Chapter 79 – Littlefinger
Odin ignored the guards at the entrance and strode straight into the brothel known as The Hummingbird, without the slightest hint of courtesy.
The interior was extravagantly furnished. Thick carpets swallowed all sound beneath his boots, and the air carried a refined, delicate incense rather than the cloying stench of cheap perfume.
That said, no amount of elegance could change the nature of the place.
Even from the first-floor hall, curtains barely concealed a number of indecent scenes. Compared to the more vulgar brothels outside, the only real difference seemed to be those thin veils of fabric.
Odin shook his head as [Presence Lv.3] unfurled silently.
Almost at once, attention shifted toward him.
The expensive cut of his clothes, the unmistakable foreign warrior standing behind him—people began quietly speculating about which noble house this unfamiliar lord might belong to.
At that moment, a woman with voluminous red hair hurried over.
"Welcome to The Hummingbird, honored sir!"
Her voice was dipped in honey—warm, inviting, but not obsequious. The smile she wore was professional and practiced to perfection.
Though she was clearly the madam, she looked no older than twenty-five. Her figure was graceful, and the deep-purple silk gown she wore revealed just enough at the neckline—elegant collarbones, a glimpse of pale skin—provocative without crossing into vulgarity.
Petyr Baelish truly did have a keen sense for business.
Odin spared her a glance.
After all, men were rarely fascinated by complete exposure. What they enjoyed more was suggestion—the pleasure of unwrapping a gift themselves.
"My name is Ros, my lord."
Seeing that Odin didn't respond, she showed no irritation and continued smoothly,
"It would be my honor to serve you. May I ask what kind of companionship you're seeking tonight?"
Her judgment was sharp. One look was enough to tell who held authority here.
Yet Odin gave her nothing.
Without acknowledging her greeting, he walked straight toward the ornate staircase leading upward.
That air of familiarity immediately marked him, in Ros's mind, as a seasoned patron.
Not daring to delay, she lifted her skirt slightly and followed him with light, practiced steps.
"My lord, the second floor offers comfortable private rooms, and the girls there are even more—"
She continued her pitch, but Odin didn't slow down.
He stepped straight onto the stairs leading to the third floor.
Ros's eyes flickered with excitement.
The third floor was reserved for the most distinguished guests—the most expensive rooms, the highest commissions.
The atmosphere upstairs was far more secluded. Heavy drapes covered each door along the corridor, soundproofing the rooms so thoroughly that hardly a whisper escaped.
Odin's sharp gaze swept the hallway, as if searching for someone.
He didn't find who he was looking for.
With a faint shake of his head, he pushed open the door to an empty room, stepped inside, and sat down casually on a velvet-cushioned couch.
"Arrange companions for my partner," he said, finally looking up at Ros.
"The best you have. Make sure he enjoys himself."
"Yes, my lord!" Ros smiled brightly—this was clearly a client who didn't worry about coin.
Behind Odin, Iggo's eyes lit up at once.
Since pledging himself to Odin, he truly hadn't relaxed like this in a long time.
Tonight, it seemed, that was finally about to change.
Soon enough, three women entered the room—each striking in both figure and appearance. Ros was about to ask Odin to choose, but Iggo lunged forward with unrestrained enthusiasm, pulling them into his arms left and right as if staking a claim.
His meaning was unmistakable—
I'll take them all.
The women laughed as they were led toward another room. To Iggo's credit, he hadn't completely forgotten Odin.
He turned back and asked with genuine concern,
"Aren't you coming too, blood of my blood?"
"In the Dothraki way, a bloodrider shares everything with his khal!"
Odin's mouth twitched slightly. He waved a hand dismissively.
"No need. This is your reward. Enjoy it."
Iggo hesitated for half a heartbeat, but his body had already overridden his brain. Blood rushed south, and rational thought evaporated completely.
The door closed.
The room was left with only Odin and Ros.
Before Odin could say a word, Ros smoothly slipped out of her dress. Her hips swayed as she approached, eyes glistening with practiced allure.
After all, from her perspective, there was only one reason a man would send his guard away—
to be alone with her.
"So," Odin said calmly, a hint of amusement in his tone,
"it seems you're not a natural redhead."
Ros melted forward, letting herself fall toward his chest.
"Allow me to help you pass the time, my lord."
But just as her hand reached for his clothing, Odin raised a finger and gently pressed it against her smooth shoulder, stopping her cold.
