Chapter 163: The Arrogant Red Viper
Morning.
Olyvar Chelsted had been standing outside the Hall of Order for the entire morning.
The morning dew had soaked through his boots, while the rising sun baked sweat across his forehead.
The once respectable dark-blue velvet coat he wore now looked old and wrinkled, the elbows polished shiny from wear.
He gripped the parchment scroll tightly in his hands, his knuckles pale from the pressure, stretching his neck to peer toward the entrance of the Hall of Order .
People moved in and out endlessly like a flowing river.
There were commoners in rough cloth, merchants with short swords hanging at their waists, even several finely dressed minor nobles and knights.
Olyvar recognized one of them as a Flour Street shop owner, and another as a minor lord involved in shipping who had once done a little business with House Chelsted.
Every single person entered carrying anxiety, anger, or despair on their face.
Yet when they came back out, their expressions had all changed.
Calm.
Relieved.
As though the massive stone crushing their hearts had finally been lifted away, allowing them to breathe again.
Watching this, the dying spark of hope inside Olyvar slowly reignited.
Maybe...
Maybe this place truly could help.
For over ten days he had been running around King's Landing.
The guards outside the Tower of the Hand would not even announce his presence, merely repeating that Lord Tywin was "far too busy."
The clerk serving Kevan Lannister had accepted ten gold dragons from him, only to dismiss him with:
"This matter does not concern us."
Then, in desperation, someone had quietly whispered to him:
"Go to Flea Bottom. Find Ser Odin."
Odin?
That peasant-born knight?
At first, Olyvar had scoffed.
Chelsted Castle was far from King's Landing, and he knew little about Odin beyond a few strange rumors.
But the man had insisted:
"These days in King's Landing, if the Gold Cloaks can handle something, the Mafia can handle it too."
"And if the Gold Cloaks refuse to handle it…"
"The Mafia still can."
So Olyvar came.
Bringing with him his last shred of hope—
and the final twenty gold dragons left in his pouch.
Everything he owned.
Guards stood outside the Hall of Order.
All young men wearing identical gray uniforms with short batons hanging at their waists.
Each stood straight-backed and alert, watchful but not hostile, quietly maintaining order.
The line was long.
When Olyvar arrived at dawn, at least twenty or thirty people had already been waiting.
Yet no one cut ahead.
No one argued.
Everyone simply waited in silence.
Now, with time passing, fewer than ten remained ahead of him.
But it was nearly noon, and his stomach was growling so fiercely he could barely endure it.
Olyvar cautiously tried moving toward the front.
A noseless man blocked his path.
Olyvar did not recognize him, though the man's clothes were finer than the others', making him look like some sort of supervisor.
"Back in line."
Rorge's voice was rough and unpleasant, carrying the tone of someone handling official business.
"I... I have urgent matters, ser. Please, could you let me go in first?"
Olyvar hurriedly produced a silver stag, trying to press it into Rorge's hand.
Rorge did not even glance at the coin.
What was this? Charity for beggars?
"I said," he repeated calmly while staring directly into Olyvar's face,
"back in line."
A chill crept up Olyvar's spine.
That was the gaze of a man who had killed many people.
A man who had seen blood and death so often that human life meant nothing to him anymore.
Swallowing nervously, Olyvar tucked the coin away and obediently shuffled back to the end of the queue.
Seeing the miserable look on his face, Rorge shook his head and offered a rare warning.
"Don't try anything clever, my lord."
"Ser Odin sees people in order. Money won't help."
"Last week, a merchant tried skipping the line by offering five gold dragons."
"He was permanently banned from entering the Hall of Order."
Olyvar froze.
Five gold dragons... and he still refused?
"Here," Rorge replied flatly,
"order matters more than gold."
Then he turned away to continue maintaining order elsewhere.
Olyvar could only keep waiting while quietly observing his surroundings.
The Hall of Order was a three-story stone building.
Fresh white plaster covered the walls, and the windows were polished spotless.
