Chapter 62 — I Truly Am Despicable!
The Red Keep.
The great fortress stood upon Aegon's High Hill, overlooking the entirety of King's Landing like a silent sovereign surveying its dominion.
With Jaime at his side, Odin walked unhurriedly through the deep, winding corridors, taking in the lavish décor with open curiosity.
The air carried a distinct blend of aged stone and faint incense.
It smelled, in its own way, like power.
"How does it feel?" Jaime teased when he noticed Odin looking around. "From the mud and filth of the Riverlands to the most magnificent castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Quite a leap, isn't it?"
Odin's calm gaze drifted across the Lannister guards in their gleaming armor lining the corridor. He inhaled deeply.
"Haaa…"
"Novel."
"The air here seems to carry a different weight. No stench from beyond the walls. It makes one instinctively straighten their back… as if the body itself understands where it stands."
Jaime smiled at the unusual answer.
Of course the Red Keep had no stench.
When Aegon the Conqueror chose the site for his fortress, he had deliberately selected the highest of King's Landing's three hills. Hence its name—Aegon's High Hill.
The Red Keep faced the sea on three sides and stood directly in the path of the prevailing winds. The ceaseless sea breeze swept every trace of the city's foulness away from its red-brick walls.
It did more than disperse odor.
It divided nobles and commoners into entirely different worlds.
"Speaking of which," Jaime continued lightly, "I half expected you to insist on wearing that… 'trophy' you took from the Karstarks."
Odin was no longer dressed in the travel-stained rags of the road. He now wore a well-tailored cotton robe—nothing extravagantly luxurious, but clean, structured, and dignified.
It suited him.
"Clothes make the man, Jaime," Odin replied, adjusting his collar.
"I do not believe Lord Tywin is shallow enough to judge by appearance. But appropriate attire is the most basic respect one shows at a meeting."
"After all," he added evenly, "I am not here to beg."
Jaime nodded. That answer, at least, felt right.
Their boots echoed crisply against the stone floor as they continued forward.
After a moment of silence, Jaime's tone shifted—colder now.
"What are you planning to do about Swyft Rosby?"
"He's technically a noble. Distant branch or not, he has a name. There'll be a formal trial. It won't be easy to have him executed over wrongful arrest and bribery."
Odin smiled faintly.
"It is wartime, Jaime. Every day, countless men die."
His voice was as casual as if discussing the weather.
"Fate is unpredictable. Who can say our dear Captain Swyft will not suffer… an accident?"
"The Stranger is fair, you see. It grants no special favor for name or birth."
Jaime's steps slowed slightly at those words.
He turned and studied Odin carefully.
There was something unsettling about how calmly he said such things.
Not rage.
Not even vengeance.
Just certainty.
And that, Jaime realized, was far more dangerous.
Odin's words lingered in Jaime's mind.
His knightly instincts stirred uneasily. Schemes and calculated "accidents" did not sit well with his sense of honor. Yet when he recalled what he himself had done at Winterfell, he no longer felt entitled to judge.
After a brief silence, the two finally reached the heavy wooden doors of the Hand's Tower.
With a sharp metallic clang, two knights in crimson armor crossed their spears, barring the way.
Jaime looked up sharply. "Stand aside."
"Lord Odin is my father's guest. The Hand himself ordered to see him."
"We are aware, Ser Jaime," one of the knights replied coolly. "We are not stopping Lord Odin."
"The Hand commands that Lord Odin enter alone. You are not permitted inside."
"What?"
Jaime stiffened. "I insist on accompanying my friend. I'll speak to my father myself."
For reasons he couldn't quite articulate, the thought of Tywin meeting Odin alone unsettled him deeply.
It felt—
As Odin might have put it in another life—
Like secretly bringing someone home for the first time, only to be sent to the kitchen while the parent conducted a private interrogation.
"It is the Hand's order, ser."
The two guards stepped forward half a pace, subtly boxing Jaime in.
The tension thickened.
After a few seconds, one of them added quietly, almost pleading, "Please don't make this difficult, Jaime."
