Chapter 69 — An Offer That Couldn't Be Refused
The door was pushed open softly.
Odin entered with Iggo at his side, led in by a servant.
His steps were steady. His gaze swept briefly over the study piled high with ledgers before finally settling on the dwarf buried behind his desk, apparently hard at work.
"Good day, Lord Tyrion."
"Oh… ah… Lord Odin."
At the sound of his voice, Tyrion Lannister looked up as if just waking from a dream.
"Please wait a moment. Let me finish what I'm working on."
Odin glanced at the document Tyrion was holding—upside down—but didn't point it out. He merely inclined his head slightly.
"Take your time. I have more than enough patience, my lord."
With that, he casually pulled out a chair and sat down on his own, posture relaxed and elegant, as though he were visiting an old acquaintance rather than calling on the Master of Coin.
Tyrion noticed the gesture out of the corner of his eye.
He pretended to stay busy for quite a while. When Odin showed not the slightest hint of impatience—or any intention of leaving—Tyrion knew this meeting was unavoidable.
"Ahem…"
Clearing his throat, Tyrion finally set aside his "work" without bothering to stand.
"Forgive my lack of hospitality. These days have been… hectic."
He paused, then suddenly turned his head.
"How long has it been since I last visited Silk Street, Bronn? Two weeks?"
"Seventeen days, my lord."
Bronn bowed smoothly, ever cooperative when coin was involved.
"I'd wager the girls miss you dearly."
"Seventeen days already?"
Tyrion spread his hands helplessly and smiled at Odin.
"You see? I'm nearly worked to death."
Odin's expression remained calm. He even offered a word of consolation.
"The king's wedding to House Tyrell is no small matter. A busy schedule is only natural."
"Once things settle down, we can visit Silk Street together. My treat."
"Hahaha! Now that's something to look forward to!"
Tyrion laughed heartily, then glanced toward the window and sighed theatrically.
"Unfortunately, it's nearly evening, and I already have an appointment. Otherwise, I'd insist we dine together tonight, Lord Odin."
He turned slightly, ready to end things.
"Another day, then. Podrick, see Lord—"
"My lord."
Odin cut in smoothly.
Tyrion nearly ground his teeth.
He'd known the man was slippery—but not this shameless. Not even giving him a chance to slip away.
Unbelievable.
Odin, for his part, thought grimly that this was the first time since his transmigration that he'd nearly lost control of a negotiation before it even began.
Truly, when someone abandoned all shame, they became invincible.
"I'll only take a few minutes," Odin said quickly, before Tyrion could deflect again.
"I won't delay your dinner."
Then, without pause, he laid out his purpose clearly and efficiently.
"In the Riverlands, I saved your brother Ser Jaime's life. In return, he promised me a bathtub full of gold dragons."
"Yesterday, I met with the Hand of the King. He told me that the fulfillment of that promise would be handled by you."
"House Lannister always repays its debts. I came because of that reputation."
Only after finishing did Odin stop speaking.
Tyrion, meanwhile, cursed inwardly.
Of course. The man had come for money.
"My lord," Tyrion said with a sigh, launching into the speech he'd already prepared,
"bringing Jaime back alive is a debt House Lannister will never forget."
He rubbed his forehead, looking genuinely strained.
"Truth be told, seeing my brother return safely meant more to me than words can say. A bathtub of gold is a perfectly reasonable price."
"But…"
He spread his hands helplessly.
"The Iron Throne is currently burdened with a debt of six million gold dragons."
"House Tyrell, the Iron Bank, even the Faith—all are demanding repayment. The City Watch needs wages, the ruins left by the Battle of the Blackwater must be rebuilt, the royal household consumes gold daily, and King Joffrey's wedding—"
He gestured at the towering walls of account books around him.
"House Lannister does repay its debts. But reputation still needs gold beneath its feet."
"And right now, Lord Odin, there is nothing beneath mine."
Throughout the dwarf's lament, Odin listened quietly.
The gentle smile on his face never once faded.
After Tyrion finished speaking, Odin finally replied in a calm, understanding tone.
"I fully understand your difficulties as Master of Coin, my lord," he said evenly.
"I've also heard quite a bit about the Crown's financial crisis of late."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, momentarily thinking his stellar performance had worked.
But Odin's tone shifted smoothly.
"However, I have my own difficulties as well. I've just taken over Flea Bottom—you know as well as I do what kind of place it is. Reforming it, stabilizing it, rebuilding it… all of that requires gold dragons."
He paused, then stated it plainly.
"In other words, I need money. Now."
Tyrion's expression darkened. He shot Bronn a glance.
The sellsword, leaning against the wall, stepped forward at once and spoke with confident bluntness.
"But the Jaime Lannister you brought back wasn't whole, was he, my lord?"
Odin frowned slightly.
"What did you just say?"
"I'm merely explaining market logic," Bronn shrugged.
"Fine goods fetch fine prices. Damaged goods get discounted."
He made a slicing gesture across his palm.
"A legendary knight missing his sword hand is like a horse with a broken leg—sounds impressive, but once you put it up for sale, no one's paying full price."
