Chapter 75 — Odin Sends His Regards
As time passed, the atmosphere at the table grew increasingly warm and harmonious.
At least, that was how Shae felt.
Odin's conversation was measured and graceful. He spoke with ease, ranging effortlessly from music and poetry to the balance of power in war; from the lands across the Narrow Sea to the origins of Valyria itself. There seemed to be little he did not know.
He even displayed a surprising familiarity with the cultivation and harvesting of apples.
This blend of erudition, wit, and elegance had already driven the image of the leering dwarf completely from Shae's mind. She had gone so far as to idly imagine how many children she might one day bear for Odin.
"Speaking of which…"
Meeting her moist, attentive gaze, Odin dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and smiled gently.
"For a lady as refined as you to find herself serving others at Stokeworth… fate can be a cruel joke, Miss Shae."
"Your accent carries a hint of the Westerlands, does it not?"
At once, Shae straightened her back. A practiced trace of melancholy surfaced on her face as she repeated the story she had once told Tyrion.
"Yes, my lord. My father… he was once a merchant in the Westerlands, dealing in cloth. We lived reasonably well at first. But after I came of age, there was a time when he tried to force himself upon me…"
"I wounded him and fled my home. To survive, I worked for wealthy households. Then war spread everywhere, and I fled with the refugees until I reached King's Landing."
"Lady Falyse was kind enough to take me in."
She carefully omitted any mention of her time as a camp follower. Lowering her gaze, she sighed softly, the picture of quiet vulnerability.
Odin listened without interruption. When she finished, he nodded slowly.
"The world is seldom kind. We cannot choose our birth or the trials placed upon us."
"But to survive such chaos as a woman—your heart must be strong, Miss Shae."
His gentle affirmation only deepened her intoxication. She unconsciously wetted her lips and raised her goblet for another sip of wine.
Then Odin shifted the subject naturally.
"Lord Tywin Lannister is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest administrators in the Seven Kingdoms. Under his rule, the Westerlands are said to be impeccably ordered."
"And that mane of golden hair—truly a symbol of authority. Did you ever see him while you were in the West?"
Shae's expression did not change. Smiling softly, she replied with practiced ease:
"Lord Tywin's name is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but how could someone of my station ever hope to see the Lion of the Rock?"
"I have only heard of his authority in passing."
The answer was flawless—natural, unforced, without the slightest tremor.
Under [Insight Lv.2], Odin judged her response genuine.
She was not Tywin's agent—at least, not yet.
Perhaps Tywin was aware of her existence, but for now, she was little more than a piece kept in reserve… a potential leash for Tyrion, should the need arise.
Odin appeared satisfied and did not press further.
Dinner drew to a pleasant close. Servants cleared the table while Odin lingered over the last of his wine, his gaze once more settling on Shae.
It traced the line of her plain dress, then paused at her throat.
Feeling his eyes, Shae assumed he was admiring her feminine charms and lowered her head shyly.
"Miss Shae," Odin said softly,
"your necklace is quite distinctive."
"Was it a gift from someone special?"
Her heart jolted. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
She instinctively raised a hand to the pearls, panic flashing briefly in her eyes before she suppressed it, answering with a tone touched by distance and faint regret:
"It's nothing important," she said.
Odin appeared not to notice her embarrassment or concealment. He merely nodded and did not press the matter.
He set his wineglass aside and rose slowly to his feet. The shadow cast by the candlelight stretched forward, enveloping Shae completely.
Her heart began to race with each step he took. Her mind went blank. For someone who had always prided herself on being able to handle any man, she now felt like an inexperienced girl—awkward, helpless, unsure of herself.
They were both adults. She knew exactly what was about to happen.
Accept it?
Would he think her too easy?
Refuse?
No… that might mean missing the greatest opportunity of her life.
As Shae wrestled with herself, cool fingertips brushed lightly against her cheek. He was so close she could smell him—wine, disinfectant, and… apples?
She stopped hesitating.
Tilting her head back slightly, she exposed the graceful, fragile line of her neck.
