Chapter 72: Odin's Order
The dying light of sunset spilled across Flea Bottom's tangled streets like diluted blood.
The buildings here were packed tightly along narrow alleys, nearly pressing against one another. For a first-time visitor, it was easy to get lost within this maze of filth and shadow.
After winding through several lanes, the ground beneath their feet was still foul—but the mountains of trash were noticeably fewer. Even the air itself seemed slightly cleaner, the stinging rot less oppressive than before.
"It looks like Rorge is actually getting things done," Odin said with a faint chuckle as they walked.
"At least he knows to start with what people can see."
Behind him, Iggo snorted with open disdain and said nothing.
Back when they were still part of the fighting pits, he had never liked Rorge.
Now? He liked him even less.
But before Odin's words had fully faded, a sudden uproar rose ahead—shouting mixed with crying.
Odin frowned and quickened his pace. Turning the corner, they found a crowd gathered in heated confrontation.
He gave Iggo a look.
The broad-shouldered Dothraki immediately shoved his way forward, forcibly parting the onlookers.
When they stepped into the center, an absurd scene greeted them.
Rorge, flanked by more than a dozen newly recruited men, was blocked in a narrow alley by a group of… things that barely resembled people.
Calling them "people" felt generous—"walking heaps of refuse" would have been more accurate.
Their bodies were hunched, their skin coated in layers of grime and sticky, unidentifiable filth that formed a crude kind of armor. It was nearly impossible to tell what their original skin color had been.
Their hair was matted with grease and crawling with lice.
Yet their eyes—those were sharp.
Savage.
Filled with the feral gleam of cornered animals.
Among them were children of various ages, thin as skeletons, ribs clearly outlined beneath their skin.
Most clutched crude weapons: sharpened sticks, jagged shards of broken pottery, even dry, brick-hard lumps that looked suspiciously like dried feces.
One boy, his face so filthy his features were indistinguishable, clung desperately to the wheel of a trash cart and wailed.
"That's mine! I saw that plank first! You can't take it!"
His voice was shrill.
Rorge strode forward and kicked him without hesitation.
"Get the hell out of the way!"
"What use is a few rotten boards? Stop blocking me!"
The boy crashed into the mud, his head splitting open as blood spilled freely.
That single blow ignited the crowd.
Faces that had been numb moments ago twisted with fury. Fingers pointed. Curses flew.
"That's good wood! It blocks the wind at night!"
"Rorge, I'll fuck your mother!"
"Ralf never stole from us—who the hell do you think you are?!"
The accusations came from all sides.
Rorge's temper snapped.
He leapt onto the cart and roared, "I'm cleaning this shithole for you, you ungrateful dogs!"
"Block me again and I'll slaughter the lot of you and toss your bodies into the brown stew!"
For all his faults, Rorge had ruled Flea Bottom for over a decade.
His reputation still carried weight.
The threat worked.
People shrank back. The shouting died away.
Rorge spat on the ground.
"A bunch of mangy curs. You don't learn unless you're beaten."
"Now keep—"
A raspy voice cut in from the shadows.
"Left Flea Bottom for a few days and you think you're a lord now, Rorge?"
The crowd turned.
An elderly man with a hunched back limped forward from the corner.
Rorge stiffened for a split second, then sneered.
"Stay out of this, Wiss."
"I'm acting on Odin's orders."
"We clear the trash, clean the streets, and you miserable bastards might finally live like human beings."
"Or would you rather spend your whole lives wallowing in shit and mud?"
"Shit? Mud?"
The man called Wiss laughed—a sound harsher than an owl's screech.
He stepped forward and slapped the side of the loaded cart.
"Don't forget where you came from, Rorge."
"You survived by digging rotten scraps out of garbage heaps. A wild dog bit off part of your nose when you fought for meat—I remember it all."
He swept an arm around them.
"Every pile of trash here, every bone, even every puddle of filth beneath your feet has an owner!"
"You take away the garbage—what do my children eat? What do they wear?"
"You clean away the shit—what do the dogs eat?"
"And when even the dogs won't come to Flea Bottom anymore, what then?"
"Should we go outside and risk getting beaten to death by Gold Cloaks just to catch a dog and eat it?"
His logic was twisted.
Grotesque.
Yet it was real.
Even Rorge flinched, memories surfacing unbidden, taking a half-step back.
But Wiss pressed on.
Spreading his arms, he embraced the filth like a king claiming his realm.
"I know exactly what you're thinking, Rorge!"
"You clean the streets for the high lords. Their carriages roll in. And then?"
"Land prices rise. We get pushed farther out—into places even fouler—until we die!"
"Filth is our moat! Stench is our wall!"
