Chapter 164
Rorge stepped forward and accepted the booklet with both hands.
Curiosity flickered briefly across his face, but without Odin's permission, he did not dare open it.
"I'll deliver it personally to the prince," he said. "And make sure no one else sees it, ser."
Odin gave a faint nod and said nothing more.
The contents of the booklet were not truly secret.
It was merely a record of the weaknesses Odin had observed during his clash with Gregor Clegane, along with methods for exploiting them.
Even if Rorge read it, it would not matter much.
Besides, the man's obedience had already become absolute.
Odin found that very satisfying.
"Go."
This time, Rorge did not hesitate.
He turned sharply, tucked the seemingly ordinary yet immeasurably valuable booklet into his coat, and quietly closed the door behind him.
After Rorge left, silence settled over the room once more.
Olyvar remained seated, his back straighter than before.
Everything Odin had displayed—his authority, confidence, and reach—had already exceeded Olyvar's imagination.
If this man truly possessed enough influence to make even Prince Oberyn Martell obey him…
then perhaps…
perhaps he really could solve Olyvar's problem.
With that thought, Olyvar quietly placed the unfinished bread back onto the tray and waited for Odin to speak first.
As time passed, the sunlight beyond the windows shifted further westward.
Gold slowly deepened into orange-red.
The black cat—Balerion—stretched lazily upon the windowsill, its arched back like a crack opening into darkness itself.
A moment later, Odin finally seemed to emerge from his thoughts and looked toward him.
"Judging by the look of it," he said mildly, "you're not going to finish your lunch."
His voice remained as calm and warm as before.
"So perhaps we should talk about your problem now?"
Olyvar immediately straightened.
"I… my name is Olyvar Chelsted, ser."
"My family rules Chelsted Keep, not far northeast of the Kingswood."
As he spoke the name of his house and lands, a trace of quiet humiliation crept into his voice.
The decline of House Chelsted had gone on for too many years.
The once-proud noble family had long since lost most of its former glory.
"Olyvar Chelsted…"
Odin repeated the name softly before nodding.
"I remember your family's castle."
"It stands near the northeastern edge of the Kingswood. One of the Blackwater's smaller tributaries passes nearby. The soil isn't especially fertile, but the forests there are rich with timber."
Olyvar's eyes widened instantly.
"You… you've been to Chelsted Keep?"
The shock nearly overwhelmed his nervousness.
After all, Chelsted Keep had long since fallen into ruin.
The roofs leaked.
Vines crawled across the crumbling walls.
Among the nobles of King's Landing, the castle had practically become synonymous with decay and irrelevance.
Very few people even remembered what it looked like anymore.
Yet Odin—a man who had only arrived in King's Landing recently—could casually describe the region's terrain and resources in detail.
A faint smile touched Odin's lips.
"Learning is important, Ser Chelsted."
"For anyone wishing to survive in an unfamiliar world, the first step is understanding its geography and its rules."
"So I read everything I can obtain."
"Books. Records. Maps. Genealogies. Tax ledgers."
He paused before lifting his eyes toward Olyvar.
A trace of understanding glimmered in those dark pupils.
"Besides, Ser Jaime Lannister once mentioned your grandfather to me."
"His name was Lord Qarlton Chelsted, correct?"
"Ser Jaime mentioned my grandfather?"
Sure enough, Olyvar showed no suspicion at all.
Instead, excitement immediately filled his voice.
Qarlton Chelsted.
The last true glory of House Chelsted.
But it had been far too long since anyone important had spoken his name.
"Yes."
Odin nodded.
"Ser Jaime once told me your grandfather served as Master of Coin under King Aerys II Targaryen."
"Later, after Lord Jon Connington was exiled, he was elevated to Hand of the King."
"If I remember correctly, he served for… one year and three months?"
"One year and four months," Olyvar corrected instinctively.
The moment the words left his mouth, he realized his rudeness and flushed slightly in embarrassment.
Odin, however, merely smiled faintly.
"My apologies."
"One year and four months."
"Ser Jaime had an interesting description for him."
"He called your grandfather 'the Mace-and-Dagger Hand.'"
"He told me several rather confidential stories."
"In my opinion…"
Odin leaned back slightly.
