Chapter 149 — The Sellsword Who Didn't Love Gold
Morning mist wrapped itself around the towering spires of the Red Keep like a thin veil.
Odin slipped out through a hidden side door and stopped beneath the shadow of the wall, leaning against the cold stone as he drew in a deep breath.
Behind him, the Red Keep was gradually descending into chaos.
Hurried footsteps echoed across the stone roads.
The clatter of armor grew louder and denser.
One window after another lit up, like startled fireflies suddenly illuminating the entire castle.
"The Hand has been attacked!"
"The assassin may still be inside the Keep! Seal every exit!"
"Hurry! Move!"
Fragments of shouting drifted on the wind, piercing the silence of dawn.
Odin listened quietly for a moment.
Then the corner of his mouth curved slightly upward.
He glanced down at himself.
The bloodstained white armor had already been discarded in the hidden passage. Now he wore ordinary dark roughspun clothes beneath an unremarkable gray cloak.
Thirty paces ahead, deep within the shadows where the wall turned, stood a solitary figure.
The man also wore white armor, though his posture was relaxed. He leaned against the wall casually, one foot propped lazily against the stone.
The dawn light outlined the contours of his armor while leaving his face hidden in shadow, though the golden hand hanging at his side reflected brightly in the morning light.
Odin walked toward him, boots sinking softly into the damp earth with muted squelches.
Jaime heard the footsteps and turned around.
When Odin came within ten paces, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard raised a brow, amusement appearing on his handsome face.
"Looks like you caused quite the commotion," Jaime said, his voice hoarse from clearly having gone without sleep all night.
Odin stopped three paces away and spread his hands helplessly.
"The Hand lost four guards. Even with you clearing the way for me, next time won't be nearly this easy."
The words were casual, but both men understood the weight behind them.
The success of last night's operation had depended heavily on Jaime.
As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he had temporarily altered the patrol routes and guard rotations before dawn, pulling soldiers away from key positions under the excuse of "urgent reassignment orders."
That invisible opening had allowed Odin to move through the Red Keep unseen.
Without Jaime's help, even disguised in a Kingsguard's white armor, silently infiltrating the heart of the Red Keep and reaching the Hand's bedchamber would have bordered on impossible.
Jaime didn't reply immediately.
He simply studied Odin with those sharp green eyes.
After a moment, he suddenly laughed.
There was self-mockery in it. Relief, too. And something even he himself probably couldn't explain.
"You know," Jaime said with a shake of his head, "as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, helping an outsider sneak into the Red Keep for the purpose of threatening my own father…"
"If this ever gets out, I might become the first Kingsguard in history executed for assisting someone in assassinating his own father."
He said it lightly, but Odin caught the meaning beneath the humor.
"Regretting it?"
"No." Jaime answered instantly, almost without thinking. "I just think fate has a twisted sense of humor."
"Half a year ago in the Riverlands, you saved my life. Now here in King's Landing, I'm helping you threaten my father's life."
"Does that count as some distorted form of repayment?"
Odin laughed softly.
"A Lannister always pays his debts, doesn't he?"
Another gust of morning wind swept through, carrying the salty smell of the Blackwater.
In the distance, the markets were beginning to wake.
King's Landing slowly returned to its usual noisy bustle.
The news of the Hand nearly being assassinated hadn't spread yet.
But even if it had, the people likely wouldn't react much.
After all, in barely two years, King's Landing had already watched two Hands of the King die.
Listening to the distant noise of the awakening city, Jaime fell silent for a moment before finally asking the question that had been hanging on his lips since Odin appeared.
"How did the negotiations go?"
"Quite well," Odin answered with a smile.
"Tywin Lannister is the kind of man who places profit and practicality above everything else."
"Calm. Rational. Excellent at calculating costs and returns. Even with a blade at his throat, he can still make the choice that best serves his interests."
"I laid out the numbers for him. Crushing Flea Bottom would come at a price. The Gold Cloaks and Lannister troops would suffer casualties. The unrest could spread into other districts of King's Landing."
"And most importantly, his image as Hand of the King would suffer irreversible damage."
"If he won, people might call him the Mad Hand."
"And if he lost…" Odin chuckled.
Jaime let out an ambiguous grunt, impossible to tell whether it was agreement or ridicule.
No one understood Tywin better than Jaime.
Tywin could endure military defeat.
He could endure financial losses.
He could even tolerate temporary political setbacks.
But there was one thing he could never allow:
The collapse of his authority.
Because Lannister rule rested half upon gold and armies…
…and half upon the myth that Tywin Lannister was invincible.
"So he accepted your terms?" Jaime asked.
"He accepted the more rational option," Odin corrected.
Odin corrected him calmly.
"The Gold Cloaks will withdraw from Flea Bottom before sunset today. The king—or rather, the Hand—will issue a decree declaring Flea Bottom a special autonomous district. A new form of community governance will be tested there. Tax exemption at first, then a thirty percent levy afterward."
