Chapter 21 — The Farmer and the Lord
Like the previous ability, this one came without a verbose description—
yet its meaning was more than self-evident.
[Presence Lv.2]
It was not the kind of skill Odin longed for—
not a blade that cleaves through armor,
nor the raw power to crush an enemy beneath his heel.
Part of him ached for strength of that sort—direct, unquestionable.
Still, the effect of this ability was undeniable.
Presence.
A strange force—intangible, invisible—
yet real enough to bend the course of conversations,
to turn the tide of negotiations,
to decide fates without ever drawing steel.
Sometimes, a man may be penniless, barefoot,
clothes threadbare and stained—
and yet simply standing there,
he commands faith.
Men follow such a figure without question.
They stake their futures—sometimes their lives—
on nothing more than his words.
That is the advantage presence grants—
power that eclipses wealth, armor, or titles.
And for Odin—
a man who possessed none of those things in this world—
it was priceless.
[Presence Lv.2] did not forge something from nothing.
Rather, it drew upon what already lay dormant within him:
the confidence born from a life lived beyond this world,
the calm forged through brushes with death,
the intellect honed by strategy and reason—
and made all of it visible.
Even beneath mud-stained linen and dried blood,
he now carried a quiet control—
an authority that eclipsed silk brocades and heraldic sigils.
There was in him a composure many lords lacked—
and some kings would envy.
This inner shift revealed itself in the smallest things—
the angle of his chin,
the cadence of his voice,
the deliberate stillness between words.
Now, every syllable that left his mouth seemed to weigh more—
inviting those who heard to consider, to reflect,
to listen.
Had he possessed this presence earlier—
when dancing with the Vargo Hoat rabble—
so many gambles would have played out cleaner,
with fewer risks and fewer corpses left behind.
Odin drew a quiet breath.
Then—
"Lord Bolton…"
A pause—brief, but deliberate.
Across the table, Roose Bolton felt it—
that gaze from within the shadow,
a calm scrutiny that pinned him in place.
There was no threat in those eyes.
No overt menace.
Yet for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—
the man who was accustomed to inspiring dread
felt something unfamiliar:
Discomfort.
It was slight, fleeting—
so faint that even he almost missed it.
But he felt it nonetheless.
And that alone made it unforgettable.
It felt—just for a moment—
as though Odin had insulted him to his face.
Yet Roose Bolton could not dismiss him.
He found himself straightening subtly in his chair,
mind sharpening, posture tightening—
as though preparing for a bout with a swordsman whose blade he could not see.
Odin spoke again, voice steady and unhurried:
"I am a man who enjoys making friends."
"Yes—your allegiance lies with the King in the North.
And yes—your interests presently collide with those of Ser Jaime here.
But I believe few souls in this world are foolish enough to refuse friendship."
His tone never rose—never faltered. He continued, each word falling with quiet conviction:
"Yet true friendship does not spring from gifts or begging."
"It is born from balance—from exchanges both sides can recognize."
"Friendship is mutual interest, laid bare for all to see."
Roose's pale eyes narrowed—not in contempt, but in focus.
He answered with an admission that would have been unthinkable mere minutes ago:
"I do not deny it."
A Northern lord—
a Bolton—
granting a farmer equal footing in discourse.
Such a scene should have belonged to comedy,
yet [Presence Lv.2] made it real.
Odin inclined his head slightly.
"Ser Jaime and I are not here seeking your mercy or your shelter."
"We are here to discuss a friendship profitable to both sides."
"If you allow it, my lord—I will outline the first step."
The room stilled.
It was not silence of fear—
but silence of attention.
Odin's meaning was unmistakable:
he was offering Roose a chance to claim the stronger hand without drawing a blade.
In the original course of events, Roose Bolton bent swiftly toward Tywin Lannister—
a choice made coldly, efficiently.
But Odin knew men like Roose:
his ambitions did not end where banners fluttered.
The flayed man always searched for more skin to peel.
Roose said nothing for a long moment,
watching the shape half-swallowed by firelight's shadow.
He tried to read him—
to peel the man beneath the exterior—
but found nothing to grasp.
At last, Bolton spoke:
"I am listening."
Not a courtesy.
A signal.
Negotiations had formally begun.
Fairness forged not by steel or banners—
but by words and presence.
Odin's face, veiled in shadow, revealed nothing.
He simply raised one finger.
"First—an earnest gift."
Roose's expression shifted.
"A gift?"
"Yes."
"Vargo Hoat—and his Brave Companions."
"They served here under your banner, my lord—
nominally loyal to the King in the North, yet preying upon the Riverlands."
"Their atrocities—especially the flaying of innocents—have soiled your reputation, not theirs."
"They were leeches fattening themselves beneath your cloak… a danger waiting to erupt."
Roose's reply was flat—almost amused:
"I am rather fond of leeches."
Odin didn't miss a beat.
"As a physician, I assure you—leeches may cleanse the body when used sparingly."
"But left too long, they grow bold."
"They cling. They burrow. They drink until the skin tears beneath them."
Roose's eyelid twitched—barely noticeable.
"And though you have the strength to tear them free, my lord…"
"even victory may cost you a layer of your own flesh."
Odin sat back, voice like a surgeon's scalpel—precise, bloodless:
"We removed those leeches for you."
"Their corpses clear the path for your reputation—and your future."
"That is the first gift."
Roose's fingers tapped the armrest once, twice.
Then:
"Oh?"
"Then I suppose I should thank you… Lord Odin."
A hint of mockery—
but no denial.
He acknowledged the benefit—
just not its price.
Odin expected no less.
Calmly, he raised a second finger:
"Second—let us speak of the cause you currently serve."
"The King in the North… Robb Stark."
And with those words,
the true heart of the negotiation began to beat.