Jaime hesitated.
Odin knew him too well. Jaime was a man who yielded to gentleness far more easily than force.
Odin placed a calm hand on Jaime's tense shoulder.
"It's fine, Jaime."
He understood perfectly. This was simply Tywin Lannister's opening move.
Whether deliberate or habitual, Tywin always made it clear—before any conversation even began—who held absolute authority.
Not even his eldest son was exempt.
Odin offered Jaime a reassuring smile.
"Trust me. I will earn the Hand's friendship… just as I once earned yours."
"I've heard things are tense between you and him. Please don't quarrel with your father on my account."
"It isn't worth it—for someone like me."
With that, Odin adjusted his collar and stepped calmly beneath the crossed spears, pushing open the heavy door that symbolized the pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
As the door slowly closed, Jaime felt as though he and Odin had been divided into two separate worlds.
"He's still thinking of me at a time like this… and I was just resentful that he planned to use methods against Swyft Rosby…"
"Odin has done so much for me, and I can't do anything for him."
Regret and self-reproach swelled in Jaime's chest.
"I truly am despicable."
He clenched his fist, nearly striking himself.
After standing outside the Hand's Tower for several long moments, wrestling with his thoughts, Jaime finally made a decision.
His left hand tightened around the hilt of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel blade gleaming pale beneath the night sky. With sudden resolve, he turned sharply and strode away from the Red Keep.
---
The Hand's Tower
The staircase was long.
Odin counted the steps silently as he ascended—nearly two hundred before he reached a half-open door.
Three measured knocks.
"Enter."
Only then did he push it open gently.
Spacious.
That was his first impression.
Towering bookshelves reached toward the ceiling like walls built of knowledge. Behind an enormous carved desk, the Hand of the King was absorbed in a spread of maps and documents. A quill scratched steadily across parchment.
Tywin wore a robe, yet the aura of command about him was undiminished.
Odin walked to the center of the carpet and stopped.
He did not bow immediately. He did not speak. He simply stood—silent, still—like another deliberate object placed within the room.
Tywin did not look up.
For five full minutes, neither man moved.
At last, Tywin finished his notation, set the quill aside, and raised his eyes.
His green gaze assessed Odin openly, without restraint.
"You are late."
No anger.
No raised voice.
Yet the pressure in his tone was unmistakable.
"I told Jaime I would see you at dusk."
"It is now eel-time."
A slight pause.
"You are fortunate. I would ordinarily be resting by now."
Impressive.
Odin felt genuine admiration.
Tywin had not accused or scolded. He had even framed the matter as "fortunate." Yet by emphasizing the delay, he subtly imposed guilt and imbalance.
Even with an unknown nobody, he wielded negotiation as instinct.
Fortunately—
I have advantages of my own.
Under that invisible pressure, Odin quietly activated [Presence Lv2].
His posture remained straight. His expression revealed neither embarrassment nor unease. He did not glance about to mask anxiety.
Instead, he bowed with flawless precision—deep enough to show respect, shallow enough to avoid servility.
"My apologies, Lord Tywin."
Then he fell silent.
The simplicity of that answer intrigued Tywin.
He had expected excuses. Nervousness. Elaborate justifications.
He had not expected… honesty.
"You do not intend to explain?"
Tywin's voice remained even.
"Explanation," Odin replied calmly, "is often a device used to conceal failure and seek indulgence for one's incompetence."
"I was late. That is a fact. Time cannot be reclaimed."
"I choose to accept the consequence rather than polish it with words. An apology suffices."
"As for forgiveness—that decision rests with you, my lord."
Silence settled over the study.
In Tywin's green eyes, a flicker of approval passed—brief but unmistakable.
Odin's [Insight Lv2] caught it instantly.
Correct assessment.
Tywin Lannister valued results. Efficiency. Responsibility.
He despised verbosity and excuses.
At this moment, Odin had aligned perfectly with that value system.
"Sit."
At last, Tywin gestured toward the chair opposite him.
An invitation.