Chapter 165
It wasn't that Olyvar Chelsted was too foolish to seek help from the highest authority in the realm.
It was simply that the old hatred between his family and Tywin Lannister made such a thing impossible from the very beginning.
Tywin would never help him.
Frankly, if the old lion of Casterly Rock didn't take the opportunity to stab House Chelsted in the back while they were already collapsing, that alone could be considered astonishing mercy.
After all, Tywin Lannister's coldness and vindictiveness were carved into the bones of every noble in the Seven Kingdoms.
House Chelsted's crumbling little boat simply could not survive the attention of such a man.
Even an absentminded glance from Tywin could bring waves large enough to drown them completely.
And honestly, Olyvar's plight was not even especially tragic by Westerosi standards.
War.
Banditry.
Hunger.
Those three words together formed the permanent background color of the continent.
A ruined noble house driven to desperation by a gang of brigands?
That was practically ordinary.
Yet as Odin listened, he sensed something faintly unusual hidden within the story.
Mainly because the location made no sense.
The northeastern fringe of the Kingswood.
The hills surrounding a tiny tributary of the Blackwater.
In his mind, Odin rapidly reconstructed the geography from memory.
That area lay far from the main trade roads.
The land was poor.
The forests were mediocre at best — otherwise the Crown would already have annexed them fully.
Aside from the decaying remains of Chelsted Keep, there were scarcely any prosperous villages or wealthy estates nearby.
And brigands needed to eat.
Most outlaw bands established themselves near trade routes or rich settlements where they could raid supplies and fence stolen goods.
At minimum, they required abundant water and defensible terrain.
The hills near Chelsted Keep certainly offered defensible terrain.
But loot?
Almost none.
Raid Chelsted Keep?
Meaningless.
Judging from Olyvar's description, the brigands clearly outnumbered the fifteen armed men he could muster.
A group that large should not have been able to survive in those barren hills for long.
Food alone would become a problem.
Unless…
They were not there merely for banditry.
Or perhaps Chelsted Keep itself was not the true target.
Or perhaps…
There was something else in those hills attracting them.
Odin's thoughts accelerated.
Minerals?
Unlikely.
House Chelsted had ruled those lands for centuries. If there were valuable deposits there, they would have discovered them long ago. And the Crown certainly would not have ignored such wealth.
Smuggling routes?
Possible.
But that tributary was barely navigable even for small boats, while the roads were rough and miserable.
Hardly ideal.
Which left the simplest explanation:
The brigands were either extraordinarily stupid…
or so desperate that even such barren land looked worthwhile.
And honestly, that explanation itself spoke volumes about just how thoroughly House Chelsted had collapsed.
The territory had become so weak, so defenseless, that even starving outlaws considered it fertile ground for "business."
Interesting.
A faint, amused smile tugged at Odin's lips.
Because he did not actually find that explanation very convincing.
Only a month ago, King's Landing had barely emerged from chaos and war.
Even if Chelsted Keep lay beyond the city itself, establishing a brigand camp in such a sensitive period still felt suspicious.
And conveniently…
Two days earlier, Odin had technically "won" the confrontation in the Small Council chamber.
But with Tywin's intelligence, there was no way the man had failed to notice cracks in the myth of Odin's supposed invincibility.
This might be a useful opportunity.
A chance to bait the old lion.
To see whether Tywin would make a move before the grand opening of the Fighting Arena.
At the same time, it offered another advantage:
An opportunity to observe the power vacuum lurking along the edges of the Crownlands.
To study the forgotten "wild nobles" living outside the vision of King's Landing's great houses.
Perhaps stepping briefly away from the center of the storm would reveal things impossible to see from within it.
After a long silence, Odin finally spoke.
"The Mafia will solve your problem, Ser Chelsted."
Olyvar stared blankly at him.
For several seconds, he genuinely failed to process the words.
Just like that?
He agreed?
"You told me your situation," Odin continued calmly.
"A group of brigands has occupied the hills near your lands and cut off your means of surviving the winter."
"And you lack the strength to remove them."