"Your grandfather was a remarkably hard man."
"The Mace-and-Dagger…"
Olyvar murmured the title under his breath.
Then his eyes unconsciously dropped toward the faded sigil stitched onto his chest—so worn by years and washing that its colors had nearly vanished completely.
Odin's words — "a strong Hand" — were like a small flame in winter, briefly driving away the cold humiliation lodged in Olyvar's chest.
For years, he had heard nothing but mockery whenever people spoke of his grandfather.
"Coward."
"Opportunist."
"Aerys's lapdog."
Or worse.
"The Mad King's boot-polisher."
Whenever the nobles of King's Landing mentioned Lord Qarlton Chelsted, it was almost always with sneering contempt, as though the man who had once briefly held the power of the Seven Kingdoms had become no more significant than the peeling plaster crumbling from Chelsted Keep's walls.
Something destined to weather away into dust.
So Olyvar had never expected to hear a judgment like this from the mouth of King's Landing's rising power broker.
Measured.
Fair.
Almost… respectful.
"Thank you, ser," Olyvar said hoarsely.
The gratitude was genuine.
But beneath it lay an even deeper desperation — the frantic relief of a drowning man finding driftwood.
"You are a true knight."
"Enough flattery."
Odin did not respond to the praise.
He merely lifted his chin slightly, signaling for him to continue.
"If you have a problem, then speak plainly."
At that moment, Balerion shifted positions again, curling himself into a black ball of fur.
Seeing this, Olyvar inhaled deeply.
He knew the time had come to cast aside what little noble dignity he still possessed.
"There's no point hiding it," he said quickly.
"As you already know… the lands around Chelsted Keep are poor."
"The tributary running from the Blackwater is small. In summer, it dries up easily. My ancestors originally settled there mainly because of the timber and hunting grounds near the Kingswood."
"But that was long ago."
"The Crown's forest laws have become stricter and stricter. The Kingswood belongs to the royal family, and poaching…"
He forced a bitter smile.
It looked more painful than tears.
Odin understood immediately.
Back when House Chelsted still possessed influence, skimming profits from the Kingswood had never been difficult. The Targaryen dynasty kings had largely turned a blind eye.
After all, timber and game were valuable commodities.
But times had changed.
A new king meant new rules.
And King Robert Baratheon had loved hunting more than almost anything.
He guarded his rights over the Kingswood fiercely.
If House Chelsted had dared overstep too openly under Robert's rule, they likely would not have survived long enough for Olyvar to inherit anything at all.
Olyvar noticed the understanding in Odin's eyes and flushed briefly with embarrassment.
Still, hunger and fear had long since become stronger than pride.
"We never dared challenge the Crown openly," he hurried on.
"So… to survive, we limited ourselves to hunting around the edges of the Kingswood. Beyond the official borders there are hills and sparse woods… lands that don't really belong clearly to anyone."
"My people…" He hesitated. "There aren't many left."
"They mostly set traps there. Rabbits. Foxes. Sometimes, if luck favors us, a stray deer."
"Barely enough to survive."
"With the little farmland beneath the hills, and whatever timber we can trade in Duskendale or Rosby for coarse grain… we've managed."
Odin listened quietly, fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished oak desk.
He had indeed heard rumors about House Chelsted's condition before.
In gambling dens and taverns, drunk mercenaries and hedge knights sometimes joked about a "Rabbit Count" living northeast of the Kingswood.
A noble house bearing the sigil of mace and dagger…
Yet so poor they survived by hunting rabbits.
"But starting last month," Olyvar continued, lowering his voice, "things changed."
"People began disappearing in the hills."
"At first only one or two. We assumed it was wild beasts… or perhaps someone slipped into a ravine."
"But then it kept happening."
"More and more."
"Over a dozen are gone now. Men and women both."
"Then, about a week ago, one of the hunters crawled back half-dead."
"He was covered in blood and missing an arm."
"He claimed a band of brigands had moved into the deeper caves in the hills. They set traps and ambushes, stole all the hunters' tools and game, killed his companions…"
"He was the only one who escaped."
"And as the lord of the land," Odin asked calmly, "you didn't organize a force to eliminate them?"