A wooden sign hung above the entrance, neatly painted with the words:
[Hall of Order — Flea Bottom Special Administrative Center
Under the Authority of Ser Odin]
The lettering was not elegant, but firm and disciplined.
Two rows of neatly trimmed holly trees lined the entrance.
Most shocking of all—
the street itself was clean.
Cleaner than anything Olyvar had ever imagined possible in Flea Bottom.
No trash.
No sewage.
Not even the usual human filth scattered across the roads.
Several gray-uniformed patrolmen walked the streets.
They carried no swords, only short batons, yet their posture and sharp eyes clearly revealed disciplined training.
Time slowly passed.
Eventually, only five people remained ahead of him.
His stomach growled painfully, but he dared not leave to buy food.
What if they called his turn while he was gone?
Then he spotted a familiar face.
Hans Rivers, a leather merchant, emerged from the Hall of Order wearing the same relieved expression everyone else seemed to have upon leaving.
"Lord Hans!" Olyvar called instinctively.
Hans turned in surprise.
"Ser Olyvar? You're here too?"
"I..." Olyvar hesitated awkwardly. "I needed Ser Odin's assistance with... certain matters."
He phrased it vaguely.
After all, as a member of an old noble house, seeking help from a peasant-born knight was humiliating enough already.
But Hans showed no mockery whatsoever.
Instead, he lowered his voice seriously.
"So did I."
"My cargo ship was raided by pirates in Blackwater Bay. I lost at least eight hundred gold dragons."
"The Gold Cloaks claimed they had no authority at sea. The royal fleet said merchant ships should hire their own guards."
"I had nowhere else to turn, so I came here."
"And?" Olyvar asked eagerly. "What did Ser Odin say?"
"He had me write down the pirates' banner, the location of the attack, and the cargo manifest."
"Then he handed me a note and told me to visit Captain Plank in Blackwater Bay."
"He said my goods would be returned intact within a month."
Olyvar stared in disbelief.
"That's it? How much did he charge?"
"Fifteen percent of the cargo's value," Hans replied. "And only after the goods are recovered. If nothing comes back, I pay nothing."
Olyvar's eyes widened even further.
Not because the price was high—
but because it was unbelievably fair.
"And you actually believe he can recover them?"
Hans was silent for several seconds before nodding firmly.
"I do."
"Last month, House Field suffered the same thing."
"Their shipment was stolen by pirates. They came to Ser Odin."
"Ten days later, every crate was returned."
"And the pirates' heads came back packed inside the boxes."
Olyvar inhaled sharply.
"But... how?"
"Pirates vanish across Blackwater Bay. Even the royal fleet can't catch them…"
"I don't know," Hans admitted. "And I don't need to know."
"All I know is this—Ser Odin solves problems."
"And his prices are fair."
"Sometimes he doesn't even ask for payment, only a favor owed in return."
"That's enough for me."
Hans patted Olyvar's shoulder.
"Good luck, ser."
"And remember—tell him your troubles honestly."
"Ser Odin... he's different from other nobles."
"No matter how ugly your problem is, he'll patiently listen until you finish speaking."
With that, Hans departed with noticeably lighter steps.
Olyvar remained standing there, gripping the parchment tighter while the anxiety inside him eased somewhat.
Finally, as the sun reached directly overhead, the noseless man opened the door.
"Next!"
Olyvar took a deep breath and stepped inside the Hall of Order.
The first floor was a spacious hall filled with more than a dozen desks.
Clerk-like staff sat behind each one, processing documents.
The waiting line was divided among the desks in perfect order.
Notices covered the walls—
tax standards, dispute resolution procedures, newly issued Flea Bottom regulations.
There were even staff members specifically assigned to explain the notices aloud for illiterate commoners.
Everything was astonishingly organized.
Thoughtful, even.
But Olyvar barely paid attention as Rorge led him upstairs.
The second floor was quieter, more like an administrative office.
Several doors remained shut.
Maps hung along the corridor walls:
A full map of King's Landing.
Charts of Blackwater Bay.
Even a rough map of all Westeros.
The third floor held only one door.
