Chapter 61: A Surreal World
This world was simply too surreal.
The moment Jaime Lannister clearly saw what was inside the cell, he felt as though the understanding he had built over nearly thirty years of life was crumbling piece by piece.
He had imagined countless possibilities…
Odin being tortured until his flesh was torn and mangled.
Odin lying half-dead, barely clinging to life.
Even the worst possible outcome—Jaime had braced himself for it.
But what he saw now completely shattered every expectation.
The cell itself was plain, but surprisingly clean. That alone wasn't important.
What truly mattered was the wooden table placed squarely in the middle of the room—clearly dragged in from somewhere else.
The man Jaime had been worrying about nonstop—Odin—was seated calmly behind it.
A tablecloth was spread out neatly before him.
On it sat a sizzling grilled steak, still glistening with oil.
To his right, unbelievably, was a glass of red wine, its dark crimson surface gently rippling in the firelight.
Odin held a small knife, cutting into the steak with unhurried precision and bringing it to his mouth. His movements were elegant, composed—utterly at ease.
What truly made Jaime's jaw almost drop to the floor, however, was this:
Two Gold Cloak guards stood beside him like attentive servants, bent slightly at the waist, smiling from ear to ear. One of them even held a plate with several freshly picked berries.
"My lord, does the wine suit your taste?"
"This is Dornish Red—something I hid away for myself."
Odin dabbed the corner of his mouth with the napkin, nodded slightly, and replied calmly,
"Quite good. You've gone to some trouble, Moss."
Meanwhile, in the far corner of the cell, a young nobleman—someone Jaime vaguely recognized—was curled up against the wall. Cold meat and wine lay scattered messily on the ground before him. His face was livid as he stared at the scene with barely concealed resentment.
Seeing this, Jaime instinctively turned and shot Humfrey a furious glare, his eyes screaming:
You told me this was a prison cell?!
To anyone who didn't know better, they'd think this was the Gold Cloaks' commander's private office.
Humfrey could only offer an awkward smile. Even he had no idea how things had ended up like this.
Just then, Odin seemed to notice the disturbance at the door.
He looked up, his gaze landing directly on Jaime. There was no surprise in his eyes—only calm certainty. Raising his wine glass toward him from afar, he smiled with practiced elegance, as though he had been expecting this moment all along.
"Well now~ Sir Jaime."
Odin's voice was as steady as ever, tinged with a hint of playful teasing.
"Looks like you arrived just in time for dinner. Care to join me?"
"The surroundings are a bit crude, I'll admit, but the steak's cooked perfectly. They were kind enough to find—I mean, recruit—a cook and prepare it fresh in the Gold Cloaks' kitchen just for me."
Watching this man—someone who could turn oppression into comfort and transform guards into servants even in the deepest dungeon—Jaime found himself genuinely unsure what expression he was supposed to make.
All the anxiety, rage, and dread he had carried with him evaporated in an instant, leaving behind only a sense of profound absurdity.
I'm an idiot. Truly…
Jaime's lips twitched uncontrollably. He took a deep breath and stepped into the cell.
"What the hell is going on here?" he snapped. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
He hesitated for a moment, but in the end couldn't stop himself from swearing.
"Huh?"
Odin raised an eyebrow.
Seeing Jaime fuming, he calmly set down his knife and fork.
"Allow me to introduce everyone," he said casually.
"This is Old Moss. He's about to win back all the money he lost at the casino."
He gestured to another man.
"This is Bork—a young fellow suffering from matters of the heart. With a bit of encouragement from me, he'll be confessing to the woman he loves tomorrow. When that happens, both you and I will be attending their wedding as witnesses."
"Oh, and…"
He pointed toward the unfortunate soul curled up in the corner.
"That's Lake Rykker. I believe you know him."
"He owes me a favor."
Listening to Odin rattle off names as though he were hosting a dinner party—going so far as to schedule himself for a wedding—Jaime didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Still, he could more or less guess what had happened.
"Odin…"
Thinking back to everything they had experienced from the Riverlands all the way to King's Landing, Jaime sighed, his tone complicated.
"No matter where you go, you really never let yourself suffer, do you?"
Odin merely shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
He picked up the dark red bottle on the table, filled a second glass, and handed it to Jaime.