She froze.
Odin, unhurried, reached into his coat and produced a gold dragon.
He didn't slip it into her cleavage like other patrons. Instead, he held it between his fingers, letting it glint in the soft light before placing it squarely on the table between them.
"Ros, was it?"
His voice was even, measured.
"Your service is impeccable. But this gold dragon is for a different favor."
He tapped the coin lightly.
"Go tell your employer—Lord Petyr Baelish—that the King's Landing Royal Chief Special Agent, Odin, has a piece of business he'd like to discuss."
---
Petyr Baelish was in an excellent mood.
He had just returned from the Red Keep, where—through artful phrasing and a carefully measured tone—he had informed the Small Council that the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell, intended to marry her grandson, Loras Tyrell, to Sansa Stark.
Petyr understood Tywin Lannister all too well.
The Lion of the West would never allow Highgarden and the North to unite.
That marriage was already dead.
For years, Petyr had harbored an obsession with Catelyn Tully—an infatuation that fueled all his ambition. To climb higher, he endured the foolish, hysterical Lysa Arryn, manipulating her devotion step by step, using her power to rise from a minor lord of the Fingers to Master of Coin.
Though Tywin had reclaimed the treasury for his dwarf son, he had granted Petyr Harrenhal.
More importantly, Petyr had openly declared in the Small Council that he would travel to the Eyrie to persuade Lysa Arryn to marry him—thus securing the Vale.
That woman had loved him like a starving dog loves a bone. She had obeyed him unquestioningly… even poisoning her own husband, Jon Arryn, at his suggestion.
If Petyr proposed, she would agree without hesitation.
Of that, he was utterly certain.
And after marrying her?
An "accident" could always be arranged.
Then he would be the unquestioned Lord of the Eyrie.
And Sansa Stark—who bore her mother's shadow—would become a bird in his gilded cage.
If he couldn't have the mother, he would have the daughter.
A victory, by any reasonable measure.
Humming softly to himself, Petyr nearly skipped as he entered The Hummingbird—only to run into Ros, who was hurrying down the stairs.
"What's the rush?" he asked mildly, though his trademark smile never left his face.
Ros was from the North, yet unlike the coarse northerners, she was perceptive, clever—sharp enough to find The Hummingbird on her first day in King's Landing.
In half a year, she had proven herself more than capable. Her skill, both in bed and in management, earned Petyr's favor quickly, and he had promoted her to madam.
Ignoring his mild reproach, Ros leaned in and whispered a few words into his ear.
Petyr's smile froze.
Odin?
Why would he be looking for him?
They had met only once—when Petyr used Odin to cleanly sever ties with the filth of Flea Bottom by disposing of Ralf.
Was this about the few thousand gold dragons from the Blood Cellar?
Surely not so petty.
Thoughts raced through Petyr's mind—but his expression quickly reset to warm, harmless charm.
An outsider, no matter how favored by Tywin, was still an outsider.
Petyr had spent over a decade weaving himself into King's Landing.
He had no reason to fear this man.
"I understand," he said calmly, dismissing Ros.
He ascended the stairs.
Outside the room, he adjusted his finely tailored coat—then pushed the door open with practiced ease.
"Oh, my dear Chief Agent," he said smoothly,
"I was wondering why the birds were singing so sweetly this morning. So it was you."
He looked up—and found the room empty.
No wine. No food.
Only a lone figure standing by the window, gazing out at Silk Street's bustle.
"Odin," Petyr greeted.
Only then did Odin turn.
The light from outside split his face—half in shadow.
"Your Hummingbird is quite impressive," Odin said mildly, like an old friend.
"And I must thank you—for helping me clean up that little problem in Flea Bottom. Very thorough."
"You flatter me," Petyr replied with a smile.
He was about to return the courtesy when Odin stepped closer.
"I used to believe a man only ever had one destiny."
Each step carried invisible pressure. Petyr felt it—subtly, uncomfortably.
"From the Fingers to Riverrun. From Gulltown's tax office to Master of Coin. Then Lord of Harrenhal."
"Your rise is… admirable, Lord Baelish."
Odin stopped directly in front of him.
They stood close enough to feel each other's breath.
"But—"
His voice softened.
"Would you care to explain why a man of such vision and generosity left me nothing but a… barren, ruined mess to clean up?"