A heavy oak door without any decoration.
Rorge knocked.
"Enter."
The voice from inside was calm and gentle, impossible to judge by age.
Rorge pushed the door open, stepped aside to let Olyvar enter, then quietly closed it behind him.
Olyvar froze at the doorway.
The room was enormous.
Far larger than he had imagined.
Three walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves packed with books and scrolls, enough to rival the libraries of minor noble houses.
The fourth wall consisted entirely of tall windows.
Afternoon sunlight streamed in at an angle, scattering bright patches across the dark wooden floor.
At the center stood a massive oak desk.
And seated behind it—
was Odin.
This was Olyvar's first close look at the man whose reputation had become almost mythical throughout King's Landing.
And his first impression was...
ordinary.
Definitely under thirty.
Well-featured, though not especially handsome.
Neatly trimmed black hair.
A simple dark-gray linen robe.
No sword at his waist.
The most eye-catching thing about him, however—
was the cat lying across his lap.
A large black long-haired cat with glossy fur.
Half of its left ear was missing, as though something had bitten it off.
The cat slept peacefully, purring softly while Odin absentmindedly stroked its back.
Sunlight poured across one side of the desk.
Odin sat directly between shadow and light.
Half his face illuminated by the sun.
The black cat curled in his lap like a ball of darkness.
The scene carried a strange sense of tranquility.
This did not look like the center of power where disputes were judged and lives decided.
It looked more like a scholar resting quietly in his study.
"Please, sit."
Odin raised his head and looked at Olyvar.
His eyes were black as well.
Calm.
Without scrutiny or calculation.
Just simple attention.
Only then did Olyvar realize he was still standing awkwardly at the doorway.
He hurried toward the chair before the desk but did not immediately sit.
Noble etiquette taught that a guest should never sit without being invited twice.
Odin, however, casually gestured toward the chair again.
"Sit."
"You've been waiting a long time. Your legs must be sore."
Only after receiving permission did Olyvar carefully lower himself into the chair, sitting on barely half the seat with his back perfectly straight and the parchment clutched tightly in his hands.
Odin glanced at him but did not immediately address business.
Instead, he asked gently:
"You haven't eaten lunch yet, have you?"
"I... I'm not hungry," Olyvar replied instinctively, unwilling to show weakness before a stranger.
Odin smiled faintly.
It was a very small smile, but strangely reassuring.
"I'm hungry."
"So eat with me."
"We'll talk after lunch."
Olyvar did not know what to say, so he simply nodded.
"Rorge."
The door opened immediately, and Rorge poked his head inside.
"Prepare two lunches," Odin instructed. "Standard meals. And bring a pitcher of water."
Afterward, Odin returned to reading documents while occasionally stroking the cat resting on his lap.
The cat lazily lifted its head, glanced at Olyvar with amber eyes, then curled back up and went to sleep again.
Bored and nervous, Olyvar secretly examined the room from the corner of his eye.
Besides books, the shelves held many strange objects:
A brass instrument resembling a navigational tool.
A set of surgical knives.
Glass bottles filled with liquids of various colors.
Even a small human skeleton model sitting atop one shelf like decoration.
No weapons hung on the walls.
No monster heads or hunting trophies like those decorating noble castles.
Only an enormous detailed map of King's Landing and the surrounding regions, marked with pins of different colors.
Not long afterward, the door opened again.
Rorge entered carrying a tray and placed it on the corner of the desk.
The tray held two simple meals—
black bread, stew, several slices of roasted meat, a pitcher of water, and two wooden cups.
"Thank you," Olyvar said instinctively as he accepted the tray.
Rorge gave no response, simply placing the second meal before Odin.
"Eat," Odin said plainly before beginning his own meal without further ceremony.
His table manners were elegant, though not in the stiff, performative way favored by nobles.
Everything about him looked natural.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Every bite was chewed slowly and carefully, barely making a sound.
After a brief hesitation, Olyvar Chelsted finally picked up a piece of bread himself.
He truly was starving.
"About the Lion Gate…"
At that moment, Odin suddenly spoke.