She had been treated roughly by countless men before—but never once had she looked forward to being touched like this. Never had she so desperately wanted to be claimed, conquered, possessed.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
She could feel the shape of his fingers, feel them sliding slowly downward along her skin, until at last—
They stopped.
Resting against her throat.
---
The Hand of the King's chambers were oppressive even at night, as though the air itself were weighed down by the Iron Throne's countless debts.
Tyrion Lannister lay in his wide bed, sleeping fitfully.
In his efforts to plug the gaping hole in the royal treasury, he had exhausted himself completely. He had scarcely touched wine—his one true comfort—and had not dared sneak away to see Shae in weeks.
Longing for her, guilt, and fear of his father tangled together, twisting into a restless, broken dream.
Between sleep and waking, a faint sound startled him awake.
His eyes flew open. Heart pounding, he sat up and stared toward the window.
A tall figure stood silently in the shadows.
"Who's there?" Tyrion hissed, reaching instinctively for the dagger beneath his pillow.
The figure did not answer. Instead, it flicked its wrist.
Something small flashed through the air toward Tyrion's face.
He raised his arm to block—expecting a blade—but the object landed lightly against his chest, utterly harmless.
Then a low voice spoke, thick with a foreign accent.
"Lord Odin sends his regards."
Odin?
Tyrion's eyes widened—
—and before he could react, the door burst open.
"My lord!"
Bronn charged in, sword drawn, torch blazing. Firelight tore away the darkness as he lunged toward the intruder.
But in the instant Bronn entered, the figure vaulted effortlessly out the window with a single hand on the sill, vanishing into the night with inhuman agility.
Bronn leaned out, searching the darkness below—but the man was already gone.
Hearing pursuit was useless, he turned back.
"You alright?" Bronn asked.
"You're too late," Tyrion growled, slamming a fist into the bedding.
He reached down and picked up the object that had struck him. Under the torchlight, it gleamed softly.
A necklace.
A plain silver chain, bearing a small, perfectly formed freshwater pearl.
The moment Tyrion recognized it, his heart clenched as though seized in a vice.
Shae.
It was the necklace he had given her—worth a little over a hundred gold dragons. Not extravagant, but she had loved it because he had given it to her. To her, it symbolized the beginning of her escape from hell.
She never took it off. Not even when they were together.
"Lord Odin sends his regards…"
The words echoed in Tyrion's mind like a curse.
That accent—
The Dothraki.
Odin.
Fear and fury crashed over him at once.
His relationship with Shae had been secret—so secret he had hidden it even from his father. So how did Odin know?
Not only had he discovered her existence—he had her necklace.
What did that mean?
Was she with him?
Had he taken her?
Hurt her?
Or worse—
"Next time we meet," Odin's voice echoed in memory,
"I trust you won't tell me 'no' again."
Tyrion's chest tightened.
This was no idle threat.
He looked up sharply at Bronn.
"I told you to keep an eye on Odin. What did you find?"
Bronn scratched his chin. "The man's mad. He's trying to clean up Flea Bottom—actually feed the trash-eaters instead of beating them."
He shrugged. "Honestly? I've never seen someone so naïve. Flea Bottom's been that way since King's Landing was built. Hundreds of years—it's never changed. I don't believe anyone can fix it."
Then his eyes lit up. "Oh—but I did bribe a little thug to stir up some trouble for him. Cost me three gold dragons. You can reimburse me whenever—"
"Damn him!" Tyrion snapped, ignoring the expense entirely.
"Go—find Lord Varys. Bring him here."
He paused, then leapt from the bed.
"No. I'll go to him myself."
Bronn blinked, confused by the urgency, but followed as Tyrion hurried into the corridor.
Then—
A torchlight appeared at the far end of the hall, moving steadily toward them.
They stopped.
Tyrion retreated a step. Bronn moved instinctively in front of him, sword ready.
As the light drew closer, a bald, gleaming scalp emerged from the shadows.
Plump hands folded calmly before him.
The man's gaze swept over Tyrion's pale face—then settled on the pearl necklace clenched tightly in his hand.
"It seems I am too late, my lord," Varys said gently.
"I hope you were not frightened. Shall I summon the City Watch?"