Chapter 109 — A True Friend
When night fell, Flea Bottom lit up.
Unlike the solemn splendor of the Red Keep, the light here was bright, even, and orderly—almost as if someone had measured every inch of ground with a ruler and calculated every shadow.
In the square before the House of Order, fifty newly crafted glass oil lamps hung from iron stands.
Their glass covers had been polished until they shone.
Behind the glass, steady flames burned without flickering in the night wind.
This was the result of half a month of experiments Odin had ordered from the craftsmen.
Brighter than candles.
More economical.
And most importantly—
they would not go out easily.
---
Jaime Lannister stood at the edge of the square, watching silently for a long time.
He should have returned to the Red Keep with the royal procession.
Joffrey had complained the entire ride back in the carriage.
He said Odin's banquet was "unworthy of a king's presence."
He said Flea Bottom would "always be Flea Bottom."
Of course, Jaime knew the real reason.
The riot yesterday had left a deep scar on the boy's mind.
When the procession turned toward Steel Street, Jaime suddenly pulled his horse to a stop.
"I'll go take a look," he told Ser Balon Swann.
"Just to ensure… things are safe."
Balon gave him a long look.
"You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he said bluntly.
"Not Ser Odin's personal guard."
But before he could finish speaking, the knight in white armor had already turned his horse and disappeared into the narrow streets leading to Flea Bottom.
---
Now Jaime stood here.
Looking at everything before him.
A strange feeling rose in his chest.
He couldn't quite describe it.
The people walking through the streets looked… different.
Their faces lacked the constant fear Jaime had always seen among the smallfolk of King's Landing—the fear that made them ready to flee or kneel at any moment.
These people simply walked.
Worked.
Lived.
As if they were in their own homes.
"Ser?"
A voice called out.
Jaime turned.
Rorge stood at the entrance of the House of Order.
The noseless man had even put on a dark jacket today.
The buttons were crooked and the collar wrinkled, but at least it fit.
"Ser Odin is waiting for you inside."
Rorge bowed slightly, doing his best to imitate the "manners" Odin had instructed him to practice.
Jaime nodded and followed him through the doors.
The moment he stepped inside—
he stopped in surprise.
---
The hall of the House of Order was nothing like Jaime had imagined.
He had expected something like the taverns common throughout King's Landing.
Dirty.
Greasy tables.
Air thick with cheap ale and sweat.
But this hall…
The first impression was space.
The ceiling rose three full stories high.
What had likely once been divided into dozens of small rooms had been opened into a massive hall capable of holding two hundred people.
The walls had been freshly coated with lime.
Brilliant white.
A stark contrast to the dark stone walls of the Red Keep.
The second impression was light.
Along the edge of the second-floor balcony hung a row of glass lamps.
Their light focused downward on the central area where the food and tables were arranged.
The edges of the hall remained slightly dim—perfect for private conversation.
Jaime had never seen lighting arranged like this before.
Even the banquet hall in the Red Keep simply filled the room with candles.
This was… surprisingly clever.
---
The center of the hall also looked different.
Instead of long rectangular banquet tables—
there were round tables.
More than a dozen of them, in different sizes.
Each surrounded by six to eight chairs.
Round tables were almost unheard of in noble feasts.
They did not establish hierarchy.
But here, they allowed everyone to face one another.
To speak as equals.
The food was arranged differently as well.
Instead of piles of roasted pigs and whole lambs—
everything was divided into sections.
The cold dishes area displayed sliced ham, cheeses, and pickled fish.
In the hot food section, servants carved roasted chicken and ribs on the spot.
The dessert table held delicate pastries—many of which even Jaime Lannister had never seen before.
The most curious arrangement was the drink counter.
A curved bar stood along one wall.
Behind it stood three attendants wearing white aprons.
Instead of barrels and clay jugs, rows of crystal-clear glass bottles lined the counter.
Inside them were liquids of different colors.
The attendants used silver measuring cups, funnels, and long spoons to mix them.
They shook the liquids together before pouring them into tall glasses.
The movements were smooth—
almost ritualistic.
"What is this…?" Jaime murmured.
"Ser Odin calls it a bar," Rorge explained.
"Those drinks are called cocktails."
"He said nobles are tired of wine and ale."
"They need something… new."
Jaime walked over to one of the round tables.
He ran his fingers across the surface.
The wood was polished smooth.
A thick green velvet cloth covered the tabletop.
Gold thread embroidered simple geometric patterns along the edges.
"All of this…"
Jaime glanced around the hall.
"How many gold dragons did it cost?"
Rorge grinned, revealing several missing teeth.
"None."
"…What?"
"The wood came from demolished houses."
"We sanded it ourselves."
"The glass lamps were made by apprentices practicing their craft."
"They ruined thirty before they got these fifty right."
"Only the velvet was expensive," Rorge added.
"But House Stokeworth donated it."
Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"Ser Odin says that in Flea Bottom…"
"…ideas are worth more than gold."
---
Jaime fell silent.
He thought about the enormous oak desk in Tywin's study.
The gilded candleholders in the Red Keep's banquet hall.
The massive table in Casterly Rock that required twenty men to move.
All of them declared the same thing:
We are wealthy.
We are powerful.
But here—
the principle was different.
Use the least gold…
to accomplish the most.
That was far more intelligent than simply displaying wealth.
---
"Hey! Jaime!"
Odin's voice came from deeper inside the hall.
Jaime looked up.
Odin stood beside the staircase leading to the second floor.
He had already changed out of his armor.
Now he wore a simple dark gray robe.
The cloak still hung from his shoulders.
The black hand sigil was striking beneath the light.
Jaime walked over.