He rose from his chair and walked toward the window, looking out over Flea Bottom below.
Then he turned back.
His black eyes looked especially deep against the backlight.
"Tell me something."
"If those brigands disappear… can Chelsted Keep survive this winter on its own?"
"I mean under normal hunting conditions."
The moment he heard that, Olyvar nearly sprang to his feet.
"Yes! We can, ser!"
"As long as the hunting routes and traps are restored, and we can trade timber for grain in Duskendale…"
"If we ration carefully…"
"We should survive!"
"At the very least, no one will starve!"
After being rejected again and again throughout King's Landing, he finally saw something he had almost forgotten existed:
Hope.
"Good."
Odin nodded once.
"Then I'll accompany you to Chelsted Keep."
"…What?"
Olyvar froze again.
He had expected perhaps a small loan.
Or a few hired men.
Or even a polite refusal.
What he had not expected was for the infamous Odin himself — a man even Tywin Lannister treated cautiously — to personally travel to his remote, half-ruined lands.
"What?" Odin raised an eyebrow slightly. "You don't think I can handle a few brigands?"
"No! Of course not!"
Olyvar waved his hands frantically.
"I just… this is too much trouble for you!"
"Chelsted Keep is far away and terribly remote. We don't even possess anything worthy of entertaining a guest like you…"
Odin waved him off dismissively.
"My definition of hardship is probably different from most people's."
"And I prefer seeing problems with my own eyes rather than sitting in an office reading reports."
He returned to the desk and rang the bell beside it.
Moments later, a tall, broad-shouldered Dothraki warrior warrior entered the room.
"You called, my blood of my blood."
"Your wounds mostly healed?" Odin asked with a faint smile. "We're going for a ride."
He studied the warrior briefly before continuing:
"Prepare yourself. We leave for Chelsted Keep tomorrow morning."
"Bring ten men."
"Elites only."
"And full armor."
"Yes, my blood of my blood!"
At Odin's words, excitement immediately spread across Iggo's face.
Thanks to Odin's exceptional medical treatment, his wounds had long since healed completely. These past few days spent resting inside the Hall of Order had almost driven him mad with boredom.
As an elite Dothraki warrior, Iggo had spent nearly his entire life on horseback.
To a Dothraki, not being able to ride and kill felt worse than death itself.
He asked no questions.
He simply nodded sharply and strode off to make preparations.
Meanwhile, Olyvar Chelsted remained frozen in place, as if trapped in a dream.
Everything unfolding before him had gone far beyond his expectations.
"You should return and rest," Odin said after Iggo departed.
"Or, if you have nowhere to stay in King's Landing, the Hall of Order has guest rooms."
Then he added calmly:
"At dawn tomorrow, meet me outside the King's Gate, near the old flour mill."
"Yes… yes, ser!"
Realizing Odin truly intended to personally help him, Olyvar hurriedly bowed.
This time, deeper than ever before.
Night fell.
And somewhere far from King's Landing, a different kind of game was already underway.
Darkness blanketed the hills along the northeastern edge of the Kingswood.
The air smelled of rotting leaves, wet soil…
and the sour musk of indulgence.
A small campfire crackled in a forest clearing, its flames throwing warped shadows across twisted tree trunks like dancing demons.
The singing was anything but beautiful.
The melody sounded strange and feverish, thick with the unmistakable accent of Dorne.
The lyrics were crude and obscene, mixed with roaring laughter and the occasional breathless cry from women.
Beside the fire, several half-dressed men lounged with women whose clothing barely remained intact, drinking and groping openly.
Deeper in the shadows came more suggestive noises, endless and shameless.
The entire scene resembled some savage outdoor festival utterly out of place within the cold silence of the hills.
Only one man remained apart from the chaos.
He sat beside a whetstone beneath an old tree, seemingly indifferent to the debauchery around him.
Again and again, he sharpened the longsword in his hands.
Steel scraped stone with steady, icy rhythm.
Scrape.
Scrape.
The sound cut through the laughter like a blade.
Firelight illuminated half his face.