He even shot Odin a provocative grin.
"Mind your tongue, Bronn!"
Tyrion slapped the desk, scolding him, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
"You're talking about my brother, not livestock."
Then he turned back to Odin, sighing helplessly.
"Please don't take offense, my lord. He's always lacked manners."
"But…"
Tyrion hesitated, then continued awkwardly,
"He has pointed out a reality we can't entirely ignore."
"Perhaps… the bathtub of gold dragons could be adjusted slightly?"
He tested the waters.
"How does half sound?"
Bronn immediately chimed in, playing his part.
"Half's already generous, lad. These days, cash in hand is king. Plenty of debts rot in ledgers without making a sound."
"Take half, live comfortably. Better than dying over the rest."
He lifted his chin, with open provocationnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
Faced with the two of them—one pressing, one soothing—Odin didn't respond right away. He sat quietly, weighing the situation.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Half… I can accept."
His pitch-black eyes locked onto Tyrion's as he continued seriously.
"I've never minded compromise in business. In fact, I prefer it—because I like deals where everyone profits."
"But I do have a line I won't cross."
"That is this: I need to see that half now, and I take it with me today."
His words were measured, calm, and resolute—neither threatening nor emotional.
Just a simple, unavoidable statement of fact.
And as he spoke, the air around him subtly shifted.
His presence alone seemed to press down on the room.
Tyrion's eyes flickered with surprise.
For a moment, it felt uncomfortably like standing before his father.
Still, Tyrion forced himself to recover. He inhaled deeply, then shook his head with exaggerated regret.
"I'm sorry, Lord Odin. I can't agree to that."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"The royal treasury has been empty since the Blackwater. And we're on the verge of the most extravagant wedding Westeros has ever seen."
"So that money…"
Even Tyrion struggled to finish the sentence.
"Give me a number," Odin said calmly.
No anger. No edge.
"Within your authority—how much can you produce right now?"
He stared straight at Tyrion, making the dwarf deeply uncomfortable.
Tyrion swallowed, then answered through gritted teeth.
"This is… a very difficult decision, my lord."
"The most I can squeeze out for you right now is—one thousand gold dragons."
"That's the absolute limit. The rest will have to wait until the Crown's finances recover."
"This is my final offer—and the maximum sincerity I can give."
He finished in one breath and slumped back into his chair, watching Odin closely.
By any standard, it was an insultingly low number.
Odin said nothing. He simply lowered his chin slightly and continued to look at Tyrion.
Bronn misread the silence as a threat.
"Well then," the sellsword said, stepping forward, one hand on his sword.
"One thousand gold dragons. Cash."
"Take it, walk out that door, and we're done."
"Push your luck, and you might not even leave with that… or with everything you came in with."
Before he could get within five steps of Odin, a massive figure surged forward and blocked him.
"Back off, sheep-man."
Iggo's sword slid halfway from its sheath, a feral growl rumbling in his throat.
"Say the word," he asked without looking back.
"Shall I kill them, blood of my blood?"
Bronn narrowed his eyes, one hand on his sword, the other slipping toward a dagger at his waist.
The room teetered on the edge of violence.
Then—
A hand settled on Iggo's shoulder.
Odin stepped forward, his expression stern.
He said nothing.
But the Dothraki warrior instantly relaxed his grip and let the blade slide back.
That absolute obedience made Tyrion's breath hitch.
It felt disturbingly familiar.
Like a king commanding his Kingsguard.
"Lord Tyrion."
For the first time, Odin walked toward the desk.
As he passed Bronn, he glanced at him—just once.
The look was calm, unreadable… and cold.
Stopping before the desk, Odin looked down at Tyrion without disdain, yet his gaze felt impossibly deep.
"I understand that you must act as Master of Coin," he said.
"I also recognize your competence as a member of the Small Council. You're very capable."
He paused, showing a courtesy that surpassed most nobles.
"So. Very well."
"I accept your number."
Everyone froze.
Even Bronn blinked.
Tyrion himself was stunned—then faintly relieved, a flicker of smug satisfaction passing through his eyes.
But Odin wasn't finished.
"However."
His tone hardened, every word carrying weight.
"You must understand this, my lord."
"I accept it not because I agree with your approach—nor because I fear your… skilled negotiator."
His gaze brushed past Bronn, whose instincts screamed warning.
"I accept it because I respect the judgment you've made from your position, with the information you possess."
"But—"
Odin's voice grew firmer.
"I have yielded repeatedly. I chose peace. I sought friendship."
"And you declined it."
"I will remember this. I suggest you do the same, Lord Tyrion."
"Because the next time we meet, I believe you won't tell me no."
"And that day will come… very soon."
With that, Odin turned away.
A brief gesture to Iggo.
Then he left—without hesitation, without looking back.
His dark cloak rose and fell behind him, closing this unequal negotiation not with an ending—
—but with a promise.
"Is that it?" Iggo growled as they walked.
"Give me a name and a place. I'll take his head tonight."
"Easy, blood of my blood," Odin replied calmly.
"We'll get what's owed to us."
"Soon."
"Because next time—"
"I'll offer him something he can't refuse."
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