Chapter 76: What Makes You So Disrespectful to Me
Morning.
A thin mist draped King's Landing in a gray, gauzy veil.
A carriage bearing the golden lion of House Lannister thundered into Flea Bottom under the escort of elite Gold Cloaks. From behind grimy windows on both sides, countless eyes watched these uninvited guests with wary silence.
Inside the carriage, Tyrion Lannister studied the streets through the window, his expression dark.
Odin.
He had once dismissed the man as nothing more than a peasant blessed with luck—but whether it was Odin's methods or his efficiency, both had far exceeded Tyrion's expectations.
In just two days, this place—once so infamous that all of King's Landing avoided it like a plague—had been visibly transformed. The stench still lingered, scraps of refuse could still be seen along the streets, yet compared to before, the difference was night and day.
Men with dark cloth bands tied around their arms swept away scattered trash. When the Gold Cloaks passed, they did not flee or hide, merely watching in silence as the procession moved on.
The place was still poor, still backward—but something new was taking root amid the filth.
Order.
The convoy stopped.
Tyrion's short body hopped nimbly down from the carriage. He tilted his head up, reading the wooden sign above the entrance.
"The Hall of Order."
He snorted coldly and strode inside, Gold Cloaks following close behind.
As Master of Coin, Tyrion had not directly mobilized the City Watch. This involved Shae—something he dared not bring before his father, Tywin Lannister. Fortunately, he still had an uncle serving as Master of Laws: Kevan Lannister.
Unlike Tywin, most of Tyrion's uncles had always treated him kindly. Sadly, some were dead, others missing. Only Kevan and his aunt Genna remained.
With a sharp gesture from Tyrion, three full squads of Gold Cloaks rushed upstairs, sealing the area tight.
Then he climbed up himself on his short legs—
—and stopped, baffled by the sight before him.
His target, Odin, was seated calmly behind a wide table, unhurriedly eating breakfast.
He wore a simple dark linen shirt, the collar loosely open, posture relaxed to the point of insolence.
Before him sat sliced toasted bread, a small dish of honeyed jam, several strips of perfectly cooked bacon, and a bowl of oat porridge.
A remarkably balanced meal.
He showed not the slightest sign of concern that a small army had just stormed his domain. He spread butter on his bread with deliberate care, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed slowly.
Tyrion glanced around, scanning every corner.
Shae was nowhere to be seen.
"Grrrrr—"
An awkward sound suddenly escaped from the stomach of one Gold Cloak. Under the furious glares of his companions, he lowered his head in embarrassment.
Several others, however, couldn't help glancing at Odin's breakfast, swallowing quietly.
The summons had been sudden. None of them had eaten.
"Heh~"
Only then did Odin seem to notice their presence. He lifted his head at last.
"The morning fog has yet to lift, and Flea Bottom is already honored by a visit from the Master of Coin and the City Watch themselves," he said mildly.
"I'm truly flattered."
"Unfortunately, I have nothing here but crude fare—hardly worthy of your refined tastes."
As if on purpose, he speared a strip of bacon and placed it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
More swallowing followed.
Even Tyrion felt a pang of hunger. He hadn't eaten all night either.
Thick-skinned as ever, he marched straight to the table. Since he barely stood taller than it, he had to stretch to grab several slices of bread, stuffing them into his mouth without ceremony.
"I hope it suits you, my lord," Odin said calmly. "My cook is no match for the Red Keep's royal kitchens."
"I've eaten worse," Tyrion replied through a mouthful of bread, forcing a vicious edge into his voice.
"I was never born noble, Odin. Every dwarf looks like a bastard in his father's eyes."
"Since the day I was born, they've called me the Imp. And I doubt you'd enjoy discovering just how terrible the revenge of a demon can be."
With that, he swept his arm across the table, sending the remaining food crashing to the floor.
He glared at Odin, the threat unmistakable.
Yet to his surprise, Odin did not react with anger.
He merely set down his knife, picked up a napkin, and calmly wiped his mouth.
Those deep black eyes met Tyrion's gaze—steady, unreadable, as if seeing straight through his bluster.
"A fascinating legend," Odin said softly.
"Lord Tyrion."
Odin leaned forward slightly, his tone turning playful.
"Still, I've heard another story."
"Across the Narrow Sea, there is a fierce beast—something like a shadow mountain lynx. They call it the tiger."
"People believe that a tigress usually gives birth to two cubs at a time. But on rare occasions, a third is born."
"This third cub is often different from the others—perhaps smaller, perhaps mottled in color—and is considered an ill omen."
"The mother often refuses to accept it… sometimes even abandoning it in the wild, leaving it to fend for itself."
Tyrion's pupils tightened. Anger flared openly across his face.
This wasn't metaphor anymore.
It was a direct, naked mockery—aimed squarely at him.
Yet Odin continued, his voice carrying an almost hypnotic cadence.
"But such a cub, once it survives and grows, often becomes the most terrifying creature in the mountains."
