to explain when a wild surge of cheers drowned him out.
The crowd exploded. All attention shifted toward the entrance of the pit.
Odin raised a hand, silencing him, and looked down calmly.
"Let's watch the match first."
He was curious about Rorge's hidden card too, but this place was far too noisy for discussing important secrets.
Rorge exhaled quietly and sat beside him, far more restrained than before.
---
Under countless feverish gazes, a massive man lumbered out from one side of the arena.
He wore only a brown leather jerkin on his upper body, his thick arms bare. Most striking was the leather apron across his chest, splattered with dark, dried blood.
He looked exactly like what he was.
A butcher.
"Bode," Rorge leaned closer, clapping along with the crowd. "Used to be an honest butcher, slaughtering livestock for noble households. Skilled hands. Saved up a fair bit of coin too."
"But one day he went home and found his wife sleeping with a silk-street male prostitute."
"So he killed his wife," Odin said flatly. In Westeros, stories like this were common. Almost cliché.
"Yes."
Rorge smacked his lips. "At first he didn't plan to kill anyone. Just wanted to chase the pretty boy off. But his wife was dead set on leaving with him. No matter how Bode knelt and begged, she wouldn't budge."
"Worse — she pulled out all the savings he'd scraped together over half a lifetime. Right in front of him. Planned to run away with her lover using that money."
"Foolish," Odin commented.
Women often failed to understand how overwhelming the gap in physical power was. A man might tolerate tempers, even insults — but if pushed to the edge, the result was final.
"You're absolutely right, Lord Odin," Rorge agreed eagerly. "In a rage, Bode used his slaughter knife and butchered them both."
"Then he sold the 'ingredients' to a brown-stew vendor in Flea Bottom."
There was a strange note of admiration in his voice.
"They say the first bowl from that pot? Bode bought it himself. Drank it slowly in front of everyone."
"Cheap too. Big bowl. Two copper coins."
Odin's brow twitched slightly. He glanced sideways at Rorge.
"How do you know all this?"
Rorge grinned. "It was a big deal in Flea Bottom back then. The Gold Cloaks were going to hang him."
"I paid fifty gold dragons to keep him."
"After that, he had nowhere to go, so he started working here. Gotta admit — the man can fight. Back when I ran things, aside from Biter, Bode earned me the most money."
He cut himself off abruptly.
Because he had just remembered.
Biter had died at the hands of the man sitting beside him.
Rorge shut up fast, sneaking an uneasy glance at Odin.
Odin just waved it off. He wasn't so small-minded that a dead man's name couldn't be mentioned.
Instead, he asked something else.
"If you could bribe the Gold Cloaks to save Bode back then, how did you end up sentenced to death later?"
Rorge's face twisted into a bitter, self-mocking grin.
"Heh… slipped in the gutter. Got sold out by my own men."
"Those bastards thought I wasn't giving them a big enough cut. Said I was in their way. The one leading it? Ralf. Funny thing is, that little shit's life was once— …ah, forget it. That's past."
He shook his big head.
"But the main reason? The Gold Cloaks changed commanders."
"The old one was Janos Slynt. Black-hearted, greedy as hell — but if the gold was right, anything could be arranged."
"Then he got nailed for corruption, stripped of his cloak and sent to the Wall. The man who replaced him, Jacelyn Bywater? Hardliner. Wouldn't take a single dragon. Only cared about knightly honor and the king's law."
Rorge's tone suddenly turned gleeful.
"Good thing I heard he got blown to bits by wildfire at the Blackwater. Served him right, hah!"
Odin nodded. That tracked.
In just over a year, King's Landing had churned through power shifts and personnel changes that rippled into every dark corner. Men like Rorge or Ralf might be big names in Flea Bottom — but to real power, they were dust. The kind of dust that died nameless.
"Since you know Bode so well," Odin said mildly, tapping a knuckle against his knee, "what do you think our odds are?"
Rorge broke into a huge, confident grin.
"We're winning. No doubt, my lord."
He spoke with absolute certainty. "What you should be thinking about is this — when that lame bastard Ralf loses and tries to weasel out of paying, how we're gonna break his other leg."
Odin's lips curved faintly.
Winning this match was only the first step.
He was an outsider — no house, no banner, no backing. All he truly had was his brain… and that greedy little "gift" of his.
Jaime…
Yes, they got along. But Odin couldn't just keep taking and taking. Friendship needed balance — in standing, in power. If one side kept giving without end, the bond would eventually wear thin.
Flea Bottom, in the eyes of great lords, was filth. A rotting chunk of the city they wished they could cut off and toss away.
But to Odin?
This was the foundation.
The place where he would gain a foothold in King's Landing… and begin, step by step, building an empire of his own.
His eyes narrowed slightly, gaze cutting past the roaring crowd toward the pit.
Under the watchers' feverish stares, the arena announcer dragged out his voice at the top of his lungs:
"Next up… a completely new face!"
"From across the Narrow Sea…"
"— Iggo!!!"