Chapter 70 — Shae
The door closed softly, cutting off the silhouettes of Odin and Iggo as they departed.
Tyrion said nothing.
His small body sank deep into the oversized chair, his gaze fixed on the shut door as though it might yield under sheer scrutiny.
In his mismatched eyes flickered thought—and a trace of unease he hadn't bothered to conceal.
By all accounts, he had won that exchange.
For the Iron Throne—more precisely, for his own impossible predicament—he had very neatly shaved off a massive expense.
It should have been a victory worth several good bottles of wine.
Yet the image that lingered in his mind was Odin's eyes as he left—calm, unfathomable, and above all, certain.
That certainty grated on Tyrion's nerves.
It hadn't sounded like the bluster of a defeated man.
It sounded like a declaration.
A formal opening move.
That quiet, inevitable confidence reminded him—uncomfortably—of his father.
"That kid didn't sound like he was bluffing," Tyrion muttered.
Even Bronn had lost his usual lazy grin. He strolled up to the massive desk and leaned against it.
"I've seen plenty of people talk big," he said. "But eyes don't lie. That one's either completely insane… or very, very dangerous."
He picked up a glossy red apple from the fruit tray, wiped it on the expensive tablecloth, and took a loud bite.
"Just in case," he added casually, half-joking, half-not,
"I could solve the problem for you now. Three hundred gold dragons. Clean job."
Tyrion tapped a finger lightly against his knee, genuinely considering it.
Bronn's solution was crude—but effective.
After a long pause, Tyrion finally spoke.
"He's Jaime's friend."
That alone made the decision far less simple.
Ordering the death of the man who'd saved his brother's life—based on a few ominous words—was not politics. It was stupidity.
And if Jaime ever found out, he'd lose his mind.
More importantly…
Who could guarantee Bronn would succeed?
That Dothraki at Odin's side looked like trouble incarnate. And now Odin controlled Flea Bottom—a place where knives came out faster than words.
"No assassinations," Tyrion said at last.
Then, his tone sharpened.
"Send a few clever, unfamiliar faces into Flea Bottom."
He looked up at Bronn.
"Find out exactly what Odin is doing."
"I want reports on everything—what he eats, who he meets, what he says, how he moves."
He paused, then added coldly:
"I want to know how many times he takes a shit each day."
The order was unmistakably clear.
Yet Bronn didn't move.
He just stood there, apple in hand, chewing slowly, eyes narrowed—thinking.
Which, in Tyrion's experience, was rarely a comforting sign.
Bronn merely looked at Tyrion with a teasing expression and took another bite of his apple.
Seeing that infuriatingly smug face, Tyrion rolled his eyes helplessly, reached into his robe, fished around for a moment, and produced a gleaming gold dragon, tossing it over.
The coin traced a graceful arc through the air and landed neatly in Bronn's hands.
He weighed it, slipped it away, and flashed a wide grin, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
"Seriously, Bronn," Tyrion said, his tone complicated by resignation,
"sometimes I honestly don't know whether keeping you as my guard was a wise decision."
"Oh, it was definitely wise, my dear Lord Tyrion," Bronn replied.
He walked to the door, hand on the handle, then glanced back over his shoulder.
"After all, which is more reliable—
a 'noble' knight who might stab you in the back out of principle,
or a bastard who only works for coin and tells you his price up front?"
Tyrion shook his head and chuckled.
Crude words, sound logic.
After spending so long in King's Landing, he had grown accustomed to this city of deceit and smiling lies.
Everyone wore masks—speaking of honor and loyalty while hiding knives behind their backs.
Bronn, by contrast, was refreshingly honest.
You always knew what he wanted.
You always knew how to make him act—and how to make him stop.
"Remember this," Tyrion called as Bronn opened the door.
"If anyone ever offers you money to kill me—
I pay double."
---
The corridors of the Red Keep were wide, cold, and faintly damp, especially in autumn.
Odin walked ahead, while Iggo followed half a step behind, his face tight with anger.
Even with a sack holding a thousand gold dragons slung over his shoulder, Iggo felt no joy—only the urge to throw it on the ground and stomp on it.
Perhaps after spending so long at Odin's side, even this rough, savage Dothraki had learned what humiliation felt like.