Olyvar instinctively assumed the words were directed at him and hurriedly lowered his bread, only to realize a second later—after seeing Rorge lean forward—that Odin was speaking to his subordinate.
"Master Tobho Mott came to see me this morning," Odin said evenly. "The Gold Cloaks are harassing him again. They claim he's been evading taxes and want to fine him two hundred gold dragons."
He took another bite of bread before continuing.
"Do you know who's leading this?"
Tobho Mott?
Olyvar nearly stopped chewing altogether.
Of course he knew Tobho Mott.
The master smith of Steel Street.
His forge stood atop Visenya's Hill, a symbol of both prestige and unmatched craftsmanship.
When Olyvar's father was alive, he had praised Mott's work more than once, claiming the blades forged beneath his hammer carried "the calmness of flame."
What Olyvar remembered most vividly, however, was that after Tywin Lannister acquired House Stark's legendary Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, it was Tobho Mott whom the Hand had entrusted to melt and reforge it.
A craftsman respected even by the greatest houses in Westeros…
was now forced to seek help in Flea Bottom from a peasant-born knight who had risen only months ago?
And the Gold Cloaks actually dared extort him?
The thought felt absurd.
Yet somehow, deeply tragic as well.
If even someone like Tobho Mott needed protection…
Just how rotten had King's Landing become?
Without realizing it, Olyvar leaned forward slightly, ears perked and heart beating faster.
Rorge bowed his head faintly.
"Two nights ago at the Old Eel tavern, I overheard Ser Balman Byrch talking after a few drinks."
"He mentioned that the one behind this is Dickon Bywater, captain of the Lion Gate patrol."
"Lately the bastard's been spending money like water. He rented two high-class Lysene girls over at the Feather Pavilion on Silk Street, and at the horse market he dropped more than three hundred gold dragons on a purebred Dornish sand steed."
"Dickon Bywater?"
Odin finished chewing, then calmly drank a sip of water.
"The son of former City Watch Commander Jacelyn Bywater?"
"Yes, ser," Rorge confirmed.
So it was him.
At once, Olyvar understood.
Back during the Battle of the Blackwater, Jacelyn Bywater had died heroically defending the city, restoring some measure of honor to the crown.
As both compensation and political reward, Tywin Lannister himself had ordered the young and largely unaccomplished Dickon Bywater appointed captain of Lion Gate—a position overflowing with profit and influence.
It was both a reward…
and a way for the Lannisters to absorb the remaining influence of House Bywater.
The Bywaters had operated in King's Landing for generations.
They were not among the great houses, but their roots ran deep and their connections spread everywhere.
Far beyond anything a nearly forgotten house like Chelsted could compare to.
With his father's legacy and Tywin's backing, Dickon Bywater practically ruled the Lion Gate district however he pleased.
Even if Tobho Mott was a legendary smith, extorting a blacksmith was hardly impossible for a man like Dickon.
Thinking this, Olyvar cautiously glanced toward Odin.
The young knight was lazily scratching the black cat beneath its chin with one finger.
The cat tilted its head upward, purring louder.
What would he do?
Olyvar wondered silently.
Making an enemy of House Bywater over a blacksmith hardly seemed wise.
By Westerosi standards, the sensible solution would be mediation.
Have Tobho Mott pay a little money.
Smooth things over with Dickon.
Quietly hint that he should stop before things escalated.
Use gold to lubricate conflict.
Use compromise to maintain temporary peace.
Olyvar could already predict the outcome.
Yet while he was still lost in thought, Odin spoke again.
His voice remained steady, never rising even slightly.
"Master Tobho Mott's craftsmanship deserves the respect of every knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
"The swords he forged for Ser Jaime Lannister and myself were made with excellent materials, precise workmanship, and fair pricing."
"A good craftsman's value lies in his skill and integrity."
"People like that should not be extorted by parasites."
"They should not be preyed upon by greed."
As he spoke, Odin raised his eyes and looked directly at Rorge.
"Find Dickon Bywater."
