Chapter 99 — The Troubles of the Most Beautiful Woman in the Seven Kingdoms
The carriage wheels rolled over the streets of King's Landing.
Odin and Jaime shared a plain carriage, one that bore no noble crest.
Leaning against the side of the carriage, Odin calmly watched the streets passing outside the window.
The damp air of King's Landing drifted inside.
It carried the smell of fresh bread, the sour stink of horses, the salty reek of the distant fish market—and beneath it all, the ever-present stench of human waste that seemed impossible to erase.
"At the feast at House Frey, Robb Stark and his queen were shot with arrows," Jaime said.
"Lady Catelyn Stark had her throat cut."
"Edmure Tully was captured in his bridal chamber, and his uncle—the Blackfish, Brynden Tully—escaped."
"The news spread quickly. The entire Red Keep is celebrating now."
Odin nodded slightly as he listened.
So the Red Wedding had happened after all.
Almost exactly as it had in the original story.
"News of death always travels fastest," Odin said quietly, his gaze returning from the window to Jaime.
"Especially the death of a king."
He paused, studying Jaime's expression.
"You don't look… happy about it."
After all, it had been Robb Stark who imprisoned Jaime in Riverrun for more than a year, leading to everything that followed—the loss of his hand, nearly dying at the hands of Vargo Hoat.
Now the young King in the North was dead.
And not gracefully, either.
Rumor had it his corpse had been stitched together with the head of his direwolf.
Yet Jaime looked troubled.
When Odin spoke, Jaime did not respond immediately.
His green eyes drifted upward toward the roof of the carriage, as if trying to see through the wooden boards to the sky beyond.
Only after a long silence did he speak.
His voice was dry.
"Guest right…"
"It's a tradition older than the Iron Throne itself. For thousands of years across Westeros."
"And they were killed at the table. After eating the food their hosts had offered them."
Odin tilted his head slightly.
"So?"
"So it was ugly."
Jaime turned and looked directly at him.
"I asked my father if he knew about it beforehand."
"He didn't deny it."
"He said the Frey family wanted compensation, the Boltons wanted the North…"
"…and we needed the war to end."
Jaime fell silent again.
It seemed he was remembering Tywin's expression when he had spoken those words—those cold green eyes.
"An unglorious victory is still a victory," Jaime said quietly. "History is written by the winners, and the rain will wash away the blood."
"What matters is that the Lannister lion still stands atop the mountain of corpses."
Odin gave a faint smile.
"I suppose that's roughly how the Hand of the King answered you."
Jaime stared at him in surprise.
For a long moment he said nothing.
Then he shook his head and laughed softly—though there was little humor in the sound.
"Sometimes I think you're the one who's truly his son, Odin."
"Honestly."
"Not me. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion."
"You resemble him more than any of us."
He paused.
"Only…"
"Only what?" Odin asked.
"Only his tools are gold and armies."
Jaime studied Odin's calm, unreadable face.
"And you…"
"…you're more like a scalpel."
"Precise. Sharp."
"And somehow you always manage to choose the most effective way to cut."
The conversation had grown heavy.
Odin chose not to pursue it.
Instead, he leaned back against the carriage wall and casually changed the subject.
"I heard you've started training with a sword again."
He pointed at Jaime's left hand.
The sudden shift caught Jaime off guard.
He blinked before flexing his left arm with a faint smile.
"Well, I had to find something to do."
"Being the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and losing to a squire would be too embarrassing."
"So I'm training my left hand as quickly as possible."
"If the Wall weren't so far away, I'd go find that man in the Night's Watch—Qhorin Halfhand—and ask him to train me."
"But fortunately…"
"Tyrion lent me someone."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
"Bronn?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Odin's mouth.
"The man who fought Tyrion's trial by combat at the Eyrie?" he asked deliberately.
"That's the one," Jaime nodded.
It seemed the straightforward knight still had no idea about the tension between Odin and his brother.
"That man only recognizes coin," Jaime continued. "In that regard he's a bit like you."
"He charges me ten gold dragons a day to train with him. Greedy bastard."
Jaime patted the coin purse at his belt and added with a grin,
"But I have to admit—he's a good sparring partner."
