Chapter 150 (Double Length)
The pouch traced a glittering arc through the air.
"Not enough?" Odin caught it smoothly, one brow lifting slightly.
Bronn's throat bobbed.
His eyes locked onto the bag of gold in Odin's hand, filled with naked greed and painful reluctance.
It was as though every instinct rooted deep inside him was screaming:
Take it back. It's yours. That's two hundred gold dragons, you idiot!
But something deeper was pulling against that instinct.
Bronn's voice came out hoarse as he swallowed hard.
"That money's enough to buy ten Dothraki slaves, but…"
He stopped.
The muscles in his jaw tightened, teeth grinding faintly together, as if he were locked in a silent life-and-death struggle against his own nature.
Nearby, Jaime folded his arms and watched with open amusement.
At last, Bronn seemed to make up his mind.
He violently tore his gaze away from the gold and looked instead toward the dawn-lit end of the alley, as though one more glance would make him change his decision.
The motion looked painful—
Like a man carving off a piece of his own flesh.
"I want to make a deal with you," Bronn said after a deep breath.
"Not for the gold."
"For something else."
"Such as?"
Bronn glanced at the unconscious Iggo on the ground before looking back at Odin.
"I helped save your Dothraki warrior. Now I need you to help me do something."
"Or rather…" he corrected himself, "help my former employer."
"That dwarf's ugly, sharp-tongued, and has the personality of a kicked dog…"
"But he pays well. And more importantly, he never asks unnecessary questions."
The words were quiet, but Odin understood their weight.
In King's Landing, nobles viewed sellswords like Bronn as tools.
Or hunting dogs.
Or expendable pieces to be sacrificed when necessary.
Yet Tyrion Lannister—the dwarf mocked his entire life for his deformity—had treated Bronn with something close to equal respect.
"So you want me to save him," Odin said.
"The trial starts in three days." Bronn's tone became more urgent.
"I know Tyrion's never been loved by his Hand of a father. And I know exactly how noble trials work."
"I saw it in the Eyrie. The lords don't give a shit about truth. They call it a trial, but really it's just a proper-looking excuse to kill someone."
"When the time comes, nobody's going to listen to Tyrion's defense."
"He'll be found guilty. Guaranteed."
That certainty immediately darkened Jaime's expression.
Of course he understood those games.
He was a noble himself—and one of the most powerful nobles in Westeros.
Odin looked at Bronn, genuine confusion flickering in his eyes.
The expression made Bronn visibly uncomfortable.
As if the look itself were saying:
Since when does Bronn of the Blackwater stop loving money?
Just moments ago, he'd been trying to figure out how much Odin paid Iggo to inspire such loyalty.
And now he was pulling this?
The silence stretched for several seconds.
Bronn's expression stiffened.
For once, the sellsword's carefully crafted mask cracked slightly, revealing genuine awkwardness and embarrassment.
"Fuck." He spat to the side and wiped a hand hard across his face, as if trying to erase that moment of weakness.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Listen, I'm not some noble hero. I'm helping Tyrion because the little bastard's the only employer I've ever had in King's Landing who always pays on time—and usually overpays."
"There aren't many fools like that left in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Bronn kept talking, sounding more convincing the longer he went on, almost as though he himself wanted to believe it.
"If he dies, I need to find another employer. You know what that means?"
"It means haggling with arrogant lordlings again. Listening to them talk down to me while wondering whether they'll cheat me afterward."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"So no, I'm not trying to save Tyrion Lannister."
"I'm protecting a long-term investment. Preserving a stable source of income."
"That's called…" Bronn grinned smugly, "business sense."
The speech sounded perfectly logical.
Almost convincing.
Almost.
But neither Odin nor Jaime were easy men to fool.
The two exchanged a glance, and both understood exactly what was really happening.
"Anyway," Bronn grumbled when their expressions grew increasingly strange, raising his voice to hide his embarrassment, "don't get the wrong idea. I just hate seeing a reliable employer get hanged. Perfectly reasonable, right?"
The alley fell silent again.
Then Odin nodded calmly.
"Very reasonable."
But the look in his eyes clearly said:
I don't believe a damn word of that.
The morning light brightened further, revealing the smaller cuts across Iggo's face and the dried blood caked onto Bronn's armor.
Odin tucked the gold pouch back into his coat and crouched again to check Iggo's pulse.
Stronger than before.
Still weak.
"If you really want to save Tyrion," Odin said without looking up, his voice carrying clearly through the quiet dawn, "there's actually a very simple method."
