Chapter 68 – The Real "Just Pay More" Monk
"Damn it!"
Inside the Blood Cellar, Rorge slammed his fist onto a table in frustration.
Around him lay overturned wooden crates and dented strongboxes kicked out of shape.
Yet aside from a few forgotten copper stars and a floor full of trash, there wasn't a single gold dragon to be found.
"That bastard Ralf!"
Rorge roared, veins bulging.
"Where the hell did he hide the money?! This pit was raking in gold every single day, and now it's cleaner than a place that's already been robbed!"
"Search everything!" he barked at the men he had just taken over.
"Every corner! That son of a bitch must've built a new hidden vault!"
Seeing Rorge in this state, several former Ralf thugs hurriedly resumed searching like headless chickens.
After all, Ralf's corpse was still hanging from the flagpole outside—
the crows hadn't even finished pecking at it yet.
Odin stood calmly on the second floor, surveying the territory that had just fallen into his hands.
The air still carried a faint scent of blood.
None of this surprised him.
"Stop looking."
Hearing Rorge still tearing the place apart as if he wanted to turn it inside out, Odin spoke evenly.
"The man behind Ralf was never a philanthropist."
"The reason he was willing to hand over the ledger and abandon this place was simple—he's about to leave King's Landing. Flea Bottom has already lost all value to him."
"A fox always licks the last drop of honey clean before abandoning its den. Since he decided to discard this place, of course he wouldn't leave us even a spare copper."
As he spoke, Odin walked to the window and gazed toward Silk Street, murmuring softly:
"In your eyes, leaving Flea Bottom to me was already an act of great generosity… wasn't it, Lord Petyr Baelish?"
Compared to Odin's composure, Rorge was still stomping about in agitation.
"Then what do we do now, Lord Odin?"
He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"Without money, we can't recruit men, can't buy weapons—hell, we can't even feed the dogs who just switched sides!"
"These people are worse than strays. The moment they realize there's no pay, I guarantee not a single one of them will stay."
As he spoke, Rorge gestured toward the corner where several of Ralf's former men stood uneasily.
"You take them in first."
Odin glanced at them and smiled faintly.
"What's this? Didn't you boast to me about how powerful you used to be in Flea Bottom? And now you can't even keep a handful of men in line?"
"Well… not exactly."
Catching the trace of doubt in Odin's eyes, Rorge rubbed his hands awkwardly.
"As long as fists are strong enough, no one in Flea Bottom dares to cause trouble. But without money backing us, the rules you want to establish will be hard to enforce."
"You know this, my lord. Sometimes gold dragons matter more than anything else."
"I know."
Seeing Rorge's unease, Odin patted him on the shoulder.
"Relax. And remember—you controlled this place for years. Even if Ralf screwed you over, your reputation is still here."
"That alone makes things much easier than starting from nothing."
He paused, then added quietly:
"Have you noticed the way they look at you?"
Rorge subconsciously glanced at the men in the corner.
Their eyes were filled with caution… and fear.
Not loyalty—yet.
But fear was enough.
For now.
He lifted his chin slightly.
"I had you kill Ralf with your own hands in broad daylight—that alone was enough to make an example of him. They fear you now, and fear breeds obedience."
"While that shock still hasn't faded, you must move quickly. Assemble our armed force—people responsible for maintaining order in Flea Bottom and protecting our business."
"Since I'm here now, the rules of this place…"
"will be set by me."
"Yes, Lord Odin!"
Rorge thumped his chest at once.
"I swear I won't betray your trust—"
"Good."
Odin gave a slight nod, then descended the stairs step by step. He called out to Iggo, who was silently sharpening his blade in the hall below:
"Come. Blood of my blood."
The taciturn Dothraki didn't waste a single word. He simply took up his sword and followed.
"Watch our base, Rorge."
Without turning his head, Odin waved a hand as he walked out.
"Organize the men. Clean this place up— it stinks."
"All order begins with what people can see first. So before I return, I want to see…"
"…clean streets."
