Chapter 155 – Divorce
Afternoon settled over Flea Bottom.
Sunlight filtered through the tangled web of laundry lines hanging above the narrow streets, casting broken shadows across the stone-paved roads below.
Thin trails of smoke curled lazily from squat chimneys, blending with the scent of simmering stew and cheap spices drifting through the air.
Children chased one another through the alleys, their laughter lively and carefree.
Compared to the violence and rage that had consumed Flea Bottom only days ago, it felt like an entirely different world.
Tyrion Lannister stood at the entrance, tilting his head upward toward the newly hung wooden plaque above the doorway.
Painted neatly across it in black lettering were the words:
Hall of Order — Flea Bottom Special Administrative Center
Under the Authority of Ser Odin
The handwriting was not elegant, but it was precise and disciplined.
The paint had not fully dried yet, glistening faintly beneath the afternoon sun.
Tyrion stared at it for a long moment before slowly letting out a breath.
Inside the quiet entrance hall stood two young "community officers" dressed in gray uniforms, short batons hanging from their waists.
Both wore expressions of unmistakable pride.
Their backs were straight.
Their eyes remained forward.
Tyrion stepped inside.
The main hall had changed even more since the last time he visited for the banquet.
Fresh wooden paneling now covered the walls, polished smooth enough to reflect the sunlight streaming in from the high windows.
New stone tiles paved the floor with an almost absurd level of precision.
Frankly, the place looked more orderly than the throne room itself.
At the far end of the hall, a fireplace crackled warmly, pushing back the chill of late autumn.
People moved constantly throughout the building—
Yet everything remained perfectly organized.
Along the left wall stood a row of wooden desks.
Behind each sat a clerk-like figure with ledgers and documents spread out before them.
In front of the desks were long, impeccably neat lines of people.
Men.
Women.
Children.
The elderly.
All dressed in clean, newly washed clothes.
They waited quietly, occasionally whispering among themselves, but no one cut in line.
No one shoved.
No one argued.
Tyrion watched an elderly woman step up to one of the desks and hand over several copper coins.
The clerk accepted them with a smile, recorded something in a ledger, then handed her a small wooden token.
The old woman tucked it carefully into her clothes, relief washing across her face before she turned and left.
"That's a resident identification tag."
A voice sounded from behind him.
Tyrion turned.
Odin stood there in a simple dark robe, no sword at his waist, a thick ledger tucked beneath one arm as though he had just stepped out of another office.
"Everyone living in Flea Bottom has to register and receive one," Odin explained as he walked to Tyrion's side, his gaze sweeping calmly over the orderly crowd.
"There are different colors."
"Green for permanent residents."
"Blue for temporary residents."
"With those tags, they can buy low-cost grain from our stores, receive medical treatment at our clinics, and send their children to literacy classes we've established."
His tone was calm and matter-of-fact—
As though he were merely describing something utterly ordinary.
But Tyrion Lannister understood the deeper meaning immediately.
Registration.
Identification tags.
Tiered management.
Control the food supply.
Control healthcare.
Control education.
This wasn't simple charity, nor merely maintaining order.
It was an entire social system.
And all of it had been built in barely three months.
"You've created a kingdom within a kingdom," Tyrion said in amazement, unable to hide the admiration in his voice.
Beneath it lingered a faint trace of unease.
"Better than any lord in the Seven Kingdoms ever managed."
Yet Odin merely glanced at him calmly.
"I only created a place where people can live like human beings."
Then he turned.
"Come with me."
Tyrion followed.
They crossed the main hall and climbed the stairs.
The second floor was clearly used for administration. It was far quieter there, though muted discussions occasionally drifted out from nearby rooms.
They continued upward until they reached the third floor.
Odin walked to the end of the corridor and pushed open a heavy oak door.
It was his office.
The room was enormous.
Bookshelves lined three entire walls, crammed with books, scrolls, and ledgers.
A full row of windows stood open, letting afternoon sunlight and cool autumn wind pour inside.
From here, the rooftops of Flea Bottom stretched endlessly into the distance.
The slums were changing.
Some rooftops had already been replaced with new tiles.
Others were still under repair, workers reinforcing old structures piece by piece.
At the center of the room stood a massive oak desk.
Aside from several documents, an ink bottle, and a feather quill, the surface was completely bare.
Two high-backed chairs faced one another across the desk.
Odin sat in the larger chair and gestured for Tyrion to take the seat opposite him.
But Tyrion did not sit immediately.
Instead, he dragged over a stool, climbed onto it, and stared out the window.
From this height, he could see nearly all of Flea Bottom.
Clean streets.
Smoke curling from chimneys.
Gray-uniformed patrol officers walking their routes.
And farther away, a newly constructed market, where stalls stood in orderly rows as crowds moved steadily through them.
The constant rhythm of merchants calling out their wares rose faintly from below.
The entire district radiated an atmosphere of organized, living warmth.
"You know," Tyrion said quietly without turning around, "I grew up in Casterly Rock."
"A castle built atop a mountain of gold."