There was no anger in his tone.
Which somehow made the question even more painful.
Olyvar's face immediately reddened with shame.
"With what army, ser?"
"In Chelsted Keep right now, counting myself and my squire, there are fewer than fifteen men capable of carrying weapons."
"And half of them are older than my father."
"Our equipment…" He laughed bitterly. "We possess one rusting suit of plate armor passed down from my grandfather."
"A few woodcutting axes."
"Some rusted pitchforks."
"And three longswords."
"That's all."
"And I only have twenty gold dragons left to my name!"
"That is the entirety of House Chelsted's remaining wealth!"
The more he spoke, the more miserable he sounded.
"Anything worth selling was sold years ago."
"I can't even afford to hire ten mercenaries for a month."
"You know what sellswords around King's Landing cost these days."
He swallowed hard.
His eyes had begun reddening, though he fought desperately not to lose control.
"Winter is coming, ser."
"This year the wars in the Riverlands and the Vale disrupted the trade routes. Grain prices in King's Landing rise every day."
"The little money we saved can't even buy half of what it could last year."
"The game in the hills was our final hope for surviving winter…"
"But now the brigands have taken even that."
"If nothing changes, nearly a hundred people in Chelsted Keep may not survive the cold."
"I… I truly had nowhere else to turn."
"That's why I came to King's Landing."
"To see if any old allies still remembered us."
"To see if there was any hope left at all."
His voice cracked slightly.
"Then I heard about you."
"They say you brought order to Flea Bottom."
"They say you help people who have nowhere left to go."
"I don't ask for charity."
"But whatever price House Chelsted can still pay… if you help us survive this winter…"
Olyvar clenched his fists.
"I swear upon my grandfather's name — I will repay the debt."
When he finished, silence settled over the room.
Only Balerion's soft purring remained, mixed with the distant noise of Flea Bottom outside.
Odin leaned back slowly in his chair, studying the exhausted face of the man before him.
He could tell Olyvar was not lying.
And honestly…
It was difficult not to feel some degree of astonishment.
House Chelsted had once produced a Hand of the King.
They had once held a seat at the Small Council itself.
Now they had been reduced to desperation by a mere band of mountain brigands, struggling to preserve enough dignity to beg for winter grain.
The rise and fall of noble houses in Westeros could be even harsher than the rise and fall of gold prices.
After a moment of thought, Odin finally spoke again.
"Why didn't you go to the Hand?"
His tone carried quiet curiosity.
"Lord Tywin Lannister governs from the Red Keep. Maintaining order and suppressing brigands is part of his duty."
"Your lands may be remote, but they still belong to the Crownlands."
"He has both the obligation and the authority to send soldiers."
The moment Tywin's name was mentioned, Olyvar's expression became deeply uncomfortable.
Almost frightened.
He lowered his head and stared at the worn tips of his boots.
"You don't understand, ser."
"My grandfather… during his years as Master of Coin…"
"In order to gain the Mad King's trust, he often sided with the other councillors against Lord Tywin during Small Council meetings…"
"Even later, after my grandfather regretted some of it…"
He forced out the final sentence weakly.
"But everyone knows the Lannisters always pay their debts."
Understanding dawned immediately.
Olyvar had spoken carefully, but the meaning was obvious enough.
Back then, relations between King Aerys II Targaryen and Lord Tywin had become poisonous.
Whatever Tywin supported, the king opposed out of spite.
During the tourney celebrating Aerys's tenth year on the throne, the Mad King had even publicly humiliated and flirted with Tywin's wife, Lady Joanna.
The insult had enraged Tywin so deeply he reportedly offered his resignation as Hand.
Aerys refused.
And afterward, he seemed to delight in mocking him whenever possible.
Naturally, clever nobles quickly learned something important:
If you humiliated Tywin, you gained the king's favor.
The atmosphere of the Small Council in those years had become vicious beyond belief.
And according to rumor, Lord Qarlton Chelsted had not merely mocked Tywin.
He had even gone so far as to accuse Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of secretly gathering supporters and plotting rebellion against his father.
An utterly shameless political maneuver.
[Support this book everyone. EVERYONE.]
Want faster updates? Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier. Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5