"Forged in hellish conditions, it must fight larger, more vicious beasts simply to stay alive."
"Its claws grow sharper. Its heart harder. Its methods more ruthless."
"Because it understands one truth—survival is not a gift."
"It is something seized with blood and claws."
"And once it possesses absolute strength…"
"…its first target is the tigress that cast it aside."
"Shut up!!!"
Tyrion finally exploded.
He roared, his voice echoing through the hall. The scar he'd earned during the Battle of the Blackwater twitched violently across his face.
The story mirrored his own life too closely—so closely that it made his blood run cold.
He shook his head hard, forcing the thoughts away, then yanked a bundle of parchment from his coat—intelligence provided by Varys.
"Your crimes are clear, Odin!" he shouted.
"King's Landing is under strict curfew, yet you organized nighttime activity! You've set private punishments and had an innocent man's tongue cut out!"
"This isn't a Hall of Order—it's a nest of crime!"
He spun and barked at the Gold Cloaks behind him.
"Arrest him!"
At the command, the Gold Cloaks stepped forward—
—but Odin did not move.
He merely lifted his eyelids slightly.
"You have no authority to arrest me."
The words were calm.
Yet the moment they fell, an overwhelming pressure burst forth—[Presence Lv.3] made manifest.
The Gold Cloaks' steps faltered.
Their eyes locked involuntarily onto the man seated before them, an unmistakable chill crawling up their spines.
"Are you resisting arrest, Odin?" Tyrion shouted.
Even Tyrion felt sweat bead on his brow. That unshakable composure, that absolute confidence—
—but Shae.
He had to get answers.
"Don't think bribing a few Gold Cloaks makes you untouchable!"
"These men were transferred here from the Gate of the Gods!"
He roared again.
"Seize him! My uncle is the Master of Laws—"
Forced by the order, the Gold Cloaks gritted their teeth and moved forward.
Just as one of them reached out toward Odin's shoulder—
A single sheet of parchment drifted quietly into view.
"…This is…?"
The Gold Cloak froze.
His eyes snapped to the lower corner.
A dark-red seal.
"Read it," Odin said flatly, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
The man swallowed.
"…I can read."
Hands trembling, he took the parchment and read aloud:
"By decree, Odin is hereby appointed Chief Royal Special Agent, granted full authority to investigate, suppress, and preempt any actions within the Crownlands and the city of King's Landing that endanger royal interests, disrupt trade order, or incite civil unrest."
"—Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Signed."
The parchment shook violently in his grasp.
The hall fell dead silent.
"No—!"
"Impossible!"
Tyrion lunged forward, snatching the document, his eyes racing across the text.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
The Hand's seal was genuine.
But—
Chief Royal Special Agent?
What kind of absurd position was that?
He scanned further—and quickly understood.
The authority was broad… but vague.
No direct command over the Gold Cloaks.
No control of funds.
No seat on the Small Council.
A role powerful enough to intimidate—
yet light enough to avoid threatening the true nobility.
Perfect for Flea Bottom.
That realization made Tyrion furious.
Every move he'd made through the night—wasted.
"My lord…"
The squad leader stepped forward hesitantly.
"We lack jurisdiction to detain an officer personally appointed by the Hand of the King."
Tyrion felt heat rush to his face—as if he'd been slapped in public.
"Get out."
He clenched his teeth.
"Guard the entrance. No one enters without my order."
"Yes, my lord!"
The Gold Cloaks fled downstairs almost in relief.
At that moment, Odin leaned over the railing and called down:
"Rorge!"
"Prepare breakfast. Bring up a few barrels of ale from the cellar—share them with the City Watch."
"They've been working since dawn."
"Understood, Lord Odin!"
Rorge's voice echoed back—barely suppressing laughter.
Odin turned back to Tyrion with a faint, knowing smile.
"I enjoy making friends," he said lightly.
"Especially those who serve faithfully at the bottom."
"A little kindness… can yield unexpected returns."
That final display shattered Tyrion's last shred of restraint.
When the hall was finally empty—just the two of them—
Tyrion slammed both hands onto the table, leaning forward, his voice low and shaking.
"Enough."
"Where is Shae?"
"What have you done to her?"
Odin didn't answer immediately.
He walked to the shattered dishes Tyrion had knocked down earlier, crouched, and picked up an intact wine goblet.
He filled it carefully and set it before Tyrion.
"You've wounded me, Lord Tyrion."
Looking down at him, Odin's dark eyes held genuine offense—disappointment even.
"I truly hoped we could become partners. Perhaps even friends."
"I showed you sincerity. I yielded ground."
"I spent money hosting your friend—feeding her, giving her wine, giving her comfort."
"I showed respect to you."
"To the name Lannister."
His voice remained steady—but the pressure in the room intensified.
Then, quietly, came the question:
"So tell me—what exactly made you treat me with such disrespect?"
"What gave you the confidence to fabricate these charges, to bring soldiers into my domain like hunters chasing a beast?"
"Please."
"Explain it to me."
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