"Brutal. Practical. No nonsense about knightly honor."
"He targets every weakness I have."
"After these past days, at least my left hand doesn't keep tossing the sword across the yard anymore."
"Practical is good," Odin said with a nod.
"In this world, elegant flourishes are far less valuable than techniques that keep you alive."
"Especially for you."
As he spoke, Odin pointed casually at Jaime's golden right hand.
"Perhaps one day people will call you 'the Golden-Handed General.'"
"Ha! Hahaha!"
For the first time since the conversation began, Jaime laughed genuinely.
He understood perfectly well what Odin meant.
Without his sword hand, he had to find a new way to stand in the world.
Odin hadn't lectured him or offered empty encouragement.
Yet the casual tone of his words carried more warmth and support than any grand speech could.
---
With the mood shifting, Jaime visibly relaxed.
The tension in his face softened as he began speaking about recent events in King's Landing.
How Margaery had cleverly learned to soothe Joffrey's unpredictable temper.
How Queen Regent Cersei had quarreled several times with her future daughter-in-law.
How Tyrion, though constantly complaining about poverty, had somehow managed to stabilize the crown's finances.
Even the Gold Cloaks had finally been paid their wages.
Their conversation flowed naturally.
Jaime noticed how easily he spoke with Odin—far more easily than with most people.
He even mentioned things he rarely voiced to anyone else:
His worry about Cersei.
His complicated feelings about his father's cold methods.
Odin rarely gave direct opinions.
More often he simply listened.
Occasionally he would ask a question or tell a seemingly unrelated story.
Strangely enough, every conversation left Jaime feeling clearer in his thoughts.
Problems that once felt tangled seemed quietly untied.
This subtle guidance—so natural Jaime barely noticed it—made him trust Odin more and more.
In a city filled with lies and betrayal, Odin had become perhaps the only person with whom Jaime could speak freely.
---
The carriage slowed.
Through the window, the towering red walls of the Red Keep gleamed darkly under the sun.
The atmosphere inside the carriage grew heavier.
The easy conversation came to an abrupt halt.
"Cersei…" Jaime said quietly as Odin stepped down from the carriage.
He hesitated before finishing.
"She's under a lot of pressure lately."
"Joffrey, Father, the Tyrells… everything has been pushing her."
"No matter what she says to you—"
"I'll manage, Jaime."
Odin grinned.
"When it comes to dealing with powerful people, I'm actually better at it than you."
---
Maegor's Holdfast stood at the very center of the Red Keep.
It had served as the royal residence of the Targaryens for generations.
Now it was more extravagant than ever.
Heavy tapestries embroidered with golden lions hung along the walls.
Huge crystal chandeliers dangled overhead.
Even in broad daylight, hundreds of candles burned within them, bathing the hall in shimmering gold.
The entire place looked as though it had been built from piles of gold.
Even the air seemed expensive.
Odin glanced around and felt a pang of regret.
If all this decoration were melted down into gold dragons…
It would easily be worth hundreds of thousands.
Perhaps King Robert Baratheon wasn't entirely to blame for the crown's crushing debt.
These two Lannisters spent money like wildfire.
---
Further inside, three Kingsguard knights stood beside an enormous oak door.
Their white armor gleamed.
Their helmets were lowered, revealing only narrow eye slits.
Each kept a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Everyone knew the Kingsguard numbered only seven knights.
Usually only one or two accompanied the king.
Yet Cersei—only the queen regent—kept three guarding her constantly.
Perhaps Margaery's arrival had made her feel deeply insecure.
Or perhaps it was simply a display of authority.
When Odin approached, the outermost knight raised an arm to stop him.
Odin calmly spread his arms.
He allowed the knight to search him thoroughly.
Once it was confirmed that he carried nothing except the gold dragon coin he never parted with, the knight stepped aside.
Inside, a different attendant took over.
A young man of about twenty.
Blond hair. Blue eyes.
Handsome enough—bearing a faint resemblance to Jaime.
Odin studied him briefly.
Kevan Lannister's son… Lancel?
No.
That couldn't be right.
Lancel had been badly wounded during the Battle of the Blackwater and later granted Darrey Castle by Tywin.
He shouldn't be in King's Landing now.