Dark skin.
Sharp cheekbones.
A distinctly Dornish appearance.
His eyes remained calm beneath the shifting glow.
Calm…
and faintly grim.
After a while, another figure emerged lazily from deeper within the woods, fastening his belt as he walked.
He looked younger, with curly hair and the loose posture of someone permanently amused by life.
Reaching the fire, he snatched up a wineskin, took a long drink, and glanced toward the swordsman.
"Hey, Andrey!"
Andrey lifted his eyes slightly.
The younger man grinned mockingly.
"You really know how to ruin a good time."
"We've spent weeks climbing hills, eating cold food, and drinking muddy water. Finally we get some entertainment, and you're over there acting like a corpse."
The sharpening stopped for a single heartbeat.
Andrey glanced at him.
There was no warmth in his gaze.
Only faint disgust.
"My body," he said evenly, "and my loyalty…"
"belong solely to the princess."
"You wouldn't understand that, Garin."
His voice remained low and controlled, completely opposite to the noisy revelry surrounding them.
At those words, Garin burst out laughing as though he had heard the greatest joke in the world.
Nearby men turned toward them.
"Gods, Andrey," Garin said, slapping his thigh dramatically, "you guard your virtue like some maiden from a song."
"You hardly sound like a Dornishman."
The sharpening resumed.
Slow.
Steady.
But somehow heavier than before.
"I don't need your approval to be a Dornishman," Andrey replied coldly.
"And I certainly have no interest in becoming like you."
"Or my brother."
At the mention of the princess, his hand slowed again.
"The princess's ambitions… her plans…"
"You cannot even begin to comprehend them."
"If we hadn't grown up together, I never would have brought you here."
His eyes finally rose from the blade.
"And let me remind you."
"We are not here for pleasure."
"If you ruin the princess's work…"
"I will personally ensure you never return to Dorne."
The final sentence came slowly.
Deliberately.
A warning impossible to misunderstand.
Garin's expression immediately darkened.
Whether from drink or anger, his face flushed red.
"Ruin the plan?" he snapped.
"Don't act superior to me, Andrey!"
"Yeah, maybe we didn't swear eternal chastity to the princess like you did…"
"But don't forget — we've done just as much dirty work as you!"
"This past month, how many peasants around here have we killed to spread fear?"
"And a few days ago, when that old bastard rolled screaming down the hillside after escaping us…"
"You were there too!"
"Why didn't your precious polished sword stop him then?"
"Now he's gone, and we don't even know if he's alive or dead!"
"And you want to lecture me about ruining the mission?"
As the argument escalated, the surrounding laughter gradually faded.
Men near the fire stopped moving.
The sounds from the tents quieted.
Only the wind and the crackling fire remained.
Finally, Andrey stopped sharpening the blade altogether.
Slowly, he lifted the sword until it rested level with his eyes.
Firelight flowed across the polished steel, reflecting both his expressionless face…
and Garin's twisted one.
Then, without warning—
the blade slid against Garin's throat.
The edge was razor-sharp.
Andrey's gaze turned glacial.
"That," he said softly, "is exactly why I'm warning you."
"Pointless killing creates mistakes."
"Leaving survivors creates even bigger ones."
"You enjoy this too much."
"You enjoy pretending."
"So much that you've forgotten why we came here in the first place."
"Forgotten why this must be done."
The sword pressed slightly deeper.
"If you still don't understand…"
"then perhaps my blade can explain it more clearly."
Garin instantly paled.
Because he could tell—
Andrey was not joking.
"H-Hey, calm down," he said quickly, forcing out a nervous grin.
Carefully, he pushed the blade aside with one finger.
"That old man escaping might actually help us anyway, right?"
Then, grinning again, he reached into his loose shirt and pulled something from an inner pocket.
A sigil.
Iron.
Worn around the edges and stained with dirt and sweat.
But under the firelight, the black gate emblem remained unmistakable.
Garin smirked.
"After all…"
"We're House Yronwood now."
(ODIN NEEDS SUPPORT)
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