Chapter 88 – Odin the Butcher
"You still have business?"
Tywin lifted his eyes slightly, a trace of surprise flickering through them when Odin did not bow and withdraw as expected, instead remaining where he stood.
Normally, a clever man would immediately turn to considering how to execute an order, not linger after receiving it.
And this man was clearly no fool.
Meeting Tywin's appraising gaze head-on, Odin showed no hesitation and made no attempt to circle the issue.
"Yes, my lord," he said calmly.
"I have one personal request, and I hope to receive your approval."
"Let's hear it," Tywin replied, his tone unreadable.
"I once promised Lady Falyse Stokeworth that I would help secure a respectable position within the City Watch for her husband, Ser Balman Byrch."
The room fell silent.
Tywin did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Odin closely, weighing him.
There was no anger in his expression. In Tywin's view, those who claimed to want nothing—or who acted purely on ideals—were the most suspicious and the hardest to control.
Men with desires were easier to grasp. Desire meant weakness. Weakness meant leverage.
"Why not go to Ser Addam Marbrand?" Tywin asked pointedly.
"He commands the City Watch. Arranging a position would be trivial for him."
"With your connection to Jaime, he would hardly refuse."
It was a test—barely concealed.
Odin heard it clearly and answered without the slightest pause, his voice firm and precise.
"I work for you, my lord," he said.
"Not for Ser Addam Marbrand."
The statement was direct, even blunt. It made one thing unmistakably clear: he would not bypass Tywin's authority to seek favors elsewhere.
"Ha… interesting."
For perhaps the first time in years, Tywin Lannister actually laughed aloud.
A flicker of surprise crossed Odin's eyes, quickly smoothed away.
Seeing his confusion, Tywin explained evenly,
"Lady Tanda Stokeworth is the aunt of Gyles Rosby's second wife—and also a distant relative of Rosby himself."
"The Rosby line is thin. Once Gyles dies, Rosby lands will very likely pass to House Stokeworth."
Odin immediately understood.
So that's how it is.
The noble circles of King's Landing were, as always, tangled beyond belief.
"But—" Tywin continued, fixing Odin with a sharp look, "this is your first task for me."
"Ser Balman may once have been a capable knight," he said coolly,
"but are you certain you wish to spend what you like to call a 'favor' on a bloated old man already past his prime?"
Odin fell silent for a moment, as though genuinely weighing the question.
When he looked up again, his gaze held a stubborn, almost immovable certainty.
"If I cannot keep a promise made to a woman," he said quietly,
"then how could you ever trust a single word I say to you—or any promise I make?"
The study fell silent once more, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
Tywin stared at Odin long enough to make lesser men buckle under the pressure.
Finally, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
This Odin…
He always knew exactly where to strike.
Neither servile nor arrogant. Ambitious, yet cloaked in principle. He knew when to advance, when to stop—and how to demonstrate his worth.
Jaime's trip through the Riverlands had brought back more than battles, it seemed. Perhaps this man was one of the few pieces of good fortune Tywin had enjoyed in years.
Tywin said nothing further. He opened a drawer and withdrew a blank parchment bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King.
"Fortunately," he said while writing, "Ser Rosby is dead."
"By tomorrow morning—assuming I hear the news I expect—this appointment will be on Ser Addam's desk."
The terms were clear.
The exchange was explicit.
That was Tywin Lannister's efficiency.
"Good night, my lord."
Odin understood perfectly. He bowed once more and turned to leave without another word.
Tywin did not watch him go.
He rose instead and walked to the great map of Westeros mounted nearby. His finger moved slowly, then came to rest on a sigil marked Rosby.
Odin…
He repeated the name silently.
A most interesting man.
Sharp and ruthless in the way only someone clawing up from the bottom could be—yet not crude or short-sighted like common upstarts.
Had he been born into a noble house—even as a second son—his potential might have been limitless.
The thought inevitably led Tywin to his greatest frustration.
The succession of House Lannister.
Even Tywin Lannister had his burdens.
Jaime—his eldest.
Consumed by knightly legends, utterly uninterested in power, legacy, or responsibility. Convincing him to shed the white cloak was harder than conquering ten cities.
Tyrion…
Not worth dwelling on.
And Cersei.
His daughter had achieved what she desired: queen, and now queen mother.
Her hunger for power mirrored his own—once, that had given him hope.
But her intelligence, restraint, and vision fell catastrophically short of her ambition.
To put it plainly—she was a fool.
Even now, Tywin could not fully let go of what had happened to Eddard Stark.
