Chapter 64: An Emperor for the Ages!
"A hand in the dark…"
Tywin slowly repeated the phrase, tasting it word by word, as if weighing the risks and value hidden within. A faint crack appeared in the cold composure of his emerald-green eyes.
Odin knew at once—the moment was right.
"Yes, my lord," he pressed smoothly, striking while the iron was hot.
"A hand in the dark."
"A hand that, when necessary, clears away obstacles for you—without staining your honor."
"And I… Odin, am willing to become that hand."
The study fell completely silent.
The air was still, broken only by the tireless dance of flames in the hearth. Firewood crackled softly, each sound magnified in the oppressive quiet.
Odin could hear his own heartbeat.
Tywin's face remained impassive, revealing nothing. Yet his gaze was locked firmly on Odin, sharp and probing, as if he meant to strip him bare.
It was… unusual.
This nameless commoner had saved the Lannister heir—yet before the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, he begged for nothing. He didn't even mention the bathtub of gold Jaime had promised.
That didn't make him timid.
On the contrary, in Tywin's eyes, the boy was audacious to the point of madness.
Because he dared to ask for something so brazen—control over King's Landing's underworld.
That courage, binding personal ambition directly to Tywin's interests, combined with his exceptional grasp of negotiation, was enough to make even Tywin Lannister—Hand of the King for two decades—look at him anew.
"Interesting."
After what felt like an age, Tywin finally spoke again, fixing Odin with a grave stare.
"I am the Hand of the King. And you wish to become my hands."
"A novel idea."
"But tell me—how am I to ensure that these hands remain mine…"
"…and do not one day draw a blade and plunge it into my back?"
The weight of the question pressed down like a physical force.
Odin understood perfectly.
Tywin was no longer rejecting him—this was a test.
If his answer failed, everything he had built would collapse in an instant.
Meeting that gaze without flinching, Odin remained calm.
He did not swear loyalty.
He did not make grand vows.
Instead, he gave an answer Tywin had not expected—yet one that felt inevitable.
"Because you are Tywin Lannister."
Just one sentence. One steady look.
Yet Tywin's pupils shrank.
The meaning was unmistakable:
Because you are invincible.
Because the cost of betraying you is unthinkable.
Because our interests now align.
No one would dare challenge your authority.
The two men held each other's gaze, communicating volumes without words. At last, Tywin inclined his head slightly.
An agreement—unspoken, but real—had been reached.
Then—
Noise.
Harsh voices and hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor outside, shattering the solemn calm of the Hand's Tower.
"Hurry up!"
"You useless sacks of bones! Do you expect your king to climb two hundred steps on his own with those precious legs?!"
A shrill, impatient voice rang out, accompanied by chaotic movement.
For the briefest instant, irritation flashed across Tywin's face.
Odin caught it.
He already knew who was coming.
Moments later, the heavy door to the study was pushed open once more.
A boy of fourteen or fifteen entered—draped in a velvet robe embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Golden-haired, blue-eyed, handsome at first glance—but his brows were twisted with cruelty and petulance.
He was not walking.
He was being carried.
The boy sat arrogantly atop a simple sedan chair, borne by two servants who were visibly struggling, faces flushed, breaths ragged.
Beside him stood a Kingsguard knight clad in pure white armor.
Only after they entered fully did the Lannister guard who had earlier blocked Jaime peek nervously in from the doorway.
"I'm sorry, my lord! His Majesty—"
One look from Tywin silenced him.
The guard paled and withdrew at once.
"Your Grace."
Tywin rose to his feet. His movements were steady, but there was unmistakable resignation in his voice.
Odin immediately followed suit, bowing deeply to the boy.
An emperor for the ages, Odin thought wryly.
So this was Joffrey Baratheon—the legendary tyrant.
Entering the Hand's study in a sedan chair, as if scaling a mountain on a palanquin.
Truly peerless.
"Put me down, idiots!"
Joffrey snapped, his voice sharp and ugly. Seeing the servants hesitate, he lashed out, slapping one of them hard across the face.
The servant didn't dare show anger—only fear. He and his companion hurriedly, carefully set the chair down.
The Seven Kingdoms' future, laid gently upon the floor.
After smoothing his robes, Joffrey Baratheon hopped down from the sedan chair, swaying as he walked—every inch the undeveloped child playing at being a king.
He strode straight to Tywin Lannister's desk without sparing Odin so much as a glance.
"Lord Tywin."
The king lifted his chin and demanded in what he clearly believed was a voice of regal authority,
"I told you that every decision of the Small Council must be reported to me in advance. Have you forgotten?"
Tywin's expression revealed neither anger nor displeasure. He answered patiently,
"I remember very clearly, Your Grace."
"The next meeting of the Small Council will be held tomorrow afternoon. You may, of course, arrive in this same sedan chair."
Then his calm gaze flicked briefly toward Odin.
"But at present, I am merely receiving a guest and discussing matters of little importance."
"These affairs are trivial and tedious. I do not believe they warrant your valuable time."
Unfortunately, Joffrey's smooth brain failed to process the polite dismissal hidden in those words.
Rather than leaving, curiosity sparked in the green eyes he'd inherited from House Lannister.