He paused, and for the first time there was something almost reflective in his tone.
"Back at Harrenhal, Roose Bolton once said something very true. A peaceful land and quiet smallfolk—that is the foundation of rule."
"Your father is an exceptional ruler. He understands that better than anyone. Rather than letting Flea Bottom remain a festering, bleeding wound, it's better to let it scar over and heal."
Hearing that, Jaime nodded.
His expression remained calm, with little visible emotion.
Truthfully, Odin knew Jaime didn't particularly care about Flea Bottom itself, nor about the suffering of the poor.
As the eldest son of the Lord of Casterly Rock and now Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jaime had grown up surrounded by gold and silk. Though he had suffered somewhat during the Riverlands campaign, he could never truly understand what it meant to gnaw on tree bark from hunger.
Nor could he understand the despair of selling one's dignity for a single copper coin.
He wasn't helping Odin because of some lofty ideal.
Nor entirely out of rebellion against his father—though that was certainly part of it.
He was helping Odin for a far simpler reason.
Because Odin was his friend.
And whatever his friend cared about—his territory, his business, the things he wished to protect—Jaime would help him protect them.
It was really that simple.
Odin studied Jaime's profile.
The dawn light had grown brighter now, revealing the fresh stubble along the Kingsguard commander's jaw and the heaviness buried beneath those eyes that usually carried a teasing glint.
Tyrion awaited trial.
Cersei was spiraling further into madness after Joffrey's death.
And his father had just been threatened at swordpoint.
Yet Jaime stood here helping the very man who had threatened him escape.
The burden on his shoulders was far heavier than it appeared.
Suddenly, a mischievous thought surfaced in Odin's mind.
"So tell me honestly, Jaime… weren't you afraid I might actually kill your father?"
"If I hadn't stopped myself—if I'd truly slit his throat with that dagger—then no one in King's Landing would remain capable of threatening my rise."
"With the Hand dead, House Lannister would descend into chaos. Cersei would lose what little sanity she has left. Kevan couldn't possibly hold things together. The Tyrells would start moving immediately."
"And me?" He smiled faintly. "I could use the chaos to turn Flea Bottom into a true nation within a nation."
He spoke slowly, each word deliberate and clear.
At the same time, his eyes remained fixed on Jaime's face, observing every tiny shift in expression.
Jaime's reaction was unexpected.
First he froze.
Then he laughed.
The sound echoed through the narrow alley, startling a crow dozing atop the wall.
"If you'd actually done that," Jaime said between laughs, "both Cersei and Tyrion would probably thank you."
"Honestly, I guarantee it. Cersei would probably grant you a lordship, and Tyrion would invite you to drink every bottle in his wine cellar."
The words were half joke, half bitter truth.
After all, every noble in the Seven Kingdoms knew that while Tywin Lannister was a brilliant ruler and a terrifying statesman…
…when it came to raising children, well—
No man was perfect.
An overly domineering father usually ended up raising a house full of rebellious children.
Odin laughed as well.
He understood perfectly that the joke itself was the sharpest possible mockery of their father-son relationship—and the clearest reflection of Jaime's conflicted heart.
So the two men stood there laughing together amid the distant alarms of the Red Keep and the growing noise of the awakening city, like accomplices sharing a dangerous secret.
Eventually, Jaime's smile faded.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
Now they stood face-to-face, close enough to see their own reflections in each other's eyes.
The Lord Commander's expression turned completely serious. The usual laziness and mockery vanished, replaced by a rare sincerity Odin seldom saw from him.
"I know you wouldn't do it," Jaime said quietly.
Odin raised a brow.
"You sound pretty certain."
"Don't forget," Odin said, "I'm the kind of man who'll use any means necessary to reach his goals. You saw that yourself in the Riverlands."
"I saw many things," Jaime replied with a nod.
"I saw you use medicine to bargain for survival. I saw you talk Vargo Hoat into cooperation. I saw you manipulate the Brave Companions into tearing each other apart."
"And I saw how you took control of Flea Bottom."
He paused, his voice lowering.
"But back in the Riverlands… you chose to save me."
"When you could have traded my identity for greater profit…"
"When everyone around me treated me like an enemy…"
"You still saved a Kingslayer who had lost his sword hand, lost his honor, and was close to losing himself."
The alley suddenly fell silent.
Even the distant noise from the Red Keep seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of two men breathing.
Then, from the shadows at the other end of the alley, came the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps.
Both men turned.
A figure stumbled out of the darkness at a half-run.
Bronn.
Tyrion's former sellsword guard.
But the infamous mercenary looked utterly ragged now.
He carried someone over his shoulder—a very heavy someone—and sweat streamed down his forehead, soaking the collar of his filthy leather armor.
Bronn staggered forward several more steps before his legs finally gave out.
With a grunt, he dropped to one knee.
