Chapter 52 — He's Different
At the same time.
Red Keep, Tower of the Hand.
Jaime stood before a broad desk, a roaring fire crackling in the hearth behind him.
The road's grime was gone. He wore white again — the gleaming white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard. His golden hair had been cut short, his face cleaned and groomed.
If not for the jarring absence of his right hand, he might have looked exactly like the gallant knight he once was.
But there was no joy on his face. His jaw was tight, irritation plain.
The source sat across from him, behind the desk.
The man's posture was straight as a spear, shoulders wide, fingers thick and strong. His hair was Lannister gold, though thinning at the crown and streaked with gray at the temples, combed with meticulous care.
He was dressed with restrained elegance — a dark velvet doublet, collar and cuffs embroidered in gold thread, a small golden lion pin at his chest. Understated. Expensive.
Yet beside his eyes — calm, sharp, as if capable of stripping away every disguise — all of it faded into background.
Tywin Lannister.
Lord of Casterly Rock.
Warden of the West.
Hand of the King.
Jaime's father.
After more than a year apart, after captivity and suffering, their reunion held no warmth at all.
Only tension.
"If there's nothing else," Jaime said coldly, breaking the silence, "I should return to my duties as a member of the Kingsguard — protecting the king."
There was no respect in his voice. No softness of reunion. Only distance. Resistance.
Tywin's reply was just as cold.
"You are not my son."
"You say your life's purpose is to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Very well, ser. I won't keep you from your sacred duty."
Jaime's anger flared.
Moments ago, he had entered this room with relief — even a flicker of happiness.
Yet his father had shown not the slightest sympathy for what he had endured in the Riverlands. No concern. No questions.
The first thing Tywin had done was demand — flatly — that Jaime resign from the Kingsguard, cast off the white cloak, and return to Casterly Rock to inherit the family legacy.
From start to finish, Tywin had not offered a single word of concern.
Not for Jaime's captivity.
Not for his imprisonment.
Not even for the loss of his right hand.
As if all of it were trivial.
"I can take this, I assume?"
Just as he was about to storm out, Jaime stopped and pointed at the newly forged Valyrian steel sword on the desk.
"You said it was a gift."
"Of course."
Tywin didn't look up. His voice was flat — and razor-sharp with mockery.
"A Kingsguard knight with no hand… if he doesn't at least have a fine blade, how is he supposed to protect the king?"
The naked sarcasm made Jaime's blood boil.
He snatched up the sword, ready to leave — but another thought stopped him.
"Before returning, I promised someone who helped me that I'd pay him a bathtub full of gold dragons."
"Lannisters always pay their debts. Isn't that right, Lord Tywin?"
His chin lifted. The tone carried something even he couldn't quite name — defiance, maybe.
Tywin still didn't raise his head, but the curl at his lips deepened.
"Yes. A Lannister always pays his debts."
"But are you a Lannister, ser?"
"Oh — right. You are." He tapped his temple as if remembering. "For a moment I forgot. I thought once you put on the white cloak, you stopped being a Lannister."
Humiliation burned in Jaime's chest.
But thinking of his promise to Odin, he forced himself not to walk out.
He stood rigid, staring at his father, left hand clenched around the sword hilt — refusing to yield.
After a while, Tywin finished the document before him and finally looked up.
For the first time, surprise flickered in his eyes.
He knew Jaime well — proud, impulsive, quick to anger. Normally, this level of scorn would've driven the boy out instantly.
But today, Jaime endured.
"He saved your life?" Tywin asked.
"Yes. He saved my life." Jaime met his gaze. "And he's my friend."
Tywin gave a soft, dismissive laugh and set his pen aside.
"You've always liked making 'friends,' Jaime. Addam Marbrand. Those Sellswords. You enjoyed being the center of admiration."
"But you never understood. The flattery, the smiles — all of it was for your name. Because you are a Lannister. Because you are my son."
"I understand!"
Jaime's voice rose. Jaw tight, he said each word like a vow:
"But Odin… he's different."
That gave Tywin pause.
"…Go see Tyrion," he said at last, lowering his gaze back to his papers. "He's Master of Coin now. A bathtub of gold dragons is no small sum."
"I'm worth that much," Jaime said, a hint of triumph in his voice as he turned toward the door.
His hand had just touched the handle when Tywin's voice stopped him.
"Bring this Odin to me."
"I will see him tonight."
---
(The Fighting Pit)
"We won, Lord Odin!!!"
The arena was silent — except for Rorge, who leapt up, shouting with wild excitement.
In the pit, the once-terrifying Butcher Bode lay soaked in blood, barely breathing.
Yigo stood over him, only mildly winded, wiping his blood-slick hands on his trousers like he'd done nothing more taxing than kill a stray dog.
Just as Rorge had boasted, Bode might've been Flea Bottom's second-best fighter after "Fang"… but even Fang wouldn't last five rounds against Yigo back in the Brave Companions.
The fight had ended almost before people realized it began.
"Five thousand gold dragons, Ralf! Get your dog-spawned ass out here and pay up!"
Rorge grinned so wide his yellow teeth showed. He was practically glowing with schadenfreude.
That sum was months of profit for the Blood Cellar — maybe more.
And now Ralf, the traitor who'd taken everything from him, would be saddled with crushing debt.
Just imagining that twisted, pained expression on the man's face made Rorge want to laugh forever.
Serves you right.
"Easy," Odin said calmly.
To him, winning the bet was never the end of things.
It was the beginning of trouble.
No one parted with that much gold willingly — least of all someone like Ralf.
But that was fine.
Struggle with men was, after all, a kind of pleasure.
Right on cue, from the corner of his eye, Odin saw Ralf approaching again, flanked by grim-faced men.
Odin rose smoothly and patted Rorge on the shoulder.
"When we get the money," he said mildly, "remind me to buy a cat."