"And now you tear down our walls and tell us it's for our own good?"
He pointed a trembling finger at Rorge.
"You didn't clean Flea Bottom."
"You betrayed it."
He jabbed a finger straight at Rorge's nose and shouted him down, instantly winning the crowd's approval.
At the thought of losing even the garbage that sustained them, the people erupted in a unified roar.
"HO! HO! HO!"
Sharpened sticks and shards of pottery slammed against walls and stone, the noise rising like a war chant.
Rorge's expression flickered between light and dark.
Wiss wasn't wrong.
Rorge had grown up in Flea Bottom himself. He knew its rules better than anyone. Deep down, he wasn't even optimistic that Odin could truly change this place.
But… there was no choice.
Defying Odin's orders would mean losing the only foothold he had left in King's Landing.
With dusk closing in and this area still unconquered, Rorge gritted his teeth. A vicious glint flashed in his eyes as he pointed at Wiss and roared at his men:
"Fuck it! Get him!"
"Kill that old bastard who's leading this nonsense—let's see who still dares to block the road!"
The men hesitated, exchanging uneasy looks.
"Boss…" one of them muttered, lowering his voice.
"Old Wiss is the oldest one here. Most of these people grew up under his watch. And… didn't we eat his food when we were kids?"
"Go fuck yourself!"
Rorge slapped him hard across the face and bellowed,
"Even if he were my own father, I'd kill him today!"
"Say another word and you'll be the first one I gut!"
Left with no choice, the men drew their short blades and clubs and advanced on Wiss step by step.
Fear flickered in the old man's eyes—but he stood his ground.
Behind him, the scavengers' chanting grew louder. Violence hung in the air, seconds away.
Then—
"It seems my people have run into a little trouble."
The calm voice cut through the chaos, silencing the alley as if by magic.
Everyone turned.
At the mouth of the alley stood two figures.
The one in front was well-built and composed, bathed in the last glow of the setting sun, its light outlining him in faint gold. Clean. Upright. Entirely out of place amid the filth.
Strangely, he didn't shout or threaten—yet an invisible pressure radiated from him, forcing the boiling scene into stillness, as though authority was his natural state.
He walked forward at an unhurried pace.
A towering Dothraki warrior followed closely behind, one hand resting on his sword hilt.
Odin's dark cloak swayed as he passed through the crowd, his gaze settling calmly on Wiss.
"I'm sorry, my lord—" Rorge hurriedly began.
A slight lift of Odin's hand cut him off instantly.
Wiss swallowed and stared warily at the unfamiliar man.
"Who are you?"
Odin stopped just a few steps away.
"I am Odin," he said simply.
"And from today onward, the rules of Flea Bottom are set by me."
"That's imposs—"
Steel flashed.
A blade rested against Wiss's throat, so fast that no one had time to react.
"Let Wiss go!"
"Release him, outsider!"
The crowd surged in fury.
Yet with the sword at his neck, Wiss straightened his back and met Odin's gaze without flinching.
Odin showed no anger. No scolding.
He merely scanned the crowd—those hollow, crazed, terrified eyes.
These people lived at the very bottom of the cesspit, yet treated it as home, vowing to defend it with their lives.
They did not desire change.
They feared it.
They had never known what a good life looked like, and so believed that "better" could only bring greater disaster.
They reminded Odin of the tenant farmers who had cursed him when he first arrived in this world.
The same ignorance.
"Wiss," Odin said at last, turning back to him.
"You are a pitiful ruler. You trained your people to survive like maggots, feeding on trash."
Pain flickered across Wiss's face—quickly smothered by stubborn defiance.
"You know nothing—"
"Two choices."
Odin raised two fingers, voice flat and final.
"I will say this once."
"First—take your ownership of this filth and these maggots, and sink forever into the Blackwater."
"The Dothraki warrior beside me will make sure you sink deep enough."
As he spoke, the blade pressed closer. Blood beaded at Wiss's neck.
Death suddenly felt very real.
"Second," Odin continued, unchanged in tone,
"forget your garbage. You and your people will work for me."
He looked around at the hostile, bewildered faces.
"You will work for my cleaning crews. You will eat your fill every day—and I guarantee the bread will not be rotten."
The hostility wavered.
Full bellies?
Fresh bread?
To people who lived in constant hunger, it sounded like paradise.
"Why… why should I believe you?" Wiss croaked, licking cracked lips.
"You nobles lie best of all."
Odin answered without words.
He gestured once.
Iggo sheathed his sword, unshouldered the heavy pack on his back, and loosened the drawstring.
Clang—clang—clang!
Golden dragons spilled out like a river, scattering across filth and mud.