"Make it clear to him that Master Tobho Mott's forge and anvil are now under our protection."
"And the hand he used to demand gold…"
"…must pay a price."
"Bring me his left pinky finger."
Olyvar Chelsted sucked in a sharp breath.
His eyes widened in horror as he instinctively covered his mouth.
A pinky finger?
And from Dickon Bywater of all people?
This was not merely punishing Dickon personally.
This was openly slapping House Bywater across the face—
perhaps even challenging the authority of the Hand himself.
And Odin dared to do it so casually?
Terrified, Olyvar turned toward Rorge, expecting at least a flicker of hesitation or shock on the brutal man's face.
There was none.
The noseless man's expression remained utterly calm.
Almost numb.
He even gave a small nod, as though his master had merely instructed him to buy fish for supper.
"Yes, ser."
"I'll make it clean."
Rorge answered immediately before turning toward the door.
By now, Olyvar's heartbeat thundered so violently he felt it might burst from his chest.
His mind had gone completely blank.
He truly could not understand how these two men treated such horrifying orders as casually as eating lunch.
"Wait."
Odin's voice rang out once more, stopping Rorge just before he left.
The sudden interruption made Olyvar's already strained nerves tighten again.
The hard bread in his hand had become damp with sweat.
Yet strangely enough, seeing Rorge turn back made Olyvar relax slightly.
Perhaps Odin had realized the order had gone too far after all—
But the next words nearly made Olyvar leap out of his chair.
"What's Prince Oberyn Martell been doing lately?"
Prince Oberyn?!
Olyvar froze.
Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper of Dorne.
The mad prince who had openly demanded the trial of Gregor Clegane during the Small Council session two days earlier, reopening the seventeen-year-old bloodbath in King's Landing.
The entire city was talking about it now.
In two days, the two men would fight in trial by combat at the Free Combat Arena—
Wait.
That arena…
was in Flea Bottom too.
At that realization, Olyvar suddenly felt dizzy.
What kind of place was he sitting in?
And just how powerful was this young man before him?
Yet when Odin asked the question, Rorge's expression turned oddly complicated.
"He's… the same as always."
Rorge reported matter-of-factly.
"Spends most of his days in the brothels on Silk Street."
"Last night he rented out the three most expensive girls at the Hummingbird. Heard the noise they made was outrageous."
"He drank heavily, used all sorts of toys, and apparently broke several tables and beds."
"This morning, old Madam Rose from the Hummingbird already sent the bill to his temporary residence."
Hearing this, Olyvar's ears reddened slightly.
At the same time, he was stunned that the prince could behave so recklessly.
The trial by combat was only two days away.
A life-or-death battle against the Mountain.
And Oberyn was still drowning himself in wine and women?
Even Odin frowned slightly.
"He hasn't done any actual preparation for the fight?"
"No training? No gathering information? Not even resting properly?"
Olyvar found himself wondering the exact same thing.
Facing a monster like Gregor Clegane, any rational person would train obsessively, analyze tactics repeatedly, and preserve their condition carefully.
Oberyn's madness was famous…
but this bordered on suicide.
Rorge curled his lip slightly.
"He says this is his preparation."
"And he openly mocked the idea of needing more."
"Said killing a dog doesn't require planning. Just sharpen the blade, walk up to it, and cut it down."
"Think too much, and your movements get slower."
Arrogant.
Olyvar nearly blurted the word aloud.
But Odin merely fell silent for a moment before opening a small drawer beneath his desk.
From inside, he withdrew a thin booklet.
Barely more than a dozen pages.
No title.
No sigil.
At first glance, it looked no more important than an ordinary ledger from a marketplace stall.
"Give this to Prince Oberyn."
Odin handed it to Rorge.
"Tell him these are my exact words."
"This is an order from Odin."
"If he doesn't want his head crushed during the trial by combat…"
"…then he'd better read it carefully."
"And memorize every page."
[Hey. Yes you, Reade, let me ask this: WHEN WILL YOU SERIOUSLY SUPPORT OUR ODIN]
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