Odin guessed this must be yet another distant Lannister cousin Cersei had dragged out from some obscure branch of the family tree.
She truly had an obsessive fixation with bloodlines.
After all, she had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure her three children were Jaime's.
She had even carefully calculated the dates—and used potions to eliminate any pregnancies that might belong to Robert Baratheon.
Ruthless woman.
---
After walking through increasingly luxurious corridors, the attendant stopped before an inner door decorated with ivory and emeralds.
He knocked softly, then pushed it open.
Odin stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was an enormous bed.
Cersei Lannister herself reclined lazily on a couch draped with animal furs.
She wasn't wearing formal robes.
Instead she wore a thin gown of pale gold silk.
The fabric flowed along the curves of her body.
The neckline hung low, revealing a wide expanse of pale skin and delicate collarbones.
Her long golden hair fell loosely across her shoulders.
A few strands rested against her chest.
Despite having borne three children, her figure remained slender and graceful.
Her stunning face and emerald-green eyes could make almost any man feel tenderness.
Had one not known her nature, it would be difficult to see her as anything but captivating.
The title she once held—
"The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
—was no exaggeration.
At the moment she was holding a crystal goblet filled with wine.
From the instant Odin stepped into the room, her gaze locked onto him.
Sharp.
Even more openly scrutinizing than her father's.
As if she intended to peel him layer by layer and examine what lay beneath.
"Your Grace."
Odin stopped several steps away and gave a slight bow.
His eyes swept over her briefly but did not linger on her alluring body.
As Odin himself believed—
Women were hardly rare.
If he wanted one, there were plenty outside.
Especially considering this woman was Cersei Lannister.
A dangerous kind of mad.
Making money remained the priority.
His reaction surprised her slightly.
Since her youth, Cersei had been fully aware of the power of her beauty—and had used it masterfully.
In all these years, only a few dull men like Barristan Selmy or Eddard Stark had resisted her charm.
"Odin," Cersei finally said.
Even her voice carried a mature, intoxicating tone.
She studied him curiously.
Plain gray clothing.
Unremarkable appearance.
Yet strangely, merely standing there, he radiated a quiet confidence that was impossible to ignore.
And those black eyes—
eyes that seemed to see through appearances to the core—
reminded her faintly of her father, Lord Tywin Lannister.
Interesting.
After only a few moments of observation, the slight smile on her lips deepened.
"Jaime recommended you to me."
"You saved his life, yes—but I have never seen him praise someone so highly."
"Except perhaps the man he once idolized—the Sword of the Morning."
She leaned forward slightly.
The movement made the neckline of her robe slip lower, revealing even more pale skin.
"He says you can solve problems."
"Any problems."
Her tone sounded almost like a lover's playful whisper.
Any ordinary man might have felt compelled to rush forward and hold her.
But Odin understood.
This posture was simply her habitual negotiating tactic.
It had become second nature to her.
"Ser Jaime flatters me, Your Grace," Odin replied modestly, his gaze still lowered.
"I'm merely a man trying to bring a little order to chaos."
The answer seemed to surprise Cersei.
"So…"
"Jaime was wrong?"
Her eyebrow lifted slightly, her tone suddenly colder.
"You cannot solve any problem."
Odin shook his head inwardly.
As expected.
The woman had some intelligence—but not nearly enough.
And her temper shifted unpredictably.
Impossible to predict what she might say or do next.
Joffrey's impulsive arrogance clearly came from her.
"Your Grace."
He stepped forward slightly.
His voice lowered.
His eyes met hers with calm sincerity.
"I have indeed helped many people solve certain problems."
"But first, I must know what the problem actually is."
"I am not a god."
"I cannot solve what I do not understand."
"What I'm good at is finding the cracks in walls that appear solid."
"So perhaps you could tell me what troubles you."
"Maybe I can help."
He paused.
"Of course… I hope Ser Jaime has already made it clear."
"My services are not free."
Cersei's expression softened again.
Her slender fingers tapped lightly against the couch as she weighed his words.
After a long moment—perhaps trusting Jaime's judgment—she finally spoke.
"Very well, Odin."
"Tell me…"
"Can you find a way to ruin my betrothal to Ser Loras Tyrell?"