The man on his shoulder slid off and crashed into the muddy ground with a wet thud, splattering mud across Bronn's face.
The sellsword knight panted violently, chest heaving.
After several seconds, he finally managed to lift his head and glare at Jaime through tired, foxlike eyes.
"This Dothraki bastard…" he wheezed through gritted teeth.
"…is heavy as shit."
Yes.
The man he carried was Iggo—the Dothraki warrior Tywin had secretly imprisoned.
The powerful warrior's black hair was matted to his forehead with blood.
Fresh wounds crisscrossed his bare upper body.
Blood streamed down his skin, spreading dark red stains through the mud beneath him.
Jaime didn't even look at Iggo immediately.
Instead, he raised a brow and smirked.
"Heavier than the title of Lord of Stokeworth?"
Bronn blinked.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Lord of Stokeworth…"
"That depends on my dear sister and brother-in-law dying before I do. Falyse may be dumb as a pig, but the woman's impossible to kill. And her beloved husband, Ser Balman?"
Bronn spat onto the ground.
"They stripped him of his command in Flea Bottom, sure, but the bastard's still healthy."
"At this rate, I'll need to live to eighty before I inherit anything."
Jaime crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
"It doesn't need to be that complicated."
"Falyse Stokeworth is forty-six. Ser Balman is forty-eight. As far as I know, they've been married twenty years without producing a single child. The maesters believe both of them are infertile."
He paused and looked directly at Bronn.
"But you, Ser Bronn, married Lollys Stokeworth. The girl may not be especially bright, but physically she's healthy."
"As long as you get her pregnant—a son, specifically—then once Falyse and Balman die, the heir to Stokeworth can only be your boy."
Bronn rubbed his chin thoughtfully, rough fingers scraping across his stubble.
"That'd take too long," he muttered.
His tone lost its humor, becoming cold and calculating.
"Falyse and Balman could easily live another twenty or thirty years. I'd have to wait. Take care of the stupid girl. Make sure she gives birth to a healthy son. Then make sure the boy survives to adulthood…"
"Sounds profitable, sure. But the investment period's too damn long. Too many variables."
"I'm a sellsword, Ser Jaime. Sellswords believe in gold you can spend tonight, women you can bed tonight, and a sword arm you can still swing tomorrow."
"So you don't want the title?" Jaime asked.
"Heh…" Bronn grinned slyly.
"I didn't say that."
"I'm just thinking… maybe there's a faster way."
While Jaime and Bronn debated the inheritance of Stokeworth, Odin had already crouched beside Iggo.
First he checked the Dothraki's pulse.
Then his pupils.
Then he began examining the wounds.
A stab wound to the abdomen narrowly missed the spleen.
Broken ribs may have punctured a lung.
A deep gash along the left arm exposed bone, and the tendons were damaged.
Odin's brows tightened further and further.
He pulled a small leather pouch from his coat—a simple medical kit he carried everywhere—then tore away the blood-soaked cloth around the wounds and poured strong liquor over them.
The instant the alcohol touched the injuries, the unconscious Iggo convulsed violently, a muffled growl escaping his throat.
"Tough bastard."
Bronn's voice came from beside him.
The sellsword had walked over and now stood with folded arms, staring down at the Dothraki with something close to admiration.
"I've been a mercenary for twenty years. I've seen captured knights, assassins, and plenty of idiots who called themselves unbreakable men."
"But in the end, they all talk."
"Maybe after a day. Maybe after three. Maybe after every bone's broken and every fingernail's torn out."
"But eventually they talk."
"Pain destroys willpower. That's human nature. Nobody's immune to it."
Bronn glanced toward Odin.
"How long your man held out, I don't know."
"But when I found him, that bastard Lorch was about to pour honey into the wounds and let ants eat him alive."
"At that stage, nobody holds out."
"But this lunatic still refused to talk."
Bronn finally frowned in confusion.
"How much are you paying this guy, exactly?"
Odin didn't answer.
He simply continued treating Iggo in silence, stopping the bleeding and cleaning the wounds.
The injuries crisscrossing the Dothraki's body were already beginning to rot in places. Some clearly hadn't been inflicted recently.
Several more minutes passed before Odin finally finished treating the major wounds.
He removed his own cloak and draped it over Iggo.
Then he stood and pulled out a heavy coin pouch from inside his coat.
It was filled with gold dragons.
Around two hundred of them.
Enough for a mercenary to live comfortably for half a year—or buy a decent stretch of land.
The pouch arced through the air.
Bronn caught it smoothly.
His hand instinctively weighed it, judging the amount and purity of the coins by feel and sound.
Then, to everyone's surprise—
He looked at the gold.
Then at the wounded Iggo on the ground.
Then back at Odin.
His expression twisted with visible conflict.
And then this mercenary knight—famous throughout Westeros for loving gold more than anything else—did something so shocking that even Jaime's eyes widened.
Bronn flicked his wrist…
…and tossed the pouch back.
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