"The corridors were paved with marble. The walls draped in silk. The wine cellars stocked with the finest vintages in the Seven Kingdoms."
"My father always said that was what power looked like."
He paused.
"But after everything that happened in that dungeon…"
"…I think I prefer this."
Then he turned around, hopped down from the stool, and climbed awkwardly into the oversized chair.
The seat was too tall for him.
His feet dangled uselessly above the floor.
After adjusting himself comfortably, he looked at Odin.
"No matter what…"
"Thank you."
"Thank you for keeping your promise and giving me my freedom."
Odin leaned back in his chair.
A large gray-black longhaired cat leapt lightly into his lap.
He absentmindedly stroked its fur as the animal narrowed its eyes and rumbled softly in satisfaction.
Then both man and cat looked toward the dwarf sitting across from them.
"You don't need to thank me."
"This was business."
"You paid."
"I delivered."
"You're temporarily free."
"I received my money."
"The transaction is complete."
"Temporarily free?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Tywin hasn't fully withdrawn the charges yet," Odin replied, lightly tapping the desk. Tywin Lannister
"Ser Dontos Hollard's testimony pointed suspicion elsewhere, but the word of one disgraced knight isn't enough to convince the judges you're innocent."
"They need more evidence."
"And besides… the true nature of the assassination…"
He waved a hand dismissively, cutting himself off.
Originally, he had intended to mention that the entire plot had truly been orchestrated by Olenna Redwyne.
But after a moment's thought, he decided fewer people knowing the truth was better.
No need to invite unnecessary complications.
"So," Odin continued, "I negotiated with the Hand of the King."
"You no longer have to remain in the black cells."
"But until the trial officially concludes, you cannot leave King's Landing."
"You'll report to the City Watch once every day so they know you haven't fled."
"I call the arrangement 'bail pending trial.'"
Tyrion frowned slightly.
After all, once Jaime Lannister dragged Dontos Hollard into the cathedral that day, the trial had abruptly been suspended.
What happened afterward remained a complete mystery to him.
It had almost felt as though some invisible hand was pushing events toward a predetermined conclusion.
Still, Odin had chosen not to explain.
And Tyrion wisely chose not to ask.
Instead, a faintly mocking smile curled across his lips.
"Better than hanging."
"True enough."
Silence settled over the room for a moment.
Tyrion studied Odin again.
That utterly ordinary face.
Nothing especially remarkable about it—
Except for the eyes.
Calm.
Deep.
Who could have imagined that only months ago, this man had been nothing more than a peasant?
And now?
Now he could influence the balance of power in King's Landing itself.
Even sway the decisions of the Hand of the King.
Tyrion remembered the day Odin entered the Great Sept of Baelor.
Calm.
Steady.
As though he were not stepping into the holiest place in the Seven Kingdoms—
But simply walking through his own backyard.
This man had saved him.
Yet he still insisted it had merely been a fair transaction.
And strangely enough…
That cold rationality made Tyrion feel safe.
"Speaking of money," Tyrion said at last, breaking the silence.
"The ten thousand gold dragons—I had Bronn deliver them to your vault."
"I assume you've received them?"
Odin nodded.
"Your sellsword pays promptly."
"Good."
Tyrion chuckled.
"I suppose I should thank your earlier threat for teaching me such a memorable lesson."
"It helped me understand something important."
"Money isn't everything."
"But lacking money can absolutely kill you."
"Especially when you need someone to save your life."
His short legs swung lazily through the air.
"So while I was still Master of Coin, I made certain… preparations."
"A little skimmed from each expenditure here and there."
"Individually insignificant."
"But over time?"
"It added up."
He smiled bitterly.
"Rather pathetic, really."
"A Lannister secretly saving money for himself."
Then he snorted.
"Though speaking of thieves…"
"I can't even imagine how much money that little weasel Petyr Baelish stole during all those years as Master of Coin."
Odin listened quietly without any visible reaction.
Another silence followed.
Finally, Tyrion gave up probing him indirectly.
"So," he said bluntly, "our transaction is complete."
"Am I free to go?"
"Or do you happen to have any other… services to offer?"
Only then did Odin speak again.
"The deal is complete."
"But there's one more thing."
"What thing?"
"Someone wants to see you."
Tyrion blinked.
Before he could ask further, Odin walked to the door and pulled it open.
Sansa Stark entered the room.
She had changed out of the deep blue velvet gown she wore at the Great Sept.
Now she wore a simple gray wool dress beneath a dark shawl.
Her red hair had been braided into a thick plait hanging over her chest.
There was no makeup on her face.
She looked older than her years now.
Harder, too.
And she wasn't alone.
Behind her stood a gaunt middle-aged man wearing deep crimson robes with the seven-pointed star of the Faith hanging from his chest.
In one hand he carried a heavy copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.
In the other, a rolled parchment.
Tyrion recognized the attire instantly.
The Most Devout.
One of the senior clergy of the Faith of the Seven, second only to the High Septon.
His eyes narrowed immediately, flickering between Sansa and the man.
