Chapter 156
The corridors of the Hall of Order were strangely quiet.
Perhaps it was because the newly polished floors were too smooth.
Or perhaps the wooden walls had been built with just the right density.
Either way, footsteps echoed slightly louder here than they should have.
Tyrion Lannister was currently making his way down one of those corridors.
His steps were unusually light.
Though his legs were short, his pace was quick, and the sharp tapping of his boots against the floor came rapidly.
He was even humming.
A playful folk tune from Lys across the Narrow Sea.
The melody was soft and teasing, the lyrics telling the story of a sailor meeting a dancer at a harbor tavern.
Tyrion's voice was rough.
The days spent imprisoned had worn him down both physically and mentally.
Yet he hummed with genuine enthusiasm, his shoulders swaying faintly with the rhythm.
As he rounded a corner, he nearly crashed into someone.
"Careful—"
The man reached out and steadied him.
Tyrion looked up and found himself staring into a pair of familiar green eyes.
His brother stood before him in full white armor and cloak.
Jaime Lannister frowned slightly.
"What are you doing here?" Jaime asked.
"And more importantly… what in the world has you this happy?"
Tyrion straightened himself, dusted off his clothes, and grinned.
"What's wrong?" he shot back. "Is there a law against dwarfs being happy?"
Jaime looked even more puzzled.
He carefully examined his younger brother.
Tyrion's face was still pale from imprisonment, but there was light in his eyes now.
He had only just escaped a trial that could easily have ended with his execution.
Yet he looked utterly relaxed.
Too relaxed.
Something was off.
"You just came from Odin's office?" Jaime asked.
"Of course."
Tyrion nodded repeatedly with his oversized head, then leaned closer with exaggerated secrecy.
"I have news for you."
"Very, very interesting news."
Jaime spread his hands slightly, curiosity flickering across his face.
Tyrion leaned forward even farther, rising onto his toes like a conspirator about to reveal forbidden secrets.
Then he delivered the bombshell.
"Sansa and I got divorced."
"...What?"
The corridor fell silent for a moment.
Jaime's expression froze.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Then he looked at the utterly shameless grin plastered across Tyrion's face.
The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched.
His shoulders began trembling.
And then—
He burst into laughter.
"HAHAHA— divorced?" Jaime laughed harder, his voice echoing through the corridor. "Seven hells, you actually… you actually did it?"
"Not me," Tyrion corrected smugly, though his grin never faded. "Sansa proposed it. I merely agreed."
"When?"
"Just now. In Odin's office. Septon Reynard officiated the ceremony. Odin himself served as witness. Entire process perfectly legal."
Jaime's laughter gradually subsided, though amusement still danced in his eyes.
He shook his head helplessly.
"Father is going to explode."
There was no concern in his voice.
Only gleeful anticipation.
"He spent all that effort binding you to Sansa Stark just so Lannister blood could claim the North."
"And now?"
"One divorce and every single one of his plans collapses."
Tyrion shrugged.
The motion looked awkward on him due to his thin neck and oversized head wobbling slightly.
Then he cleared his throat dramatically and began imitating Tywin Lannister with uncanny precision.
"You ruined everything, Tyrion."
The imitation was so accurate it made Jaime burst out laughing again.
But Tyrion continued, now mimicking his own response.
"No, Father."
"You ruined everything the moment you forced us into that marriage."
There was an almost rebellious delight in his voice as he said it.
The two brothers stood there laughing together, savoring the rare joy of openly defying their father.
It was as though they could already picture the great Tywin Lannister realizing that his grand design had crumbled into dust.
And somehow…
That image was deeply satisfying.
It was strange, really.
The world saw Tywin as a brilliant ruler.
A powerful lord.
A towering lion of the West.
But what the world never understood was that all three of his children took secret pleasure in disappointing him.
Cersei Lannister was driven by madness.
Jaime by rebellion.
And Tyrion…
Well.
Once upon a time, Tyrion had desperately wanted his father's approval.
