Chapter 78
Two days later.
In the rear courtyard of the Hall of Order, two sword-wielding figures crossed again and again across the open ground, the crisp clang of steel ringing without pause.
If Jaime or Brienne were present, they would have been utterly stunned.
Less than a month ago, Odin had still been clumsily hacking away at wooden posts.
And now—he was trading blows evenly with a hardened Dothraki elite.
No… more than evenly.
He was gradually gaining the upper hand.
Odin's swordsmanship wasn't flashy. There were no extravagant flourishes, no wasted motion—only precision, sharpness, and ruthless efficiency.
The longsword in his hand seemed almost alive, always appearing in the perfect position to intercept Iggo's attacks. By reading the minute shifts in his opponent's stance—the tension in his shoulders, the twitch of muscle beneath bronzed skin—Odin could anticipate Iggo's next move before it even began.
As the tempo of their exchanges quickened, Iggo's breathing grew heavier. Sweat rolled down his dark skin in thick rivulets.
His strikes were wide and powerful, his speed terrifying—but no matter how ferocious the assault, he simply could not break through Odin's defense.
Then, after dozens of rapid exchanges, Odin caught a fleeting opening—no more than a heartbeat.
He snapped his blade upward.
Clang!
Iggo's sword flew from his grasp, spinning through the air before crashing onto the stone ground with a sharp, rattling series of impacts.
Iggo staggered back two steps, hands braced on his knees, chest heaving violently. He stared at Odin—whose breathing was only slightly uneven—with eyes full of disbelief.
"Your progress…" he growled instinctively in Dothraki, awe seeping into his voice.
"…is terrifyingly fast, blood of my blood."
"Less than a month… and you've defeated me. Even the most gifted warriors of the grass sea could never achieve such a thing."
Straightening, Iggo shook his head, his gaze suddenly burning with fervent devotion.
"As expected of a warrior favored by the Horse God! You… you will become the one who rides the world's greatest steed!"
…What the hell are you cursing me with?
Odin sheathed his sword. A satisfied smile had just begun to form—until that metaphor landed.
Riding the world's steed…
That was supposed to be Daenerys and Drogo's kid, wasn't it?
The one who died before he was even born.
Ride the world my ass—bah, spit, spit.
Of course, Odin didn't bother explaining. What was he supposed to do—tell this dothraki warrior that he had a cheat system?
Iggo wouldn't understand anyway.
Shaking his head, Odin walked toward the exit while opening his system interface.
Tyrion's ten thousand gold dragons had truly saved him from an immediate crisis. As for how that little imp managed to scrape together such a sum so quickly—well, he was a Lannister. No need to be surprised.
With sudden wealth in hand, Odin hadn't hesitated.
He upgraded every skill to Level 3.
And honestly?
The system delivered.
Insight Lv.3, Basic Swordsmanship Lv.3, and Surgical Knowledge Lv.3 didn't just stack—they synergized.
In combat, Odin could now do more than predict his opponent's next move. His advanced medical knowledge let him instinctively choose the optimal angle of attack—where to strike for maximum damage, where a single cut could cripple or kill.
If he hadn't deliberately held back to avoid seriously injuring Iggo, there had been several moments just now where he could have ended the fight instantly.
Judging by his current level, Odin knew better than to overestimate himself.
He was still not a match for legends like Barristan the Bold, nor the already-dead Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne.
…but he was getting closer.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous part.
With the mutual reinforcement of several skills, defeating the vast majority of knights whose swordsmanship wasn't truly top-tier had already become effortless for Odin.
With a thought, he glanced at the skill panel visible only to himself.
When his eyes landed on one particular entry, the corner of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.
[Bed Skills Lv.3]
Back then, after suddenly coming into so many gold dragons, he'd tried a random draw purely out of curiosity.
The system's response had been… a rather unhinged "surprise."
What made it worse was that when Odin attempted another draw, the system immediately issued a prompt:
[Current host permissions: a maximum of five skills may be equipped simultaneously (excluding unranked skills).]
If he wanted new skills, he would either have to raise one of his existing ones to Lv.5, or obtain another chance to draw an unrestricted skill.
As for how to obtain that chance…
The system didn't say.
"Damn it, stupid system."
Odin cursed inwardly, completely forgetting how he'd been calling it "godfather" not long ago.
Whatever. Five skills it is.
For now, they were more than enough.
He comforted himself with that thought.
Make do with what you've got—what else can you do?
"Let's go. See how things are coming along outside," Odin said, pushing the stray thoughts aside and motioning to Iggo. The two walked out side by side.