At that moment, a familiar voice echoed from around the corner ahead.
"I suggest you slow down, Lady Lollys. Sudden movements could harm the child."
Odin looked up to see Jaime Lannister approaching, clad in a white cloak that swayed gently with his stride.
Behind him walked a heavyset woman, her belly grotesquely swollen.
She wore a finely tailored gown, yet her eyes were unfocused, her face split by a foolish smile as she tilted her head and reached toward the flickering shadows cast by the torches—trying to catch them like butterflies.
At her side trailed a scantily dressed maid, face twisted with unconcealed disgust, making no effort to support her.
"Jaime!"
At the call, Jaime lifted his head. His troubled expression vanished instantly, replaced by a bright smile.
"Odin!"
He forgot about the two women behind him at once and strode forward eagerly.
"It's great to see you! Addam told me you'd just finished dealing with that Flea Bottom mess—I thought you'd be tied up for days."
"There was a lot to do," Odin replied with a chuckle,
"but nothing unmanageable."
Then, as if remembering something, he added lightly,
"By the way, I haven't seen Brienne in a while. Didn't she return to the Red Keep with you?"
At the mention of Brienne, Jaime's expression darkened again, his tone turning sharp.
"She's… been confined for now.
Ser Loras Tyrell insists on personally questioning her about the night Renly Baratheon was killed."
"He believes she's hiding something."
"They were both Rainbow Guards. When Renly died… she was the only one with him."
"I understand," Odin said, nodding thoughtfully.
To outsiders, Renly's death was riddled with unanswered questions.
After all—who would believe a shadow could kill a man?
Especially when Renly had been Loras Tyrell's…
"Don't worry," Odin added calmly.
"Ser Loras is an honorable man. He'll reach a fair judgment."
Jaime sighed and nodded. "I hope so."
Since returning to King's Landing, nothing had gone smoothly for him.
His father wanted him to remove the white cloak and return to Casterly Rock.
Cersei refused to let him touch her—and rumor had it Lancel had been spending far too much time at her side.
As for the king…
Best not to think about it.
All things considered, the only moments Jaime felt genuinely at ease were those spent with Odin.
"Heh~~~ yooo~~~ White Cloak Knight~~~"
The pregnant woman finally caught up, panting.
"You walk too fast~~~ huff~~~ Lollys can't keep up with all this baggage~~~"
As she spoke, she punched her own belly, winced in pain, then crouched down clutching it.
"And this lady is…?" Odin asked.
Jaime rolled his eyes and replied flatly,
"Lady Lollys Stokeworth."
"Lady?" Odin frowned, his gaze lingering briefly on her swollen abdomen.
In Westeros, only unmarried noblewomen were addressed as "Lady." Married women were styled "Lady" only formally—or called "my lady wife."
Jaime noticed his confusion and shrugged.
"She was caught in the riot not long ago.
Gang-raped by the mob."
"She survived, at least. And came away with… a child."
"She recovered in the Red Keep for a while. When my father arrived, he decided her presence was… unseemly."
"So the king ordered me to escort her back to Stokeworth—to her mother."
He made no effort to lower his voice.
Odin leaned closer and murmured,
"You're saying all this right in front of her?"
Jaime smirked faintly and gestured toward Lollys, who had plucked a wilted wildflower and was enthusiastically sniffing it.
"As you can see… she's not quite right in the head."
He tapped his temple.
"The septons say it's divine punishment.
The maesters think it's some terrible infection."
"Either way—she's pitiful."
"She doesn't understand a word we say. Lives entirely in her own world."
"Honestly," he added quietly, "it might be better for her that way."
Odin nodded slowly.
Then, almost absentmindedly, his gaze drifted to the maid standing silently behind Lollys.
The woman kept her head lowered, but her eyes betrayed impatience—even disgust.
With Insight Lv.2, Odin saw it clearly.
That wasn't normal.
Even a servant caring for a simpleton wouldn't dare show such open contempt.
An idea stirred.
Stepping forward, Odin ignored Lollys entirely and instead approached the maid, offering her a warm, charming smile.
"Forgive my boldness, beautiful lady," he said gently.
"May I ask your name?"
The maid, startled that such a refined gentleman would address her, hurriedly lifted her skirt and curtsied.
"My name is Shae, my lord."