Bronn and Jaime both immediately focused on him.
"What method?"
"Trial by combat," Odin answered.
"Under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, any noble accused of a grave crime has the right to demand judgment before the gods through combat."
"Tyrion is a Lannister and the former Master of Coin. No one can deny him that right."
Jaime nodded thoughtfully from the side.
"That could work. If Tyrion can find a sufficiently strong champion and win the duel, the gods themselves would declare him innocent."
"Exactly," Odin continued.
"And you're a proper knight now, Bronn."
"The Mountain is severely injured. He'll need months before he can even leave his bed. Right now, there aren't many men in King's Landing capable of beating you."
"As for the rest of those so-called knights…"
Open contempt dripped from Odin's voice.
"Most are just pretty little ornaments stuffed inside expensive armor."
"You've survived twenty years as a sellsword, Bronn. You've killed more men than most of them have ever seen."
"If it truly comes to trial by combat, your odds of victory are at least seventy percent."
The logic was flawless.
The analysis precise.
For a moment, Bronn genuinely looked tempted.
But the excitement on the sellsword's face gradually faded into something far heavier.
He fell silent for a long time, lips pressing into a thin line.
And within those calculating eyes—
For the first time—
There was fear.
"…The Mountain."
Jaime frowned in confusion.
"The Mountain's cheek was split open sideways. His tongue was cut nearly to the root. He's covered in dozens of sword wounds."
"He won't even be able to leave bed for at least three months."
That was simply the truth.
Back then, outside the Hall of Order, it had taken four men just to carry the Mountain back into the Red Keep.
More than a few maesters had privately shaken their heads, whispering that even if Ser Gregor Clegane survived, he was finished—that he would spend the rest of his life drooling in bed like a crippled beast.
But the look on Bronn's face told Jaime the truth was nowhere near that simple.
The sellsword knight drew a deep breath, as though preparing himself to speak of something deeply unsettling.
His eyes swept over Odin, then Jaime, before finally lingering toward the depths of the alley, making sure no fourth person was listening.
"When I snuck into the Red Keep to rescue Iggo," Bronn said slowly, "I passed by an abandoned storage chamber beneath Maegor's Holdfast."
"And down there… I heard the queen talking with some old man."
"Cersei?" Jaime immediately asked.
Bronn nodded, his tone growing heavier with every word.
"At first I didn't want to stick my nose into it. But what they were talking about…" He grimaced. "It was strange as hell."
"I couldn't understand half of it. But there were a few things I heard clearly."
He lifted his head and stared directly into Odin's eyes.
"The Mountain's healed."
"And not just healed. Stronger than before."
Jaime shot upright instantly, eyes widening.
"Impossible. Absolutely impossible!"
But Bronn ignored him, licking his dry lips before continuing.
"That old bastard also said… the 'procedure' was complete."
"And he swore the Mountain can't feel pain anymore. Doesn't need sleep. Said his muscle strength's doubled…"
Silence crashed over the alley like a tombstone.
Jaime's face darkened horribly.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
The Mountain… healed?
Twice as strong?
What kind of joke was that?
Gregor Clegane's strength was legendary across the Seven Kingdoms. A man who could wield a two-handed greatsword in one hand.
In Jaime's entire life, he had only ever seen one other man with comparable power—
The knight universally acknowledged as the greatest swordsman of the age:
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Of course, while the Mountain's raw strength might have equaled—or even exceeded—Arthur Dayne's, the difference in skill was immeasurable.
Before losing his right hand, Jaime had been at least seventy percent confident he could defeat Gregor Clegane in a duel.
But even then, he had never once believed himself worthy of standing beside Arthur Dayne.
The man had been too strong.
So strong it bordered on absurdity.
So strong that no swordsman alive truly believed they could surpass him.
Which was precisely why Jaime had always believed Ned Stark could never have defeated Arthur Dayne head-on—
Not even with ten of the North's greatest warriors at his side.
At least not in a fair fight.
And now Bronn was saying that a monster with strength like that had not only recovered…
But become twice as powerful?
Seven hells.
It violated medicine.
Violated logic.
Violated common sense itself.
Unlike Jaime's shock, however, the instant Odin heard Bronn's description, a name flashed through his mind.
"Qyburn," Odin muttered quietly.
Both Jaime and Bronn turned toward him immediately.
"Who?" Jaime asked.
Odin closed his eyes and drew a slow breath.
"Qyburn," he repeated, opening them again, his gaze suddenly sharp as steel.