But after the trial—
After the betrayal—
After being framed as a scapegoat—
He had finally stopped caring.
After a long while, Tyrion reached out and patted Jaime's thigh—
He couldn't quite reach his shoulder.
"At the very least," he said with a grin, "we now share a joke together."
"Just imagine Father's face when he hears the news."
"What a glorious sight that would be."
"Shame we won't get to see it."
Jaime laughed again.
"That truly is a shame."
At that moment, a door at the far end of the corridor opened.
Sansa Stark stepped out.
The moment she saw Jaime and Tyrion, she stopped walking.
For an instant, the air between the three of them froze.
Too much history.
Too many tangled resentments.
A marriage that had only just ended.
All of it hung heavily inside that brief silence.
Then Sansa gave a perfectly formal court curtsy.
Polite.
Elegant.
And utterly cold.
"Ser Jaime," she said calmly.
There was no emotion in her voice.
And notably—
She did not address Tyrion at all.
Jaime inclined his head politely in return.
He, too, remained silent.
After all, what exactly was he supposed to say?
Congratulations on the divorce?
But Sansa Stark didn't seem awkward in the slightest.
She straightened gracefully, then walked past the two brothers.
The sound of her boots against the stone floor was crisp and steady.
She never looked back.
Without hesitation, she headed toward the stairs and disappeared around the corner.
Her footsteps gradually faded into the distance.
Tyrion Lannister stared after her for a very long time.
"She's a strong girl," he said softly.
"I can feel it."
"The frightened little bird trembling inside the Red Keep is dead."
"What lives now…"
He paused.
"…is a warrior."
"And perhaps she'll outlive all of us."
Jaime Lannister remained silent for a moment before nodding faintly.
"You're right."
Another stretch of silence passed.
This time, Tyrion broke it first.
"Well then, I should get going."
He waved casually, his tone becoming light again.
"I still have to report to the City Watch. Daily check-ins, remember? Need to prove I haven't run off."
"At a time like this, we certainly can't give our glorious and wise father any excuses."
He deliberately dragged out the words "glorious and wise" with exaggerated emphasis.
Jaime nodded.
"Be careful," he said quietly, genuine concern slipping into his voice.
Tyrion merely smiled.
He didn't answer.
He simply waved again and continued down the corridor.
Soon, he began humming that Lyseni tune once more.
This time, however, it was softer.
Almost inaudible.
Jaime stood there watching his younger brother's small figure disappear at the end of the hallway.
Then he turned around and walked toward the still-open office door.
The office of Odin carried the scent of books and polished wood.
But the moment Jaime stepped inside, he saw Odin toss a heavy cloth pouch toward Septon Reynard, who stood before the desk.
The bag arced through the air.
When the Septon caught it, a crisp metallic clinking echoed through the room.
Jaime knew that sound well.
He had grown up in Casterly Rock.
That unmistakable music could only be gold dragons striking against one another.
The Septon weighed the pouch in his hand.
A satisfied but restrained smile crossed his face.
He didn't even bother opening it.
Instead, he carefully slipped it into his wide sleeve and bowed deeply.
"Thank you for your generosity, Ser Odin," the Septon said solemnly, sounding as though he were preaching in the Great Sept itself.
"The Seven will remember your kindness. Repairs on the sept will begin immediately, and the poorer brothers will finally have proper food and lodging. All thanks to your support."
Odin sat calmly behind the desk, fingers interlocked.
His posture was relaxed, as if this were merely casual conversation.
"There's no need to thank me, Septon," he replied evenly.
"This is a transaction."
"You provide what I need. I provide the agreed payment."
"Fair and simple."
The Septon bowed again.
"Then allow me to take my leave. The sept still has many matters requiring attention."
"Of course."
Odin paused briefly before adding:
"Oh, and please send my regards to the High Septon. I'll stop by in a few days to continue treating his rheumatism."
"Certainly, Ser."
