Chapter 60 – Burning with Anxiety
Faced with Jaime's interrogation, Humfrey Waters immediately put on a troubled expression. He bowed slightly, his posture impeccably respectful.
"We've searched most of the holding cells, but we haven't found Lord Odin," he said carefully. "Captain Rosby must have locked him up somewhere else."
"Cross-unit enforcement procedures are always… complicated," Humfrey continued. "My men are already asking around to confirm the exact location."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted toward Commander Ser Addam Marbrand.
"My lord, you understand how it is. Captain Rosby and the unit under his command have always operated… independently. Others are rarely allowed to interfere."
"And, well… you know as well as I do—he is a distant kinsman of House Rosby. A bona fide noble, after all…"
The words sounded like an explanation—but in truth, they were nothing less than another shovel of dirt tossed onto Rosby's grave.
"Bullshit!"
Addam exploded instantly, slamming his palm down on the desk.
"What the fuck is House Rosby? Their lands aren't even as big as a whore's underclothes! I'm the heir to Ashemark, gods damn it!"
"Go get that self-willed bastard back here—now!"
"I want to see with my own eyes who really runs the Gold Cloaks, and who gave him the nerve to detain a guest of the Lannisters!"
Humfrey inwardly laughed himself hoarse, but outwardly he sighed helplessly.
"My lord… I'm afraid that may not be possible right now."
"Captain Rosby left again not long ago. Took a few men and rushed back to Flea Bottom. Said there was some… 'important task' that needed wrapping up."
"As for what that task is, he didn't say. And I didn't dare ask."
With every sentence, Addam's face darkened further—and Humfrey's heart bloomed with joy.
Rosby, this time you're well and truly dead.
Just then, Rorge, who had been groaning on the floor, finally recognized Jaime after a long, furtive look.
After all, Jaime had cut his hair, shaved his beard, washed off the filth of captivity, and donned the pristine white cloak and armor once more. He was nothing like the mud-caked, one-handed wreck from the riverlands.
"Ahhhh!!!"
"Ser Jaime!"
Rorge practically crawled forward, trying to reach him. Even when the Gold Cloaks shoved him down again, he kept stretching out his arms, tears and snot streaming down his face as he wailed:
"Lord Odin and I—we just won a bit of money in Flea Bottom! That's all! But those Gold Cloaks colluded with the pit-fight boss and framed us as fugitives!"
"Lord Odin argued with reason and law, but they didn't listen at all—they beat us half to death! Lord Odin took blow after blow just to shield me!"
"They… they even said they'd convict us overnight! That we'd be dragged to Mud Gate and hanged at dawn!"
"Ser Jaime, I beg you—save us! I deserve to die for the things I've done, but Lord Odin…"
"He's your lifesaver! He saved your life!"
Rorge wailed without pause, pouring out tears and snot as he painted their innocence and the Gold Cloaks' brutality in ever more lurid colors. His blood-smeared hands clawed at the stone floor, as if he wanted to carve the word misery into Jaime's boots.
Hearing this heavily embellished accusation, Jaime's anger shot straight through the roof.
"Did you hear that, Addam?"
He spun around abruptly, emerald eyes locking onto his childhood friend. He didn't roar—but the cold, murderous intent in his voice was far more terrifying than any shout.
"My man—my lifesaver—is being framed, abused, and possibly secretly executed in your jurisdiction by your subordinates!"
"I don't care whether this Swyft is a Rosby cousin or some other damned relation. Now. Find Odin and bring him to me—unharmed."
"If anything has happened to him, I swear on the name Lannister—The Rains of Castamere will be played in Rosby lands for a full month!"
Addam's expression turned grim.
The Rains of Castamere was not just a song.
When House Reyne rebelled, Tywin Lannister annihilated them root and branch—hundreds of men, women, and children slaughtered without exception. That song was born from their extinction.
Years later, when House Farman of Fair Isle showed the faintest hint of defiance, Tywin did not send armies. He sent a single harpist to play that tune in their great hall.
House Farman submitted the same day.
Now, hearing Jaime invoke that name, even Addam understood—if this was mishandled, the consequences would be catastrophic.
"Why the fuck are you still standing there?!"
Addam roared at Humfrey.
"Go get that bastard Swyft now! Tell him to drop everything and crawl back here this instant!"
"And you—search the cells! Every single one! Room by room! I want Lord Odin brought to me within half an hour!"
"Yes, sir!"
Humfrey froze for a heartbeat, then snapped out a loud response. Seeing how serious things had become, he hesitated briefly before hurriedly adding:
"Right—there's a special cell at the very back. Used for… special prisoners. Lord Odin might be there."
"I'll go check immediately!"
"Wait."
Just as Humfrey turned to leave, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
He looked back to see Jaime's cold green eyes fixed on him.
"I'm coming with you."
---
The dungeon of the Gold Cloaks erupted into sudden chaos.
Heavy, frantic footsteps thundered through the corridors, steel boots striking stone in dense, overlapping echoes. Prisoners panicked at the noise, rushing to the bars to peer out.
"What's happening?" "Fuck—are they executing someone?" "Doesn't sound like it…"
Their curiosity proved costly.
"Back in your cells! What the hell are you staring at?!"
A Gold Cloak guard bellowed, swinging his iron-shod club without mercy at every head that stuck out. Blows landed in rapid succession; blood sprayed as prisoners collapsed, clutching shattered skulls.
"Stay the fuck down!" "No looking! Heads back!"
The guards barked and beat them like livestock. The dungeon descended into utter chaos.
Terrified, the prisoners shrank back into corners, trembling in silence, listening to the ever-quickening footsteps outside their cells.
Jaime Lannister strode through the damp, reeking corridors at speed, Humfrey nearly jogging to keep up. The deeper they went, the heavier the stench of mold, urine, and blood grew—and the lower Jaime's heart sank.
What has that idiot Swyft done to Odin?
Whipping? Torture?
—or worse… shattered hands?
Jaime clenched his jaw, muscles standing out along his cheeks.
Damn it.
Odin was brilliant, yes—but his swordsmanship was crude, and he had no real means of self-defense. In the hands of those bottom-feeding thugs, who knew what horrors he might be enduring?
Jaime remembered the steady, precise hands that had treated his severed wrist.
If those hands had been—
No.
He shook his head violently, but the images wouldn't leave him.
The man who had dragged him back from torture and death. His friend.
If Odin had suffered irreversible harm in King's Landing…
Jaime swore then and there—everyone involved would pay a price beyond imagination.
At last, they reached the end of the corridor—the heavy iron door.
Jaime slowed abruptly.
A scent drifted toward him.
Something warm. Savory.
Something that had no right to exist in a dungeon.
Humfrey smelled it too. His expression turned strange.
"Open it," Jaime ordered sharply.
Humfrey rushed forward and fumbled the lock open.
Jaime stepped up, peering inside—
—and froze.
For the first time in a long while, Jaime Lannister was completely, utterly stunned.
"...What the fuck."