The two men climbed the stairs together and reached a small balcony on the second floor.
This area was separated by folding screens, creating a relatively private space.
Two comfortable armchairs and a small round table stood there.
From the platform, one could overlook the entire hall below, yet the people downstairs could not easily see those sitting above.
It was a design that had clearly been thought out with great care.
Jaime sat down in one of the chairs.
It was surprisingly comfortable—the cushioning neither too soft nor too firm.
He glanced around and joked:
"So this is your domain, Ser Odin?"
"No," Odin said with a grin. "This is my home."
He snapped his fingers.
A servant immediately brought two drinks.
The liquid inside the glasses was amber-colored.
A slice of lemon floated on the surface, along with several small red berries.
Tiny droplets of condensation clung to the sides of the glass.
"Try it," Odin said, raising his cup.
"It's called Old Times. My own recipe."
Jaime took a sip.
The flavor was complicated.
First came the deep warmth of alcohol.
Then the sharp brightness of lemon.
Finally, a faint sweetness followed by a subtle herbal fragrance.
"Excellent," Jaime said sincerely.
"Better than the moldy wine in the Red Keep's cellars."
Odin didn't respond.
He simply drank alongside him as they watched the hall below gradually fill with life.
Guests began arriving.
Several leaders from minor guilds.
Shop owners from Salted Meat Street.
A few merchants who looked like they came from the Free Cities.
No nobles.
At least, not yet.
---
After a long silence, Odin spoke.
"Jaime."
His voice was calm.
"You have something you want to ask me."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
Jaime immediately set his glass down and looked at him seriously.
He did have something to ask.
He had wanted to ask since leaving the sept.
He had held the question in the entire ride here.
"Yesterday… on Salted Meat Street."
"Were those rioters arranged by you?"
He asked directly.
With Odin, he didn't want to circle around the truth.
"Yes."
Odin answered immediately.
Without hesitation.
The blunt honesty caught Jaime off guard.
"From Old Jim being kicked by the horse… to the sudden appearance of the crowd… to Meryn Trant's death… to Cersei and the others being surrounded… to my timely arrival."
"I planned every part of it."
His tone was calm.
There was no attempt to hide it.
Jaime tightened his grip on his glass.
The cold glass bit into his fingers.
But he said nothing.
Seeing the conflict in his eyes, Odin continued gently.
"Jaime, you were born the heir of Casterly Rock."
"You've lived a life of privilege from the beginning."
"At eleven, you became Ser Sumner Crakehall's squire."
"At thirteen, you won your first melee."
"At fifteen, you were knighted."
"And only months later, you became the youngest Kingsguard in the Seven Kingdoms."
Odin listed Jaime's achievements one by one.
There was no envy in his voice.
No jealousy.
Only a kind of weary understanding Jaime had never heard before.
"You can never understand what a commoner must sacrifice simply to survive in this world."
He lifted his head.
His dark eyes met Jaime's.
"In this world, the path upward for commoners has been almost completely welded shut."
"You can save lives."
"You can perform great deeds."
"You can contribute in countless ways."
"But without a title…"
"…you will always be 'that farmer.'"
"'That man.'"
"They will use you when they need you."
"And kick you away when they don't."
"Like a dog."
"So…"
"I must make them need me."
---
Jaime sat silent for a long time.
He thought about his own life.
For thirty years people had called him:
The eldest son of House Lannister.
Heir of Casterly Rock.
Future Warden of the West.
Those titles had been his since birth.
As natural as breathing.
He had never wanted them.
But he knew—
if he had not been born with them—
life would have been far more difficult.
---
"My father once said something," Odin said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself.
"Son, there are two kinds of people in this world."
"One kind is born at the table, eating the feast."
"The other is born under the table, picking up the bones."
"If you want a seat at the table…"
"…you cannot wait for someone to give it to you."
"You must flip the table over."
"And tell them—"
"Either let me sit…"
"…or no one eats."
Jaime's head jerked up.
"Your father…"
"Dead."
Odin said it calmly.
"When I was ten."
"He couldn't pay the lord's taxes."
"They hanged him from an apple tree in the manor."
"I watched him die."
"I watched the crows peck at his eyes."
"I watched the wind and rain swing his body."
"It hung there for half a month."
His tone was so calm that Jaime's chest tightened.
---
"So."
Odin raised his glass toward the light.
The amber liquid shimmered inside it.
"I don't believe in charity."
"I don't believe in mercy."
"I don't believe in the kindness of noble lords."
"I believe in exchange."
"I saved the king—he gives me a title."
"I control Flea Bottom—Tywin gains order."
"I do the dirty work—he keeps his hands clean."
"A very fair trade."
Jaime suddenly looked up.
"If everything is a transaction…"
"…then what about me?"
He stared directly at Odin.
"What are we?"
"Is our relationship just another deal?"
Realizing how that sounded, he hurried to explain.
"I mean… I know you rescued me in the Riverlands for gold dragons…"
"No, Jaime."
Odin smiled and interrupted him.
Then he set his glass down.
His expression turned serious.
"You are my friend."
---
Jaime stared at him.
At this man who had orchestrated an elaborate scheme—
yet admitted everything without hesitation.
And unexpectedly—
Jaime laughed.
A genuine laugh.
"You know something?"
"On the way here, I kept thinking…"
"If you denied it… if you lied to me… what would I do?"
"But you told me the truth."
"Even if the truth isn't very noble."
"That means you see me as a friend."
He paused, then added quietly:
"Real friends don't need lies between them."
For a moment neither spoke.
Then the corner of Odin's mouth lifted.
Not the calculating smile he usually wore.
But a warm one.
"Thank you, Jaime."