---
The Red Keep — Residence of the Master of Coin
Tyrion Lannister sat buried behind towering stacks of ledgers and scrolls, his disproportionately large head almost swallowed by the paperwork that represented the crown's financial disaster.
His face was drawn, eyes bloodshot.
With a weary sigh, he sank back into his oversized chair, eyes closed, fingers massaging his temples.
"If you had six million gold dragons," he suddenly asked,
"what would you do with them, Bronn?"
Beside him, a lean man in leather armor and an expensive wool cloak was idly trimming his nails with a dagger.
Bronn grinned crookedly.
"Six million? How much is that, really?"
"Enough for me to buy every brothel in King's Landing—from the madams to the girls sweeping the floors—and have them line up to put on one hell of a show for me?"
Tyrion didn't even bother opening his eyes.
"Enough to pile up into a hill you could climb and touch the moon from."
"Answer seriously, Bronn."
"Alright."
Bronn finally put the dagger away, stroking his stubble thoughtfully.
"First, I'd buy a castle bigger than Harrenhal. Then I'd hire a thousand big lads whose only job is to count my money every day. Anyone miscounts, I cut off a finger."
"And then," he added with renewed enthusiasm,
"...I'd buy every brothel in King's Landing—from the madams to the girls sweeping the floors—and have them line up to put on one hell of a show for me."
Tyrion's mouth twitched. That counted as a smile.
"What if I told you that after all that, you still wouldn't have spent even the tip of that hill?"
"Still not enough?"
Bronn frowned, thinking harder.
"Then I'd buy a ship and sail across the Narrow Sea. I hear Braavos has plenty of temples—and the priestesses there are mysterious and fiery. A different one every day sounds nice."
"Still not enough."
Bronn was getting carried away now, as if the gold were already in front of him.
Tyrion sighed.
"What if I told you… that you owed someone six million gold dragons?"
"What?!"
Bronn froze. Then, unfazed, he casually flipped his dagger in the air.
"Then I kill the creditor. Debt solved."
Tyrion laughed and shook his head.
"Bronn, you're a damn genius."
He wasn't wrong.
Kill the creditor, and the debt dies with him.
The problem was—
That was harder than paying it back.
Tyrion slumped in his chair, on the verge of tears.
The Iron Throne's creditors…
House Tyrell—one million.
The Iron Bank—one and a half million.
Even the Faith—nearly a million.
And worst of all—
His own father had loaned the crown nearly three million gold dragons.
Seven hells, Robert Baratheon. Look what you did.
In less than twenty years, the man had not only burned through the Targaryen treasury—
he'd saddled the realm with over six million in debt.
Damn the Baratheons.
Even Tyrion himself couldn't spend that much money in a thousand years.
No wonder Petyr Baelish had worn that barely suppressed grin when Tyrion was ordered to take over the treasury.
This was a pitfall. A beautiful, bottomless pit.
Tyrion jumped up and began pacing, mentally cursing the boar-gored former king for the thousandth time.
"Need help?" Bronn asked casually.
"If you can't pay, I can go reason with the creditors."
He waved his dagger.
"I'm very good at reasoning. Usually by the second sentence, they agree to everything. I only take twenty percent."
"Thank the Seven, Bronn."
Tyrion shot him an irritated look.
"Then why don't you start by going to the Hand's Tower and reasoning with my father?"
"Ah?"
Bronn's grin vanished instantly. His dagger froze midair.
He liked gold—but he also liked staying alive.
"My lord!"
At that moment, a boy of about twelve pushed the door open cautiously.
"A… a lord named Odin is requesting an audience."
"Odin?"
Tyrion felt his headache flare again. He could already guess why the man was here.
After a moment's thought, he returned to his chair and sat down heavily.
"Show Lord Odin in, Podrick."
"Yes, my lord."
The boy bowed and slipped out, thoughtfully leaving the door half-closed.
Tyrion tapped the table and glanced sideways at Bronn, a sly smile forming.
"Aren't you good at reasoning, Bronn?"
"Do your best," he said lightly.
"I'll pay top coin."