Chapter 59 — Loaded Dice
The moment Odin finished speaking, the old guard's hand froze mid-air.
His name was Moss—no mistake about that. Captain Rosby had called him by name when Odin was brought in, so knowing it wasn't strange.
But this—
How did this man know he'd lost everything at the dice tables?
"Y-you…"
Old Moss's eyes flickered with shock as he blurted out, "How do you know that?"
"Your fingers."
Odin lifted his chin slightly, explaining as though stating the obvious.
"The pads of your right index and middle fingers have a distinct yellow-brown stain. That's not dirt—it's discoloration from long-term friction against a hard object."
"The size and shape match dice perfectly."
As if on instinct, Moss rubbed his fingers together.
"Your clothes."
The tiny movement didn't escape Odin's eyes. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he continued.
"The elbows and cuffs are worn in neat, regular patches—classic signs of repeated contact with a rough tabletop."
"And the copper buttons on your uniform," he added calmly, "have fresh scratch marks along the edges. Those come from someone clawing at them when agitated."
"Frankly," Odin said mildly, "no skilled gambler does that."
Moss swallowed and unconsciously touched his collar, then glanced down. The elbows really were polished smooth.
"And finally—your face."
Moss looked up to find Odin staring straight at him.
"Your face is too dark."
"Dark?" Moss muttered, rubbing his cheek in confusion.
"Metaphor," Odin sighed faintly. "Don't overthink it."
Then, patiently:
"There's resentment in your eyes. Irritation. When you look at the prisoners, it's as if you're staring at creditors."
"That impulse—to shift your losses onto others—is the unmistakable mark of someone desperate to win it all back…"
"…and completely clueless how."
"A gambler."
The word landed like a hammer.
The rage drained from Moss's face, replaced by stunned disbelief.
He had never imagined that his situation—his thoughts, his habits, his desperation—could be stripped bare by a stranger he'd met less than an hour ago.
It felt as though he was standing naked in front of this man.
Odin looked away, relaxed, and leaned back against the cold stone wall.
His posture was casual, composed—like a host receiving a guest in his study rather than a prisoner awaiting punishment.
That composure made Moss's heart pound even harder.
"My… my lord…"
His voice dropped instinctively, reverence creeping in despite himself.
"You said you could help me win back what I lost," he whispered. "Is that… is that really true?"
"Of course."
Odin smiled.
"You don't lack luck, my friend. You lack information."
"Tell me exactly how you've been gambling lately," he said evenly.
"Which house. With whom. And what game."
Old Moss hesitated for a moment. In the end, the desire to win it all back overwhelmed everything else.
"It's the 'Three Copper Coins' gambling den in Flea Bottom," he said in a low voice.
"Recently they've been pushing a game called Harvest Roulette. The odds are high. The house runs it, and I play with a few regulars."
"At first, my luck was decent—I won a little. But then things turned strange. Seven rounds in a row, all small outcomes. Not only did I lose everything I'd won, I even burned through my savings."
"The Gold Cloaks haven't been paid for three months already," he muttered, his voice dropping. "If this keeps up…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
The pressure was obvious. Gambling hadn't just taken his money—it had crushed his nerves.
Odin listened patiently from beginning to end, then curved his lips into a knowing smile.
This kind of trick was old. Crude. He'd heard of it countless times in his previous life.
"They're cheating."
"They're cheating?!"
Old Moss blurted it out in shock.
"But… we watched them throw the dice! They can't be cheating!"
"Dice can be swapped at any time," Odin said calmly. "It's one of the simplest tricks there is."
"Trust me, Moss. They used dirty hands to take your money—"
"And I…" his voice hardened slightly, "…will help you win it back fair and square."
---
From the corner of the cell, Lake had been watching the two whisper back and forth for quite a while, unable to make sense of it.
Just as his patience wore thin, he suddenly saw Old Moss clutch Odin's hand with undisguised excitement.
"Thank you! Thank you so much, Lord Odin!"
"I understand now! I'll do exactly as you said!"
Odin merely patted his shoulder, composed as ever.
"You owe me a favor," he reminded him with a smile.
"And I'm collecting it now."
"My steak and wine?"
"Right away, my lord!"
Old Moss snapped to attention as if receiving a military order.
"Leave it to me!"
With that, he spun around and hurried off, his footsteps filled with an energy he hadn't shown in months.
…This is getting weird.
Lake stared at the scene, eyes wide. Whatever those two had discussed, it clearly wasn't normal.
When Odin turned his calm gaze toward him, Lake felt a flicker of unease and forced a sneer.
"Hmph. I don't know what trick you pulled to scam yourself a meal."
"But in the end, you've only reached the same treatment I already had. You're still not living better than me."
Instead of getting angry, Odin grinned.
"I like that stubborn pride of yours, Lord Lake."
"I hope you keep it," he added lightly.
"Don't lose it later."
Before Lake could respond—before the unease in his chest could take shape—Odin turned away and walked toward another, younger guard.
---
Inside Addam Marbrand's office, the air felt frozen solid.
Two Gold Cloaks dragged Rorge in and dumped him on the floor like a sack of refuse.
Jaime Lannister's heart sank.
Rorge looked terrible.
Back in Flea Bottom, he'd taken the Gold Cloaks' brutal three-hit greeting, followed by a vicious kick from Stevyn Rosby straight to his already ruined, noseless face.
Ugly to begin with, his features were now completely wrecked—though, truth be told, whether that counted as disfigurement or cosmetic improvement was debatable.
But whatever faint sympathy Jaime felt was instantly drowned by a surge of anxiety.
Because so far—
He still hadn't seen that familiar, composed figure.
"Where is Odin?!"
Jaime whirled on Humfrey Waters, barely containing his anger.
"Why isn't he here? Where did you bastards take him?!"