Under Tywin's gaze, the young king smirked and swaggered over to the chair Odin had just vacated, shaking out his robe as if he were the master of the room.
"Discussing matters?"
Joffrey raised his chin and spoke in a childish voice, exaggeratedly imitating adult authority.
"Lady Margaery says that even a king burdened with affairs of state should occasionally observe his ministers at work. Coincidentally, I'm free today."
"Go on. I'll listen. Let me see what my Hand is usually so busy with."
The smug self-importance of the words drew a shadow across Tywin's brow.
He took a slow breath, clearly suppressing irritation. As Lord of Casterly Rock, he had ruled wisely all his life—yet this grandson of his alone could provoke a deep, inexplicable frustration.
In Tywin's eyes, Joffrey was foolish, cruel, and dangerously unpredictable—always appearing at the worst possible moment, doing the most troublesome things in the most disastrous way.
Like ordering the execution of Eddard Stark.
Yet a king had spoken. Tywin, as Hand, returned to his seat.
"Odin."
He resumed the interrupted discussion, his tone once again composed and commanding.
"Regarding what we were speaking of earlier—what, precisely, is your proposal?"
As he spoke, he gave Odin a subtle look.
Odin understood immediately. He inclined his head respectfully toward Joffrey.
"Your Grace. My lord."
"As I mentioned to Lord Tywin earlier, King's Landing is a great city—but it also gathers vast numbers of idle commoners."
"It is well known that idleness breeds disorder and drains the strength of the City Watch. For this reason, I intend to establish a… free combat arena."
Before the king, Odin deliberately chose a neutral, entertainment-tinged term.
"A combat arena?"
As expected, Joffrey's interest ignited instantly.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a cruel excitement.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Odin smiled—precisely measured.
He understood Joffrey all too well. A child spoiled by power, desperate to be seen as a mighty warrior like his "father."
Unlike Robert Baratheon, however, Joffrey was cowardly, volatile, and obsessed with bloodshed—a walking contradiction.
"This will be more than a simple fighting pit," Odin continued, his voice deliberately stirring.
"In my design, it will be a stage for courage, strength, and martial skill. Warriors from across the Seven Kingdoms—and even from across the Narrow Sea—will compete openly. Victory will bring honor and reward."
"Like a tourney?" Joffrey asked eagerly.
"Similar, Your Grace."
Odin nodded.
"But tourneys grow dull. Swords, archery, jousts, mêlées—there are limits."
"My free combat arena will have no such limits."
"So long as one dares to enter, even commoners, wildlings, or condemned criminals may fight."
"The only rule…"
"…is to survive."
He watched Joffrey closely—saw the king's breathing quicken—then pressed further.
"If it pleases Your Grace, you might one day attend in person."
"Everyone knows your late father, King Robert, was the greatest warrior of his age—he slew Rhaegar Targaryen with his own hands!"
"And you, Your Grace, have inherited that glorious blood. The blood of a warrior!"
"At that time, we could even arrange a perfectly safe exhibition match—one in which you yourself take the field."
"Let your people witness their king's valor with their own eyes!"
"I have no doubt the city would go mad with cheers for your bravery!"
The words struck home.
Joffrey's cheeks flushed red with excitement. He nearly leapt from the chair.
"This is brilliant!" he shouted.
"Where? Where will you build it?"
"It must be near the Red Keep—so I can go whenever I wish!"
Odin kept smiling.
So easily hooked.
Still, he remembered who truly ruled King's Landing.
His gaze shifted from the eager king to Tywin, silently asking for approval.
Tywin inclined his head.
Only then did Odin speak.
"Flea Bottom."
"What?!"
The color drained from Joffrey's face.
Fear—raw and immediate—rose in his eyes.
Not long ago, it was in Flea Bottom that he'd been attacked by a mob. Stones. Filth. Screaming crowds. Royal guards collapsing into chaos.
He had seen Ser Aron Santagar and Ser Preston Greenfield torn apart, their bodies later found half-eaten.
That terror—along with the humiliation—was burned into his memory.
At once, a Kingsguard knight stepped forward, pointing at Odin.
"You scheming wretch!"
"His Grace is the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! How could he set foot in that filthy, stinking slum?"
"It would disgrace the crown and place the king in grave danger!"
Odin calmly replied,
"Danger?"
"If I recall correctly, whether His Grace is in danger depends on you, Ser of the Kingsguard."
"Or is it that you lack confidence in your own skill—to the point you doubt you can protect your king?"
The knight bristled and stepped forward—
"Ser Meryn Trant."
Tywin spoke his name like a blade.
Meryn froze. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.
"Lord Odin is correct. If a Kingsguard believes himself incapable of protecting the king, then he may remove that armor and leave the Red Keep at once."
"Or perhaps, between assisting the Queen Regent's excesses, you could find time to practice your swordsmanship."
The humiliation was unmistakable.
Meryn swallowed and said nothing.
Satisfied, Tywin turned back to Odin.
"Continue."
"Yes, my lord."
Odin straightened, voice ringing with confidence.
"Please rest assured, Your Grace."
"Since I dare invite you there, I will ensure absolute safety."
"Two months."
He raised two fingers.
"By the Seven, within two months, Flea Bottom will be utterly transformed."