"A former maester of the Citadel. Expelled for conducting unethical experiments on living people."
"Later he joined Vargo Hoat's Brave Companions as their healer."
He paused.
"Or rather… he became obsessed with studying the human body."
Odin's voice turned cold.
"When I left Harrenhal, I heard Roose Bolton executed the remaining Brave Companions. Looks like that information was wrong."
"Qyburn escaped."
"And now he's in King's Landing… serving Cersei."
Jaime's expression worsened immediately.
"You're saying Cersei used a madman expelled from the Citadel to heal the Mountain?"
"Not heal," Odin corrected.
"She's changing him."
"Or perhaps…" He stopped there.
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
Bronn swallowed hard.
"So trial by combat's useless now."
"If the Mountain's really become what they described…" He shook his head grimly. "Forget me. Even ten Bronn of the Blackwaters wouldn't beat a monster like that."
Jaime clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"So things are starting to overlap with the original storyline again… Coincidence?" Odin murmured softly to himself.
"What?" Bronn frowned, not hearing clearly.
Odin merely shook his head.
No explanation.
His thoughts raced rapidly.
Qyburn—a figure who should have appeared eventually in the original story—had emerged here, now, under these exact circumstances.
Was it coincidence?
Or was something guiding events back onto a predetermined path?
The Three-Eyed Raven?
Or perhaps… gods?
Recently, Odin had been far too busy.
Busy rebuilding the power structure of Flea Bottom.
Busy negotiating with Tywin.
Busy laying foundations for the future.
He'd ordered Rorge to gather intelligence, but the focus had mainly been on the Gold Cloaks, merchants, and lower-level bureaucrats.
As for Cersei and the hidden dealings deep inside the Red Keep—
He had completely overlooked them.
Or more accurately, he simply hadn't had the time.
Odin hadn't expected that even after crippling the Mountain far earlier than in the original timeline…
"Zombie Mountain" would still be created by Cersei and Qyburn.
No.
Perhaps this version would be even stronger.
Looks like I'll need to plan more carefully.
Three days later, the Great Sept of Baelor was packed to capacity.
Every noble in King's Landing who could still walk had appeared today.
Silk and velvet filled the grand hall.
Family sigils glittered beneath the colored crystal windows.
Low conversations drifted through the sacred chamber as nobles exchanged glances and suppressed smiles.
After all—
A public trial tearing apart House Lannister from within was not something one witnessed every day.
Beneath the statues of the Seven stood three high-backed chairs.
At the center sat Tywin Lannister.
He wore deep crimson robes embroidered with golden lions, the Hand of the King brooch fastened across his chest.
His hair was perfectly combed.
His beard meticulously trimmed.
Outwardly, the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms still looked as immovable as a mountain.
But anyone paying close attention would notice the faint shadows beneath his eyes—
The mark of several sleepless nights.
Tywin's gaze swept slowly across the sea of faces inside the Sept.
His expression revealed nothing.
But inwardly, he was nowhere near calm.
Over the past three days, the Hand had mobilized every resource available to investigate the mysterious power Odin possessed—
That impossible ability to remain unharmed by steel.
He had summoned the Citadel's most learned maesters, demanding ancient records concerning sorcery or forgotten magic.
He had dispatched agents across the Narrow Sea, spending enormous sums to hire mystics from Asshai and Qarth.
The result?
Nothing.
The maesters quoted ancient texts endlessly.
Valyrian blood magic.
The greenseers of the Children of the Forest.
The Drowned God's curses.
Miracles of the Lord of Light.
Yet none of them could explain what had happened in the Hand's bedchamber that night.
A sharpened sword.
Driven with full force.
Unable to pierce human skin.
To Tywin, that was more terrifying than dragons.
Because dragons, throughout history, had weaknesses.
They could be killed by scorpions through the eye.
Slain by other dragons.
Destroyed by age or disease.
But a man immune to ordinary means of death?
What did that mean?
It meant every power structure built upon fear and force could become meaningless before him.
And worst of all—
Odin clearly understood this.
That night, he hadn't revealed that power to eliminate Tywin once and for all.
He had done it to create a new balance.
To Tywin's left sat Kevan Lannister.
To his right, Mace Tyrell.
The Lord of Highgarden had dressed extravagantly today.
His green velvet doublet was embroidered with golden roses, and pinned to his chest was a fresh rose still sparkling with dew.
Finding a blooming rose in this season was no easy feat.
Truthfully, Mace did not want to be here.