Yes—Old Moss had prepared two glasses in advance, as if Odin had known all along that Jaime would arrive.
"Moss says this is Dornish Red," Odin remarked lightly, as though commenting on the weather.
"I don't know much about wine myself, but as a Lannister—Lord Tywin's eldest son—you should be far more familiar with it than I am."
The deep crimson liquid was pushed toward him. Jaime rolled his eyes.
Almost out of spite, he snatched the glass and downed it in one gulp, drinking with all the grace of someone chugging cheap ale.
After days on the road, he was thirsty—and besides, something considered extravagantly refined by most people was, to Jaime, little more than an everyday drink.
Old Moss's eyelids twitched in pain at the sight. Watching such wine wasted like that nearly made his heart bleed.
"Oh—Seven Hells, Jaime! You run far too fast…"
A breathless voice suddenly came from the doorway.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to keep up with these two—ah—precious but tragically short legs?"
Tyrion Lannister clutched the doorframe, panting heavily. After finally catching his breath, he looked into the cell—and froze.
His brother was drinking with a prisoner.
Gold Cloak guards stood nearby like attentive servants.
"…What the hell is this?"
Before Tyrion could say more, Addam Marbrand arrived just behind him, voicing the same question outright.
His gaze swept over the obsequious guards, the steak and wine, and finally settled on Odin.
"I think I deserve an explanation, Jaime."
Jaime awkwardly lowered his glass.
"This… is another long story, Addam."
Seeing his friend's expression darken, he quickly cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"Allow me to introduce you. This is my brother, Tyrion. And this is Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the City Watch."
Then he gestured toward Odin.
"And this gentleman is—"
"Odin," Odin said smoothly.
He raised his glass toward Addam and Tyrion.
"A pleasure, Ser Addam. I must say, your men are remarkably courteous."
"With a knight of your caliber commanding the City Watch, I'm certain King's Landing is in excellent hands."
The words came naturally—too naturally.
The posture, the tone—nothing about him resembled a prisoner.
He looked more like a lord inspecting his domain.
Addam's cheek twitched. He exchanged a glance with Tyrion. For once, both men were at a loss for words.
This scene was so bizarre that their minds were full of questions—yet none knew where to begin.
"Reunions aside, Odin," Jaime said, drawing a steady breath and forcing the conversation back on track.
"I know you may have been treated unfairly here, but this can be dealt with later."
"My father wants to see you. Now."
At the mention of the Hand of the King, Odin showed no surprise at all—only the calm of someone whose appointment had arrived right on time.
Under everyone's gaze, he rose unhurriedly to his feet.
Before leaving, however, he turned toward the stunned young noble in the corner.
"Lord Lake," Odin said calmly, his voice carrying undeniable weight.
"Remember—you owe me a favor."
"Perhaps one day I will ask you to repay it. Or perhaps I never will."
"But until that day comes, keep it firmly in your heart."
His words were polite, even respectful—but the quiet authority behind them made refusal unthinkable.
Lake nodded instinctively.
Odin then turned to Old Moss, his expression easing.
"Oh—Moss. Remember what I taught you. Win your money back."
"And if you ever want a bit of excitement again, come to Flea Bottom—to my casino. I guarantee this: on my tables, fairness is the only rule."
"Everyone is free to gamble there. No tricks. No cheating across the table."
His attitude toward these lowly guards was no different from how he treated nobles—if anything, it was warmer.
To Odin, people were not divided into high and low.
Only into useful now… and useful later.
Every favor—no matter how insignificant it seemed to those in power—was something he valued deeply.
A seed planted without intention today might one day grow into a towering tree.
By now, Old Moss was completely stunned.
"M–My lord…" he stammered.
"You really do know the Lannisters—and you're going to meet the Hand of the King?!"
Odin didn't answer. He only smiled, as if to say:
I told you so.
As Odin stepped toward the exit, about to cross the threshold, Old Moss suddenly came to his senses.
"My lord—your casino… where is it?"
Odin paused at the doorway without turning back.
"Blood Cellar."
"Blood Cellar?" Old Moss blurted out. "But—that's Ralf's territory!"
At that, Odin finally turned his head.
Torchlight flickered across his profile, casting half his face into shadow.
His dark eyes were utterly calm—filled only with absolute certainty.
"Tomorrow," he said evenly,
"it won't be."