The Septon turned toward the door.
Upon noticing Jaime standing there, he offered another respectful bow before quickly departing.
As the door closed, the faint jingling of gold dragons could still be heard from within his sleeves.
The office fell quiet.
Only two men remained.
Jaime approached the desk but did not sit.
Instead, he stood there watching Odin.
"Your network of favors…" Jaime said slowly.
"It truly reaches everywhere."
"Even the Septons of the Great Sept can be bought."
Odin leaned back slightly, a faint smile appearing on his face.
"Not bought, Jaime."
He corrected him calmly.
"Traded with."
"Septon Reynard needs money. The sept is falling apart. The poorer septons can barely feed themselves."
"Granted, those are mostly excuses. But the High Septon truly is old and sick. He can't manage every detail anymore."
"And I…"
Odin tapped his fingers lightly against the desk.
"…need certain people inside the Faith willing to provide small conveniences."
He paused briefly.
"In this world, all relationships eventually boil down to two things."
"Favors."
"And interests."
"Favors require time. Emotional investment."
"But interests?"
"Interests are direct. Clear. Quantifiable."
"You pay."
"I work."
"Simple."
"Clean."
"And free of unnecessary entanglements."
Jaime listened carefully.
The words were cold.
Practical.
Yet impossible to deny.
He thought about all his years in King's Landing.
The alliances between nobles.
The vows between knights.
The marriages between houses.
On the surface, they were dressed up as honor, loyalty, and family.
But underneath?
Everything was simply another exchange of interests.
Even within House Lannister itself.
Still…
Jaime stubbornly thought otherwise about one thing.
What I have with Odin is different.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Meanwhile, Odin picked up a crystal cup from the table, poured some ale into it, and slid it toward Jaime.
Jaime accepted it without hesitation and drank deeply.
"For example, Dontos Hollard," Odin continued while pouring himself a drink.
"If not for those networks of favors and interests, you never would've found him within three days."
"I have an excellent relationship with Lord Rykker of Duskendale. In exchange for helping me, I promised him thirty percent profit shares from part of the Flea Bottom businesses."
"Most dockworkers in Blackwater Bay owe me favors."
"And over a third of the Gold Cloaks are willing to work for me."
He took a sip of ale.
"All those connections weave together into a net."
"And once Dontos fell into that net…"
"…no matter how hard he struggled, he was always going to surface eventually."
Jaime drained the rest of his ale.
The drink burned harshly going down, making him frown, but warmth soon spread through his chest.
"You're right," he admitted quietly.
"Without that network, I'd still be completely lost."
"And Tyrion…"
He lowered the cup slowly.
"…would probably already be dead."
Then he looked directly at Odin.
"So… thank you."
Odin shook his head.
"No need."
"I already told you."
"This was a transaction."
"You owe me a favor now."
"I know," Jaime replied.
"And… I may soon owe you another one."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
Jaime inhaled deeply and straightened himself.
The movement made him appear even taller, his white armor gleaming beneath the afternoon sunlight.
His expression had turned grave.
"I came here to say goodbye."
"Goodbye?"
For once, genuine surprise appeared in Odin's eyes.
Even during the chaos inside the Great Sept, he had never looked caught off guard.
"I'm leaving King's Landing," Jaime said firmly.
"I told you before."
"I'm going north."
"To the Wall."
Silence settled over the room.
Only the distant noise of the marketplace drifted through the open windows, accompanied by the steady ticking of an old clock beside the bookshelves.
Finally, Jaime lifted his remaining left hand.
"After losing my right hand, I tried learning to fight with my left," he admitted bluntly.
"But it doesn't work."
"My stance is wrong. My strength is wrong."
"I can barely perform a proper swing."
"Even after training with Bronn, I still handle a sword like a child picking up a weapon for the first time."
Frustration burned in his voice.
Deep frustration.
Jaime Lannister had been a sword prodigy since childhood.
He had never known insecurity on a battlefield.