They had held the North's lord in their grasp—the strongest card in the Seven Kingdoms. With him alive, they could have forced the North to submit without bloodshed, then drawn in the Riverlands and the Vale.
Six kingdoms under one hand.
Stannis and Renly would have been nothing more than noise.
And yet—what had Cersei allowed?
She let that idiot Joffrey behead Eddard Stark, driving the North and Riverlands straight into open rebellion.
In the end, Tywin himself had been forced to march again, cleaning up their mess.
At least… the mess was nearly cleaned now.
His gaze hardened. He opened another drawer.
Inside lay no documents.
Only a crimson sigil.
The Flayed Man.
---
Rosby lay northwest of Blackwater Bay, the most direct route between King's Landing and Duskendale.
Rolling hills, fertile fields, septs, orchards, barley and apple groves—land rich with life.
While the Riverlands burned, Rosby and nearby Stokeworth had become lifelines, sustaining hundreds of thousands in King's Landing.
It was said that nearly half the city's grain came from these loyal crownlands.
And it was precisely because of that importance that Gyles Rosby had grown arrogant.
Though he held no seat on the Small Council, he believed his contribution entitled him to a voice before the Iron Throne.
That belief had given him the courage to storm into court and accuse the Hand himself when his chosen heir was slain.
Now, returning to Rosby's keep from a small sept, Gyles' mood had changed.
After the council session, resentment had nearly crushed him.
Seeking answers from the gods, he had gone to the familiar sept, pouring out his grievances to a priest he trusted.
The priest had not rebuked him.
Instead, he had comforted him with doctrine.
"The Seven see all, my lord."
The priest's calm gaze in the candlelight seemed to echo in Gyles' mind.
"To be born is to bear sin. Life itself is a journey of atonement."
"Wealth, power, health—even family—are all trials granted by the Seven… or withdrawn by them."
"What matters is not drowning in grief or injustice, but understanding divine intent—and offering greater devotion in return."
"Only through complete sacrifice, and the rejection of worldly illusion, may the soul draw closer to the Seven's radiance… and true justice."
Gyles believed every word.
The septon spoke with solemn conviction, his voice heavy with divine purpose.
Gyles did not fully grasp the deeper meaning of the sermon, yet his mood inexplicably lightened.
Perhaps… I am still not devout enough.
With that thought, before leaving the sept, he not only made the customary donation, but added an extra one thousand gold dragons as a "special offering."
Supported by two guards, Lord Gyles dragged his coughing, fragile body back to the uppermost bedchamber of the castle's main tower.
He dismissed his exceptionally supple mistress when she offered to stay the night.
He wanted to be alone.
Lying upon the great bed draped in heavy curtains, the exhaustion of the day mingled with the strange serenity left behind by the sept. His thoughts slowly became active again.
Tywin Lannister was powerful—but not without enemies.
Perhaps he could reach out to nobles who also resented Tywin's dominance. Or even… seek help from Prince Oberyn Martell?
The Dornish would surely enjoy seeing a Lannister stumble.
And the Faith—yes, the Faith. That septon seemed insightful. Perhaps, through him, a word could be passed to the High Septon…
Gyles' clouded eyes turned in the darkness as he carefully plotted how to force Tywin to reconsider the judgment on Swyft Rosby's death.
At the very least, the Rosby family deserved a more "dignified" conclusion.
But just as his thoughts drifted and drowsiness crept in—
Suddenly, Gyles' eyes flew open.
In a haze, he saw a distorted silhouette peel itself from the shadows at the foot of the bed, silent and unnatural, like something born from a nightmare made flesh.
Terror surged through him.
He tried to scream.
Tried to call for the guards outside—guards whose footsteps he normally found unbearably loud.
But a cloth soaked in a strange, pungent scent was pressed firmly over his mouth and nose.
Cold.
Damp.
Unyielding.
---
When Gyles regained consciousness, he found himself tied to a chair.
The surroundings were painfully familiar.
This… this is my cellar.
He struggled frantically, but a gag filled his mouth, choking off all sound.
Then, a figure stepped into view.
"Good evening, Lord Gyles."
That voice—
Him.
Gyles' eyes went wide as he finally saw the man clearly.
Odin.
The detestable commoner who, that very afternoon, had stood before the Iron Throne and spoken Jaime Lannister free.
But now, Odin had shed his elegant attire.
He wore only a dark inner shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He looked no longer like a courtier.
No longer like a gentleman.
He looked like a craftsman.
Or—
A butcher.