But as Margaery's father, he knew his daughter had shared the poisoned goblet with Joffrey during the wedding feast.
Someone had to pay.
And that damned dwarf was the perfect target.
Time passed slowly.
Once every seat was filled, the High Septon stepped before the statues of the Seven and shakily finished the opening rites.
Then came the sound of heavy chains dragging across stone.
Every noble turned simultaneously.
Tyrion Lannister was escorted up from the dungeon tunnels by four Gold Cloaks. Tyrion Lannister
He walked slowly.
The chains around his ankles shortened his already awkward stride, making his small body appear even more ridiculous—like some broken toy forced to walk.
All four guards kept their hands on their sword hilts.
The image was almost absurd.
Four armed soldiers treating a dwarf under five feet tall like a beast capable of slaughter.
Several nobles couldn't suppress their laughter.
Step by step, Tyrion lifted his head and scanned every face in the audience with mismatched green-and-black eyes.
He saw them.
The contempt.
The smug satisfaction.
Men and women who once feasted at his tables and fawned over him now looked at him like filth.
Then he saw Cersei.
His sister sat in the front row, dressed in magnificent crimson, green eyes blazing with hatred and madness.
She looked ready to leap forward and tear him apart with her bare hands.
But Jaime was absent.
Tyrion sighed quietly and lowered his gaze.
He crossed the Sept slowly until he reached the center of the chamber.
Then he straightened his back.
Even if doing so only brought him to an ordinary man's waist.
"Tyrion Lannister," the High Septon declared with trembling authority.
"You are accused of murdering King Joffrey the First through poison during the royal wedding feast. How do you plead?"
Tyrion raised his head and looked toward his father.
Tywin stared back.
"I confess," Tyrion said clearly.
"I confess to being born a dwarf."
"I confess to having a sister who wants me dead."
"I confess to having a father who sees me as a disgrace."
"I confess to living in a world where a dwarf's very existence is considered a crime."
He paused, a bitter smile twisting across his lips.
"But I do not confess to poisoning Joffrey. Because I did not do it."
A murmur spread through the Sept.
Nobles exchanged glances.
Some scoffed.
Some shook their heads.
No one dared speak loudly.
Tywin's expression remained utterly unchanged.
He had expected this.
If Tyrion inherited anything from House Lannister, it was stubbornness and a poisonous tongue.
A moment later, Tywin gave a subtle glance toward Kevan.
"Call the witnesses," Kevan Lannister announced heavily.
Soon, a young prostitute entered the Sept barefoot, forbidden shoes because the Faith considered prostitutes unclean.
She wore a cheap, revealing dress and trembled visibly as she walked.
"M-my lords…"
"I work on the Street of Silk. About a month ago, Lord Tyrion… no, the dwarf came to see me…"
"He drank a great deal, and then… then he said…"
She faltered.
Her eyes flicked nervously toward Cersei in the front row, immediately shivering beneath the queen mother's icy stare.
"He said the king was a bastard."
"He said… 'One day I'll strangle that golden-haired little monster with my own hands.'"
Her voice grew smaller and smaller until it nearly vanished.
Tyrion closed his eyes.
He didn't remember saying anything like that.
But did it matter?
A prostitute's testimony, under Lannister power, could become anything they wanted.
The second witness was even worse.
A broad-shouldered middle-aged prostitute with the kind of body Robert Baratheon would have adored—but absolutely not Tyrion's taste.
"He liked strange games," the woman bellowed loudly, her rough voice echoing through the Sept.
"That dwarf tied us up and whipped us while making us call him 'Your Grace!'"
"He said one day he'd sit the Iron Throne and force everyone who mocked him to lick his feet!"
Laughter erupted across the audience.
Several noblewomen hid smiles behind jeweled hands.
Tyrion clenched his fists.
He knew the testimonies were lies.
All lies crafted by Cersei and Tywin.
But truth didn't matter.
They only needed a believable narrative.
A story convincing enough for everyone to accept:
The twisted dwarf poisoned the king because he was born twisted.
Third witness.
Fourth.
Fifth.
Whores.
Innkeepers.
Minor nobles.
Fools.
Each took the stand, adding fresh layers to the portrait of Tyrion Lannister as a drunken, violent, hateful monster.
"He always said, 'A Lannister always pays his debts—everyone in King's Landing owes me a life!'"
"He once joked about 'adding something special' to the king's wine!"
"I saw him place poison in the goblet myself!"
When a lie is repeated enough times, it begins to acquire the weight of truth.
The atmosphere inside the Sept graduall