"Sansa… what is this?"
"Lord Tyrion Lannister," Sansa interrupted calmly, her tone formal and distant. "This is Septon Reynard from the Great Sept of Baelor."
"He's here today to preside over an important ceremony."
Her tone was too cold.
Too official.
A strange unease tightened in Tyrion's chest.
Instinctively, he looked toward Odin.
But Odin merely stood quietly beside the doorway with folded arms, like a detached observer.
"What ceremony?" Tyrion asked slowly.
Sansa did not answer.
Instead, she withdrew a rolled parchment from inside her shawl, unfolded it, and placed it carefully upon the desk.
The document looked freshly prepared, though the ink had already dried completely.
Tyrion lowered his eyes.
After reading only the first few lines, his mind went blank.
To the Faith of the Seven and His High Holiness:
I, Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, formally request the dissolution of my marriage to Tyrion Lannister…
Tyrion jerked his head upward in disbelief.
Sansa's face remained expressionless.
Cold as the snows of the North.
Entirely businesslike.
"You want a divorce?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes."
Her answer was short.
Certain.
And it was no wonder Tyrion reacted so strongly.
Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew divorce was extraordinarily rare among the nobility.
Not impossible—
But rare.
There had been precedents.
Queen Naerys Targaryen herself had once sought separation from King Aegon IV, citing her fragile health and inability to endure his constant demands.
Though her petition failed, the Faith generally acknowledged that marriages could be annulled if both parties agreed and the Church approved.
Tyrion stared at Sansa's icy face.
He opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment no words came.
Finally, he drew a slow breath and clenched his fists.
"If we divorce, you'll be in danger."
"King's Landing is full of people who want to use you."
"The North belongs to the Boltons now."
"Without the protection of the Lannister name, you—"
"The protection of the Lannister name?"
Sansa cut him off sharply, letting out a cold laugh.
"Lord Tyrion, look at yourself."
"You bear the Lannister name."
"And yet you couldn't even protect yourself."
"If I hadn't defended you during the trial, you'd already be hanging from a gallows."
"Your father wanted you as a scapegoat."
"Your sister wanted your death to ease the pain of losing her son."
"Your family…"
Her voice hardened further.
"Your family never truly accepted you."
Every word struck like a blade driven directly into Tyrion's deepest wounds.
"So don't speak to me about protection."
"I've had enough of Lannister protection."
"They lured my father to King's Landing and executed him."
"Then they forced me to marry a dwarf so they could legally seize the North."
She inhaled sharply before speaking with absolute finality.
"I do not want that kind of protection."
"I would rather face danger alone than remain tied to the Lannisters."
"And besides…"
"In Flea Bottom, I have absolute safety."
Tyrion slowly closed his eyes.
The truth was, he wasn't refusing because he wanted to keep her.
He knew he couldn't.
He only feared that once the marriage ended, Sansa would truly stand alone.
A young woman without a husband's name.
Without family protection.
Trying to survive during the most chaotic period the Seven Kingdoms had seen in generations.
It was dangerous.
Terribly dangerous.
But she was right.
He couldn't even protect himself.
How could he protect her?
On the trial platform, it was Sansa who saved him.
Not the other way around.
Inside the Red Keep, she had endured humiliation and terror without ever gaining even the slightest shred of safety or dignity from being Tyrion Lannister's wife.
Their marriage had been a mistake from the beginning.
A political scheme crafted by his father.
Continuing the lie would only torment them both.
Slowly, Tyrion turned toward Odin.
The man still stood silently by the doorway, expression unreadable.
But suddenly Tyrion understood.
Odin had arranged this meeting.
Found the the Most Devout.
Provided Sansa shelter and protection.
Given her the confidence to demand freedom.
This had not been a sudden decision.
"Lord Tyrion," Odin finally said calmly.
"Divorce is certainly considered humiliating for a nobleman."
"If your concern is reputation,
Septon Reynard can keep the matter confidential for now."
"The documents can be sealed."
"The ceremony need not be announced publicly until a more appropriate time."
"That way, at least, you may preserve some… outward dignity."
Tyrion laughed softly.
But there was no bitterness in it anymore.
Only exhaustion.
"Ser Odin…"
"After that trial…"
"After my family abandoned and betrayed me…"
"What dignity do you think I still possess?"
Then he turned toward Sansa.
She was watching him too.
Those beautiful blue eyes held not the slightest trace of attachment.
"I agree," Tyrion said firmly.
"I, Tyrion Lannister, consent to dissolving my marriage to Sansa Stark."
Sansa's eyes widened slightly.
Clearly, she had not expected him to agree so quickly.
"But," Tyrion continued, turning toward the bishop, "I want the ceremony conducted immediately."
"And publicly."
"There's no need for secrecy."
"I want everyone to know that Sansa Stark willingly dissolved her marriage to Tyrion Lannister."
A crooked smile spread across his face.
"To be honest…"
"I can hardly wait to see the expression on my father's face once he hears the news."
Then he burst into loud laughter.
"HAHAHAHA!"
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