Not even when facing the infamous Smiling Knight.
Yet now…
He clenched his left hand into a fist.
"When I watched Joffrey die in front of me…"
"When Tyrion was chained and dragged away…"
"I realized something."
"A Jaime Lannister without his sword is worth less than an ordinary Gold Cloak."
"I couldn't protect Joffrey."
"I couldn't protect Tommen."
"I couldn't even protect my own brother."
"I stood there and watched him walk toward the gallows."
"And one day…"
His voice trembled with fury.
"…I may not even be able to protect Cersei."
Not fear.
Anger.
Anger at himself.
"I refuse to keep living like this," Jaime continued.
"I refuse to stay in King's Landing pretending to be some glorious Kingsguard knight while accomplishing absolutely nothing."
"Honor. Titles. Family names."
"They're worthless when it matters most."
"What matters is what you can actually do."
"Can you hold a sword?"
"Can you stand in front of the people you want to protect?"
"Can you say 'No further'…"
"…and have the strength to make those words real?"
The more Jaime spoke, the more emotional he became.
And throughout it all, Odin simply listened.
Sometimes, listening itself was the greatest form of understanding.
"So I'm going to the Wall," Jaime said at last, his voice steady again.
"I'm going to learn how to fight all over again."
"With my left hand."
After a moment, Odin finally asked:
"And what about Tyrion?"
"You leave, and who protects him?"
"Tywin won't let this go."
"And Cersei wants him dead."
Jaime looked directly at him.
"That's why I came to you."
"While I'm gone…"
"…Tyrion's safety is in your hands."
Odin laughed softly.
"I'm not a god, Ser Jaime Lannister."
"I can't control everything."
"Tywin is Hand of the King."
"Cersei is the Queen Regent."
"If they truly want Tyrion dead, there are many ways around me."
"You can do it," Jaime replied immediately.
"If you want to."
"Because you're Odin."
He glanced toward the orderly streets visible through the windows.
"Honestly?"
"I've never seen my father cornered by anyone the way you cornered him."
"You walked into the Tower of the Hand and held a sword to his throat."
"You tore Flea Bottom away from him and rebuilt it into this."
"You saved Tyrion."
"You've accomplished things Father himself could never do."
"So I believe you can protect him."
"At least long enough for me to return."
The trust inside those words was astonishingly heavy.
Odin stared at him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
There was helplessness in that smile.
Recognition.
And something unexpectedly warm.
"That," he said lightly, "costs extra."
"I know," Jaime replied with a grin.
"And I already told you."
"I'll pay my debts."
"You already owe quite a lot."
"Then I'll owe a little more."
Jaime shrugged.
"At this point, one more debt hardly matters."
Silence returned once more.
Odin rose from his chair and walked toward the window with his back facing Jaime.
Sunlight spilled across his shoulders, casting long shadows over the desk.
He watched the people below—
working,
walking,
living inside Flea Bottom.
Finally, he spoke.
"Fine."
"I'll protect Tyrion."
"Even the Seven themselves won't take his life while he's under my protection."
"But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"First."
"You come back alive."
"Dead men can't repay debts."
"I'll do my best."
"Second."
"You truly learn to wield that left-handed sword."
"I don't like my investments going to waste."
"I will."
"Good."
Odin nodded and returned to the desk.
Instead of sitting, he reached beside the table and tugged a thin cord hanging downward.
A bell somewhere below rang faintly.
A short while later, the door opened.
Rorge stepped inside.
"My lord."
"Bring me the item I ordered."
Rorge nodded without a word and quickly left.
Jaime frowned slightly.
"What item?"
"A farewell gift," Odin replied casually.
"Originally, I wanted to get you a Valyrian steel sword."
"They're light, impossibly sharp, never dull."
"Perfect for single-handed combat."
"They're practically divine weapons."
"But after asking around, I discovered every Valyrian blade in the Seven Kingdoms already has an owner."
"And none of those owners are willing to sell family heirlooms."