---
Inside the main hall, the place had transformed into a bustling construction site.
The old, rotten decorations were gone, replaced by sturdier stone and timber hauled in nonstop.
Rorge's hoarse voice echoed through the space. Missing nose and all, he looked like a full-fledged foreman now—barking orders ferociously, face lit with excitement, yet somehow achieving shockingly high efficiency.
Turns out the bastard was a natural-born construction boss.
Odin didn't interrupt him—just shot him an approving glance before slipping quietly through the crowd.
When he pushed open the heavy doors of the Hall of Order, the morning sun spilled neatly onto the newly leveled streets of Flea Bottom.
"Odin, my lord!"
"Good morning, Lord Odin!"
"My lord!"
Along the way, members of the armband-wearing "Cleaners", as well as early-rising street vendors, paused their work to greet him respectfully.
Under Odin's explicit orders, selling things like brown stew was now strictly forbidden in Flea Bottom.
The ban had hurt certain interests and sparked some resistance—but after a few late-night "visits" from Rorge and his men, most of that noise had been firmly silenced.
Still, Odin could sense that some people hadn't truly accepted it. They were merely lying low, waiting.
That was fine.
He wasn't in a rush.
Let them surface on their own—then he'd deal with them all at once.
As he walked, Odin nodded calmly in response to the greetings, his gaze sweeping over the subtly changing streets.
Filth was being cleared. Chaos restrained.
A rough, imperfect—but undeniably alive—new order was taking root.
"Where to, blood of my blood?" Iggo asked quietly as they neared the edge of Flea Bottom.
Odin lifted his head, grinned, and said,
"We've been working hard. Time to enjoy ourselves."
"…Let's go whore-hunting."
---
Silk Street
The air here was nothing like Flea Bottom's.
Thick and sweet, it reeked of cheap perfume, powder, aged wine, and a faint, unmistakable scent of heather.
Even in broad daylight, ornate lanterns cast an intimate glow. The moment they stepped in, scantily clad professional women filled their vision.
Some leaned against lavish balconies and windows, laughing and beckoning. Others stood directly in the street, openly soliciting with eyes and bodies alike—no pretense, no shame.
Truly a degenerate medieval world…
Although his previous self had some experience, for Odin personally, this was a first.
Still, in Westeros, flesh trade wasn't illegal. Despite the novelty, he felt little psychological burden.
A man had to broaden his horizons sometime.
Walking through the sea of perfume and skin, Odin moved deftly, slipping past grasping hands with ease—like a butterfly passing through flowers without touching a single petal.
Iggo, on the other hand, was far less restrained.
His eyes were glued in place, and he occasionally reached out to grab a handful here and there. If Odin hadn't kept moving, he'd have already been dragged inside somewhere for a very thorough "cultural exchange."
Seeing this, Odin chuckled.
"I thought you only liked women like Brienne—the kind who can wrestle wild beasts barehanded."
Iggo snapped back to reality, licking his dry lips and swallowing before answering honestly:
"Strong women give birth to strong children."
"But for pleasure…"
"These soft ones don't seem wrong."
Then, in his usual blunt Dothraki logic, he added,
"Women of the grass sea are healthy and powerful—like fine broodmares."
"These…" he gestured vaguely,
"…are more like juicy peaches."
Odin burst out laughing at the sheer practicality of it, drawing even more eager looks from the surrounding women.
After all, Iggo looked fierce—but his brand-new clothes weren't cheap.
Women from Flea Bottom knew how to judge wealth.
Iggo, however, was getting visibly restless. Seeing that Odin still hadn't stopped anywhere, he asked again:
"So where exactly are we going, blood of my blood?"
"There are plenty here…"
Odin shot him a look.
"Relax."
He slowed his pace, eyes sweeping over the flashy yet vulgar entrances.
"These outer-ring goods don't suit our status."
"Remember—we're not beggars who take whatever's offered."
"Today, you and I are the most distinguished guests on this street."
With a dramatic wave of his hand, Odin declared loudly:
"If we're paying—
we're paying for the best."
The bold proclamation drew plenty of attention.
Right on cue, the two stopped before an especially imposing building.
Three stories tall. Smooth white stone walls. Stained-glass windows depicting elegant pastoral scenes rather than crude erotic imagery.
No heavily made-up women stood outside. Only two well-dressed, clearly elite guards flanked the entrance.
Hanging beneath the portico was a black ebony signboard, engraved in refined lettering with its name:
—The Hummingbird. 🐦