"So I settled for the next best thing."
"I commissioned Tobho Mott, the best smith on Steel Street, to forge one for you."
"He used his finest castle-forged steel."
"Repeated folding."
"Top-tier quenching."
"It's not Valyrian steel."
"But within the limits of current craftsmanship?"
"This is the best sword the Seven Kingdoms can produce."
Before Jaime could respond, Odin walked toward the bookshelf and retrieved a leather-bound journal.
"I've also spent some time researching left-handed swordsmen."
"There aren't many records."
He placed the journal on the desk before Jaime.
Inside were names.
Notes.
Training methods.
Preferred techniques.
Even dietary habits.
Jaime stared at the pages for a long time.
Then his throat tightened unexpectedly.
Since losing his hand, everyone had only offered pity.
Sympathy.
Or mockery.
No one had ever told him:
You can still become a great swordsman.
No one except Odin.
He almost didn't want to leave anymore.
But he had to.
Soon, Rorge returned carrying a long wooden case.
The box itself was plain.
No carvings.
No lacquer.
Simple oak wood polished smooth.
Rorge placed it gently on the desk and stepped aside.
Odin opened the lid.
Inside, atop dark crimson velvet, rested a sword.
The sheath was black leather trimmed with silver.
The hilt was wrapped in textured grip leather.
The pommel had been shaped into the head of a lion.
And embedded in the lion's forehead—
was a small emblem.
A hand emerging from darkness, palm upward.
Lion.
And Black Hand.
Two symbols merged perfectly together.
Odin removed the sword and handed it to Jaime.
Jaime accepted it carefully.
The weapon was lighter than expected.
Most longswords retained significant weight even when used one-handed.
But this blade's balance was perfect.
The center of gravity rested near the guard, making it effortless to wield.
The dimensions fit his left hand exactly.
The grip felt firm and natural.
Shing—
Jaime drew the blade.
Cold light flowed across the steel like water.
The folded metal patterns rippled naturally along its surface.
The spine was perfectly straight.
The edge razor sharp.
The crossguard simple and elegant.
Its rounded finish ensured it would not injure the wielder during combat.
Jaime swung it once.
The blade sliced cleanly through the air with a low whistle.
Smooth.
Effortless.
As though it were merely an extension of his arm.
"It doesn't have a name yet," Odin said.
"You can choose one yourself."
"If it were mine…"
He smiled faintly.
"…I'd call it Frostmourne."
Jaime stared at the sword for a long while.
Then he slowly sheathed it.
"Thank you."
No false modesty.
Between men like them, some things did not need repeating.
Jaime fastened the sword to his waist.
Though it was not an official Kingsguard weapon, it looked perfectly at home hanging beside his white armor.
"Well then," he said quietly.
"I should go."
"Safe travels," Odin replied simply.
"The Wall is far away."
"And the North is unstable."
"The Boltons are already clashing with the northern lords."
Jaime nodded.
He took one last look at the room.
At the orderly streets of Flea Bottom beyond the windows.
At Odin himself.
Then he turned, opened the door, and walked away.
Odin remained seated.
He drained the rest of the ale in one long swallow.
The sound of Jaime's footsteps gradually faded through the corridor.
Eventually, Odin rose and walked to the window.
He watched Jaime ride out from the Hall of Order.
The white armor gleamed brilliantly beneath the afternoon sun.
Northward.
Toward the Wall.
Toward an uncertain future.
Odin watched until the rider disappeared entirely behind the sprawling layers of King's Landing.
Only then did he speak softly.
As though speaking to the man departing.
Or perhaps to himself.
"A man spends his whole life fighting for something."
"For family."
"For honor."
"For the people he loves."
"Or perhaps…"
"…simply to prove he can still fight."
He raised his glass toward the empty northern horizon.
Toward the vanished rider.
"Good luck, Jaime Lannister."
"And good luck to all of us."
The ale shimmered inside the cup beneath the fading sunset—like molten gold.